And mostly for the whiteness of his soul, Which seemed so virginal and all unblurred,— They called him the White Prince, and through the whole True land the name became a household word. “God save the Queen!” the loyal people sung, “And the White Prince!” came back from every tongue. So passed the stages of a glorious reign. The Queen in tranquil goodness reached her noon; The Prince wore year by year his double chain; His mistress kept her secret like the moon, That hides one half its splendor and its shade; And newer times and men their entrance made. But did these two, who took their secret fill Of stolen waters, find the greater bliss They sought? At first, to meet and part at will Was, for the peril’s sake, a happiness; Ay, even the sense of guilt made such delights More worth, as one we call the wisest writes. But with the later years Time brought about His famed revenges. Not that love grew cold, The lady never found a cause to doubt That with the Prince his passion kept its hold; And while their loved are loyal to them yet, ’Tis not the wont of women to regret. Yet ’twas her lot to live as one whose wealth Is in another’s name; to sigh at fate That hedged her from possession, save by stealth And trespass on the guileless Queen’s estate; To see her lover farthest when most near, Nor dare before the world to make him dear. To see her perfect beauty but a lure, That made men list to follow where she went, And kneel to woo the hand they deemed so pure, And hunger for her pitying mouth’s consent; Calling her hard, who was so gently made, Nor found delight in all their homage paid. Nor ever yet was woman’s life complete Till at her breast the child of him she loved Made life and love one name. Though love be sweet, And passing sweet, till then its growth has proved In woman’s paradise a sterile tree, Fruitless, though fair its leaves and blossoms be. Meanwhile the Prince put on his own disguise, Holding it naught for what it kept secure, Nor wore it only in his comrades’ eyes; Beneath this cloak and seeming to be pure He felt the thing he seemed. For some brief space His conscience took the reflex of his face. But lastly through his heart there crept a sense Of falseness, like a worm about the core, Until he grew to loathe the long pretence Of blamelessness, and would the mask he wore By some swift judgment from his face were torn, So might the outer quell the inner scorn. Such self-contempt befell him, when the feast Rang with his praise, he blushed from nape to crown, And ground his teeth in silence, yet had ceased To bear it, crying, “Crush me not quite down, Who ask your scorn, as viler than you deem Your vilest, and am nothing that I seem!”