THE STEADFAST PRINCE.

PART II.

What man shall say that he the deepest deepHas reached, whereto misfortune may him bring?That never from her fatal urn may leapA lot inscribed with heavier sufferingThan that he knows? that now of everythingWhich sweetens life, his life is stript so bare,That worse with him henceforth it cannot fare?II.Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rudeDown from the honourable high estateWherein observed and reverenced once he stood;He yet must be misfortune’s trustier mate—Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.III.For now his foes, by malice partly moved,Because they saw it solaced him to shareAll griefs and labours which the others proved;And how that all, though oft they threatened were,And punished for their deed, yet still would bearTo him all reverence and respect, and bringHomage to him as to a crownèd king;—IV.And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,And evidently weaker now becameWith each succeeding day, should wholly fail,Nor longer to sustain itself avail;—Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,And them of all their promised gain despoil,—V.They now denied him the sad libertyTo share whatever pains the others knew:Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,Shut from their fellowship and service true;There he his resolution high may rue,If ever ruth on high and noble deeds,Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.VI.Oh dreary months! months growing into years,Which o’er their heads, bringing no respite, past;And they must mingle still their drink with tears,While fell upon them thicker and more fastThe shafts of anguish;—yet for him at last,The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,The hour of his deliverance was at hand.VII.For once, when they as usual passed beforeHis vault, and softly called him, no replyMight they obtain;—but listening at the door,They only heard him breathing heavily,And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;Till, more times called, he faintly did desireWho called to know, and what they might require.VIII.—“Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,That now thou dost no more our voices know,Who once could’st tell us each from each, if weDid but so much as near thy dungeon go,Bound on our weary errands to and fro?”—“Oh, pardon me, my friends,—my extreme painHath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.IX.“But go and say in what an evil caseI find me now;—perchance they will relentSo far that I may in this noisome place,For my short time remaining, not be pent;Or at my prayer they will at least consentThat one of you may now continue nigh,And watch beside me—for, dear friends, I die.”X.To the king’s presence straight they forced their way,Regardless of what dangers they might meet:Before him prone upon the earth they lay;They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,Laying the dust with tears, and did entreatIn anguish that their lord might not be leftUnhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.XI.But little might they find of pity there;New insults and new taunts were all they won;These, with rude blows, their only answer were:—“Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs—begone—Away! from me compassion finds he none:Let him upon himself compassion show;I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!XII.“What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,God’s people to extirpate shall ye come,And then, when it fares ill with you, demandOur pity?—no; accept your righteous doom,O fools! that in your own land had not roomTo dwell—that had not strength to conquer ours;Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!XIII.“Where are they now, that with the fire and swordOur land to harry were so free of old?Can they no pity to your Prince afford?Where is your King, and where your captains bold?Or has it not in Portugal been toldWhat here is done, and what by him is borneOf shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?”XIV.It seemed that for those votaries of MahoundAll love, all mercy quite had fled away;Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,That when their tasks were ended of the day,He who the dungeon where the sufferer layKept, unto them consented to affordA brief communion with their dying lord.XV.Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;They knelt beside him,—kissed his hands, the chainThat on his wasted limbs did still remain;They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.XVI.Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to beholdThe lineaments so marred and so defaced,Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.He too was deeply moved, but sooner chasedThe weakness from him, and with calm replaced:Then from the strawen pallet where he layHimself a little raising, thus did say:—XVII.“If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,That I might breathe again my native air,And tread my natal soil—this wish was bredBy the desire I cherished to prepareFor you such honourable shelter there,As could none other do, who did not knowHow truly you have served me in my woe.XVIII.“For had I sate a king upon my throne,All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,You never could have truer service shownThan youhaveshown me in my misery—Nor I from any found more loyalty,Than that which Ihavefound upon your parts,Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!XIX.“And now that I am hastening to my rest,One only thought of trouble doth employMy soul, that I am leaving you opprestWith this huge weight of woe;—the perfect joyMy bosom feels, knows only this alloy,That many, when my lips are closed in death,Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.XX.“But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,Seek not this manner to evade your woe.Be true to God—on him in faith abide,And sure deliverance you at length shall know;It may be that some path his hand will showTo your dear earthly homes—or he will shapeFor you at length my way of glad escape.XXI.