Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/249

Rh Before our steeds may graze at ease,

Beyond the swift Borysthenes:

And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest,

And I will be the sentinel

Of this your troop."—"But I request,"

Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell

This tale of thine, and I may reap,

Perchance, from this the boon of sleep;

For at this moment from my eyes

The hope of present slumber flies."

"Well, Sire, with such a hope, I'll track

My seventy years of memory back:

I think 'twas in my twentieth spring,—

Aye 'twas,—when Casimir was king —

John Casimir,—I was his page

Six summers, in my earlier age:

A learnéd monarch, faith! was he,

And most unlike your Majesty;

He made no wars, and did not gain

New realms to lose them back again;

And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)

He reigned in most unseemly quiet;