The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley :: :: University of Virginia Library

Deep have I tasted those accursed wells
Of disobedience: deeply wasted rule,
And made my throne a haven for the deed.
Come, come, the proudest soul that ever trod

Is pillage merely for some crushing hour,
And that is stored for all. I cannot mend,
And will not shrink. Fear mends not chance or change.
Perchance my doom is ripe and I must fall.
I murmur not, for I have much endur'd,
Nor prosper'd in my sin or in my pride,
But fever'd out my heart from shame to shame:
Shame is as praise where all is set to fall.

I that have dared to tamper with the dead,
To break the ancient prophet from his sleep,
Deliberate in election to foreknow
The drift of evil, and made firm my face
Beyond the scale of horror, to untear
Death and their secrets from the denizens
Of his oblivious city,—shall I shrink
Or bate one inch off purpose till the end?

I stand between the oracles of doom.
The wild wind passes on the cloudy banks
And raises out an interval of light.
This is the day, my soul. This is the day.
Shall I sit down and weep? What help to weep,
What harm to die? Small profit this my rule:
A thing of custom merely that outgrows
The will to move it from us, which removed
There lives beyond no comfort in the light;
But craving, that in realmless abstinence
Rivets the ache of loss, where loss is gain
To limit old confusions, which of old
Raught from my helm the garland of its praise
And set my face to this perpetual rest.

Could I unlive my trespass, and the doom
Of this day's fight, to tread again the ways
Of earthly custom, taste smooth hope once more,
Be man with men, talk trifles, wake and sleep:
Should I be changed? Small change till I be dead.
What years have grained and ringed into the tree
Falls not for one night's shaking. I am proud,
I cannot take meek eyes and smile upon
My shepherd rival. He or I must cease.
My realm is narrow for a second King.
He prospers as I perish, for his hands
Are strengthened and some demon works me down,
Else had I crushed this stripling at his sheep.

I never sought this ruling curse of rule.
Who shall convince me that I sought to rule?
I sinn'd not as I was and sought no higher.
How then is this my guilt to fail beneath
Unwilling burden? I have done some wrong,
But royal trespass this, and such as Kings
Could only sin. The wrong is theirs that chose.

They huddled on my rule and I was King.
They cannot twit me with an ounce of fear
Whenas I led their armies. That at least
Is something in this waning of my name.
What else is left? To arm and surely die.
It shall be done. 'Tis easier passage straight
Where there is turning none and no retreat.

Perchance the spirit mock'd me to my doom.
It is a lying spirit from its lord
Of lies and fire, who steals a holy shape:
My sick brain cannot sunder false and true—
Nay, for I heard his voice and heard my doom,
And he that sleeps at Ramah will not lie.
Give me thy sword. Philistia, lo I come!
Glut all your spears upon me. 'Tis more brave
To wrestle with a certainty of doom
Than to be still in apathy and die.
I know the issue. I am set to fall.
What need to redden eyes with slavish tears?
I feel the end. I front it and it comes.