Part 52 (1/2)

How is it with the Fosterer then, when he Comes back again that rest and peace to see, And G.o.d his latest prayer has granted now?-- Why, as the winds whereso they list shall blow, So drifts the thought of man, and who shall say To-morrow shall my thought be as to-day?

--My fosterling is happy, and I too; Yet did we leave behind things good to do, Deeds good to tell about when we are dead.

Here is no pain, but rest, and easy bread; Yet therewith something hard to understand Dulls the crowned work to which I set my hand.

Ah, patience yet! his longing is well won, And I shall die at last and all be done.-- Such words unspoken the best man on earth Still bears about betwixt the lover's mirth; And now he hath what he went forth to find, This Pharamond is neither dull nor blind, And looking upon Oliver, he saith:-- My friend recked nothing of his life or death, Knew not my anguish then, nor now my pleasure, And by my crowned joy sets his lessened treasure.

Is risk of twenty days of wind and sea, Of new-born feeble headless enmity, I should have scorned once, too great gift to give To this most faithful man that he may live?

--Yea, was that all? my faithful, you and I, Still craving, scorn the world too utterly, The world we want not--yet, our one desire Fulfilled at last, what next shall feed the fire?

--I say not this to make my altar cold; Rather that ye, my happy ones, should hold Enough of memory and enough of fear Within your hearts to keep its flame full clear; Rather that ye, still dearer to my heart, Whom words call hapless, yet should praise your part, Wherein the morning and the evening sun Are bright about a story never done; That those for chastening, these for joy should cling About the marvels that my minstrels sing.

Well, Pharamond fulfilled of love must turn Unto the folk that still he deemed would yearn To see his face, and hear his voice once more; And he was mindful of the days pa.s.sed o'er, And fain had linked them to these days of love; And he perchance was fain the world to move While love looked on; and he perchance was fain Some pleasure of the strife of old to gain.

Easy withal it seemed to him to land, And by his empty throne awhile to stand Amid the wonder, and then sit him down While folk went forth to seek the hidden crown.

Or else his name upon the same wind borne As smote the world with winding of his horn, His hood pulled back, his banner flung abroad, A gleam of suns.h.i.+ne on his half-drawn sword.

--Well, he and you and I have little skill To know the secret of Fate's worldly will; Yet can I guess, and you belike may guess, Yea, and e'en he mid all his lordliness, That much may be forgot in three years' s.p.a.ce Outside my kingdom.--Gone his G.o.dlike face, His calm voice, and his kindness, half akin Amid a blind folk to rebuke of sin, Men 'gin to think that he was great and good, But hindered them from doing as they would, And ere they have much time to think on it Between their teeth another has the bit, And forth they run with Force and Fate behind.

--Indeed his sword might somewhat heal the blind, Were I not, and the softness I have given; With me for him have hope and glory striven In other days when my tale was beginning; But sweet life lay beyond then for the winning, And now what sweetness?--blood of men to spill Who once believed him G.o.d to heal their ill: To break the gate and storm adown the street Where once his coming flower-crowned girls did greet: To deem the cry come from amidst his folk When his own country tongue should curse his stroke-- Nay, he shall leave to better men or worse His people's conquered homage and their curse.

So forth they go, his Oliver and he, One thing at least to learn across the sea, That whatso needless shadows life may borrow Love is enough amidst of joy or sorrow.

Love is enough--My Faithful, in your eyes I see the thought, Our Lord is overwise Some minutes past in what concerns him not, And us no more: is all his tale forgot?

--Ah, Well-beloved, I fell asleep e'en now, And in my sleep some enemy did show Sad ghosts of bitter things, and names unknown For things I know--a maze with shame bestrown And ruin and death; till e'en myself did seem A wandering curse amidst a hopeless dream.

--Yet see! I live, no older than of old, What tales soe'er of changing Time has told.

And ye who cling to all my hand shall give, Sorrow or joy, no less than I shall live.

_Scene: Before KING PHARAMOND'S Palace._

KING PHARAMOND

A long time it seems since this morn when I met them, The men of my household and the great man they honour: Better counsel in king-choosing might I have given Had ye bided my coming back hither, my people: And yet who shall say or foretell what Fate meaneth?

For that man there, the stranger, Honorius men called him, I account him the soul to King Theobald's body, And the twain are one king; and a goodly king may be For this people, who grasping at peace and good days, Careth little who giveth them that which they long for.

Yet what gifts have I given them; I who this even Turn away with grim face from the fight that should try me?

It is just then, I have lost: lie down, thou supplanter, In thy tomb in the minster when thy life is well over, And the well-carven image of latten laid o'er thee Shall live on as thou livedst, and be worthy the praising Whereby folk shall remember the days of thy plenty.

Praising Theobald the Good and the peace that he brought them, But I--I shall live too, though no graven image On the gra.s.s of the hillside shall brave the storms' beating; Though through days of thy plenty the people remember As a dim time of war the past days of King Pharamond; Yet belike as time weareth, and folk turn back a little To the darkness where dreams lie and live on for ever, Even there shall be Pharamond who failed not in battle, But feared to overcome his folk who forgot him, And turned back and left them a tale for the telling, A song for the singing, that yet in some battle May grow to remembrance and rend through the ruin As my sword rent it through in the days gone for ever.

So, like Enoch of old, I was not, for G.o.d took me.

--But lo, here is Oliver, all draws to an ending-- [_Enter OLIVER._ Well met, my Oliver! the clocks strike the due minute, What news hast thou got?--thou art moody of visage.

MASTER OLIVER

In one word, 'tis battle; the days we begun with Must begin once again with the world waxen baser.