THE BLAMELESS PRINCE AND OTHER POEMS.

Poet, wherefore hither bring Old romance, while others sing Sweeter idyls of to-day? Why not picture in your lay Western woods and waters grand, Clouds and skies of this fair land? Are there fairer far away? I have many another song Of those regions where belong, First of all, my heart and home. If for once my fancy roam, Trust me, in the land I view Falls the sunshine, falls the dew, And the Spring and Summer come. Why from yonder stubble glean Ancient names of King and Queen, Knightly men and maidens fair? Are there in our time no rare Beauteous women, heroes brave? Is there naught this side the grave Worth the dust you gather there? Nay, but these were human too, Strong or wayward, false or true. Art will seek through every clime For her picture or her rhyme; Yes, nor looking far around, But to-day I sought and found These who lived in that old time. Why should we again be told Dross will mingle with all gold? That which time nor test can stain Was not smelted quite in vain. What of Albert’s blameless heart, Arthur’s old heroic part, Saxon Alfred’s glorious reign? Yes, my Prince was such as they, Part of gold, and part of clay, Though his metal shone as bright, And his dross was hid from sight. He who brightest is, and best, Still may fear the secret test That shall try his heart aright. Let me, then, of what befell Hearts that loved, my story tell. Turn the leaf that lies between You who listen and the scene! Your pity for the Lady, since She died of sorrow; spare my Prince; Love to the last my gentle Queen!

Long since, there was a Princess of the blood, Sole heiress to the crown her father wore,— Plucked from a dying stem, that one fair bud Put forth, and withered ere it others bore; And scarce the King her blossomed youth had seen, When he, too, slept the sleep, and she was Queen. Hers was a goodly realm, not stretched afar In desert wilds by wolf and savage scoured, But locked in generous limits, strong in war, Serene in peace, with mountains walled and towered, Fed by the tilth of many a fertile plain, And veined with streams that proudly sought the main. The open sea bore commerce to her marts, Tumbling half round her borders with its tide; Her vessels shot the surge; all noble arts Of use and beauty in her towns were plied; Her court was regal; lords and ladies lit The palace with their graces and their wit. Wise councillors devised each apt decree That gained the potent sanction of her hand; Great captains led her arms on shore and sea; She was the darling of a loyal land; Poets sang her praises, and in hut and hall Her excellence was the discourse of all. Her pride was suited to her high estate, Her gentleness was equal with her youth, Her wisdom in her goodness found its mate; Her beauty was not that which brings to ruth Men’s lives, yet pure and luminous;—and fair Her locks, and over all a sovereign air. Without, she bore herself as rulers should, Queenly in walk and gesture and attire; Within, she nursed her flower of maidenhood, Sweet girlish thoughts and virginal desire: No woman’s head so keen to work its will But that the woman’s heart is mistress still. Three years she ruled a nation well content To have a maiden queen; then came a day When those on whom her councils chiefly leant Began to speak of marriage, and to pray Their sovereign not to hold herself alone, Nor trust the tenure of an heirless throne; And then the people took the cry, nor lack Was there of courtly suitors far or near,— Kings, dukes, crown-princes,—swift upon the track, Like huntsmen closing round a royal deer. These she regarded not, but still, among Her maids and missals, to her freedom clung. And with the rest there came a puissant king, Whose country pressed against her own domain,— In strength its equal, but continuing Its dearest foe through many a martial reign. He sued to join his hand and realm with hers, And end these wars; then all her ministers Pleaded his suit; but, asking yet for grace, And that her hand might wait upon her heart, She halted, till the proud king turned his face Homeward; and still the people, for their part, Waited her choice, nor grudged her sex’s share Of coyness to a queen so young and fair. There was a little State that nestled close Beside her boundaries, as wont to claim, Though free, protection there from outer foes, A Principality—at least in name— Whose ruler was her father’s life-long friend And firm ally, a statesman skilled to lend Shrewd counsel, and who made, in days gone by, A visit to this court, and with him led His son, a gentle Prince, of years anigh Her own,—twelve summers shone from either head; And while their elders moved from place to place,— The field-review, the audience, the chase,— The Princess and the Prince, together thrown, With their companions held a mimic court, And with that sweet equality, the crown Of Childhood,—which discovers in its sport No barriers of rank or wealth or power,— He named himself her consort. From that hour The mindful Princess never quite forgot Those joyous days, nor him, the fair-haired Prince; And though she well had learned her greater lot, And haply from his thought had passed long since Her girlish image, chance, that moves between Two courts, had brought his portrait to the Queen. This from her cabinet she took one morn, When they still urged the suit of that old king, And said, half jesting, with a pretty scorn, “Why mate your wilful Queen with mouldering And crabbed Age? Now were he shaped like this, With such a face, he were not so amiss. “Queens are but women; ’tis a sickly year That couples frost and thaw, our minstrels sing.”— “Ho!” thought the graybeards, “sets the wind so near?” And thought again: “Why not? the schemeful king Perchance would rule us where he should be ruled; A humbler consort will be sooner schooled.” Forewarned are those whom Fortune’s gifts await. Ere waned a moon the elder prince had learned— From half the weathercocks which gilt the state, Spying the wind and shifting where it turned— That for love’s simple sake his son could gain The world’s chief prize, which kings had sought in vain. How could he choose but clutch it? Yet the son Seemed worthy, for his parts were of that mould Oft-failing Nature strives to join in one, And shape a hero,—pure and wise and bold: In arts and arms the wonder of his peers, The flower of princes, prince of cavaliers; Tall, lithe of form, and of a Northern mien, Gentle in speech and thought,—while thus he shone, A rising star, though chosen of a queen, Why seek the skies less tranquil than his own? Why should he climb beside her perilous height, And in that noonday blaze eclipse his light? Ah, why?—one’s own life may be bravely led, But not another’s. Yet, as to and fro The buzzing private embassies were sped, And when the Queen’s own pages, bowing low, Told in his ear a sweet and secret story, The Prince, long trained to seek his house’s glory, Let every gracious sentence seem a plume Of love and beckoning beauty for his helm. So passed a season; then the cannon’s boom And belfry’s peal delivered to the realm The Queen’s betrothal, and the councils met, And for the nuptial rites a day was set.

