Love

How mighty and how fierce a king is here The stayer of falling folks, the bane of fear! Fair life he liveth, ruling passing well, Disdaining praise of Heaven and hate of Hell; And yet how goodly to us Great in Heaven Are such as he, the waning world that leaven! How well it were that such should never die! How well it were at least that memory Of such should live, as live their glorious deeds! --But which of all the Gods think ye it needs To shape the mist of Rumour's wavering breath Into a golden dream that fears no death? Red Mars belike?--since through his field is thrust The polished plough-share o'er the helmets' rust!-- Apollo's beauty?--surely eld shall spare Smooth skin, and flashing eyes, and crispy hair!-- Nay, Jove himself?--the pride that holds the low Apart, despised, to mighty tales must grow!-- Or Pallas?--for the world that knoweth nought, By that great wisdom to the wicket brought, Clear through the tangle evermore shall see! --O Faithful, O Beloved, turn to ME! I am the Ancient of the Days that were I am the Newborn that To-day brings here, I am the Life of all that dieth not; Through me alone is sorrow unforgot.

My Faithful, knowing that this man should live, I from the cradle gifts to him did give Unmeet belike for rulers of the earth; As sorrowful yearning in the midst of mirth, Pity midst anger, hope midst scorn and hate. Languor midst labour, lest the day wax late, And all be wrong, and all be to begin. Through these indeed the eager life did win That was the very body to my soul; Yet, as the tide of battle back did roll Before his patience: as he toiled and grieved O'er fools and folly, was he not deceived, But ever knew the change was drawing nigh, And in my mirror gazed with steadfast eye. Still, O my Faithful, seemed his life so fair That all Olympus might have left him there Until to bitter strength that life was grown, And then have smiled to see him die alone, Had I not been.----Ye know me; I have sent A pain to pierce his last coat of content: Now must he tear the armour from his breast And cast aside all things that men deem best, And single-hearted for his longing strive That he at last may save his soul alive.

How say ye then, Beloved? Ye have known The blossom of the seed these hands have sown; Shall this man starve in sorrow's thorny brake? Shall Love the faithful of his heart forsake?

In the King's Garden. KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.