Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss, I would not then have grudged thy happiness, Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is not A merchandise men buy or leave unbought And find again. It is a wild bird winging Its way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing, Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist, It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist, And fondled with our fingers, and made play With jess and hood as if it meant to stay. And we, if we were wise and fortunate, And if the hour had been decreed of fate, Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand, And forced it to obey our least command, Knowing that never more, if not made sure, It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure. Oh, such is happiness. That night for them Fate stood, a genius, suppliant and tame, Demanding to do service. Had they willed, The treasure-house of heaven had been unfilled And emptied in their lap. They too, even they, Mere mortals born, inheritors of clay, Had known eternal life, and been as gods, Only the will between them was at odds, Only the word was wanting. What one thing It was that frightened Fate to taking wing, And scared for ever the celestial bird, And left them desolate, if I have heard I do not now remember, nor would say Even if I knew. 'Twas told me not to-day Nor yesterday, but in a time long since, By one of the two who knew, in confidence, And then not quite perhaps the utter truth-- Whoever tells it? But there came to both A moment when, as Belgirate knew, There was no further power to plead or sue: They had played with Fate too long. Their hour was over; She was no more his love nor he her lover. His courage was exhausted. One by one His fingers, which still held Griselda's gown, Relaxed their hold. His hands dropped by his side, His head upon his bosom, and the pride, Which was the reason of his being, quailed. Grief in that hour and tenderness prevailed, And tears rushed to his eyes, long strangers there, And to his lips, Italian-like, a prayer, While he lay prostrate, his face turned from heaven, Under the stars. The tower clock struck eleven And roused him. He had neither heard nor known Griselda's going, but he was alone. * * * * *