Now when the time grew ripe, the favored Prince Rides forth, and through the little towns that mourn His loss, and past the boundaries; and, since To ape the pomp to which he was not born Seemed in his soul a foolish thing and vain, A few near comrades, only, made his train. Nor pressed the populace along the ways; But—for he wished it so—unheralded He rode from post to post through many days, Yet gained a greatness as the distance fled, As some dim comet, drawing near its bound, Takes lustre from the orb it courses round. And league by league his fantasies outran His progress, brooding on his mistress’ power, Until his own estate the while began To seem of lesser worth each passing hour; And with misdoubt this fortune weighed him down, As though a splendid mantle had been thrown About him, which he knew not well to wear, And might not forfeit. Yet he spurred apace, And reached a country-seat that bordered near The Capital. Here, for a little space, He was to rest from travel, and await His day of entrance at the city’s gate. Upon these grounds a gray-haired noble dwelt, A ribboned courtier of the former reign; A tedious proper man, who glibly knelt To royalty,—this ancient chamberlain,— Yoked with a girlish wife, and, for the rest, Proud of the charge that made a prince his guest. The highway ran beside a greenwood keep That reached, herefrom, quite to the city’s edge; Across, the fields with golden corn were deep; The level sunset pierced the wayside hedge; The banks were all abloom; a pheasant whirred Far in the bush; anon, some tuneful bird Broke into song, or, from a covert dark, A bounding deer its dappled haunches showed As though it heard the stag-hound’s distant bark. The wistful Prince with loitering purpose bode, And thought how good it were to spend one’s life Far off from men, nor jostled with their strife. Even as he mused he saw his host ahead, Speeding to welcome him, in lordly wont, And all the household in a line bestead; And lightly with that escort, at the front, A peerless woman rode across the green; Then the Prince thought, “It surely is the Queen, Who comes to meet me of her loving grace!” And his blood mounted; but he knew how fair The royal locks, and, when she neared his place, He saw the lady’s prodigal dark hair And wondrous loveliness were wide apart From the sweet, tranquil picture next his heart. And when the chamberlain, with halted suit, Made reverence, and was answered courteous-wise, The lady to her knightly guest’s salute Turned her face full, so that he marked her eyes,— How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid, And danger somewhere in their light lay hid. There are some natures housed so chaste within Their placid dwellings that their heads control The tumult of their hearts; and thus they win A quittance from this pleading of the soul For Love, whose service does so wound and heal; How should they crave for what they cannot feel? From passion and from pain enfranchised quite, Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret, Calm as the blind who have not seen the light, The dumb who hear no precious voice; and yet The sun forever pours his lambent fire And the high winds are vocal with desire. And there are those whose fervent souls are wed To glorious bodies, panoplied for love, Born to hear sweetest words that can be said, To give and gather kisses, and to move All men with longing after them,—to know What flowers of paradise for lovers grow. The Vestal, with her silvery content, The Lesbian, with the passion and the pain,— Which creature hath their one Creator lent More light of heaven? Who would dare restrain The beams of either? who the radiance mar Of the white planet or the burning star? If in its innocence a life is bound With cords that thrall its birthright and design, Let those whose hands the evil meshes wound Pray that it cast no look beyond their line; That no strong voice too late may enter in Its prison-range, to teach what might have been. Was there no conscious spirit thus to plead For this bright lady, as the wondering guest Closed with his welcomers, and each took heed Of each, and horse to horse they rode abreast, Nearing a fair and spacious house that stood, Half hidden, in the edges of the wood? And while, the last court-tidings running o’er, Their talk on this and that at random fell, And the trains joined behind, the lady bore Her beauteous head askance, yet wist full well How the Prince looked and spoke; unwittingly, With the strange female sense and secret eye, Made of him there her subtile estimate, Forecast his lot, and thought how all things flow To those who have a surfeit. Could the great, The perfect Queen, she marvelled, truly know And love him at his value? In his turn, He read her face as ’twere a marble urn Embossed with Truth and blushful Innocence, Yet with the wild Loves carven in repose; And as he looked he felt, and knew not whence, A thought like this come as the wind that blows: “A face to lose one’s life for; ay, and more, To live for!”—So they reached the sculptured door And casements gilded with the dying light. That eve the host spread out a stately board, And with his household far into the night Feasted the Prince. The lady, next her lord, Drooped like a musk-rose trained beside a tomb. Loath was the guest that night to seek his room.

Ah! wherefore tell again an oft-told tale,— That of the sleeping knight who lost his wage In the enchanted land, though cased with mail, And bore the sacred shrine an empty gage? How this thing went it were not worth to view But for the triple coil which thence outgrew; How, with the morn, the ancient chamberlain Made off, and on the marriage business moved; How day by day those young hearts fed amain Upon the food of lovers, till—they loved. Beneath the mists of duty and degree A warmth of passion crept deliciously About the twain; and there, within the gleam Of those gray languid eyes, his nearing fate Seemed to the one a far, unquiet dream. So when the heralds said, “All things await Your princely coming,” the glad summons broke Upon him like a harsh bell’s jangling stroke, And waked him, and he knew he must be gone And put that honeyed chalice quite away; Yet once more met the lady, and alone, It chanced, within the grounds. The two, that day, Lured by a falling water’s sound, went deep Beyond the sunlight, in the forest-keep. Here from a range of wooded uplands leapt A mountain brook and far-off meadows sought; Now under firs and tasselled chestnuts crept, Then on through jagged rocks a passage fought, Until it clove this shadowy gorge and cool In one white cataract,—with a dark, broad pool Beneath, the home of mottled trout. One side Rose the cliff’s hollowed height, and overhung An open sward across that basin wide. The liberal sun through slanting larches flung Rich spots of gold upon the tufted ground, And the great royal forest gloomed around. The Prince, divided from the world so far, Sat with the lady on a fallen tree; They looked like lovers, yet a prison-bar Between them had not made the two less free. Only their eyes told what they could not say, For still their lips spoke alien words that day. She told a legend of an early king Who knew the fairy of this wildwood glen, And often sought her haunt, far off to fling His grandeur, and be loved like common men. He died long since, the lady said; but she, Who could not die, how weary she must be! They talked of the strange beauty of the spot, The light that glinted through the ancient trees, Their own young lives, the Prince’s future lot; Then jested with false laughs. Like tangled bees, Each other and themselves they sweetly stung; They sung fond songs, and mocked the words they sung. At last he hung his picture by a chain About her neck, and on it graved the date. Her merry eyes grew soft with tender pain; She heard him sigh, “Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet!” And in sheer pity of herself she dropped Her lovely head; and, though with self she strove, One hot tear fell. The shadow, which had stopped On her life’s dial, moved again, and Love Went sobbing by, and only left his wraith; For both were loyal to their given