Yet from her unto me had gone forth her intent, And I saw her face set to the heart of that city, And the quays where the s.h.i.+ps of the outlanders come to, And I said: She is seeking, and shall I not seek?

The sea is her prison wall; where is my prison?

--Yet I said: Here men praise me, perchance men may love me If I live long enough for my justice and mercy To make them just and merciful--one who is master Of many poor folk, a man pity moveth Love hath dealt with in this wise, no minstrel nor dreamer.

The deeds that my hand might find for the doing Did desire undo them these four years of fight?

And now time and fair peace in my heart have begotten More desire and more pain, is the day of deeds done with?

Lo here for my part my bonds and my prison!-- Then with hands holding praise, yet with fierce heart belike Did I turn to the people that I had delivered-- And the deeds of this year pa.s.sed shall live peradventure!

But now came no solace of dreams in the night-tide From that day thenceforward; yet oft in the council, Mid the hearkening folk craving for justice or mercy, Mid the righting of wrongs and the staying of ruin, Mid the ruling a dull folk, who deemed all my kings.h.i.+p A thing due and easy as the dawning and sunset To the day that G.o.d made once to deal with no further-- --Mid all these a fair face, a sad face, could I fas.h.i.+on, And I said, She is seeking, and shall I not seek?

--Tell over the days of the year of hope's waning; Tell over the hours of the weary days wearing: Tell over the minutes of the hours of thy waking, Then wonder he liveth who fails of his longing!

MASTER OLIVER

What wouldst thou have, son, wherein I might help thee?

KING PHARAMOND

Hearken yet:--for a long time no more I beheld her Till a month agone now at the ending of Maytide; And then in the first of the morning I found me Fulfilled of all joy at the edge of the yew-wood; Then lo, her gown's flutter in the fresh breeze of morning, And slower and statelier than her wont was aforetime And fairer of form toward the yew-wood she wended.

But woe's me! as she came and at last was beside me With sobbing scarce ended her bosom was heaving, Stained with tears was her face, and her mouth was yet quivering With torment of weeping held back for a season.

Then swiftly my spirit to the King's bed was wafted While still toward the sea were her weary feet wending.

--Ah surely that day of all wrongs that I hearkened Mine own wrongs seemed heaviest and hardest to bear-- Mine own wrongs and hers--till that past year of ruling Seemed a crime and a folly. Night came, and I saw her Stealing barefoot, bareheaded amidst of the tulips Made grey by the moonlight: and a long time Love gave me To gaze on her weeping--morn came, and I wakened-- I wakened and said: Through the World will I wander, Till either I find her, or find the World empty.

MASTER OLIVER

Yea, son, wilt thou go? Ah thou knowest from of old time My words might not stay thee from aught thou wert willing; And e'en so it must be now. And yet hast thou asked me To go with thee, son, if aught I might help thee?-- Ah me, if thy face might gladden a little I should meet the world better and mock at its mocking: If thou goest to find her, why then hath there fallen This heaviness on thee? is thy heart waxen feeble?

KING PHARAMOND

O friend, I have seen her no more, and her mourning Is alone and unhelped--yet to-night or to-morrow Somewhat nigher will I be to her love and her longing.

Lo, to thee, friend, alone of all folk on the earth These things have I told: for a true man I deem thee Beyond all men call true; yea, a wise man moreover And hardy and helpful; and I know thy heart surely That thou holdest the world nought without me thy fosterling.

Come, leave all awhile! it may be as time weareth With new life in our hands we shall wend us back hither.

MASTER OLIVER

Yea; triumph turns trouble, and all the world changeth, Yet a good world it is since we twain are together.

KING PHARAMOND

Lo, have I not said it?--thou art kinder than all men.

Cast about then, I pray thee, to find us a keel Sailing who recketh whither, since the world is so wide.

Sure the northlands shall know of the blessings she bringeth, And the southlands be singing of the tales that foretold her.

MASTER OLIVER

Well I wot of all chapmen--and to-night weighs a dromond Sailing west away first, and then to the southlands.

