strange and new, though known.

His eyes seem dreaming of the mysteries Deep in the depths of her familiar eyes, Tormenting and alluring; does he dream, As I ofttime this morn, how they would seem Loved but unloving?—Nay the world's too sweet That we the ghost of such a pain should meet—     Behold, she goes, and he too, turning round, Remembers that his love must yet be found, That he is King and loveless in this story Wrought long ago for some dead poet's glory.

Enter before the curtain LOVE crowned as a King.

All hail, my servants! tremble ye, my foes! A hope for these I have, a fear for those Hid in this tale of Pharamond the Freed. To-day, my Faithful, nought shall be your need Of tears compassionate:—although full oft The crown of love laid on my bosom soft Be woven of bitter death and deathless fame, Bethorned with woe, and fruited thick with shame.     —This for the mighty of my courts I keep, Lest through the world there should be none to weep Except for sordid loss; and not to gain But satiate pleasure making mock of pain.     —Yea, in the heaven from whence my dreams go forth Are stored the signs that make the world of worth:     There is the wavering wall of mighty Troy About my Helen's hope and Paris' joy:     There lying neath the fresh dyed mulberry-tree The sword and cloth of Pyramus I see:     There is the number of the joyless days Wherein Medea won no love nor praise:     There is the sand my Ariadne pressed; The footprints of the feet that knew no rest While o'er the sea forth went the fatal sign:     The asp of Egypt, the Numidian wine, My Sigurd's sword, my Brynhild's fiery bed, The tale of years of Gudrun's drearihead, And Tristram's glaive, and Iseult's shriek are here, And cloister-gown of joyless Guenevere.

Save you, my Faithful! how your loving eyes Grow soft and gleam with all these memories! But on this day my crown is not of death:     My fire-tipped arrows, and my kindling breath Are all the weapons I shall need to-day. Nor shall my tale in measured cadence play About the golden lyre of Gods long gone, Nor dim and doubtful 'twixt the ocean's moan Wail out about the Northern fiddle-bow, Stammering with pride or quivering shrill with woe. Rather caught up at hazard is the pipe That mixed with scent of roses over ripe, And murmur of the summer afternoon, May charm you somewhat with its wavering tune     'Twixt joy and sadness: whatsoe'er it saith, I know at least 

 Prev. P 9/54 next