Woe’s me then! am I cruel, or am I grown
The scourge of Fate, lest men forget to moan? 
What!—­is there blood upon these hands of mine? 
Is venomed anguish mingled with my wine? 
—­Blood there may be, and venom in the cup;
But see, Beloved, how the tears well up
From my grieved heart my blinded eyes to grieve,
And in the kindness of old days believe! 
So after all then we must weep to-day—­
—­We, who behold at ending of the way,
These lovers tread a bower they may not miss
Whose door my servant keepeth, Earthly Bliss: 
There in a little while shall they abide,
Nor each from each their wounds of wandering hide,
But kiss them, each on each, and find it sweet,
That wounded so the world they may not meet. 
—­Ah, truly mine! since this your tears may move,
The very sweetness of rewarded love! 
Ah, truly mine, that tremble as ye hear
The speech of loving lips grown close and dear;
—­Lest other sounds from other doors ye hearken,
Doors that the wings of Earthly Anguish darken.

Scene:  On a Highway in a Valley near the last, with a Mist over all things.

KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.

KING PHARAMOND

Hold a while, Oliver! my limbs are grown weaker
Than when in the wood I first rose to my feet. 
There was hope in my heart then, and now nought but sickness;
There was sight in my eyes then, and now nought but blindness. 
Good art thou, hope, while the life yet tormenteth,
But a better help now have I gained than thy goading. 
Farewell, O life, wherein once I was merry! 
O dream of the world, I depart now, and leave thee
A little tale added to thy long-drawn-out story. 
Cruel wert thou, O Love, yet have thou and I conquered. 
—­Come nearer, O fosterer, come nearer and kiss me,
Bid farewell to thy fosterling while the life yet is in me,
For this farewell to thee is my last word meseemeth.
          [He lies down and sleeps.

MASTER OLIVER

O my king, O my son!  Ah, woe’s me for my kindness,
For the day when thou drew’st me and I let thee be drawn
Into toils I knew deadly, into death thou desiredst! 
And woe’s me that I die not! for my body made hardy
By the battles of old days to bear every anguish! 
—­Speak a word and forgive me, for who knows how long yet
Are the days of my life, and the hours of my loathing! 
He speaks not, he moves not; yet he draweth breath softly: 
I have seen men a-dying, and not thus did the end come. 
Surely God who made all forgets not love’s rewarding,
Forgets not the faithful, the guileless who fear not. 
Oh, might there be help yet, and some new life’s beginning! 
—­Lo, lighter the mist grows:  there come sounds through its dulness,
The lowing of kine, or the whoop of a shepherd,