“Be true to God—forsake not him, and youIn all your griefs forsake he never will;The true of heart have found him ever true:And this I say, who having known much ill,Do now affirm him faithful to fulfilAll promises—and boldly say that heIn all my griefs hath not forsaken me.”XXII.No more he spake—but speechless sank, oppressedWith the fierce fever that within him burned;But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessedOf that poor captive band, who weeping turned,And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,—Forth filing from that vault, a weeping trainWho had beheld him now, and should not see again.XXIII.Now seemed they desolate—for he, althoughHelpless his dearest to defend with powerFrom the least insult of the meanest foe,Had seemed to them a shelter and a towerOf refuge in affliction’s fiercest hour,From his lone dungeon spreading broad aboveTheir heads the buckler of his faith and love.XXIV.And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,As each his fellow weeping did remindOf all his loving gentle courtesies,And gracious acts—how oft, as one that pined,E’en ere that sickness took him, he declinedHis scanty portion of the food prepared,Which among them with this pretext he shared.XXV.—“He knew our fetters’ clank, and with quick earOne from another by that mournful soundHe could discern, nor ever passed we nearHis dungeon, on our weary labour bound,But he for us some words of comfort found,And still he begged us pardon him, as thoughHimself he owned the cause of all our woe.XXVI.“And what most grieved him, more than all he boreIn his own person of injurious wrong,Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,Was, if the tale was brought him that amongUs, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”XXVII.—Beside the Prince might only one remainIn that unlighted vault the livelong night:Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,Nothing he spake—but tossed from left to right,Like one who vainly did some ease invite;Till when it verged toward morning, he that keptThat anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:XXVIII.Or sometimes feared he was already dead,So noiseless now that chamber’s silence deep;Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dreadLest he should chase away that sweetest sleepOf morning, which comes over them that keepPained watches through the night;—till tardilyThe morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.XXIX.When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,And round his mouth a sweeter smile did playThan ever might on mortal lips appear:No mortal joy could ever have come nearThe joy that bred that smile—with waking eyeHe seemed to mark some vision streaming by.XXX.Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,And back again with noiseless step retiredThat good old man—nor nearer would advance,Though of his weal he gladly had required.He waited, and a long long hour expired,And it was silence still—when to his bedHim beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said—XXXI.“What I shall speak, now promise that to noneOf all my fellow captives shall be told,That not till this poor body shall have goneThe way of all the earth, thou wilt unfoldMy words, yea evermore in silence hold,Unless hereafter should a time betide,When by the telling God were glorified.XXXII.“Two hours or more before the spring of day,As I within me mused how poor and leerThis world, and as in pain I waking lay,Thought upon all the happy souls, that hereOnce suffered, but are now exempt from fearAnd pain and wrong, there woke within my breastA speechless longing for that heavenly rest.XXXIII.“Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wallTurned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;I saw a vision bright, majestical,One seated on a throne—and many fairAnd dazzling shapes before him gathered were,With palms in hand—such glory from his faceWas shed, as lightened all this dismal place.XXXIV.“This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,This sunless dwelling of eternal night,Which I have felt so long my living tomb,Showed like the court of heaven—so clear, so bright,So full of odours, harmonies and light—And music filled the air—an heavenly strain,That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.XXXV.“Then one came forward from that blessed throng,And kneeled to him, and said—‘Compassion takeOn this thy servant, who has suffered longSuch great and heavy troubles for thy sake,We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt makeThy servant’s many woes to end, that heInto our choir admitted now will be.’XXXVI.“When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,And by his banner and his scales, I knewIt was the great Archangel Michaël:And by his side there knelt another too,Who in one hand a chalice held in view,The other clasped a book, and there was writ,‘In the beginning was the Word,’ in it.XXXVII.“But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,And with sweet smile ineffable he said,‘To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!’—With music, as it came, then vanishèdThe vision—but within me it has bredSweet comfort that remains, and now I knowTo-day I leave the world, and end my woe.XXXVIII.“My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is thisThat thou hast not disdained to visit me,And give me tidings of my coming bliss—Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?Oh gladly will I bear whate’er by theeMay be appointed, ere my race be run,Of pain or travail—Lord, thy will be done.”XXXIX.In calmest quiet waiting his release,When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:“Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,”Were the last words which he was heard to say,Upon his left side turning, as the daySlow sinking now with more than usual prideStreamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.XL.When the last flush had faded from the west,When the last streak of golden light was gone,They looked, but he had entered on his rest—He too his haven of repose had won,Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,That what the scroll upon his shield did say,That well his life had proved—Le bien me plaît.

What man shall say that he the deepest deep

Has reached, whereto misfortune may him bring?

That never from her fatal urn may leap

A lot inscribed with heavier suffering

Than that he knows? that now of everything

Which sweetens life, his life is stript so bare,

That worse with him henceforth it cannot fare?

II.

Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rudeDown from the honourable high estateWherein observed and reverenced once he stood;He yet must be misfortune’s trustier mate—Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.

Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rude

Down from the honourable high estate

Wherein observed and reverenced once he stood;

He yet must be misfortune’s trustier mate—

Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:

He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,

Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.

III.

For now his foes, by malice partly moved,Because they saw it solaced him to shareAll griefs and labours which the others proved;And how that all, though oft they threatened were,And punished for their deed, yet still would bearTo him all reverence and respect, and bringHomage to him as to a crownèd king;—

For now his foes, by malice partly moved,

Because they saw it solaced him to share

All griefs and labours which the others proved;

And how that all, though oft they threatened were,

And punished for their deed, yet still would bear

To him all reverence and respect, and bring

Homage to him as to a crownèd king;—

IV.

And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,And evidently weaker now becameWith each succeeding day, should wholly fail,Nor longer to sustain itself avail;—Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,And them of all their promised gain despoil,—

And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,

Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,

And evidently weaker now became

With each succeeding day, should wholly fail,

Nor longer to sustain itself avail;—

Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,

And them of all their promised gain despoil,—

They now denied him the sad libertyTo share whatever pains the others knew:Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,Shut from their fellowship and service true;There he his resolution high may rue,If ever ruth on high and noble deeds,Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.

They now denied him the sad liberty

To share whatever pains the others knew:

Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,

Shut from their fellowship and service true;

There he his resolution high may rue,

If ever ruth on high and noble deeds,

Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.

VI.

Oh dreary months! months growing into years,Which o’er their heads, bringing no respite, past;And they must mingle still their drink with tears,While fell upon them thicker and more fastThe shafts of anguish;—yet for him at last,The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,The hour of his deliverance was at hand.

Oh dreary months! months growing into years,

Which o’er their heads, bringing no respite, past;

And they must mingle still their drink with tears,

While fell upon them thicker and more fast

The shafts of anguish;—yet for him at last,

The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,

The hour of his deliverance was at hand.

VII.

For once, when they as usual passed beforeHis vault, and softly called him, no replyMight they obtain;—but listening at the door,They only heard him breathing heavily,And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;Till, more times called, he faintly did desireWho called to know, and what they might require.

For once, when they as usual passed before

His vault, and softly called him, no reply

Might they obtain;—but listening at the door,

They only heard him breathing heavily,

And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;

Till, more times called, he faintly did desire

Who called to know, and what they might require.

VIII.

—“Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,That now thou dost no more our voices know,Who once could’st tell us each from each, if weDid but so much as near thy dungeon go,Bound on our weary errands to and fro?”—“Oh, pardon me, my friends,—my extreme painHath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.

—“Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,

That now thou dost no more our voices know,

Who once could’st tell us each from each, if we

Did but so much as near thy dungeon go,

Bound on our weary errands to and fro?”

—“Oh, pardon me, my friends,—my extreme pain

Hath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.

IX.

“But go and say in what an evil caseI find me now;—perchance they will relentSo far that I may in this noisome place,For my short time remaining, not be pent;Or at my prayer they will at least consentThat one of you may now continue nigh,And watch beside me—for, dear friends, I die.”

“But go and say in what an evil case

I find me now;—perchance they will relent

So far that I may in this noisome place,

For my short time remaining, not be pent;

Or at my prayer they will at least consent

That one of you may now continue nigh,

And watch beside me—for, dear friends, I die.”

To the king’s presence straight they forced their way,Regardless of what dangers they might meet:Before him prone upon the earth they lay;They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,Laying the dust with tears, and did entreatIn anguish that their lord might not be leftUnhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.

To the king’s presence straight they forced their way,

Regardless of what dangers they might meet:

Before him prone upon the earth they lay;

They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,

Laying the dust with tears, and did entreat

In anguish that their lord might not be left

Unhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.

XI.

But little might they find of pity there;New insults and new taunts were all they won;These, with rude blows, their only answer were:—“Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs—begone—Away! from me compassion finds he none:Let him upon himself compassion show;I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!

