Master Oliver

But a night's dream undid him, and he died, and his kingdom By unheard-of deeds fashioned, was tumbled together, By false men and fools to be fought for and ruined. Such words shall my ghost see the chronicler writing In the days that shall be:--ah--what wouldst thou, my fosterling? Knowest thou not how words fail us awaking That we seemed to hear plain amid sleep and its sweetness? Nay, strive not, my son, rest awhile and be silent; Or sleep while I watch thee: full fair is the garden, Perchance mid the flowers thy sweet dream may find thee, And thou shalt have pleasure and peace for a little.-- (Aside) And my soul shall depart ere thou wak'st peradventure.