And, steeped in drowsiness, at last drew nigh

  A grassy bank, where, worn with misery,

  He slept the dreamless sleep of weariness,

  That many a time such wretches’ eyes will bless.

  BUT at the dawn he woke, nor knew at first

  What ugly chain of grief had brought him there,

  Nor why he felt so wretched and accursed;

  At last remembering, the fresh morning air,

  The rising sun, and all things fresh and fair,

  Yet caused some little hope in him to rise,

  That end might come to these new miseries.

  So looking round about, he saw that he

  To his own city gates was come anear;

  Then he arose and going warily,

  And hiding now and then for very fear

  Of folk who bore their goods and country cheer,

  Unto the city’s market, at the last

  Unto a stone’s-throw of the gate he passed.

  But when he drew unto the very gate,

  Into the throng of country-folk he came

  Who for the opening of the door did wait,

  Of whom some mocked, and some cried at him shame,

  And some would know his country and his name;

  But one into his waggon drew him up,

  And gave him milk from out a beechen cup,

  And asked him of his name and misery;

  Then in his throat a swelling passion rose,

  Which yet he swallowed down, and, “Friend,” said he,

  “Last night I had the hap to meet the foes

  Of God and man, who robbed me, and with blows

  Stripped off my weed and left me on the way:

  Thomas the Pilgrim am I called to-day.

  “A merchant am I of another town,

  And rich enow to pay thee for thy deed,

  If at the King’s door thou wilt set me down,

  For there a squire I know, who at my need

  Will give me food and drink, and fitting weed.

  What is thy name? in what place dost thou live?

  That I some day great gifts to thee may give.”

  “Fair Sir,” the carie said, “I am poor enow,

  Though certes food I lack not easily;

  My name is Christopher a-Green; I sow

  A little orchard set with bush and tree,

  And ever there the kind land keepeth me,

  For I, now fifty, from a little boy

  Have dwelt thereon, and known both grief and joy.

  “The house my grandsire built there has grown old,

  And certainly a bounteous gift it were

  If thou shouldst give me just enough of gold

  To build it new; nor shouldst thou lack my prayer

  For such a gift.” “Nay, friend, have thou no care,”

  The King said: “this is but a little thing

  To me, who oft am richer than the King.”

  Now as they talked the gate was opened wide,

  And toward the palace went they through the street,

  And Christopher walked ever by the side

  Of his rough wain, where midst the May-flowers sweet

  Jovinian lay, that folk whom they might meet

  Might see him not to mock at his bare skin:

  So shortly to the King’s door did they win.

  Then through the open gate Jovinian ran

  Of the first court, and no man stayed him there;

  But as he reached the second gate, a man

  Of the King’s household, seeing him all bare

  And bloody, cried out, “Whither dost thou fare?

  Sure thou art seventy times more mad than mad,

  Or else some magic potion thou hast had,

  “Whereby thou fear’st not steel or anything.”

  “But,” said the King, “good fellow, I know thee;

  And can it be thou knowest not thy King?

  Nay, thou shalt have a good reward of me,

  That thou wouldst rather have than ten years’ fee,

  If thou wilt clothe me in fair weed again,

  For now to see my council am I fain.”

  “Out, ribald!” quoth the fellow: “What say’st thou?

  Thou art my lord, whom God reward and bless?

  Truly before long shalt thou find out how

  John Hangman cureth ill folk’s wilfulness;

  Yea, from his scourge the blood has run for less

  Than that which now thou sayest: nay, what say I?

  For lighter words have I seen tall men die.

  “Come now, the sergeants to this thing shall see!”

  So to the guard-room was Jovinian brought,

  Where his own soldiers mocked him bitterly,

  And all his desperate words they heeded nought;

  Until at last there came to him this thought,

  That never from this misery should he win,

  But, spite of all his struggles, die therein.

  And terrible it seemed, that everything

  So utterly was changed since yesterday,

  That these who were the soldiers of the King,

  Ready to lie down in the common way

  Before him, nor durst rest if he bade play,

  Now stood and mocked him, knowing not the face

  At whose command each man there had his place.

  “Ah, God!” said he, “is this another earth

  From that whereon I stood two days ago?

  Or else in sleep have I had second birth?

  Or among mocking shadows do I go,

  Unchanged myself of flesh and fell, although

  My fair weed I have lost and royal gear?

  And meanwhile all are changed that I meet here;

  “And yet in heart and nowise outwardly.”

  Amid his wretched thoughts two sergeants came,

  Who said, “Hold, sirs! because the King would see

  The man who thus so rashly brings him shame,

  By taking his high style and spotless name,

  That never has been questioned ere to-day.

  Come, fool! needs is it thou must go our way.”

  So at the sight of him all men turned round,

  As ‘twixt these two across the courts he went,

  With downcast head and hands together bound;

  While from the windows maid and varlet leant,

  And through the morning air fresh laughter sent;

  Until unto the threshold they were come

  Of the great hall within that kingly home.

  Therewith right fast Jovinian’s heart must beat,

  As now he thought, “Lo, here shall end the strife;

  For either shall I sit on mine own seat,

  Known unto all, soldier and lord and wife,

  Or else is this the ending of my life,

  And no man henceforth shall remember me,

  And a vain name in records shall I be.”

  Therewith he raised his head up, and beheld

  One clad in gold set on his royal throne,

  Gold-crowned, whose hand the ivory sceptre held;

  And underneath him sat the Queen alone,

  Ringed round with standing lords, of whom not one

  Did aught but utmost reverence unto him;

  Then did Jovinian shake in every limb.

  Yet midst amaze and rage to him it seemed

  This man was nowise like him in the face;

  But with a marvellous glory his head gleamed,

  As though an angel sat in that high place,

  Where erst he sat like all his royal race, —

  — But their eyes met, and with a stern, calm brow

  The shining one cried out, “And where art thou?

  “Where art thou, robber of my majesty?”

  “Was I not King,” he said, “but yesterday?

  And though to-day folk give my place to thee,

  I am Jovinian; yes, though none gainsay,

  If on these very stones thou shouldst me slay,

  And though no friend be left for me to moan,

  I am Jovinian still, and King alone.”

  Then said that other, “O thou foolish man,

  King was I yesterday, and long before,

  Nor is my name aught but Jovinian,

  Whom in this house the Queen my mother bore,

  Unto my longing father, for right sore

  Was I desired before I saw the light;

  Thou, fool, art first to speak against my right.

  “And surely well thou meritest to die;

  Yet ere that I bid lead thee unto death,

  Hearken to these my lords that stand anigh,

  And what this faithful Queen beside me saith,

  Then may’st thou many a year hence draw thy breath,

  If these should stammer in their speech one whit:

  Behold this face, lords, look ye well on it!

  “Thou, O fair Queen, say now whose face is this!”

  Then cried they, “Hail O Lord Jovinian

  Long mayst thou live!” and the Queen knelt to kiss

  His gold-shod feet, and through her face there ran

  Sweet colour, as she said, “Thou art the man

  By whose side I have lain for many a year,

  Thou art my lord Jovinian lief and dear.”

  Then said he, “O thou wretch, hear now and see!

  What thing should hinder me to slay thee now?

  And yet indeed, such mercy is in me,

  If thou wilt kneel down humbly and avow

  Thou art no King, but base-born, as I know

  Thou art indeed, in mine house shalt thou live,

  And as thy service is, so shalt thou thrive.”

  But the unhappy King laughed bitterly,

  The red blood rose to flush his visage wan

  Where erst the grey of death began to be;

  “Thou liest, “he said, “I am Jovinian,

  Come of great Kings; nor am I such a man

  As still to live when all delight is gone,

  As thou might’st do, who sittest on my throne.”

  No answer made the other for a while,

  But sat and gazed upon him steadfastly,

  Until across his face there came a smile,

  Where scorn seemed mingled with some great pity.

  And then he said, “Nathless thou shalt not die,

  But live on as thou mayst, a lowly man

  Forgetting thou wast once Jovinian.”

  Then wildly round the hall Jovinian gazed,

  Turning about to many a well-known face,

  But none of all his folk seemed grieved or mazed,

  But stood unmoved, each in his wonted place;

  There were the Lords, the Marshal with his mace,

  The Chamberlain, the Captain of the Guard,

  Grey-headed, with his wrinkled face and hard,

  That had peered down so many a lane of war;

  There stood the grave ambassadors arow,

  Come from half-conquered lands; without the bar

  The foreign merchants gazed upon the show,

  Willing new things of that great land to know;

  Nor was there any doubt in any man

  That the gold throne still held Jovinian.

  Yea, as the sergeants laid their hands on him,

  The mighty hound that crouched before the throne,

  Flew at him fain to tear him limb from limb,

  Though in the woods, the brown bear’s dying groan,

  He and that beast had often heard alone.

  “Ah!” muttered he, “take thou thy wages too

  Worship the risen sun as these men do.”

  They thrust him out, and as he passed the door,

  The murmur of the stately court he heard

  Behind him, and soft footfalls on the floor,

  And, though by this somewhat his skin was seared,

  Hung back at the rough eager wind afeard;

  But from the place they dragged him through the gate,

  Wherethrough he oft had rid in royal state.