But little might they find of pity there;

New insults and new taunts were all they won;

These, with rude blows, their only answer were:

—“Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs—begone—

Away! from me compassion finds he none:

Let him upon himself compassion show;

I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!

XII.

“What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,God’s people to extirpate shall ye come,And then, when it fares ill with you, demandOur pity?—no; accept your righteous doom,O fools! that in your own land had not roomTo dwell—that had not strength to conquer ours;Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!

“What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,

God’s people to extirpate shall ye come,

And then, when it fares ill with you, demand

Our pity?—no; accept your righteous doom,

O fools! that in your own land had not room

To dwell—that had not strength to conquer ours;

Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!

XIII.

“Where are they now, that with the fire and swordOur land to harry were so free of old?Can they no pity to your Prince afford?Where is your King, and where your captains bold?Or has it not in Portugal been toldWhat here is done, and what by him is borneOf shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?”

“Where are they now, that with the fire and sword

Our land to harry were so free of old?

Can they no pity to your Prince afford?

Where is your King, and where your captains bold?

Or has it not in Portugal been told

What here is done, and what by him is borne

Of shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?”

XIV.

It seemed that for those votaries of MahoundAll love, all mercy quite had fled away;Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,That when their tasks were ended of the day,He who the dungeon where the sufferer layKept, unto them consented to affordA brief communion with their dying lord.

It seemed that for those votaries of Mahound

All love, all mercy quite had fled away;

Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,

That when their tasks were ended of the day,

He who the dungeon where the sufferer lay

Kept, unto them consented to afford

A brief communion with their dying lord.

XV.

Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;They knelt beside him,—kissed his hands, the chainThat on his wasted limbs did still remain;They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.

Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,

Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:

Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;

They knelt beside him,—kissed his hands, the chain

That on his wasted limbs did still remain;

They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,

And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.

XVI.

Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to beholdThe lineaments so marred and so defaced,Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.He too was deeply moved, but sooner chasedThe weakness from him, and with calm replaced:Then from the strawen pallet where he layHimself a little raising, thus did say:—

Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to behold

The lineaments so marred and so defaced,

Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.

He too was deeply moved, but sooner chased

The weakness from him, and with calm replaced:

Then from the strawen pallet where he lay

Himself a little raising, thus did say:—

XVII.

“If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,That I might breathe again my native air,And tread my natal soil—this wish was bredBy the desire I cherished to prepareFor you such honourable shelter there,As could none other do, who did not knowHow truly you have served me in my woe.

“If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,

That I might breathe again my native air,

And tread my natal soil—this wish was bred

By the desire I cherished to prepare

For you such honourable shelter there,

As could none other do, who did not know

How truly you have served me in my woe.

XVIII.

“For had I sate a king upon my throne,All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,You never could have truer service shownThan youhaveshown me in my misery—Nor I from any found more loyalty,Than that which Ihavefound upon your parts,Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!

“For had I sate a king upon my throne,

All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,

You never could have truer service shown

Than youhaveshown me in my misery—

Nor I from any found more loyalty,

Than that which Ihavefound upon your parts,

Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!

XIX.

“And now that I am hastening to my rest,One only thought of trouble doth employMy soul, that I am leaving you opprestWith this huge weight of woe;—the perfect joyMy bosom feels, knows only this alloy,That many, when my lips are closed in death,Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.

“And now that I am hastening to my rest,

One only thought of trouble doth employ

My soul, that I am leaving you opprest

With this huge weight of woe;—the perfect joy

My bosom feels, knows only this alloy,

That many, when my lips are closed in death,

Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.

XX.

“But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,Seek not this manner to evade your woe.Be true to God—on him in faith abide,And sure deliverance you at length shall know;It may be that some path his hand will showTo your dear earthly homes—or he will shapeFor you at length my way of glad escape.

“But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,

Seek not this manner to evade your woe.

Be true to God—on him in faith abide,

And sure deliverance you at length shall know;

It may be that some path his hand will show

To your dear earthly homes—or he will shape

For you at length my way of glad escape.

XXI.

“Be true to God—forsake not him, and youIn all your griefs forsake he never will;The true of heart have found him ever true:And this I say, who having known much ill,Do now affirm him faithful to fulfilAll promises—and boldly say that heIn all my griefs hath not forsaken me.”

“Be true to God—forsake not him, and you

In all your griefs forsake he never will;

The true of heart have found him ever true:

And this I say, who having known much ill,

Do now affirm him faithful to fulfil

All promises—and boldly say that he

In all my griefs hath not forsaken me.”

