Is that so good a gift of God’s—to die And leave a name alive in memory? I Would rather live this river’s life, and be Held of no less or more account than he. Lo, how he lives and laughs! and hath no name, Thou sayest—or one forgotten even of fame That lives on poor men’s lips and falters down To nothing. But thy father? and his crown? Did he less hate the coil of it than mine, Or love thee less—nay, then he were not thine— Than he, my sire, loves me? ESTRILD. And wilt thou hear All? Child, my child, love born of love, more dear Than very love was ever! Hearken then. This plague, this fire, that hunts us—Guendolen— Was wedded to thy sire ere I and he Cast ever eyes on either. Woe is me! Thou canst not dream, sweet, what my soul would say And not affright thee. SABRINA. Thou affright me? Nay, Mock not. This evil woman—when he knew Thee, this my sweet good mother, wise and true— He cast from him and hated. ESTRILD. Yea—and now For that shall haply he and I and thou Die. SABRINA. What is death? I never saw his face That I should fear it. ESTRILD. Whether grief or grace Or curse or blessing breathe from it, and give Aught worse or better than the life we live, I know no more than thou knowest; perchance, Less. When we sleep, they say, or fall in trance, We die awhile. Well spake thine innocent breath— _I think there is no death but fear of death_. SABRINA. Did I say this? but that was long ago— Months. Now I know not—yet I think I know— Whether I fear or fear not it. Hard by Men fight even now—they strike and kill and die Red-handed; nay, we hear the roar and see The lightning of the battle: can it be That what no soul of all these brave men fears Should sound so fearful save in foolish ears? But all this while I know not where it lay, Thy father’s kingdom. ESTRILD.