Chapter 4

'Twere no hard task, perchance, to win The popular laurel for my song; 'Twere only to comply with sin, And own the crown, though snatched by wrong: Rather Truth's chaplet let me wear, Though sharp as death its thorns may sting: Loyal to Loyalty, I bear No badge but of my rightful king.

Patient by town and tower I wait, Or o'er the blustering moorland go; 10 I buy no praise at cheaper rate, Or what faint hearts may fancy so; For me, no joy in lady's bower, Or hall, or tourney, will I sing, Till the slow stars wheel round the hour That crowns my hero and my king.

While all the land runs red with strife, And wealth is won by pedler-crimes, Let who will find content in life And tinkle in unmanly rhymes; 20 I wait and seek; through dark and light, Safe in my heart my hope I bring, Till I once more my faith may plight To him my whole soul owns her king.

When power is filched by drone and dolt, And, with canght breath and flashing eye, Her knuckles whitening round the bolt, Vengeance leans eager from the sky, While this and that the people guess, And to the skirts of praters cling, 30 Who court the crowd they should compress, I turn in scorn to seek my king.

Shut in what tower of darkling chance Or dungeon of a narrow doom, Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance That for the Cross make crashing room? Come! with hushed breath the battle waits In the wild van thy mace's swing; While doubters parley with their fates, Make thou thine own and ours, my king! 40

O strong to keep upright the old, And wise to buttress with the new, Prudent, as only are the bold, Clear-eyed, as only are the true, To foes benign, to friendship stern, Intent to imp Law's broken wing, Who would not die, if death might earn The right to kiss thy hand, my king?