Her knuckles whitening round the bolt, Vengeance leans eager from the sky, While this and that the people guess,

And to the skirts of praters cling, Who court the crowd they should compress,

I turn in scorn to seek my king.

Shut in what tower of darkling chance
Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance
Or dungeon of a narrow doom,
That for the Cross make crashing
room?

Come with hushed breath the battle waits

In the wild van thy mace's swing;

BLONDEL.

Make thou thine own and ours, my king!

I had found out what

Richard was in,

And was spurring for England to push on the ransom.

How I scorned the dull souls that sat guzzling around

And knew not my secret nor recked my derision!

Let the world sink or swim, John or Richard be crowned,

All one, so the beer-tax got lenient

And our sins cannot push the Lord's right hand from under.

Better one honest man who can wait for God's mind

In our poor shifting scene here though heroes were plenty!

Better one bite, at forty, of Truth's bitter rind,

Than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty !

I see it all now: when I wanted a king, 'T was the kingship that failed in myself I was seeking,

'T is so much less easy to do than to sing,

So much simpler to reign by a proxy than be king!

Yes, I think I do see: after all's said and sung,

Take this one rule of life and you never will rue it,

'Tis but do your own duty and hold your own tongue

And Blondel were royal himself, if he knew it !

cobweb asunder;