And almost my half-self, for still we moved Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, Inflamed with wrath: he started on his feet, Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware That he would send a hundred thousand men, And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chew'd The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen, Communing with his captains of the war. At last I spoke. "My father, let me go. Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, "I have a sister at the foreign court, Who moves about the Princess; she, you know, Who wedded with a nobleman from thence: He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, The lady of three castles in that land: Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." And Cyril whisper'd: "Take me with you too." Then laughing "what, if these weird seizures come Upon you in those lands, and no one near I grate on rusty hinges here:" but "No!" Roar'd the rough king, "you shall not; we our self Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead In iron gauntlets: break the council up.' But when the council broke, I rose and past Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town; Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness out; Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees: What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth? Proud look'd the lips: but while I meditated A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks Of the wild woods together; and a Voice Went with it, "Follow, follow, thou shalt win.", Then, ere the silver sickle of that month Became her golden shield, I stole from court With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived, Cat-footed thro' the town and half in dread To hear my father's clamour at our backs With Ho! from some bay-window shake the night; But all was quiet: from the bastion'd walls Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt, And flying reach'd the frontier: then we crost To a livelier land; and so by tilth and grange, And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness, We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers, And in the imperial palace found the king. His name was Gama; crack'd and small his voice, But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind On glassy water drove his cheek in lines; A little dry old man, without a star, Not like a king: three days he feasted us, And on the fourth I spake of why we came, "All honour. We remember love ourselves In our sweet youth: there did a compact pass Long summers back, a kind of ceremony I think the year in which our olives fail'd. I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart, With my full heart: but there were widows here, Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche; They fed her theories, in and out of place Maintaining that with equal husbandry The woman were an equal to the man. They harp'd on this; with this our banquets rang; Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk; Nothing but this; my very ears were hot To hear them: knowledge, so my daughter held, Was all in all they had but been, she thought, As children; they must lose the child, assume The woman then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, : Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, About this losing of the child; and rhymes Beyond all reason: these the women sang; And they that know such things I sought but peace; No critic I would call them masterpieces: They master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon A certain summer-palace which I have Hard by your father's frontier: I said no, For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more (Pardon me saying it) were much loth to breed Dispute betwixt myself and mine: but since |