Yea, the earth hath no oblivion for the noblest chance it gave,
    None, save in its latest refuge—­seek it only in the grave. 
    Love may die, and hatred slumber, and their memory will decay,
    As the water’d garden recks not of the drought of yesterday;
    But the dream of power once broken, what shall give repose again? 
    What shall charm the serpent-furies coil’d around the maddening brain? 
    What kind draught can nature offer strong enough to lull their sting? 
    Better to be born a peasant than to live an exiled king! 
    Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—­What is life to such as me,
    With my very heart as palsied as a wasted cripple’s knee! 
    Suppliant-like for alms depending on a false and foreign court,
    Jostled by the flouting nobles, half their pity, half their sport. 
    Forced to hold a place in pageant, like a royal prize of war
    Walking with dejected features close behind his victor’s car,
    Styled an equal—­deem’d a servant—­fed with hopes of future gain—­
    Worse by far is fancied freedom than the captive’s clanking chain! 
    Could I change this gilded bondage even for the massy tower
    Whence King James beheld his lady sitting in the castle bower—­
    Birds around her sweetly singing, fluttering on the kindled spray,
    And the comely garden glowing in the light of rosy May. 
    Love descended to the window—­Love removed the bolt and bar—­
    Love was warder to the lovers from the dawn to even-star. 
    Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?  Where is now the tender glance? 
    Where the meaning looks once lavish’d by the dark-eyed Maid of France? 
    Where the words of hope she whisper’d, when around my neck she threw
    That same scarf of broider’d tissue, bade me wear it and be true—­
    Bade me send it as a token when my banner waved once more
    On the castled Keep of London, where my fathers’ waved before? 
    And I went and did not conquer—­but I brought it back again—­
    Brought it back from storm and battle—­brought it back without stain;
    And once more I knelt before her, and I laid it at her feet,
    Saying, “Wilt thou own it, Princess?  There at least is no defeat!”
    Scornfully she look’d upon me with a measured eye and cold—­
    Scornfully she view’d the token, though her fingers wrought the gold,
    And she answer’d, faintly flushing, “Hast thou kept it, then, so long? 
    Worthy matter for a minstrel to be told in knightly song! 
    Worthy of a bold Provencal, pacing through the peaceful plain,
    Singing of his lady’s favour, boasting of her silken chain,
    Yet scarce worthy of a warrior sent to wrestle for a crown. 
    Is this all that thou hast brought me from thy field of high renown? 
    Is this all the trophy carried from the lands where thou hast been? 
    It was broider’d by a Princess, can’st thou give it to a Queen?”