he sigheth, 'thou didst not well
Listening to the white-witch fell,
Leaving her doth thee advance
Thy plumed cap of maintenance.'

XIV.

'She is white, as white snow flake,'
Quoth the king; 'a man shall make
Bargains with her and not sin.'
'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win,
Let him look the right be done
Else the rue shall be his own.

XV.

No more words. The stars are bright,
For the feast high halls be dight
Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night.

_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._
Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet,
A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly,
And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet.

Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living?
The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold,
The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving,
The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold.

Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd
In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen.
Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed,
Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen!

One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth)
On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast
Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth
The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest.

Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grieved
For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore;
Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereaved
Soon to go under, never to look on her more.

His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring,
Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies.
Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring,
Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes?

The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her,
'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring?
I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour,
Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.'

The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing--
A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot.
Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing,
I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.'

Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals,
Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn;
Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals,
You sain