Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/477

 Rh He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death

Breaking the dream that filled his breath

With inspiration strong

Of yet unchanted song.

"Take, take my gold and let me live!"

He prayed, as kings do when they give

Their all with royal will,

Holding born kingship still.

To rob the living they refuse,

One death or other he must choose,

Either the watery pall

Or wounds and burial.

"My solemn robe then let me don,

Give me high space to stand upon,

That dying I may pour

A song unsung before."

It pleased them well to grant this prayer,

To hear for naught how it might fare

With men who paid their gold

For what a poet sold.

In flowing stole, his eyes aglow

With inward fire, he neared the prow

And took his god-like stand,

The cithara in hand.

The wolfish men all shrank aloof,

And feared this singer might be proof

Against their murderous power,

After his lyric hour.