Love

O Pharamond, I knew thee brave and strong, And yet how might'st thou live to bear this wrong? --A wandering-tide of three long bitter years, Solaced at whiles by languor of soft tears, By dreams self-wrought of night and sleep and sorrow, Holpen by hope of tears to be to-morrow: Yet all, alas, but wavering memories; No vision of her hands, her lips, her eyes, Has blessed him since he seemed to see her weep, No wandering feet of hers beset his sleep.

Woe's me then! am I cruel, or am I grown The scourge of Fate, lest men forget to moan? What!--is there blood upon these hands of mine? Is venomed anguish mingled with my wine? --Blood there may be, and venom in the cup; But see, Beloved, how the tears well up From my grieved heart my blinded eyes to grieve, And in the kindness of old days believe! So after all then we must weep to-day-- --We, who behold at ending of the way, These lovers tread a bower they may not miss Whose door my servant keepeth, Earthly Bliss: There in a little while shall they abide, Nor each from each their wounds of wandering hide, But kiss them, each on each, and find it sweet, That wounded so the world they may not meet. --Ah, truly mine! since this your tears may move, The very sweetness of rewarded love! Ah, truly mine, that tremble as ye hear The speech of loving lips grown close and dear; --Lest other sounds from other doors ye hearken, Doors that the wings of Earthly Anguish darken.

Scene: On a Highway in a Valley near the last, with a Mist over all things.

KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.