At eight years old; and still from time to time And still I wore her picture by my heart, And one dark tress; and all around them both Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen. But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back And therewithal an answer vague as wind: Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts ; He said there was a compact; that was true: That morning in the presence room I stood With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends: The first, a gentleman of broken means (His father's fault) but given to starts and bursts Of revel; and the last, my other heart, My shadow, my half-self, for still we moved Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chew'd At last I spoke. My father, let me go Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable: Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, May rue the bargain made.' And Florian said: 6 I have a sister at the foreign court, Who moves about the Princess; she, you know, Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, The lady of three castles in that land: Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean.' Then whisper'd Cyril: Take me with you too. Trust me, I'll serve you better in a strait ; I grate on rusty hinges here: but No!' Roar'd the rough king, you shall not; we ourself Will crush these pretty maiden fancies dead In iron gauntlets: break the council up.' But when the council broke, I rose and past Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town ; Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness out; C Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees: What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth? Proud look'd the lips but while I meditated A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks Of the wild woods together; and a Voice Went with it Follow, follow, thou shalt win.' Then, ere the silver sickle of that month Became her golden shield, I stole from court His name was Gama; crack'd and small his voice, But bland the smile that pucker'd up his cheeks; A little dry old man, without a star, Not like a king: three days he feasted us, And on the fourth I spake of why we came, And my betroth❜d. You do us, Prince,' he said, Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 'All honour. We remember love ourselves In our sweet youth: there did a compact pass Long summers back, a kind of ceremony I think the year in which our olives fail'd. I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart, The woman were an equal to the man. They harp'd on this; with this our banquets rang; Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk ; Nothing but this; my very ears were hot |