Master Oliver

--O Son, is it sleep that upon thee is fallen? Not death, O my dear one!--speak yet but a little!

KING PHARAMOND (raising himself again)

O be glad, foster-father! and those troubles past over,-- Be thou thereby when once more I remember And sit with my maiden and tell her the story, And we pity our past selves as a poet may pity The poor folk he tells of amid plentiful weeping. Hush now! as faint noise of bells over water A sweet sound floats towards me, and blesses my slumber: If I wake never more I shall dream and shall see her. [Sleeps.