faith. Farewells they breathed and self-reproaches found, Half gliding with the current to the fall, Yet struggling for the shore. Was she not bound? Did not his plighted future, like a wall, Jut ’cross the stream? They feared themselves, and rose, And through the forest gained the mansion-close Unmissed, and parted thus, nor met anew; For on the morrow, when the Prince took horse, The lady feigned an illness, or ’twas true,— Yet maybe from her oriel marked his course, Watching his plume, that into distance past, Like some dear sail which sinks from sight at last. He rode beneath their arch, where pennons flared And standards with his colors blazoned in. Then thousands shouted welcome; trumpets blared; He felt the glories of his life begin! Far, far behind, that eddy in its stream Now seemed; its vanished shores, in turn, a dream. Enough; he passed the ways and reached the Queen. With pomp and pageantry the vows were said Leave to the chroniclers the storied scene, The church, the court, the masks and jousts that sped; Not theirs, but ours, to follow Love apart, Where first the bridegroom held his bride to heart, And saw her purity and regnant worth Thus kept for him and yielded to his care. What marvel that of all who dwelt on earth He seemed most fortunate and she most fair That self-same hour? And “By God’s grace,” he thought, “May I to some ignoble end be brought, “Unless I so reward her for her choice, And shape my future conduct in this land By her deserving, that the world’s great voice Proclaim me not unworthy! Let my hand Henceforward make her tasks its own; my life Be merged in this fair ruler, precious wife, “The paragon and glory of her kind!” Who reads his own heart will not think it strange He put that yester romance from his mind So readily. Men’s lives, like oceans, change In shifting tides, and ebb from either shore Till the strong planet draws them on once more.

And as a pilgrim, shielded by the wings Of some bright angel, crosses perilous ground, Through unknown ways, and, while she leads and sings, Forgets the past, nor sees what pits surround His footsteps, so the young Prince cast away That self-distrust, and with his sovereign May The gladness joined, and with her sat in state, Beneath the ancient scutcheons of her throne, And welcome gave, and led the revels late; But when the still and midnight heavens shone They fled the masquers, and the city’s hum Was silent, and the palace halls grew dumb, And Love and Sleep in that serene eclipse Moved, making prince and clown of one degree, Then was she all his own; then from her lips He learned with what a sweet humility She, whose least word a spacious kingdom ruled, In Love’s free vassalage would fain be schooled. How poor, she said, her sovereignty seemed, Unless it made her richer in his eye! And poor his life, until her sunlight beamed Upon it, said the Prince. So months went by; They were a gracious pair; the Queen was glad; Peace smiled, and the wide land contentment had. And for a time the courteous welcome paid The chosen consort, and the people’s joy In the Queen’s joy, kept silent those who weighed The Prince’s make, and sought to find alloy In his fine gold; but, when the freshness fled From these things told, some took new thought and said: “Look at the Queen: her heart is wholly set Upon the Prince! what if he warp her mind To errant policies, and rule us yet By proxy?” “What and if he prove the kind Of trifling gallant,” others said, “to slight Our mistress, for each new and base delight? “Ay, we will watch him, lest he do her wrong!” And his due station, even from the first, The peers of haughty rank and lineage long, Jealous of one whose blossom at a burst Outflamed their own, begrudged him; till their pique grew plain, and sent proud color to his cheek. So now he fared as some new actor fares, Who through dark arras gains the open boards, Facing the lights, and feels a thousand stares Come full upon him; and the great throng hoards Its plaudits; and, as he begins his tale, His rivals wait to mock him if he fail. But here a brave simplicity of soul And careless vigilance, by honor bred, Stayed him, and o’er his actions held control. A host of generous virtues stood in stead, To help him on; with patient manliness He kept his rank, no greater and no less; His life was as a limpid rivulet; His thoughts, like golden sands, were through it seen, Not on himself in poor ambition set, But on his chosen country and the Queen; And with such gentle tact he bore a sense Of conduct due, nor took nor gave offence, That, as time went, he earned their trust, who first Withheld it him, and brought them, one by one, To seek him for a comrade; but he nursed His friendships with such equal care that none Could claim him as their own; nor was his word Of counsel dulled by being often heard; Nor would he sully his fresh youth among The roisterers and pretty wanton dames Who strove to win him; nor with ribald tongue Joined in the talk that round a palace flames; Nor came and went alone, save—’twas his wont In his own land—he haply left the hunt On forest days, and, plunging down the wood, There in the brakes and copses half forgot The part he bore, and caught anew the mood Of youth, and felt a heart for any lot; Then, loitering cityward behind the train, With fresher courage took his place again. His pure life made the wits about the court Find in its very blamelessness a fault That lacked the generous failings of their sort. “With so much sweet,” they swore, “a grain of salt Were welcome! lighter tongue and freer mood Were something more of man, if less of prude!” And others to his praises would oppose Suspicion of his prowess, and they said, “Our rose of princes is a thornless rose, A woman’s toy!” and, when the months were sped, And the glad Queen was childed with a son, Light jests upon his mission well begun They bandied; yet the Prince, who felt the sting, Bided his time. Till on the land there brake A sudden warfare; for that haughty king, Gathering a mighty armament to take Revenge for his lost suit, with sword and flame Against the borders on short pretext came. Then with hot haste the Queen’s whole forces poured To meet him. With the call to horse and blade The Prince, deep-chafed in spirit, placed his sword At orders of the General, and prayed A humble station, but, as due his rank, Next in command was made, and led the flank. And so with doubtful poise a fierce war raged, Till on a day encountered face to face The two chief hosts, and dreadful battle waged To close the issue. In its opening space Death smote the General, and in tumult sore The line sank back; but swiftly, at the fore Placing himself, the Prince right onward hurled The strife once more, and with his battle-shout Woke victory; again his forces whirled The hostile troops, and drove them on in rout. The strength of ten battalions seemed to yield Before his arm; and so he won that field, And slew with his own hand the vengeful king, And with that death-stroke brought the war to end, Conquering the common foe, and conquering The hate, from which he would not else defend His clear renown than with such manful deeds As fall to faith and valor at their needs. Again—this time the chaplet was his own— The people wreathed their laurels for his brow; His horses trod on flowers; the city shone With flags of victory; and none but now— As with no vaunting mien he wore his bays— Confessed him brave as good, and gave their praise. Peace smiled anew; the kingdom was at rest. Ah, happy Queen! whom every matron’s tongue Ran envious of, with such a consort blest As wins the heart of women, old and young; So gallant, yet so good, the gentlest maid By this fair standard her own suitor weighed. I hold the perfect mating of two souls, Through wedded love, to be the sum of bliss. When Earth, this fruit that ripens as it rolls In sunlight, grows more prime, lives will not miss Their counterparts, and each shall find its own; But now with what blind chance the lots are thrown! And because Love sets with a rising tide Along the drift where much has gone before One holds of worth,—we lavish first, beside, Heart, honors, regal gifts, and