MASTER OLIVER

Well I wot of all chapmen—­and to-night weighs a dromond
Sailing west away first, and then to the southlands. 
Since in such things I deal oft they know me, but know not
King Pharamond the Freed, since now first they sail hither. 
So make me thy messenger in a fair-writ broad letter
And thyself make my scrivener, and this very night sail we.—­
O surely thy face now is brightening and blesseth me! 
Peer through these boughs toward the bay and the haven,
And high masts thou shalt see, and white sails hanging ready.

          [Exit OLIVER.

KING PHARAMOND

Dost thou weep now, my darling, and are thy feet wandering
On the ways ever empty of what thou desirest? 
Nay, nay, for thou know’st me, and many a night-tide
Hath Love led thee forth to a city unknown: 
Thou hast paced through this palace from chamber to chamber
Till in dawn and stars’ paling I have passed forth before thee: 
Thou hast seen thine own dwelling nor known how to name it: 
Thine own dwelling that shall be when love is victorious. 
Thou hast seen my sword glimmer amidst of the moonlight,
As we rode with hoofs muffled through waylaying murder. 
Through the field of the dead hast thou fared to behold me,
Seen me waking and longing by the watch-fires’ flicker;
Thou hast followed my banner amidst of the battle
And seen my face change to the man that they fear,
Yet found me not fearful nor turned from beholding: 
Thou hast been at my triumphs, and heard the tale’s ending
Of my wars, and my winning through days evil and weary: 
For this eve hast thou waited, and wilt be peradventure
By the sea-strand to-night, for thou wottest full surely
That the word is gone forth, and the world is a-moving. 
—­Abide me, beloved! to-day and to-morrow
Shall be little words in the tale of our loving,
When the last morn ariseth, and thou and I meeting
From lips laid together tell tales of these marvels.

THE MUSIC

Love is enough:  draw near and behold me
  Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter,
  And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after;
For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me
  And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter. 
  —­Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!

Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken,
  And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying. 
  Is this the grey rack o’er the sun’s face a-flying? 
Or is it your faces his brightness that darken? 
  Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing? 
  —­Pass by me, and hearken, and pity me not!

Ye know not how void is your hope and your living: 
  Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me! 
  Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me,
There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving
  Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me. 
  —­Pass by me, and hearken, and waken me not!