PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty and great was he grown, On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he builded up his throne. There sate a king on the throne of Persia; and he was grown so proud That all the life of the world was less, to him, than a passing cloud. He reigned in glory: joy and sorrow lying between his hands. If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest of lands. He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky, For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest king must die. He who was even as God to all the nations of men, Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth again. And his life with the fear of death was bitter and sick and accursed, As brackish water to drink of which is to be for ever athirst. The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced at noon The drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so sweet a tune. Low as the lapping of the sea, as the song of the lark is clear, Wild as the moaning of pine branches; the king was fain to hear. “What is the song, and who is the singer?” he said; “before the throne Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and all but this are known.” Seven mighty kings went out the Minstrel man to find: And all they found was a dead cypress soughing in the wind. And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled, And the burning summers waned away, and the king grew very old; Dull, worn, feeble, bent; and once he thought, “To die Were rest, at least.” And, as he thought, the music wandered by. Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came, And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were clear as flame. “What is the song you play, and what the theme your praises sing? It is sweet; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet,” said the weary king. “I sing my country,” said the singer, “a land that is sweeter than song.” “Which of my kingdoms is your country? Thither would I along.” “Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool for thy feet; But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my country is sweet!” The eyes of the king, as he heard, grew young and alive with fire: “So, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a thing to desire? “Where is thy country? tell me, O singer! speak thine innermost heart! Leave thy music! speak plainly! Speak—forget thine art!” The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice rang wild and free As the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the sea. “O for my distant home!” he sighed; “Oh, alas! away and afar I watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining star.