XXII.

No more he spake—but speechless sank, oppressedWith the fierce fever that within him burned;But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessedOf that poor captive band, who weeping turned,And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,—Forth filing from that vault, a weeping trainWho had beheld him now, and should not see again.

No more he spake—but speechless sank, oppressed

With the fierce fever that within him burned;

But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessed

Of that poor captive band, who weeping turned,

And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,—

Forth filing from that vault, a weeping train

Who had beheld him now, and should not see again.

XXIII.

Now seemed they desolate—for he, althoughHelpless his dearest to defend with powerFrom the least insult of the meanest foe,Had seemed to them a shelter and a towerOf refuge in affliction’s fiercest hour,From his lone dungeon spreading broad aboveTheir heads the buckler of his faith and love.

Now seemed they desolate—for he, although

Helpless his dearest to defend with power

From the least insult of the meanest foe,

Had seemed to them a shelter and a tower

Of refuge in affliction’s fiercest hour,

From his lone dungeon spreading broad above

Their heads the buckler of his faith and love.

XXIV.

And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,As each his fellow weeping did remindOf all his loving gentle courtesies,And gracious acts—how oft, as one that pined,E’en ere that sickness took him, he declinedHis scanty portion of the food prepared,Which among them with this pretext he shared.

And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,

As each his fellow weeping did remind

Of all his loving gentle courtesies,

And gracious acts—how oft, as one that pined,

E’en ere that sickness took him, he declined

His scanty portion of the food prepared,

Which among them with this pretext he shared.

XXV.

—“He knew our fetters’ clank, and with quick earOne from another by that mournful soundHe could discern, nor ever passed we nearHis dungeon, on our weary labour bound,But he for us some words of comfort found,And still he begged us pardon him, as thoughHimself he owned the cause of all our woe.

—“He knew our fetters’ clank, and with quick ear

One from another by that mournful sound

He could discern, nor ever passed we near

His dungeon, on our weary labour bound,

But he for us some words of comfort found,

And still he begged us pardon him, as though

Himself he owned the cause of all our woe.

XXVI.

“And what most grieved him, more than all he boreIn his own person of injurious wrong,Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,Was, if the tale was brought him that amongUs, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”

“And what most grieved him, more than all he bore

In his own person of injurious wrong,

Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,

Was, if the tale was brought him that among

Us, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,

As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—

Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”

XXVII.

—Beside the Prince might only one remainIn that unlighted vault the livelong night:Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,Nothing he spake—but tossed from left to right,Like one who vainly did some ease invite;Till when it verged toward morning, he that keptThat anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:

—Beside the Prince might only one remain

In that unlighted vault the livelong night:

Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,

Nothing he spake—but tossed from left to right,

Like one who vainly did some ease invite;

Till when it verged toward morning, he that kept

That anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:

XXVIII.

Or sometimes feared he was already dead,So noiseless now that chamber’s silence deep;Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dreadLest he should chase away that sweetest sleepOf morning, which comes over them that keepPained watches through the night;—till tardilyThe morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.

Or sometimes feared he was already dead,

So noiseless now that chamber’s silence deep;

Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dread

Lest he should chase away that sweetest sleep

Of morning, which comes over them that keep

Pained watches through the night;—till tardily

The morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.

XXIX.

When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,And round his mouth a sweeter smile did playThan ever might on mortal lips appear:No mortal joy could ever have come nearThe joy that bred that smile—with waking eyeHe seemed to mark some vision streaming by.

When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,

His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,

And round his mouth a sweeter smile did play

Than ever might on mortal lips appear:

No mortal joy could ever have come near

The joy that bred that smile—with waking eye

He seemed to mark some vision streaming by.

XXX.

Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,And back again with noiseless step retiredThat good old man—nor nearer would advance,Though of his weal he gladly had required.He waited, and a long long hour expired,And it was silence still—when to his bedHim beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said—

Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,

And back again with noiseless step retired

That good old man—nor nearer would advance,

Though of his weal he gladly had required.

He waited, and a long long hour expired,

And it was silence still—when to his bed

Him beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said—

XXXI.

“What I shall speak, now promise that to noneOf all my fellow captives shall be told,That not till this poor body shall have goneThe way of all the earth, thou wilt unfoldMy words, yea evermore in silence hold,Unless hereafter should a time betide,When by the telling God were glorified.

