Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/317

THE BLAMELESS PRINCE Gathered around him, of that sombre kind

Which follows from a place where many days

Have seen us go and come; and even if sore

Has been our sojourn there, we feel the more

That parting is a sorrow,—though we part

With those who loved us not, or go forlorn

From pain that ate its canker in the heart;

But when we leave the paths where Love has borne

His garlands to us, Pleasure poured her wine,

Where life was wholly precious and divine,

Then go we forth as exiles. In such wise

The loath, wan Prince his homeward journey made,

Brooding, and marked not with his downcast eyes

The shadow that within the coppice shade

Sank darker still; but at the horse's gait

Kept slowly on, and rode to meet his fate.

For from the west a silent gathering drew,

And hid the summer sky, and brought swift night

Across that shire, and went devouring through

The strong old forest, stronger in its might.

With the first sudden crash the Prince's steed

Took the long stride, and galloped at good need.

The wild pace tallied with the rider's mood,

And on he spurred, and even now had reached

The storm that charged the borders of the wood,

When one great whirlwind seized an oak which bleached

Across his path, and felled it; and its fall

Bore down the Prince beneath it, horse and all.

There lay he as he fell; but the mad horse

Plunged out in fright, and reared upon his feet,

And for the city struck a headlong course,

With clatter of hoof along the central street, 287