Then laughing,' What if these weird seizures come
Upon you in those lands, and no one near

To point you out the shadow from the truth!
Take me; I'll serve you better in a strait;
I grate on rusty hinges here.' But No!'
Roar'd the rough king, 'you shall not; we ourself
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 clamor at our backs

With

Ho!' from some bay-window shake the

And almost my half-self, for still we moved
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye.

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.
It cannot be but some gross error lies
In this report, this answer of a king
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable;
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen,
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame,
May rue the bargain made.' And Florian said:
'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

To point you out the shadow from the truth!

Take me; I'll serve you

better in a strait;

I grate on rusty hinges here.' But 'No!'

Roar'd the rough king, you shall not; we ourself 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 clamor at our backs With Ho!' from some bay-window shake the

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,
And my betroth'd. You do us, Prince,' he said,
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem,

• All honor. We remember love ourself

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,
But all she is and does is awful; odes
About this losing of the child; and rhymes
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change

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,

Yet being an easy man, gave it; and there,
All wild to found an University

For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more
We know not, only this: they see no men,

Not even her brother Arac, nor the twins

Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her
As on a kind of paragon; and I —

Pardon me saying it — were much loth to breed
Dispute betwixt myself and mine; but since -
And I confess with right — you think me bound
In some sort, I can give you letters to her;
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance
Almost at naked nothing.'