KING PHARAMOND

As the shadow of clouds o’er the summer sea sailing
Is the memory of all now, and whiles I remember
And whiles I forget; and nought it availeth
Remembering, forgetting; for a sleep is upon me
That shall last a long while:—­there thou liest, my fosterer,
As thou lay’st a while since ere that twilight of dawning;
And I woke and looked forth, and the dark sea, long changeless,
Was now at last barred by a dim wall that swallowed
The red shapeless moon, and the whole sea was rolling,
Unresting, unvaried, as grey as the void is,
Toward that wall ’gainst the heavens as though rest were behind it. 
Still onward we fared and the moon was forgotten,
And colder the sea grew and colder the heavens,
And blacker the wall grew, and grey, green-besprinkled,
And the sky seemed to breach it; and lo at the last
Many islands of mountains, and a city amongst them. 
White clouds of the dawn, not moving yet waning,
Wreathed the high peaks about; and the sea beat for ever
’Gainst the green sloping hills and the black rocks and beachless. 
—­Is this the same land that I saw in that dawning? 
For sure if it is thou at least shalt hear tidings,
Though I die ere the dark:  but for thee, O my fosterer,
Lying there by my side, I had deemed the old vision
Had drawn forth the soul from my body to see her. 
And with joy and fear blended leapt the heart in my bosom,
And I cried, “The last land, love; O hast thou abided?”
But since then hath been turmoil, and sickness, and slumber,
And my soul hath been troubled with dreams that I knew not. 
And such tangle is round me life fails me to rend it,
And the cold cloud of death rolleth onward to hide me.—­
—­O well am I hidden, who might not be happy! 
I see not, I hear not, my head groweth heavy.
          [Falls back as if sleeping.

MASTER OLIVER

—­O Son, is it sleep that upon thee is fallen?  Not death, O my dear one!—­speak yet but a little!

KING PHARAMOND (raising himself again)

O be glad, foster-father! and those troubles past over,—­
Be thou thereby when once more I remember
And sit with my maiden and tell her the story,
And we pity our past selves as a poet may pity
The poor folk he tells of amid plentiful weeping. 
Hush now! as faint noise of bells over water
A sweet sound floats towards me, and blesses my slumber: 
If I wake never more I shall dream and shall see her. [Sleeps.

MASTER OLIVER