“What I shall speak, now promise that to none

Of all my fellow captives shall be told,

That not till this poor body shall have gone

The way of all the earth, thou wilt unfold

My words, yea evermore in silence hold,

Unless hereafter should a time betide,

When by the telling God were glorified.

XXXII.

“Two hours or more before the spring of day,As I within me mused how poor and leerThis world, and as in pain I waking lay,Thought upon all the happy souls, that hereOnce suffered, but are now exempt from fearAnd pain and wrong, there woke within my breastA speechless longing for that heavenly rest.

“Two hours or more before the spring of day,

As I within me mused how poor and leer

This world, and as in pain I waking lay,

Thought upon all the happy souls, that here

Once suffered, but are now exempt from fear

And pain and wrong, there woke within my breast

A speechless longing for that heavenly rest.

XXXIII.

“Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wallTurned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;I saw a vision bright, majestical,One seated on a throne—and many fairAnd dazzling shapes before him gathered were,With palms in hand—such glory from his faceWas shed, as lightened all this dismal place.

“Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wall

Turned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;

I saw a vision bright, majestical,

One seated on a throne—and many fair

And dazzling shapes before him gathered were,

With palms in hand—such glory from his face

Was shed, as lightened all this dismal place.

XXXIV.

“This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,This sunless dwelling of eternal night,Which I have felt so long my living tomb,Showed like the court of heaven—so clear, so bright,So full of odours, harmonies and light—And music filled the air—an heavenly strain,That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.

“This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,

This sunless dwelling of eternal night,

Which I have felt so long my living tomb,

Showed like the court of heaven—so clear, so bright,

So full of odours, harmonies and light—

And music filled the air—an heavenly strain,

That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.

XXXV.

“Then one came forward from that blessed throng,And kneeled to him, and said—‘Compassion takeOn this thy servant, who has suffered longSuch great and heavy troubles for thy sake,We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt makeThy servant’s many woes to end, that heInto our choir admitted now will be.’

“Then one came forward from that blessed throng,

And kneeled to him, and said—‘Compassion take

On this thy servant, who has suffered long

Such great and heavy troubles for thy sake,

We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt make

Thy servant’s many woes to end, that he

Into our choir admitted now will be.’

XXXVI.

“When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,And by his banner and his scales, I knewIt was the great Archangel Michaël:And by his side there knelt another too,Who in one hand a chalice held in view,The other clasped a book, and there was writ,‘In the beginning was the Word,’ in it.

“When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,

And by his banner and his scales, I knew

It was the great Archangel Michaël:

And by his side there knelt another too,

Who in one hand a chalice held in view,

The other clasped a book, and there was writ,

‘In the beginning was the Word,’ in it.

XXXVII.

“But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,And with sweet smile ineffable he said,‘To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!’—With music, as it came, then vanishèdThe vision—but within me it has bredSweet comfort that remains, and now I knowTo-day I leave the world, and end my woe.

“But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,

And with sweet smile ineffable he said,

‘To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!’—

With music, as it came, then vanishèd

The vision—but within me it has bred

Sweet comfort that remains, and now I know

To-day I leave the world, and end my woe.

XXXVIII.

“My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is thisThat thou hast not disdained to visit me,And give me tidings of my coming bliss—Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?Oh gladly will I bear whate’er by theeMay be appointed, ere my race be run,Of pain or travail—Lord, thy will be done.”

“My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is this

That thou hast not disdained to visit me,

And give me tidings of my coming bliss—

Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?

Oh gladly will I bear whate’er by thee

May be appointed, ere my race be run,

Of pain or travail—Lord, thy will be done.”

XXXIX.

In calmest quiet waiting his release,When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:“Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,”Were the last words which he was heard to say,Upon his left side turning, as the daySlow sinking now with more than usual prideStreamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.

In calmest quiet waiting his release,

When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:

“Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,”

Were the last words which he was heard to say,

Upon his left side turning, as the day

Slow sinking now with more than usual pride

Streamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.

XL.

When the last flush had faded from the west,When the last streak of golden light was gone,They looked, but he had entered on his rest—He too his haven of repose had won,Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,That what the scroll upon his shield did say,That well his life had proved—Le bien me plaît.

When the last flush had faded from the west,

When the last streak of golden light was gone,

They looked, but he had entered on his rest—

He too his haven of repose had won,

Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,

That what the scroll upon his shield did say,

That well his life had proved—Le bien me plaît.

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