Whither speed they? Where are toss'd Like sea foam the dwarfed pines At the jagged sharp inclines; To the country of the frost Up the mountains to be lost, Lost. No better now may be, Lost where mighty hollows thrust 'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, Fill themselves with crimson dust When the tumbling sun down hurl'd Stares among them drearily, As a' wondering at the lone Gulfs that weird gaunt company Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, Lineage, nation, name, and throne. XXXV. Lo, in a crevice choked with ling And fir, this man, not now the king, This Sigismund, hath made a fire, And by his wife in the dark night He leans at watch, her guard and squire. His wide eyes stare out for the light Weary. He needs must chide on fate, And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, What! wilt thou on the mountain crest Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? Or must I clear some uncouth cave That laired the mother wolf, and save-- Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine To be a bed for thee and thine? It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, 'Mine; but who dares to pity thee Shall pity, not for loss of all, But that thou wert my wife perdie, E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,-- A man beholden to the cold Cloud for a covering, he being sold And hunted for reward of gold. XXXVI. But who shall chronicle the ways Of common folk--the nights and days Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, Of travellers come whence no man knows, Then gone aloft on some sharp height In the dumb peace and the great light Amid brown eagles and wild roes? XXXVII. 'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, The rocky pastures hung on high Shelve off upon an empty sky. But they creep near the edge, look down-- Great heaven! another world afloat, Moored as in seas of air; remote As their own childhood; swooning away Into a tenderer sweeter day, Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! There lie the lands of other kings-- I Sigismund, my sometime crown Forfeit; forgotten of renown My wars, my rule; I fain would go Down to yon peace obscure.' Even so; Down to the country of the thyme, Where young kids dance, and a soft chime Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last Down to a country of hollows, cast Up at the mountains full of trees, Down to fruit orchards and wide leas. XXXVIII. With name unsaid and fame unsunned He walks that was King Sigismund. With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, New from the East, with friar and clown, He mingles in a wallèd town, And in the mart where men him scan He passes for a merchant man. For from his vest, where by good hap He thrust it, he his plumèd cap Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, And up and down he makes essay To sell them; they are all his wares And wealth. He is a man of cares, A man of toil; no roof hath he To shelter her full soon to be The mother of his dispossessed Desirèd heir. XXXIX.