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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
III.
I will languish no longer a sick King here:My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
The white robe a King wears over me throw;
Bear me forth to the field where he camps—your foe,
With the yellow torches and dirges low.
The heralds have brought his challenge and fled;
The answer they bore not I bear instead:
My People shall fight, my pain in sight,
And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands right.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |