'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; Now is heard a twittering sweet, For the mother-martins meet, Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, Glisten on the battlement. Now the lark at heaven's gold gate Aiming, sweetly chides on fate That his brown wings wearied were When he, sure, was almost there. Now the valley mist doth break, Shifting sparkles edge the lake, Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!' V. Ay, he wakes,--and dull of cheer, Though this queen be very dear, Though a respite come with day From th' abhorrèd flight and fray, E'en though life be not the cost, Nay, nor crown nor honour lost; For in his soul abideth fear Worse than of the Khalif's spear, Smiting when perforce in flight He was borne,--for that was night, That his weird. But now 't is day, 'And good sooth I know not--nay, Know not how this thing could be. Never, more it seemeth me Than when left the weird to dree, I am I. And it was I Felt or ever they turned to fly, How, like wind, a tremor ran, The right hand of every man Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, And the red all cheeks forsook, Mine as theirs. Since this was I, Who my soul shall certify When again I face the foe Manful courage shall not go. Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, Scorn of infidel eyes austere, But mine own fear--is to fear.' VI. After sleep thus sore bestead, Beaten about and buffeted, Featly fares the morning spent In high sport and tournament. VII. Served within his sumptuous tent, Looks the king in quiet wise, Till this fair queen yield the prize To the bravest; but when day Falleth to the west away, Unto her i' the silent hour, While she sits in her rose-bower. Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she, 'I at dawn have prayèd thee Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, Sith I might some counsel find Of my wit or in my mind Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so, But the telling shall let thee know,' Quoth the king, 'is neither scope For sweet counsel nor fair hope, Nor is found for respite room, Till the uttermost crack of doom. VIII.