love the more When yielding most,—for this the Queen’s love knew No slack, but still its current deeper grew. And because Love is free, and follows not On gratitude, nor comes from what is given So much as on the giving; and, I wot, Partly because it irks one to have thriven At hands which seem the weaker, and should thrive While those of him they cling to lift and strive; And partly that his marriage seemed a height Which raised him from the passions of our kind, Nor with his own intent; and that, despite Its clear repose, he somehow longed to find The lower world, starve, hunger, and be fed With joy and sorrow, sweet and bitter bread,— For all these things the Prince loved not the Queen With that sufficience which alone can take A rapture in itself and rest serene; Yet knew not what his life lacked that should make It worth to live,—our custom has such art To dull the craving of the famished heart,— Perchance had never known it, but a light Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train About him; else, day following day, and night By night, through years his soul had felt no pain, No triumph, but had shared the common lull, Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull. And yet in one fair woman beauty, youth, And passion were united, and her love Was framed about his likeness. Some, forsooth, May shift their changeful worship as they rove, Or clowns or princes; but her fancy slept, Dreaming upon that picture which she kept, A secret pain and pleasance. With what strife Men sought her love she wist not, for the prize Was not for them. She lived a duteous life. ’Twas something thus to let her constant eyes Feed on his face, to hear his name,—to know He lived, had walked those paths, had loved her so. There is a painting of a youthful monk Who sits within a walled and cloistered nook, His breviary closed, and listens, sunk In day-dreams, to a viol,—with a look Of strange regret fixed on two pairing doves, Who find their fate and simple natural loves. Yet bonds of gold, linked hands, and chancel vows, Even spousal beds, do not a marriage make. When such things chain the soul that never knows Love’s mating, little vantage shall it take, Wandering with alien feet throughout the wide, Hushed temple, over those who pine outside! So this young wife forecast her horoscope And found its wedded lines of little worth, Yet owned not to herself what hopeless hope Or dumb intent made green her spot of earth. So passed three changeless years, as such years be; At last the old lord died, and left her free, The mistress of his rank and broad estate, In honor of her constancy. Then life Rushed back; she saw her beauty grown more great, Ripened as if a summer field were rife With grain, the harvester neglectful, since Hers was no mean desire that sought a prince, Eager to make his birth and bloom her own, Or reign a wanton favorite. But she thought, “I might have loved and clung to him alone, Am fairer than he knew me; yet, if aught Of rarity make sweet my hair and lips, What sweetness hath the honey that none sips?” After her time of mourning she grew bold, And said, “Once let me look upon his face! The Queen will take no harm if I behold What all the world can see.” She left her place, And with a kinsman, at a palace rout, Followed the long line passing in and out Before the dais. The Prince’s eyes and hers Met like the clouds that lighten. In a breath Swift memory flamed between them, as, when stirs No wind, and the dark sky is still as death, One lance of living fire is hurled across; Then comes the whirlwind, and the forests toss! Yet as she bent her beauteous shoulders down, And heard the kindly greeting of the Queen, He spoke such words as one who wears a crown Speaks, and no more; and with a low, proud mien She murmured answer, from the presence past Lightly, nor any look behind her cast. In that first glimpse each read the other’s heart; But not without a summoning of himself To judgment did the Prince forever part From truth and fealty. As he pondered, still With stronger voice Love claimed a debt unpaid, And youth’s hot pulses would not be gainsaid. She with a fierce, full gladness saw again Their broken threads of love begin to spin In one red strand, and let it guide her then, Whether it led to danger or to sin; And shortly, on the morrow, took the road, And gained her country-seat, and there abode. The Prince, a bright near morning, mounted horse, Garbed for the hunt, and left the town, and through The deep-pathed wood rode on a wayward course, With a set purpose in him,—though he knew It not, and let his steed go where it might; For this sole thought pursued him since that night:— “What recompense for me who have not sown The seed and reaped the harvest of my days? Youth passes like a bird; but love alone Makes wealth of riches, power of rank, men’s praise A goodly sound. Of such things have I aught? There is a foil to make their substance naught. “What were his gifts who made each lovely thing, Yet lacked the gift of love? or what the fame Of some dwarfed poet, whose numbers still we sing, If no fair woman trembled where he came? The beggar dying in ditch is not accurst If love once crowned him! Fate may do her worst. “For Age that erst has drawn the wine of love And filled its birth-cup to the jewelled brim, And, while it sparkled, held it high above, And drained it slowly, swiftly,—then, though dim Grow the blurred eyes, and comfort and desire Are but the ashes of their ancient fire, “Yet will it bide its exit in content, Remembering the past, nor grudge, with hoar And ravenous look, the youth we have not spent. No earthly sting has power to harm it more; It lived and loved, was young, and now is old, And life is rounded like a ring of gold.” Thereat with sudden rein the Prince wheeled horse, And sought a pathway that he long had known Yet shunned till now. Beside a water-course It led him for a winding league and lone; Then made a rugged circuit,—where the brook Down a steep ledge of rock its plunges took,— And ended at an open sward, the same Against whose edge the leaping cataract fell From those high cliffs. Five years ago he came To bury youth and love within that dell, And, as again he reached the spot he sought, Truth, fame, his child, the Queen, were all as naught. Dismounting then, he pushed afoot, between The alder saplings, to the outer wood, The grounds, the garden-walks, and found, unseen, A private door, nor tarried till he stood Within the threshold of my Lady’s room,— A shadowed nook, all stillness and perfume. Jasmine and briony the lattice climbed, The rose and honeysuckle trailed above; ’Twas such an hour as poets oft have rhymed, And such a chamber as all lovers love. He found her there, and at her footstool knelt. Each in the other’s fancies had so dwelt, That, as one sees for days a sweet strange face, Until at night in dreams he does caress Its owner, and next morning in some place Meets her, and wonders if she too can guess How near and known he thinks her,—in this wise They read one story in each other’s eyes. Her thick hair falling from its lilies hid Their first long kiss of passion and content. He heard her soft, glad murmur, as she slid Within his hold, and ’gainst his bosom leant, Whispering: “At last! at last! the years were sore.” “Their spite,” he said, “shall do us wrong no more!” What else, when mingled longings swell full-tide, And the heart’s surges leap their bounds for aye, And fell the landmarks? What but fate defied, Time clutched, and any future held at bay? They recked not of the thorn, but seized the flower; For all the sin, their joy was great that hour. And since, for all the joy, theirs was a sin That baned them with one bane; since many men Had sought her love, but one alone could win That largess, with his blameless life till then Inviolate,—they bargained for love’s sake No severance of their covert league to make. Yet, since nobility compelled them still, They pledged themselves for honor’s sake to hold This hidden unto death; at either’s will To meet and part in secret; to infold In their own hearts their trespass and delight, Nor look their love, but guard it day or night.

So fell the blameless Prince. That day more late Than wont he reached the presence of the Queen, Deep in a palace chamber, where she sate Fondling his child. The sunset lit her mien, And made a saintly glory in her hair; An awe came on him as he saw her there. And, because perfect love suspecteth not, She found no blot upon his brow. ’Twas good To take a pleasure in her wedded lot, And watch the infant creeping where he stood; And, as he bent his head, she little wist What kisses burned upon the lips she kissed. And he, still kind and wise in his decline, Seeing her trustful calm, had little heart To shake it. So his conduct gave no sign Of broken faith; no slurring of his part Betrayed him to the courtiers or the wife. Perhaps a second spring-time in his life Waxed green, and fresh-bloomed love renewed again The joys that light our youth and leave our prime, And women found him tenderer, and men A blither, heartier comrade; but, meantime, What hidden gladness made his visage bright They could not guess; nor with what craft and sleight The paramours, in fealty to that Love Who laughs at locks and walks in hooded guise, Met here and there, yet made no careless move Nor bared their strategy to cunning eyes. And though, a portion of the winter year, The Queen’s own summons brought her rival near The Prince, among the ladies of her train, Then, meeting face to face at morn and night, They were as strangers. If it was a pain To pass so coldly on, in love’s despite, It was a joy to hear each other’s tone, And keep the life-long secret still their own. Once having dipped their palms they drank full draught, And, like the desert-parched, alone at first Felt the delight of drinking, while they quaffed As if the waters could not slake their thirst; That nicer sense unreached, when down we fling, And view the oasis around the spring. And, in that first bewilderment, perchance The Prince’s lapse had caught some peering eye, But that his long repute, and maintenance Against each test, had put suspicion by. Now no one watched or doubted him. So long His inner strength had made his outwork strong, So long had smoothed his face, ’twas light to take, From what had been his blamelessness, a mask. And still, for honor’s and the country’s sake, He set his hands to every noble task; Held firmly yet his place among the great, Won by the sword and saviour of the state; And as in war, so now in civic peace, He led the people on to higher things, And fostered Art and Song, and brought increase Of Knowledge, gave to Commerce broader wings, And with his action strengthened fourfold more The weight his precept in their councils bore. Then as the mellow years their fruitage brought, And fair strong children made secure the throne, He reared them wisely, heedfully; and sought Their good, the Queen’s desire, and these alone. Himself so pure, that fathers bade their sons, “Observe the Prince, who every license shuns; “Who, being most brave, is purest!” Wedded wives, Happy themselves, the Queen still happiest found, And plighted maids still wished their lovers’ lives Conformed to his. Such manhood wrapt him round, So winsome were his grace and knightly look, The dames at court their lesser spoil forsook, And wove a net to snare him, and their mood Grew warmer for his coldness; and the hearts Of those most heartless beat with quicker blood, Foiled of his love; yet, heedless of their arts, Courteous to all, he went his way content, Nor ever from his princely station bent. “What is this charm,” they asked, “that makes him chaste Beyond all men?” and wist not what they said. The common folk,—because the Prince had cased His limbs in silver mail, and on his head Worn snowy plumes, and, covered thus in white, Shone in the fiercest turmoil of the fight; And mostly for the whiteness of his soul, Which seemed so virginal and all unblurred,— They called him the White Prince, and through the whole True land the name became a household word. “God save the Queen!” the loyal people sung, “And the White Prince!” came back from every tongue. So passed the stages of a glorious reign. The Queen in tranquil goodness reached her noon; The Prince wore year by year his double chain; His mistress kept her secret like the moon, That hides one half its splendor and its shade; And newer times and men their entrance made. But did these two, who took their secret fill Of stolen waters, find the greater bliss They sought? At first, to meet and part at will Was, for the peril’s sake, a happiness; Ay, even the sense of guilt made such delights More worth, as one we call the wisest writes. But with the later years Time brought about His famed revenges. Not that love grew cold, The lady never found a cause to doubt That with the Prince his passion kept its hold; And while their loved are loyal to them yet, ’Tis not the wont of women to regret. Yet ’twas her lot to live as one whose wealth Is in another’s name; to sigh at fate That hedged her from possession, save by stealth And trespass on the guileless Queen’s estate; To see her lover farthest when most near, Nor dare before the world to make him dear. To see her perfect beauty but a lure, That made men list to follow where she went, And kneel to woo the hand they deemed so pure, And hunger for her pitying mouth’s consent; Calling her hard, who was so gently made, Nor found delight in all their homage paid. Nor ever yet was woman’s life complete Till at her breast the child of him she loved Made life and love one name. Though love be sweet, And passing sweet, till then its growth has proved In woman’s paradise a sterile tree, Fruitless, though fair its leaves and blossoms be. Meanwhile the Prince put on his own disguise, Holding it naught for what it kept secure, Nor wore it only in his comrades’ eyes; Beneath this cloak and seeming to be pure He felt the thing he seemed. For some brief space His conscience took the reflex of his face. But lastly through his heart there crept a sense Of falseness, like a worm about the core, Until he grew to loathe the long pretence Of blamelessness, and would the mask he wore By some swift judgment from his face were torn, So might the outer quell the inner scorn. Such self-contempt befell him, when the feast Rang with his praise, he blushed from nape to crown, And ground his teeth in silence, yet had ceased To bear it, crying, “Crush me not quite down, Who ask your scorn, as viler than you deem Your vilest, and am nothing that I seem!” With such a cry his conscience riotous Had thrown, perchance, the burden on it laid, But love and pity held his voice; and thus The paramours their constant penance made; False to themselves, before the world a lie, Yet each for each had cast the whole world by. In those transcendent moments, when the fire Leapt up between them rapturous and bright, One incompleteness bred a wild desire To let the rest have token of its light; So natural seemed their love,—so hapless, too, They might not make it glorious to view, And speak their joy. ’Twas all as they had come, They two, in some far wildwood wandering mazed, Upon a mighty cataract, whose foam And splendor ere that time had never dazed Men’s eyes, nor any hearing save their own Could listen to its immemorial moan, And felt amid their triumph bitter pain That only for themselves was spread that sight. Oft, when his comrades sang a tender strain, And music, talk, and wine, outlasted night, Rose in the Prince’s throat this sudden tide, “And I,—I also know where Love doth hide!” Yet still the seals were ever on his mouth; No heart, save one, his joy and dole might share. Passed on the winter’s rain and summer’s drouth; Friends more and more, and lovers true, the pair, Though life its passion and its youth had spent, Still kept their faith as seasons came and went.

