That turned the long past over in his mind, Poising its good and evil, while a haze Gathered around him, of that sombre kind Which follows from a place where many days Have seen us go and come; and even if sore Has been our sojourn there, we feel the more That parting is a sorrow,—though we part With those who loved us not, or go forlorn From pain that ate its canker in the heart; But when we leave the paths where Love has borne His garlands to us, Pleasure poured her wine, Where life was wholly precious and divine, Then go we forth as exiles. In such wise The loath, wan Prince his homeward journey made, Brooding, and marked not with his downcast eyes The shadow that within the coppice shade Sank darker still; but at the horse’s gait Kept slowly on, and rode to meet his fate. For from the west a silent gathering drew, And hid the summer sky, and brought swift night Across that shire, and went devouring through The strong old forest, stronger in its might. With the first sudden crash the Prince’s steed Took the long stride, and galloped at good need. The wild pace tallied with the rider’s mood, And on he spurred, and even now had reached The storm that charged the borders of the wood, When one great whirlwind seized an oak which bleached Across his path, and felled it; and its fall Bore down the Prince beneath it, horse and all. There lay he as he fell; but the mad horse Plunged out in fright, and reared upon his feet, And for the city struck a headlong course, With clatter of hoof along the central street, Nor halted till, thus masterless and late, Bleeding and torn, he reached the palace-gate. Then rose a clamor and the tidings spread, And servitors and burghers thronged about, Crying, “The Prince’s horse! the Prince is dead!” Till on the courser’s track they sallied out, And came upon the fallen oak, and found The Prince sore maimed and senseless on the ground. Then wattling boughs, they raised him in their hold, And after that rough litter, and before, The people went in silence; but there rolled A fiery vapor from the lights they bore, Like some red serpent huge along the road. Even thus they brought him back to his abode. There the pale Queen fell on him at the porch, Dabbling her robes in blood, and made ado, And over all his henchman held a torch, Until with reverent steps they took him through; And the doors closed, and midnight from the domes Was sounded, and the people sought their homes. But on the morrow, like a dreadful bird, Flew swift the tidings of this sudden woe, And reached the Prince’s paramour, who heard Aghast, as one who crieth loud, “The blow Is fallen! I am the cause!”—as one who saith, “Now let me die, whose hands have given death!”