He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine, On the couch by his side, where, of yore, his Beautiful used to recline. But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath, and the laws of the Medes, And he cannot call Vashti again, though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds. VII. So they ransacked the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while-- I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile, Gazing dreamily on as each maiden is temptingly passed in review, While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew! * * * * * VIII. Then _she_ came, when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past! She is fair--I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last! But, e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill, The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still. * * * * * IX. Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,-- I am sick to the very heart of my soul of this life--this death in life! Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might, And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light! * * * * * X. What is it? Oft, as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears, There comes--it came to me just now--a flash, then disappears: A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene, That makes me dream what was, shall be, and what is now, has been. XI. And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne, And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own; And for the joy of what has been and what again shall be, I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery! * * * * * XII. The star! the star! oh! blazing light that burns into my soul! The star! the star! oh! flickering light of life beyond control! O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own, Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown! SHAKSPERE. _April 23rd, 1864._ I. To-day, three hundred years ago, A common, English April morn, In Stratford town a child was born, Stratford, where Avon’s waters flow. II. No guns are fired, no joy-bell rings: But neighbours call to see the boy And mother, and to wish them joy, And then--attend to other things. III. Some years glide by--the boy is man; At school they thought him apt to learn; And now he goes from home to earn His livelihood, as best he can.