  Then down the streets they led him, where of old,

  He, coming back from some well-finished war,

  Had seen the line of flashing steel and gold

  Wind upwards ‘twixt the houses from the bar,

  While clashed the bells from wreathed spires afar;

  Now moaning, as they haled him on, he said,

  “God and the world against one lonely head!”

  BUT soon, the bar being past they loosed their hold,

  And said “Thus saith by us our Lord the King,

  Dwell now in peace, but yet be not so bold

  To come again, or to thy lies to cling,

  Lest unto thee there fall a worser thing;

  And for ourselves we bid thee ever pray

  For him who has been good to thee this day.”

  Therewith they turned away into the town,

  And still he wandered on and knew not where,

  Till, stumbling at the last, he fell adown,

  And looking round beheld a brook right fair,

  That ran in pools and shallows here and there,

  And on the further side of it a wood,

  Nigh which a lowly clay-built hovel stood.

  Gazing thereat, it came into his mind

  A priest dwelt there, a hermit wise and old,

  Whom he had ridden oftentimes to find,

  In days when first the sceptre he did hold,

  And unto whom his mind he oft had told,

  And had good counsel from him, though indeed

  A scanty crop had sprung from that good seed.

  Therefore he passed the brook with heavy cheer,

  And toward the little house went speedily,

  And at the door knocked, trembling with his fear,

  Because he thought, “Will he remember me?

  If not, within me must there surely be

  Some devil who turns everything to ill,

  And makes my wretched body do his will.”

  So, while such doleful things as this he thought,

  There came unto the door the holy man,

  Who said, “Good friend, what tidings hast thou brought?”

  “Father,” he said, “knowest thou Jovinian?

  Knowst thou me not, made naked, poor, and wan?

  Alas, O father! am I not the King,

  The rightful lord of thee and everything?”

  “Nay, thou art mad to tell me such a tale!”

  The hermit said; “if thou seek’st soul’s health here,

  Right little will such words as this avail;

  It were a better deed to shrive thee clear,

  And take the pardon Christ has bought so dear,

  Than to an ancient man such mocks to say

  That would be fitter for a Christmas play.”

  So to his hut he got him back again,

  And fell the unhappy King upon his knees,

  And unto God at last he did complain,

  Saying, “Lord God, what bitter things are these?

  What hast thou done, that every man that sees

  This wretched body, of my death is fain?

  O Lord God, give me back myself again!

  “E’en if therewith I needs must die straightway.

  Indeed I know that since upon the earth

  I first did go, I ever day by day

  Have grown the worse, who was of little worth

  E’en at the best time since my helpless birth.

  And yet it pleased thee once to make me King,

  Why hast thou made me now this wretched thing?

  “Why am I hated so of every one?

  Wilt thou not let me live my life again,

  Forgetting all the deeds that I have done,

  Forgetting my old name, and honours vain,

  That I may cast away this lonely pain?

  Yet if thou wilt not, help me in this strife,

  That I may pass my little span of life,

  “Not made a monster by unhappiness.

  What shall I say? thou mad’st me weak of will,

  Thou wrapped’st me in ease and carelessness,

  And yet, as some folk say, thou lovest me still;

  Look down, of folly I have had my fill,

  And am but now as first thou madest me,

  Weak, yielding clay to take impress of thee.”

  So said he weeping, and but scarce had done,

  When yet again came forth that hermit old,

  And said, “Alas! my master and my son,

  Is this a dream my wearied eyes behold?

  What doleful wonder now shall I be told,

  Of that ill world that I so long have left?

  What thing thy glory from thee has bereft?”

  A strange surprise of joy therewith there came

  To that worn heart; he said, “For some great sin

  The Lord my God has brought me unto shame;

  I am unknown of servants, wife, and kin,

  Unknown of all the lords that stand within

  My father’s house; nor didst thou know me more

  When e’en just now I stood before thy door.

  “Now since thou know’st me, surely God is good,

  And will not slay me, and good hope I have

  Of help from Him that died upon the rood,

  And is a mighty lord to slay and save:

  So now again these blind men will I brave,

  If thou wilt give me of thy poorest weed,

  And some rough food, the which I sorely need;

  “Then of my sins thou straight shalt shrive me clean.”

  Then weeping said the holy man, “Dear lord,

  What heap of woes upon thine head has been;

  Enter, O King, take this rough gown and cord,

  And scanty food, my hovel can afford;

  And tell me everything thou hast to say;

  And then the High God speed thee on thy way.”

  So when in coarse serge raiment he was clad,

  He told him all his pride had made him think;

  And showed him of his life both good and bad;

  And then being houselled, did he eat and drink,

  While in the wise man’s heart his words did sink,

 

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