One final hour, with stammering voice and halt, The Prince said: “Dear, for you,—whose only gain Was in your love that made such long default To self,—Heaven deems you sinless! but a pain Is on my soul, and shadow of guilt threefold: First, in your fair life, fettered by my hold; “Then in the ceaseless wrong I do the Queen, Who worships me, unknowing; worse than all, To wear before the world this painted mien! See to it: on my head some bolt will fall! We have sweet memories of the good years past, Now let this secret league no longer last.” So of her love and pure unselfishness She yielded at his word, yet fain would pray For one more tryst, one day of tenderness, Where first their lives were mated. Such a day Found them entwined together, met to part, Lips pressed to lips, and voiceless grief at heart. And last the Prince drew off his signet-stone, And gave it to his mistress,—as he rose To shut the book of happy moments gone, For so all earthly pleasures find a close,— Yet promised, at her time of utmost need And summons by that token, to take heed And do her will. “And from this hour,” he said, “No woman’s kiss save one my lips shall know.” So left her pale and trembling there, and fled, Nor looked again, resolved it must be so; But somewhere gained his horse, and through the wood Moved homeward with his thoughts, a phantom brood That turned the long past over in his mind, Poising its good and evil, while a haze Gathered around him, of that sombre kind Which follows from a place where many days Have seen us go and come; and even if sore Has been our sojourn there, we feel the more That parting is a sorrow,—though we part With those who loved us not, or go forlorn From pain that ate its canker in the heart; But when we leave the paths where Love has borne His garlands to us, Pleasure poured her wine, Where life was wholly precious and divine, Then go we forth as exiles. In such wise The loath, wan Prince his homeward journey made, Brooding, and marked not with his downcast eyes The shadow that within the coppice shade Sank darker still; but at the horse’s gait Kept slowly on, and rode to meet his fate. For from the west a silent gathering drew, And hid the summer sky, and brought swift night Across that shire, and went devouring through The strong old forest, stronger in its might. With the first sudden crash the Prince’s steed Took the long stride, and galloped at good need. The wild pace tallied with the rider’s mood, And on he spurred, and even now had reached The storm that charged the borders of the wood, When one great whirlwind seized an oak which bleached Across his path, and felled it; and its fall Bore down the Prince beneath it, horse and all. There lay he as he fell; but the mad horse Plunged out in fright, and reared upon his feet, And for the city struck a headlong course, With clatter of hoof along the central street, Nor halted till, thus masterless and late, Bleeding and torn, he reached the palace-gate. Then rose a clamor and the tidings spread, And servitors and burghers thronged about, Crying, “The Prince’s horse! the Prince is dead!” Till on the courser’s track they sallied out, And came upon the fallen oak, and found The Prince sore maimed and senseless on the ground. Then wattling boughs, they raised him in their hold, And after that rough litter, and before, The people went in silence; but there rolled A fiery vapor from the lights they bore, Like some red serpent huge along the road. Even thus they brought him back to his abode. There the pale Queen fell on him at the porch, Dabbling her robes in blood, and made ado, And over all his henchman held a torch, Until with reverent steps they took him through; And the doors closed, and midnight from the domes Was sounded, and the people sought their homes. But on the morrow, like a dreadful bird, Flew swift the tidings of this sudden woe, And reached the Prince’s paramour, who heard Aghast, as one who crieth loud, “The blow Is fallen! I am the cause!”—as one who saith, “Now let me die, whose hands have given death!” So gat her to the town remorsefully, White with a mortal tremor and the sin Which sealed her mouth, and waited what might be, And watched the doors she dared not pass within. Alas, poor lady! that lone week of fears Outlived the length of all her former years. Some days the Prince, upon the skirts of death, Spake not a word nor heard the Queen’s one prayer, Nor turned his face, nor felt her loving breath, Nor saw his children when they gathered there, But rested dumb and motionless; and so The Queen grew weak with watching and her woe, Till from his bed they bore her to her own A little. In the middle-tide of night, Thereafter, he awoke with moan on moan, And saw his death anigh, and said outright, “I had all things, but love was worth them all!” Then sped they for the Queen, yet ere the call Reached her, he cried once more, “Too late! too late!” And at those words, before they led her in, Come the sure dart of him that lay in wait. The Prince was dead: what goodness and what sin Died with him were untold. At sunrise fell Across the capital his solemn knell. All respite it forbade, and joyance thence, To one for whom his passion till the last Wrought in the dying Prince. Her wan suspense Thus ended, a great fear upon her passed. “I was the cause!” she moaned from day to day, “Now let me bear the penance as I may!” So with her whole estate she sought and gained A refuge in a nunnery close at view, And there for months withdrew her, and remained In tears and prayers. Anon a sickness grew Upon her, and her face the ghost became Of what it was, the same and not the same. So died the blameless Prince. The spacious land Was smitten in his death, and such a wail Arose, as when the midnight angel’s hand Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale, Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute; No sound was heard of viol or of lute; The streets were hung with black; the artisan Forsook his forge; the artist dropped his brush; The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with man Struck hands together in the first deep hush Of grief; or, where the dead Prince lay in state, Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great. But when, within the dark cathedral vault, They joined his ashes to the dust of kings, No royal pomp was shown; for Death made halt Above the palace yet, on dusky wings, Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone Along the couch where haply she had thrown, At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame. With visage pale as in a mortal swound She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came The crown-prince and besought her to look round And speak unto her children. Then she said: “Hereto no grief has fallen on our head; “Now all our earthly portion in one mass Is loosed against us with this single stroke! Yet we are Queen, and still must live,—alas!