'When this day Murrough, the King of Ireland's son, Foot after foot was giving way, He and his best troops back to back Had perished there, but the Danes ran, Stricken with panic from the attack, The shouting of an unseen man; And being thankful Murrough found, Led by a footsole dipped in blood That had made prints upon the ground, Where by old thorn trees that man stood; And though when he gazed here and there, He had but gazed on thorn trees, spoke, "Who is the friend that seems but air And yet could give so fine a stroke?" Thereon a young man met his eye, Who said, "Because she held me in Her love, and would not have me die, Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin, And pushing it into my shirt, Promised that for a pin's sake, No man should see to do me hurt; But there it's gone; I will not take The fortune that had been my shame Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have." 'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came He had betrayed me to his grave, For he and the King's son were dead. I'd promised him two hundred years, And when for all I'd done or said-- And these immortal eyes shed tears-- He claimed his country's need was most, I'd save his life, yet for the sake Of a new friend he has turned a ghost. What does he care if my heart break? I call for spade and horse and hound That we may harry him.' Thereon She cast herself upon the ground And rent her clothes and made her moan: 'Why are they faithless when their might Is from the holy shades that rove The grey rock and the windy light? Why should the faithfullest heart most love The bitter sweetness of false faces? Why must the lasting love what passes, Why are the gods by men betrayed!' But thereon every god stood up With a slow smile and without sound, And stretching forth his arm and cup To where she moaned upon the ground, Suddenly drenched her to the skin; And she with Goban's wine adrip, No more remembering what had been, Stared at the gods with laughing lip. _I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,_ _To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,_ _And the world's altered since you died,_ _And I am in no good repute_ _With the loud host before the sea,_ _That think sword strokes were better meant_ _Than lover's music--let that be,_ _So that the wandering foot's content._ THE TWO KINGS