I. A PRINCE I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, To lash offence, and with long arms and hands Now it chanced that I had been, While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd To one, a neighbouring Princess: she to me Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf At eight years old; and still from time to time Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, And of her brethren, knights of puissance; 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, My father sent ambassadors with furs And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back And therewithal an answer vague as wind: 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 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. It cannot be but some gross error lies In this report, this answer of a king, 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 : '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.’ 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 ; 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 in voice; A little dry old man, without a star, Not like a king three days he feasted us, с |