— As he would have us.” Even as she spoke She wept, and mended thence, yet bore the face Of one whose fate delays but for a space. Thenceforth she worked and waited till the call Of Heaven should close the labor and the pause. Months, seasons passed, yet evermore a pall Hung round the court. The sorrow and the cause Were always with her; after things were tame Beside the shadow of his deeds and fame. Her palaces and parks seemed desolate; No joy was left in sky or street or field; No age, she thought, would see the Prince’s mate: What matchless hand his knightly sword could wield? The world had lost, this royal widow said, Its one bright jewel when the Prince was dead. So that his fame might be enduring there For many a reign, and sacred through the land, She gathered bronze and lazuli, and rare Swart marbles, while her cunning artists planned A stately cenotaph,—and bade them place Above its front the Prince’s form and face, Sculptured, as if in life. But the pale Queen, Watching the work herself, would somewhat lure Her heart from plaining; till, behind a screen, The tomb was finished, glorious and pure, Even like the Prince: and they proclaimed a day When the Queen’s hand should draw its veil away. It chanced, the noon before, she bade them fetch Her equipage, and with her children rode Beyond the city walls, across a stretch Of the green open country, where abode Her subjects, happy in the field and grange, And with their griefs, that took a meaner range, Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt On beauty that so failed her wound to heal, She marked the Abbey’s ancient pile, and felt A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel, To pray, and think awhile on Heaven,—her one Sole passion, now the Prince had thither gone. She reached the gate, and through the vestibule The nuns, with reverence for the royal sorrow, Led to the shrine, and left her there to school Her heart for that sad pageant of the morrow. O, what deep sighs, what piteous tearful prayers, What golden grief-blanched hair strewn unawares! Anon her coming through the place was sped, And when from that lone ecstasy she rose The saintly Abbess held her steps, and said: “God rests those, daughter, who in others’ woes Forget their own! In yonder corridor A sister-sufferer lies, and will no more “Pass through her door to catch the morning’s breath,— A worldling once, the chamberlain’s young wife, But now a pious novice, meet for death; She prays to see your face once more in life.” “She, too, is widowed,” thought the Queen. Aloud She answered, “I will visit her,” and bowed Her head, and, following, reached the room where lay One that had wronged her so; and shrank to see That beauteous pallid face, so pined away, And the starved lips that murmured painfully, “I have a secret none but she may hear.” At the Queen’s sign, they two were left anear. With that the dying rushed upon her speech, As one condemned, who gulps the poisoned wine Nor pauses, lest to see it stand at reach Were crueller still. “Madam, I sought a sign,” She cried, “to know if God would have me make Confession, and to you! now let me take “This meeting as the sign, and speak, and die!” “Child,” said the Queen, “your years are yet too few. See how I live,—and yet what sorrows lie About my heart.”—“I know,—the world spake true! You too have loved him; ay, he seems to stand Between us! Queen, you had the Prince’s hand, “But not his love!” Across the good Queen’s brow A flame of anger reddened, as when one Meets unprepared a swift and ruthless blow, But instant paled to pity, as she thought, “She wanders: ’tis the fever at her brain!” And looked her thought. The other cried again: “Yes! I am ill of body and soul indeed, Yet this was as I say. O, not for me Pity, from you who wear the widow’s weed, Unknowing!”—“Woman, whose could that love be, If not all mine?” The other, with a moan, Rose in her bed; the pillow, backward thrown, Was darkened with the torrent of her hair. “’Twas hers,” she wailed,—“’twas hers who loved him best.” Then tore apart her night-robe, and laid bare Her flesh, and lo! against her poor white breast Close round her gloomed a shift of blackest serge, Fearful, concealed!—“I might not sing his dirge,” She said, “nor moan aloud and bring him shame, Nor haunt his tomb and cling about the grate, But this I fashioned when the tidings came That he was dead and I must expiate, Being left, our double sin!”—In the Queen’s heart, The tiger—that is prisoned at life’s start In mortals, though perchance it never wakes From its mute sleep—began to rouse and crawl. Her lips grew white, and on her nostrils flakes Of wrath and loathing stood. “What, now, is all This wicked drivel?” she cried; “how dare they bring The Queen to listen to so foul a thing?” “Queen! I speak truth,—the truth, I say! He fed Upon these lips,—this hair he loved to praise! I held within these arms his bright fair head Pressed close, ah, close!—Our lifetimes were the days We met,—the rest a void!”—“Thou spectral Sin, Be silent! or, if such a thing hath been,— “If this be not thy frenzy,—quick, the proof, Before I score the lie thy lips amid!” She spoke so dread the other crouched aloof, Panting, but with gaunt hands somewhere undid A knot within her hair, and thence she took The signet-ring and passed it. The Queen’s look Fell on it, and that moment the strong stay, Which held her from the instinct of her wrong, Broke, and therewith the whole device gave way, The grand ideal she had watched so long: As if a tower should fall, and on the plain Only a scathed and broken pile remain. But in its stead she would not measure yet The counter-chance, nor deem this sole attaint Made the Prince less than one in whom ’twas set To prove him man. “I held him as a saint,” She thought, “no other:—of all men alone My blameless one! Too high my faith had flown: “So be it!” With a sudden bitter scorn She said: “You were his plaything, then! the food Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born, Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood You knew not! How, shall I,—the fountain life Of yonder children,—his embosomed wife “Through all these years,—shall I, his Queen, for this Sin-smitten harlot’s gage of an hour’s shame, Misdoubt him?”—“Yes, I was his harlot,—yes, God help me! and had worn the loathly name Before the world, to have him in that guise!” “Thou strumpet! wilt thou have me of his prize “Rob Satan?” cried the Queen, and one step moved. “Queen, if you loved him, save me from your bane, As something that was dear to him you loved!” Then from beneath her serge she took the chain Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince Hung round her,—she had never loosed it since,— And gave therewith the face which, in its years Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew; And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears, Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew Too well;—then told the whole, strange, secret tale, As if with Heaven that penance could avail, Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list The mad priest’s cry, nor changed her place nor moaned, But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst, Hid them about her. But the other groaned: “The picture,—let me see it ere I die,— Then take them all! once, only!”