Tuned to a rustic harp, deluding hosts With tales of how he lived by minstrelsy: Yet never rested longer than the night, But with the dawn departed, ere the birds Woke to their song, and man from healing sleep To his laborious struggle with the earth; Silent he slipped from them, that none might know The path he travelled, and next night would lie On some lone upland underneath the stars. While, as he wandered, drawing close to me, I dreamed him still at Tours, and had no hope To see him, for my lords were turbulent, Grown headstrong in mine absence, and my son Had not yet learned the art of governance: To play on rival jealousies, and split Alliances in factions; to dissolve Confederacies, as an acid eats Through base alloy of idols composite, Till the whole crumble; to lead many weak Against one strong, and win the name of Right, Come in full arms to succour the distressed, And break the bonds of tyranny; to pay The world with phrases; lead the ductile mob, Swayed by a momentary need, to ends Imperial, that crown our finished work. So wrought I with my proud rebellious lords, Rousing the populace against their strength, Sowing among them mutual distrust, And fear, and drove them out with ruthless hands, To herd with their own fellows, the lean wolves Of winter, famishing, who bay in pack, When the full moon hangs low, and golden grows, Over the rim of the Atlantic waste. “So swept I out my house and garnished it, In preparation for the perfect guest, Who comes on dove’s wings silently, nor thought That one on sable wings, more silently, Would enter in and take the seat of Love. Rumour, that travels on each wanton wind, Swifter than birds may fly, from tongue to tongue Came laden with the news of violence wrought In Rouen, by command of Fredegonde On Praetextatus, the poor kindly priest, Who took the ring from Merow for my hand, And blessed the union that had been so brief. Then there awoke in me that sense which feels Strange intuitions of approaching doom, And Fear crept through my dreams on stealthy feet, Or crouched beside me, and the darkness seemed Alive with evil; but I steeled my heart To wait on time and all that time might bring Of good or evil. Then from Gregory Came messengers, who told of Merow’s flight, And that the hounds of Fredegonde pursued The fugitive through all frequented ways, And forests, and waste places, and the lone Bare mountains, sterile underneath the stars, Yea, every valley, every hidden place, Lest they should lose him, and the harlot queen Avenge on them her seat grown insecure, Through lack of vigilance. God, how the days Lengthened their minutes into weary hours, And weary hours to days! as if the time Were frozen with the fear that gripped my heart,