All is passed now, and passionless, faint are ye waxen,
Ye hours of blind seeking full of pain clean forgotten. 
If it were not that e’en now her eyes I behold not. 
That the way lieth long to her feet that would find me,
That the green seas delay yet her fair arms enfolding,
That the long leagues of air will not bear the cry hither
Wherewith she is crying.  Come, love, for I love thee.
                                       [A trumpet sounds. 
Hark!  O days grown a dream of the dream ye have won me,
Do ye draw forth the ghosts of old deeds that were nothing,
That the sound of my trumpet floats down on the even? 
What shows will ye give me to grace my departure? 
Hark!—­the beat of the horse-hoofs, the murmur of men folk! 
Am I riding from battle amidst of my faithful,
Wild hopes in my heart of the days that are coming;
Wild longing unsatisfied clinging about me;
Full of faith that the summer sun elsewhere is ripening
The fruit grown a pain for my parched lips to think of? 
—­Come back, thou poor Pharamond! come back for my pity! 
Far afield must thou fare before the rest cometh;
In far lands are they raising the walls of thy prison,
Forging wiles for waylaying, and fair lies for lulling,
The faith and the fire of the heart the world hateth. 
In thy way wax streams fordless, and choked passes pathless,
Fever lurks in the valley, and plague passeth over
The sand of the plain, and with venom and fury
Fulfilled are the woods that thou needs must wend through: 
In the hollow of the mountains the wind is a-storing
Till the keel that shall carry thee hoisteth her sail;
War is crouching unseen round the lands thou shalt come to,
With thy sword cast away and thy cunning forgotten. 
Yea, and e’en the great lord, the great Love of thy fealty,
He who goadeth thee on, weaveth nets to cast o’er thee. 
—­And thou knowest it all, as thou ridest there lonely,
With the tangles and toils of to-morrow’s uprising
Making ready meanwhile for more days of thy kingship. 
Faithful heart hadst thou, Pharamond, to hold fast thy treasure! 
I am fain of thee:  surely no shame hath destained thee;
Come hither, for thy face all unkissed would I look on! 
—­Stand we close, for here cometh King Theobald from the hunting.

Enter KING THEOBALD, HONORIUS, and the people.

KING THEOBALD

A fair day, my folk, have I had in your fellowship,
And as fair a day cometh to-morrow to greet us,
When the lord of the Golden Land bringeth us tribute: 
Grace the gifts of my good-hap with your presence, I pray you.

THE PEOPLE

God save Theobald the Good, the king of his people!

HONORIUS (aside)

Yea, save him! and send the Gold lords away satisfied,
That the old sword of Pharamond, lying asleep there
In the new golden scabbard, will yet bite as aforetime!
                    [They pass away into the palace court.