All hail, my servants! tremble ye, my foes! 
A hope for these I have, a fear for those
Hid in this tale of Pharamond the Freed. 
To-day, my Faithful, nought shall be your need
Of tears compassionate:—­although full oft
The crown of love laid on my bosom soft
Be woven of bitter death and deathless fame,
Bethorned with woe, and fruited thick with shame. 
—­This for the mighty of my courts I keep,
Lest through the world there should be none to weep
Except for sordid loss; and not to gain
But satiate pleasure making mock of pain. 
—­Yea, in the heaven from whence my dreams go forth
Are stored the signs that make the world of worth: 
There is the wavering wall of mighty Troy
About my Helen’s hope and Paris’ joy: 
There lying neath the fresh dyed mulberry-tree
The sword and cloth of Pyramus I see: 
There is the number of the joyless days
Wherein Medea won no love nor praise: 
There is the sand my Ariadne pressed;
The footprints of the feet that knew no rest
While o’er the sea forth went the fatal sign: 
The asp of Egypt, the Numidian wine,
My Sigurd’s sword, my Brynhild’s fiery bed,
The tale of years of Gudrun’s drearihead,
And Tristram’s glaive, and Iseult’s shriek are here,
And cloister-gown of joyless Guenevere.

Save you, my Faithful! how your loving eyes
Grow soft and gleam with all these memories! 
But on this day my crown is not of death: 
My fire-tipped arrows, and my kindling breath
Are all the weapons I shall need to-day. 
Nor shall my tale in measured cadence play
About the golden lyre of Gods long gone,
Nor dim and doubtful ’twixt the ocean’s moan
Wail out about the Northern fiddle-bow,
Stammering with pride or quivering shrill with woe. 
Rather caught up at hazard is the pipe
That mixed with scent of roses over ripe,
And murmur of the summer afternoon,
May charm you somewhat with its wavering tune
’Twixt joy and sadness:  whatsoe’er it saith,
I know at least there breathes through it my breath

OF PHARAMOND THE FREED

Scene:  In the Kings Chamber of Audience.

MASTER OLIVER and many LORDS and COUNCILLORS_.

A COUNCILLOR

Fair Master Oliver, thou who at all times
Mayst open thy heart to our lord and master,
Tell us what tidings thou hast to deliver;
For our hearts are grown heavy, and where shall we turn to
If thus the king’s glory, our gain and salvation,
Must go down the wind amid gloom and despairing?

MASTER OLIVER

Little may be looked for, fair lords, in my story,
To lighten your hearts of the load lying on them. 
For nine days the king hath slept not an hour,
And taketh no heed of soft words or beseeching. 
Yea, look you, my lords, if a body late dead
In the lips and the cheeks should gain some little colour,
And arise and wend forth with no change in the eyes,
And wander about as if seeking its soul—­
Lo, e’en so sad is my lord and my master;
Yea, e’en so far hath his soul drifted from us.