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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
Three months went by:
Then to the King she sent. Her words were these:
‘Sleep'st thou, my King? Not thus thine ancestors!
Sir, Heaven has done its part, and many a land
Looks round amazed: and asks, “The King, where is he?”
Sir, and my King, fulfilled is half my mission;
Share with me the remainder. March to Rheims!’
The King obeyed. Girt by twelve thousand men
She made that marvellous march — two hundred miles—
Whereon each castled crag still frowned upon her
Each city sent a host to bar her way.
At last her mission's bourne, old holy Rheims,
Shone from afar. Ere set of sun it sent
Its best and noblest in procession long
To greet the conqueror with the city's keys.
That Conqueror was the Maid. The King it was
Who thanked them with such grace, that all men cried,
A Charlemagne restored! But verily
No Charlemagne was he!
Then to the King she sent. Her words were these:
344
Sir, Heaven has done its part, and many a land
Looks round amazed: and asks, “The King, where is he?”
Sir, and my King, fulfilled is half my mission;
Share with me the remainder. March to Rheims!’
The King obeyed. Girt by twelve thousand men
She made that marvellous march — two hundred miles—
Whereon each castled crag still frowned upon her
Each city sent a host to bar her way.
At last her mission's bourne, old holy Rheims,
Shone from afar. Ere set of sun it sent
Its best and noblest in procession long
To greet the conqueror with the city's keys.
That Conqueror was the Maid. The King it was
Who thanked them with such grace, that all men cried,
A Charlemagne restored! But verily
No Charlemagne was he!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |