There comes no sleep nor any love; Ah me! I shiver with delight. I am so weak I cannot move; God move me to thee, dear, to-night! Christ help! I have but little wit: My life went wrong; I see it writ, 'Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part; A good knight he was found.' Now I begin to fathom it. [_He dies._ SIR BORS. Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me? On his soul, Lord, have mercy. SIR GALAHAD. Ozana, shall I pray for thee? Her cheek is laid to thine; No long time hence, also I see Thy wasted fingers twine Within the tresses of her hair That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air Against the jasper sea. SIR PETER HARPDON'S END SIR PETER HARPDON'S END _In an English Castle in Poictou._ Sir Peter Harpdon, _a Gascon knight in the English service, and_ John Curzon, _his lieutenant_. JOHN CURZON. Of those three prisoners, that before you came We took down at St. John's hard by the mill, Two are good masons; we have tools enough, And you have skill to set them working. SIR PETER. So: What are their names? JOHN CURZON. Why, Jacques Aquadent, And Peter Plombiere, but, SIR PETER. What colour'd hair Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs? JOHN CURZON. Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair, Or Peter's legs to us? SIR PETER. O! John, John, John! Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good, We shall not build, man. JOHN CURZON (_going_). Shall I call the guard To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well. [_Muttering as he goes._ What have I done that he should jape at me? And why not build? the walls are weak enough, And we've two masons and a heap of tools. [_Goes, still muttering._ SIR PETER. To think a man should have a lump like that For his lieutenant! I must call him back, Or else, as surely as St. George is dead, He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John! JOHN CURZON. At your good service, sir. SIR PETER. Come now, and talk This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone. JOHN CURZON. There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off. SIR PETER.