And now adown the Seine the golden sun Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one And took from off his head the royal crown, And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, Because he died, and all the things he did Were changed before his face by earth was hid; A better crown I have for my love's head, Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead His hand has helped." Then on his head she set The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget! Forget these weary things, for thou hast much Of happiness to think of." At that touch He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; And smitten by the rush of memories, He stammered out, "O love! how came we here? What do we in this land of Death and Fear? Have I not been from thee a weary while? Let us return--I dreamed about the isle; I dreamed of other years of strife and pain, Of new years full of struggles long and vain." She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, I am not changed;" and therewith did they move Unto the door, and through the sleeping place Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his Except the dear returning of his bliss. But at the threshold of the palace-gate That opened to them, she awhile did wait, And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine And said, "O love, behold it once again!" He turned, and gazed upon the city grey Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; He heard faint noises as of wakening folk As on their heads his day of glory broke; He heard the changing rush of the swift stream Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream. His work was over, his reward was come, Why should he loiter longer from his home? A little while she watched him silently, Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh, And, raising up the raiment from her feet, Across the threshold stepped into the street; One moment on the twain the low sun shone, And then the place was void, and they were gone How I know not; but this I know indeed, That in whatso great trouble or sore need The land of France since that fair day has been, No more the sword of Ogier has she seen. * * * * *