I am thine husband — not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow. They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against the man they call My sister's son-no kin of mine, who leagues With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights, Traitors and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; But hither shall I never come again, What help in that? I cannot kill my sin, The months will add themselves and make the years, 620 The years will roll into the centuries, What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope; His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope 630 That in mine own heart I can live down 'I found Him in the shining of the stars I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me for why is all around us here |