THE MINSTREL AND THE PRINCESS
I
He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a loveless land,
And yet he sang of love;
And marked the blue vein of her throat
Swell with mute rage at every note:
And when he ceased she spake him then,—
“Such whining slaves are less than men!”
And anger in her dark eyes wrote
Contempt thereof.
II
He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a hostile land,
And yet he sang of peace;
And marked how mock'ry curled her lip
With scorn as, 'neath each finger-tip,
The chords breathed pastoral content:
Till haughtiness, that beauty lent
To beauty, sneered, “Would'st feel the whip?—
O fool, surcease!”
III
He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a tyrant's land,
And so he sang of war—
“Oh, fling thy harp away!” she said.
“O war, thy singers are not dead!—
Seat thee beside me; now I see
Thou art for battle, and must be
Brave as thy song.—Well hast thou pled.
My warrior!”
