THE KING LAY SICK
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The young Prince fretted for hawk and hound, And bit his knuckle and drummed a heel:'Twas the longest waiting his youth had found, He began to ponder how sceptres feel:The thought was dull . . . for wild-woods are greenAnd a gipsy wench may not make a Queen!
And the Queen, who never had loved the King, Hid secret dreams as the taper burned,For the Prince, her son, was a weak-willed thing, And a likely Regent her heart discerned;But the foul reproach none should ever bringThat she lacked in duty towards her King.
So she grudged herself e'en a moment's sleep While she measured physics and spiced the wine,And she knew exactly how much to weep For a loving wife is a clinging vine:And she proved what a loyal heart can bearWhen the sick King frowned as he saw her there!
From the dreary wastes of the blackened plain With her eyes like night and her hair like flameThro' the unspent fury of wind and rain, The King's Sweetheart from the forest came,In her cotton shift was no warmth at allBut she stood all night at the palace wall:
When the wan wild sun in the hills had set And the hooting owl from its caverns drew,While the dwarfs of the tempest spread their net To steal a star that the clouds let thro'With her small palms pressed to the wall's wet mossAnd her arms outspread till she made a cross:
