Ope, throw ope thy bower door, And come thou forth, my sweet! 'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er, And mating hearts should meet. The stars have fled and left their grace In every blossom's lifted face, And gentle shadows fleck the light With tender memories of the night. Sweet, there's a door to every shrine; Wilt thou, as morning, open thine? Hark! now the lark has met the clouds, And rains his sheer melodious flood; The green earth casts her mystic shrouds To meet the flaming god! Alas, for me there is no dawn If Glaia come not with the sun. [_Enter Glaia_. _The king kneels as she approaches_] _Gla._ 'Tis you! _Hen._ [_Leaping up_] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland, Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned. _Gla._ How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false? Nay, I'm too glad thou 'rt come to question so. 'Tis easy to forgive the treachery That opes our gates to angels. _Hen._ O, I'm loved? _Gla._ Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you, And I rose early, for I love to say Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan And loath to go away, as though they know The fickle world is thinking of the sun, And all their gentle service of the night Is quite forgot. _Hen._ And what didst think of me? _Gla._ That could you come and see this beauteous wood, Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace, You'd be content to live awhile with me, Leave war's red step to follow living May Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood To each decaying root; and rest by springs Where waters run to sounds less rude than song, And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies. _Hen._ The only springs I seek are in your eyes That nourish all the desert of myself. Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews, And start fair summer in this waste of me! _Gla._ Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love? _Hen._ See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose? What do I know of it but that 'tis fair? And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews And goes to some sweet country of the sky. So cloud-like dost thou move before my love, From beauty coming that I may not see, To beauty going that I can but dream. O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand, This miracle of warm, unmelting snow, This lily bit of thee that in my clasp Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote-- Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown! Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare The darkest shadow of defeat that broods O'er sceptres and unfriended kings. _Gla._ Why talk Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry. For if you love me you will stay with me.