—At that cry The Queen strode forward with an awful stride, And seized the dying one, and bore her down, And rose her height, and said, “Thou shouldst have died Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown To hear it told. I am of God accurst! Of all his hated, may he smite thee first!” With that wild speech she fled, nor looked behind, Hasting to get her from that fearful room, Past the meek nuns in wait. These did not find The sick one’s eyes—yet staring through the gloom, While her hands fumbled at her heart, and Death Made her limbs quake, and combated her breath— More dreadful than the Queen’s look, as she thence Made through the court, and reached her own array She knew not how, and clamored, “Bear me hence!” And, even as her chariot moved away, High o’er the Abbey heard the minster toll Its doleful bell, as for a passing soul. Though midst her guardsmen, as they speeded back, The wont of royalty maintained her still, Where grief had been were ruin now and rack! The firm earth reeled about, nor could her will Make it seem stable, while her soul went through Her wedded years in desperate review. The air seemed full of lies; the realm, unsound; Her courtiers, knaves; her maidens, good and fair, Most shameless bawds; her children clung around Like asps, to sting her; from the kingdom’s heir, Shuddering, she turned her face,—his features took A shining horror from his father’s look. Along her city streets the thrifty crowd, As the Queen passed, their loving reverence made. “’Tis false! they love me not!” she cried aloud; So flung her from her chariot, and forbade All words, but waved her ladies back, and gained Her inmost room, and by herself remained. “We have been alone these years, and knew it not,” She said; “now let us on the knowledge thrive!” So closed the doors, and all things else forgot Than her own misery. “I cannot live And bear this death,” she said, “nor die, the more To meet him,—and that woman gone before!” Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight gloomed, As lone as any outcast of us all; And once, without a purpose, as the doomed Stare round and count the shadows on the wall, Unclasped a poet’s book which near her lay, And turned its pages in that witless way, And read the song, some wise, sad man had made, With bitter frost about his doubting heart. “What is this life,” it plained, “what masquerade Of which ye all are witnesses and part? ’Tis but a foolish, smiling face to wear Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair; “To mock your comrades and yourselves with mirth That feeds the care ye cannot drive away; To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay; To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great, Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate; “To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss, Though but to-morrow brings the open shame; To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss Your last to him that’s richer save in name; To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed To crime that’s white beside your hidden deed; “To whisper love, where of true love is none,— Desire, where lust is dead; to live unchaste, And wear the priestly cincture;—last, to own, When the morn’s dream is gone and noontide waste, Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet, Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet!” Thus far she read, and, “Let me read no more,” She clamored, “since the scales have left mine eyes And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before! We are but puppets, in whatever guise They clothe us, to whatever tune we move; Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love. “Let me, too, play the common part, and wean My life from hope, and look beneath the mask To read the masker! I, who was a Queen, And like a hireling thought to ’scape my task! For some few seasons left this heart is schooled: Yet,—had it been a little longer fooled,— “O God!” And from her seat she bowed her down. The gentle sovereign of that spacious land Lay prone beneath the bauble of her crown, Nor heard all night her whispering ladies stand Outside the portal. Greatly, in the morn, They marvelled at her visage wan and worn.

But when the sun was high, the populace By every gateway filled the roads, and sought The martial plain, within whose central space That wonder of the Prince’s tomb was wrought. Thereto from out the nearer land there passed The mingled folk, an eager throng and vast; Knights, commons, men and women, young and old, The present and the promise of the realm. Anon the coming of the Queen was told, And mounted guards, with sable plumes at helm, Made through the middle, like a reaper’s swath, A straight, wide roadway for the sovereign’s path. Then rose the murmurous sound of her advance, And, with the crown-prince, and her other brood Led close behind, she came. Her countenance Moved not to right nor left, until she stood Before the tomb; yet those, who took the breath That clothed her progress, felt a waft of death. O noble martyr! queenliest intent! Strong human soul, that holds to pride through all! Ah me! with what fierce heavings in them pent The brave complete their work, whate’er befall! Upon her front the people only read Pale grief that clung forever to the dead. How should they know she trod the royal stand, And took within her hold the silken line, As, while the headsman waits, one lays her hand Upon the scarf that slays her by a sign? With one great pang she drew the veil, and lo! The work was dazzling in the noonday glow. There shone the Prince’s image, golden, high, Installed forever in the people’s sight. “Alas!” they cried, “too good, too fair to die!” But at the foot the Queen had bid them write Her consort’s goodness, and his glory-roll, Yet knew not they had carved upon the scroll That last assurance of his stainless heart,— For such they deemed his words who heard them fall,— “Of all great things this Prince achieved his part, Yet wedded Love to him was worth them all.” Thus read the Queen: till now, her injured soul Of its forlornness had not felt the whole. Now all her heart was broken. There she fell, And to the skies her lofty spirit fled. The wrong of those mute words had smitten well. A cry went up: “The Queen! the Queen is dead! O regal heart that would not reign alone! O fatal sorrow! O the empty throne!” Her people made her beauteous relics room Within the chamber where her consort slept. There rest they side by side. Around the tomb A thousand matrons solemn vigil kept. Long ages told the story of her reign, And sang the nuptial love that had no stain.