Five years are passed over since in the fresh dawning On the field of that fight I lay wearied and sleepless Till slumber came o'er me in the first of the sunrise; Then as there lay my body rapt away was my spirit, And a cold and thick mist for a while was about me, And when that cleared away, lo, the mountain-walled country 'Neath the first of the sunrise in e'en such a spring-tide As the spring-tide our horse-hoofs that yestereve trampled: By the withy-wrought gate of a garden I found me 'Neath the goodly green boughs of the apple full-blossomed; And fulfilled of great pleasure I was as I entered The fair place of flowers, and wherefore I knew not. Then lo, mid the birds' song a woman's voice singing. Five years passed away, in the first of the sunrise. [_He is silent, brooding_. MASTER OLIVER God help us if God is!--for this man, I deemed him More a glory of God made man for our helping Than a man that should die: all the deeds he did surely, Too great for a man's life, have undone the doer. KING PHARAMOND (_rousing himself_) Thou art waiting, my fosterer, till I tell of her singing And the words that she sang there: time was when I knew them; But too much of strife is about us this morning, And whiles I forget and whiles I remember. [_Falls a-musing again._ MASTER OLIVER _But a night's dream undid him, and he died, and his kingdom By unheard-of deeds fashioned, was tumbled together, By false men and fools to be fought for and ruined._ Such words shall my ghost see the chronicler writing In the days that shall be:--ah--what wouldst thou, my fosterling? Knowest thou not how words fail us awaking That we seemed to hear plain amid sleep and its sweetness? Nay, strive not, my son, rest awhile and be silent; Or sleep while I watch thee: full fair is the garden, Perchance mid the flowers thy sweet dream may find thee, And thou shalt have pleasure and peace for a little.-- (_Aside_) And my soul shall depart ere thou wak'st peradventure. KING PHARAMOND Yea, thou deemest me mad: a dream thou mayst call it, But not such a dream as thou know'st of: nay, hearken! For what manner of dream then is this that remembers The words that she sang on that morning of glory;-- _O love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting; Cast thy sweet arms about me to stay my hearts beating!_ Ah, thy silence, thy silence! nought shines on the darkness! --O close-serried throng of the days that I see not! [_Falls a-musing again._ MASTER OLIVER Thus the worse that shall be, the bad that is, bettereth. --Once more he is speechless mid evil dreams sunken. KING PHARAMOND (_speaking very low_).