Placing himself, the Prince right onward hurled The strife once more, and with his battle-shout Woke victory; again his forces whirled The hostile troops, and drove them on in rout. The strength of ten battalions seemed to yield Before his arm; and so he won that field, And slew with his own hand the vengeful king, And with that death-stroke brought the war to end, Conquering the common foe, and conquering The hate, from which he would not else defend His clear renown than with such manful deeds As fall to faith and valor at their needs. Again—this time the chaplet was his own— The people wreathed their laurels for his brow; His horses trod on flowers; the city shone With flags of victory; and none but now— As with no vaunting mien he wore his bays— Confessed him brave as good, and gave their praise. Peace smiled anew; the kingdom was at rest. Ah, happy Queen! whom every matron’s tongue Ran envious of, with such a consort blest As wins the heart of women, old and young; So gallant, yet so good, the gentlest maid By this fair standard her own suitor weighed. I hold the perfect mating of two souls, Through wedded love, to be the sum of bliss. When Earth, this fruit that ripens as it rolls In sunlight, grows more prime, lives will not miss Their counterparts, and each shall find its own; But now with what blind chance the lots are thrown! And because Love sets with a rising tide Along the drift where much has gone before One holds of worth,—we lavish first, beside, Heart, honors, regal gifts, and love the more When yielding most,—for this the Queen’s love knew No slack, but still its current deeper grew. And because Love is free, and follows not On gratitude, nor comes from what is given So much as on the giving; and, I wot, Partly because it irks one to have thriven At hands which seem the weaker, and should thrive While those of him they cling to lift and strive; And partly that his marriage seemed a height Which raised him from the passions of our kind, Nor with his own intent; and that, despite Its clear repose, he somehow longed to find The lower world, starve, hunger, and be fed With joy and sorrow, sweet and bitter bread,— For all these things the Prince loved not the Queen With that sufficience which alone can take A rapture in itself and rest serene; Yet knew not what his life lacked that should make It worth to live,—our custom has such art To dull the craving of the famished heart,— Perchance had never known it, but a light Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train About him; else, day following day, and night By night, through years his soul had felt no pain, No triumph, but had shared the common lull, Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull.