The Poetry Corner

The Sleep Of Sigismund.

By Jean Ingelow

The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow. 'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow, Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will; His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him, His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him; Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground. Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying, Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last. I. 'Wake, O king, the best star worn In the crown of night, forlorn Blinks a fine white point - 't is morn.' Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she, 'Wake!' He waketh, living, free, In the chamber of arras lieth he. Delicate dim shadows yield Silken curtains over head All abloom with work of neeld, Martagon and milleflower spread. On the wall his golden shield, Dinted deep in battle field, When the host o' the Khalif fled. Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit Upward, tremble and break on it. 'Ay, 't is over, all things writ Of my sleep shall end awake, Now is joy, and all its bane The dark shadow of after pain.' Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break Unto me for dear love's sake This thy matter. Thou hast been In great bitterness I ween All the night-time.' But 'My queen, Life, love, lady, rest content, Ill dreams fly, the night is spent, Good day draweth on. Lament 'Vaileth not, - yea peace,' quoth he; 'Sith this thing no better may be, Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' Then the fair queen, 'Even so As thou wilt, O king, but know Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, Yet the last was troubled sore Above all that went before.' Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.' Then he riseth, pale of blee, As one spent, and utterly Master'd of dark destiny. II. Comes a day for glory famed Tidings brought the enemy shamed, Fallen; now is peace proclaimed. And a swarm of bells on high Make their sweet din scale the sky, 'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cry To the king his queen beside, And the knights in armour ride After until eventide. III. All things great may life afford, Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, Till the banquet be toward Hath this king. Then day takes flight, Sinketh sun and fadeth light, Late he coucheth - Night; 't is night. The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger. Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won. Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, Fell tumult; trampling and carnage - then fails endeavour, O shame upon shame - the Christians falter and fly. The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, The king borne back in the mle; all, all is vain; They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them, Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain. Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving, The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand, 'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving, That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand. Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling Flies after. Athirst, ashamd, he yieldeth his breath, While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling, Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. IV. 'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; Now is heard a twittering sweet, For the mother-martins meet, Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, Glisten on the battlement. Now the lark at heaven's gold gate Aiming, sweetly chides on fate That his brown wings wearied were When he, sure, was almost there. Now the valley mist doth break, Shifting sparkles edge the lake, Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!' V. Ay, he wakes, - and dull of cheer, Though this queen be very dear, Though a respite come with day From th' abhorrd flight and fray, E'en though life be not the cost, Nay, nor crown nor honour lost; For in his soul abideth fear Worse than of the Khalif's spear, Smiting when perforce in flight He was borne, - for that was night, That his weird. But now 't is day, 'And good sooth I know not - nay, Know not how this thing could be. Never, more it seemeth me Than when left the weird to dree, I am I. And it was I Felt or ever they turned to fly, How, like wind, a tremor ran, The right hand of every man Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, And the red all cheeks forsook, Mine as theirs. Since this was I, Who my soul shall certify When again I face the foe Manful courage shall not go. Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, Scorn of infidel eyes austere, But mine own fear - is to fear.' VI. After sleep thus sore bestead, Beaten about and buffeted, Featly fares the morning spent In high sport and tournament. VII. Served within his sumptuous tent, Looks the king in quiet wise, Till this fair queen yield the prize To the bravest; but when day Falleth to the west away, Unto her i' the silent hour, While she sits in her rose-bower. Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she, 'I at dawn have prayd thee Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, Sith I might some counsel find Of my wit or in my mind Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so, But the telling shall let thee know,' Quoth the king, 'is neither scope For sweet counsel nor fair hope, Nor is found for respite room, Till the uttermost crack of doom. VIII. Then the queen saith, 'Woman's wit No man asketh aid of it, Not wild hyssop on a wall Is of less account; or small Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun Less worth weighing - light so light! Yet when all's said - ay, all done, Love, I love thee! By love's might I will counsel thee aright, Or would share the weird to-night.' Then he answer'd 'Have thy way. Know 't is two years gone and a day Since I, walking lone and late, Pondered sore mine ill estate; Open murmurers, foes concealed, Famines dire i' the marches round, Neighbour kings unfriendly found, Ay, and treacherous plots revealed Where I trusted. I bid stay All my knights at the high crossway, And did down the forest fare To bethink me, and despair. 'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne, If one mounts to thee alone, Quoth I, mourning while I went, Haply he may drop content As a lark wing-weary down To the level, and his crown Leave for another man to don; Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. But for me - O as for me What is named I would not dree, Earn, or conquer, or forego For the barring of overthrow.' IX. 'Aloud I spake, but verily Never an answer looked should be. But it came to pass from shade Pacing to an open glade, Which the oaks a mighty wall Fence about, methought a call Sounded, then a pale thin mist Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, Rose and took a form I wist, And it wore a hood on 'ts head, And a long white garment spread, And I saw the eyes thereof. X. Then my plumd cap I doff, Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,' Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevail An thou wilt; I swear to thee All thy days shall glorious shine, Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, So what followeth rest my fee, So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.' XI. While she spake my heart did leap. Waking is man's life, and sleep - What is sleep? - a little death Coming after, and methought Life is mine and death is nought Till it come, - so day is mine I will risk the sleep to shine In the waking. And she saith, In a soft voice clear and low, 'Give thy plumd cap also For a token.' 'Didst thou give?' Quoth the queen; and 'As I live He makes answer 'none can tell. I did will my sleep to sell, And in token held to her That she askd. And it fell To the grass. I saw no stir In her hand or in her face, And no going; but the place Only for an evening mist Was made empty. There it lay, That same plumd cap, alway On the grasses - but I wist Well, it must be let to lie, And I left it. Now the tale Ends, th' events do testify Of her truth. The days go by Better and better; nought doth ail In the land, right happy and hale Dwell the seely folk; but sleep Brings a reckoning; then forth creep Dreaded creatures, worms of might. Crested with my plumd cap Loll about my neck all night, Bite me in the side, and lap My heart's blood. Then oft the weird Drives me, where amazed, afeard, I do safe on a river strand Mark one sinking hard at hand While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track Fly upon me, bear me back, Fling me away, and he for lack Of man's aid in piteous wise Goeth under, drowns and dies. XII. 'O sweet wife, I suffer sore - O methinks aye more and more Dull my day, my courage numb, Shadows from the night to come. But no counsel, hope, nor aid Is to give; a crown being made Power and rule, yea all good things Yet to hang on this same weird I must dree it, ever that brings Chastening from the white-witch feared. O that dreams mote me forsake, Would that man could alway wake.' XIII. Now good sooth doth counsel fail, Ah this queen is pale, so pale. 'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well Listening to the white-witch fell, Leaving her doth thee advance Thy plumd cap of maintenance.' XIV. 'She is white, as white snow flake,' Quoth the king; 'a man shall make Bargains with her and not sin.' 'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win, Let him look the right be done Else the rue shall be his own. XV. No more words. The stars are bright, For the feast high halls be dight Late he coucheth. Night - 't is night. The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy. Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet. Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay - but is he living? The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving, The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen. Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed, Falter'd, and yet drew near him? - Malva, Malva the queen! One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievd For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore; Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavd Soon to go under, never to look on her more. His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes? The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her, 'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring? I vowed - 't was an evil vow - by love, and by honour, Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.' The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing - A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing, I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn; Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals, You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore, But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne: Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, Though I dare thy presence - I - come for my ring alone.' She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead, For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled. 'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavd, The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed' - The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavd, Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed. XVI. 'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, Drenched across yon rainy sky, With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, And the clouds do weep themselves Into morning. All night long Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; Wake, I have found within my breast Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, But the time is told. Release Openeth on him when his eyes Lift them in dull desolate wise, And behold he is at peace. Ay, but silent. Of all done And all suffer'd in the night, Of all ills that do him spite She shall never know that one. Then he heareth accents bland, Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, And he riseth calmed withal. XVII. Rain and wind on the palace wall Beat and bluster, sob and moan, When at noon he musing lone, Comes the queen anigh his seat, And she kneeleth at his feet. XVIII. Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord, Take thy wife and take thy sword, We must forth in the stormy weather, Thou and I to the witch together. Thus I rede thee counsel deep, Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, Turning so man's wholesome life From its meaning. Thine intent None shall hold for innocent. Thou dost take thy good things first, Then thou art cast into the worst; First the glory, then the strife. Nay, but first thy trouble dree, So thy peace shall sweeter be. First to work and then to rest, Is the way for our humanity, Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, We must forth and from this strife Buy the best part of man's life; Best and worst thou holdest still Subject to a witch's will. Thus I rede thee counsel deep, Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep; Take the crown from off thy head, Give it the white-witch instead, If in that she say thee nay, Get the night, - and give the day.' XIX. Then the king (amazd, mild, As one reasoning with a child All his speech): 'My wife! my fair! And his hand on her brown hair Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed Weigh the meaning of thy rede? Would'st thou dare the dropping away Of allegiance, should our sway And sweet splendour and renown All be risked? (methinks a crown Doth become thee marvellous well). We ourself are, truth to tell, Kingly both of wont and kind, Suits not such the craven mind.' 'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he, 'I must die and leave the fair Unborn, long-desired heir To his rightful heritage.' XX. But this queen arisen doth high Her two hands uplifting, sigh 'God forbid.' And he to assuage Her keen sorrow, for his part Searcheth, nor can find in his heart Words. And weeping she will rest Her sweet cheek upon his breast, Whispering, 'Dost thou verily Know thou art to blame? Ah me, Come,' and yet beseecheth she, 'Ah me, come.' For good for ill, Whom man loveth hath her will. Court and castle left behind, Stolen forth in the rain and wind, Soon they are deep in the forest, fain The white-witch to raise again; Down and deep where flat o'erhead Layer on layer do cedars spread, Down where lordly maples strain, Wrestling with the storm amain. XXI. Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high Headlong fall'n break through, and lie With their prey in piteous wise, And no film on their dead eyes. Matted branches grind and crash, Into darkness dives the flash, Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, Loads the lift with splinters dire. Then a pause i' the deadly feud - And a sick cowed quietude. XXII. Soh! A pillar misty and grey, 'T is the white-witch in the way. Shall man deal with her and gain? I trow not. Albeit the twain Costly gear and gems and gold Freely offer, she will hold Sleep and token for the pay She did get for greatening day. XXIII. 'Or the night shall rest my fee Or the day shall nought of me,' Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem, Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' XXIV. 'Now what will be let it be!' Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' And the white-witch scorns at her, Stately standing in their sight. Then without or sound or stir She is not. For offering meet Lieth the token at their feet, Which they, weary and sore bestead In the storm, lift up, full fain Ere the waning light hath fled Those high towers they left to gain. XXV. Deep among tree roots astray Here a torrent tears its way, There a cedar split aloft Lies head downward. Now the oft Muttering thunder, now the wind Wakens. How the path to find? How the turning? Deep ay deep, Far ay far. She needs must weep, This fair woman, lost, astray In the forest; nought to say. Yet the sick thoughts come and go, 'I, 't was I would have it so.' XXVI. Shelter at the last, a roof Wrought of ling (in their behoof, Foresters, that drive the deer). What, and must they couch them here? Ay, and ere the twilight fall Gather forest berries small And nuts down beaten for a meal. XXVII. Now the shy wood-wonners steal Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, Winking owls on silent wings Glance, and float away. The light In the wake o' the storm takes flight, Day departeth: night - 't is night. The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river. Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow; Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. Bare, blue, are yon peakd hills for a rampart lying, As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, 'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing, If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread? I might - I might be at rest in some field Elysian, If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth? Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there? Are they immortals? Look you a wingd one leaneth Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. All unaware; and the country is full of voices, Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee. List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, 'O this is thy dream atween us - this is thy dream.' Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended? 'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.' 'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended, He starts from that passion of peace - ay, the dream is done. XXVIII. 'I have been in a good land,' Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland, Blessed! I am grown to more, Now the doing of right hath moved Me to love of right, and proved If one doth it, he shall be Twice the man he was before. Verily and verily, Thou fair woman, thou didst well; I look back and scarce may tell Those false days of tinsel sheen, Flattery, feasting, that have been. Shows of life that were but shows, How they held me; being I ween Like sand-pictures thin, that rose Quivering, when our thirsty bands Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands; Shade of palms on a thick green plot, Pools of water that was not, Mocking us and melting away. XXIX. I have been a witch's prey, Art mine enemy now by day, Thou fell Fear? There comes an end To the day; thou canst not wend After me where I shall fare, My foredoomd peace to share. And awake with a better heart, I shall meet thee and take my part O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine Hard will I strive for me and mine.' XXX. A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, Malva the queen awakes. A sigh - One amazd moment - 'Ay, We remember yesterday, Let us to the palace straight: What! do all my ladies wait - Is no zeal to find me? What! No knights forth to meet the king; Due observance, is it forgot?' XXXI. 'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring Evil news. Sir king, I say, My good lord of yesterday, Evil news,' This king saith low, 'Yesterday, and yesterday, The queen's yesterday we know, Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he, Hear. Thy castle in the night Was surprised, and men thy flight Learned but then; thine enemy Of old days, our new king, reigns; And sith thou wert not at pains To forbid it, hear also, Marvelling whereto this should grow How thy knights at break of morn Have a new allegiance sworn, And the men-at-arms rejoice, And the people give their voice For the conqueror. I, Sir king, Rest thine only friend. I bring Means of flight; now therefore fly, A great price is on thy head. Cast her jewel'd mantle by, Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie (Sith disguise ye need, and bread) Down yon pleachd track, down, down, Till a tower shall on thee frown; Him that holds it show this ring: So farewell, my lord the king.' XXXII. Had one marked that palfrey led To the tower, he sooth had said, These are royal folk and rare - Jewels in her plaited hair Shine not clearer than her eyes, And her lord in goodly wise With his plumd cap in 's hand Moves in the measure of command. XXXIII. Had one marked where stole forth two From the friendly tower anew, 'Common folk' he sooth had said, Making for the mountain track. Common, common, man and maid, Clad in russet, and of kind Meet for russet. On his back A wallet bears the stalwart hind; She, all shy, in rustic grace Steps beside her man apace, And wild roses match her face. XXXIV. Whither speed they? Where are toss'd Like sea foam the dwarfed pines At the jagged sharp inclines; To the country of the frost Up the mountains to be lost, Lost. No better now may be, Lost where mighty hollows thrust 'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, Fill themselves with crimson dust When the tumbling sun down hurl'd Stares among them drearily, As a' wondering at the lone Gulfs that weird gaunt company Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, Lineage, nation, name, and throne. XXXV. Lo, in a crevice choked with ling And fir, this man, not now the king, This Sigismund, hath made a fire, And by his wife in the dark night He leans at watch, her guard and squire. His wide eyes stare out for the light Weary. He needs must chide on fate, And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, What! wilt thou on the mountain crest Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? Or must I clear some uncouth cave That laired the mother wolf, and save - Spearing her cubs - the grey pelt fine To be a bed for thee and thine? It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, 'Mine; but who dares to pity thee Shall pity, not for loss of all, But that thou wert my wife perdie, E'en wife unto a witch's thrall, - A man beholden to the cold Cloud for a covering, he being sold And hunted for reward of gold. XXXVI. But who shall chronicle the ways Of common folk - the nights and days Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, Of travellers come whence no man knows, Then gone aloft on some sharp height In the dumb peace and the great light Amid brown eagles and wild roes? XXXVII. 'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, The rocky pastures hung on high Shelve off upon an empty sky. But they creep near the edge, look down - Great heaven! another world afloat, Moored as in seas of air; remote As their own childhood; swooning away Into a tenderer sweeter day, Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! There lie the lands of other kings - I Sigismund, my sometime crown Forfeit; forgotten of renown My wars, my rule; I fain would go Down to yon peace obscure.' Even so; Down to the country of the thyme, Where young kids dance, and a soft chime Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last Down to a country of hollows, cast Up at the mountains full of trees, Down to fruit orchards and wide leas. XXXVIII. With name unsaid and fame unsunned He walks that was King Sigismund. With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, New from the East, with friar and clown, He mingles in a walld town, And in the mart where men him scan He passes for a merchant man. For from his vest, where by good hap He thrust it, he his plumd cap Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, And up and down he makes essay To sell them; they are all his wares And wealth. He is a man of cares, A man of toil; no roof hath he To shelter her full soon to be The mother of his dispossessed Desird heir. XXXIX. Few words are best. He, once King Sigismund, saith few, But makes good diligence and true. Soon with the gold he gather'd so, A little homestead lone and low He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these A melon patch and mulberry trees. And is the man content? Nay, morn Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, Though right be done and life be won, Yet hot is weeding in the sun, Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, Are hard on sinews of a king. XL. And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. Full patiently she takes her part, All, all so new. But her deep heart Forebodes more change than shall be shown Betwixt a settle and a throne. And lost in musing she will go About the winding of her silk, About the skimming her goat's milk, About the kneading of her bread, And water drawn from her well-head. XLI. Then come the long nights dark and still, Then come the leaves and cover the sill, Then come the swift flocks of the stare, Then comes the snow - then comes the heir. XLII. If he be glad, if he be sad, How should one question when the hand Is full, the heart. That life he had, While leisure was aside may stand, Till he shall overtake the task Of every day, then let him ask (If he remember - if he will), 'When I could sit me down and muse, And match my good against mine ill, And weigh advantage dulled by use At nothing, was it better with me?' But Sigismund! It cannot be But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, A dreamer on a day gone by The king is come. XLIII. His vassals two Serve with all homage deep and due. He is contented, he doth find Belike the kingdom much to his mind. And when the long months of his long Reign are two years, and like a song From some far sweeter world, a call From the king's mouth for fealty, Buds soon to blossom in language fall, They listen and find not any plea Left, for fine chiding at destiny. XLIV. Sigismund hath ricked the hay, He sitteth at close o' a sultry day Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, The world is mine, and the world is - these Beautiful Malva leans at his side, And the small babbler talks at his knees. XLV. Riseth a waft as of summer air, Floating upon it what moveth there? Faint as the light of stars and wan As snow at night when the moon is gone, It is the white-witch risen once more. XLVI. The white-witch that tempted of yore So utterly doth substance lack, You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: 'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, Bargain with me yea or nay. NAY, I go to my true place, And no more thou seest my face. YEA, the good be all thine own, For now will I advance thy day, And yet will leave the night alone. XLVII. Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. Though the Highest heaped on me Trouble, yet the same should be Welcomer than weal from thee. Nay; - for ever and ever Nay.' O, the white-witch floats away. Look you, look! A still pure smile Blossoms on her mouth the while, White wings peakd high behind, Bear her; - no, the wafting wind, For they move not, - floats her back, Floats her up. They scarce may track Her swift rising, shot on high Like a ray from the western sky, Or a lark from some grey wold Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold. XLVIII. Then these two long silence hold, And the lisping babe doth say 'White white bird, it flew away.' And they marvel at these things, For her ghostly visitings Turn to them another face. Haply she was sent, a friend Trying them, and to good end For their better weal and grace; One more wonder let to be In the might and mystery Of the world, where verily And good sooth a man may wend All his life, and no more view Than the one right next to do. XLIX. So, the welcome dusk is here, Sweet is even, rest is dear; Mountain heads have lost the light, Soon they couch them. Night - 't is night. Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying. ('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.') 'Sigismund, Sigismund' - 'Who is this calling and saying "Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet. Is it not dark - ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.' 'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves. 'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.' 'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee, The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore. The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother, Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes? Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, Sigismund?' - dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes. L. And men say this dream came true, For he walking in the dew Turned aside while yet was red On the highest mountain head, Looking how the wheat he set Flourished. And the knights him met And him prayed 'Come again, Sigismund our king, and reign.' But at first - at first they tell How it liked not Malva well; She must leave her belted bees And the kids that she did rear. When she thought on it full dear Seemed her home. It did not please Sigismund that he must go From the wheat that he did sow; When he thought on it his mind Was not that should any bind Into sheaves that wheat but he, Only he; and yet they went, And it may be were content. And they won a nation's heart; Very well they played their part. They ruled with sceptre and diadem, And their children after them.