Since in such things I deal oft they know me, but know not King Pharamond the Freed, since now first they sail hither.

So make me thy messenger in a fair-writ broad letter And thyself make my scrivener, and this very night sail we.-- O surely thy face now is brightening and blesseth me!

Peer through these boughs toward the bay and the haven, And high masts thou shalt see, and white sails hanging ready.

[_Exit OLIVER._

KING PHARAMOND

Dost thou weep now, my darling, and are thy feet wandering On the ways ever empty of what thou desirest?

Nay, nay, for thou know'st me, and many a night-tide Hath Love led thee forth to a city unknown: Thou hast paced through this palace from chamber to chamber Till in dawn and stars' paling I have pa.s.sed forth before thee: Thou hast seen thine own dwelling nor known how to name it: Thine own dwelling that shall be when love is victorious.

Thou hast seen my sword glimmer amidst of the moonlight, As we rode with hoofs m.u.f.fled through waylaying murder.

Through the field of the dead hast thou fared to behold me, Seen me waking and longing by the watch-fires' flicker; Thou hast followed my banner amidst of the battle And seen my face change to the man that they fear, Yet found me not fearful nor turned from beholding: Thou hast been at my triumphs, and heard the tale's ending Of my wars, and my winning through days evil and weary: For this eve hast thou waited, and wilt be peradventure By the sea-strand to-night, for thou wottest full surely That the word is gone forth, and the world is a-moving.

--Abide me, beloved! to-day and to-morrow Shall be little words in the tale of our loving, When the last morn ariseth, and thou and I meeting From lips laid together tell tales of these marvels.

THE MUSIC

_Love is enough: draw near and behold me Ye who pa.s.s by the way to your rest and your laughter, And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after; For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter.

--Pa.s.s by me, and hearken, and think of me not!

Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken, And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying.

Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying?

Or is it your faces his brightness that darken?

Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing?

--Pa.s.s by me, and hearken, and pity me not!

Ye know not how void is your hope and your living: Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me!

Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me, There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me.

--Pa.s.s by me, and hearken, and waken me not!

Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me?

Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter, And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after!

Nay this I sell not,--though ye bought me and sold me,-- For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter.

--Pa.s.s by me, I hearken, and think of you not!_

_Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as a maker of Pictured Cloths_.

LOVE

That double life my faithful king has led My hand has untwined, and old days are dead As in the moon the sails run up the mast.

Yea, let this present mingle with the past, And when ye see him next think a long tide Of days are gone by; for the world is wide, And if at last these hands, these lips shall meet, What matter th.o.r.n.y ways and weary feet?

A faithful king, and now grown wise in love: Yet from of old in many ways I move The hearts that shall be mine: him by the hand Have I led forth, and shown his eyes the land Where dwells his love, and shown him what she is: He has beheld the lips that he shall kiss, The eyes his eyes shall soften, and the cheek His voice shall change, the limbs he maketh weak: --All this he hath as in a picture wrought-- But lo you, 'tis the seeker and the sought: For her no marvels of the night I make, Nor keep my dream-smiths' drowsy heads awake; Only about her have I shed a glory Whereby she waiteth trembling for a story That she shall play in,--and 'tis not begun: Therefore from rising sun to setting sun There flit before her half-formed images Of what I am, and in all things she sees Something of mine: so single is her heart Filled with the wors.h.i.+p of one set apart To be my priestess through all joy and sorrow; So sad and sweet she waits the certain morrow.

--And yet sometimes, although her heart be strong, You may well think I tarry over-long: The lonely sweetness of desire grows pain, The reverent life of longing void and vain: Then are my dream-smiths mindful of my lore: They weave a web of sighs and weeping sore, Of languor, and of very helplessness, Of restless wandering, lonely dumb distress, Till like a live thing there she stands and goes, Gazing at Pharamond through all her woes.

Then forth they fly, and spread the picture out Before his eyes, and how then may he doubt She knows his life, his deeds, and his desire?