"And England's cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light

Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright;

66

'And in some port that he reached from France
The Prince has lingered for his pleasaùnce."

But once the King asked: "What distant cry
Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"

And one said: "With such like shouts, pardie!
Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."

And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest
When the sea-mew misses its young from the nest?"

'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread, Albeit they knew not what they said:

But who should speak to-day of the thing
That all knew there except the King?

Then pondering much they found a way,
And met round the King's high seat that day:

And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,
And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.

'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair,

As bright as the golden poppy is

That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:

Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring,
And his garb black like the raven's wing.

Nothing heard but his foot through the hall,
For now the lords were silent all.

And the King wondered, and said, “Alack!
Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?

"Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?"

Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,
And looked up weeping in the King's face.

"O wherefore black, O King, ye may say,
For white is the hue of death to-day.

"Your son and all his fellowship

Lie low in the sea with the White Ship."

King Henry fell as a man struck dead;
And speechless still he stared from his bed
When to him next day my rede I read.1

There's many an hour must needs beguile
A King's high heart that he should smile, —
Full

many a lordly hour, full fain

Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:

But this King never smiled again.

1 tale I told.

By none but me can the tale be told,
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.

(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
(The sea hath no King but God alone.)

KING STEPHEN

JOHN KEATS

MATILDA's rival was Stephen of Blois, the son of the Conqueror's daughter Adela. Distrusting a woman's ability to govern so turbulent a kingdom, the citizens of London declared for Stephen and he was crowned at Westminster (1135). But Stephen, though a man of great personal daring, possessed little stability or force of character. He allowed the barons to oppress the people' and failed to enforce the laws. When Matilda brought an army from France to claim her rights, she was gladly received by all law-abiding citizens. In the battle of Lincoln (1140), Stephen was taken prisoner and Matilda was immediately elected queen; but Stephen's partisans succeeded in setting him free and in driving Matilda from the realm. Stephen, however, could not restore order, and the land was devastated by civil war, till Matilda's son, Henry Plantagenet, came in person to England and forced Stephen to recognize him as successor to the throne.

ACT I

SCENE I. Field of Battle.

(Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights, and Soldiers.)

Stephen. If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front

Spread deeper crimson than the battle's toil,
Blush in your casing helmets! for see, see!
Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war,
Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm array,
Are routed loose about the plashy meads,
Of honor forfeit. O, that my known voice

Could reach your dastard ears, and fright you more!
Fly, cowards, fly! Glocester is at your backs!
Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried manes,
Ply well the rowell with faint trembling heels,
Scampering to death at last!

Ist Knight.

The enemy

Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear.

2d Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens Will swamp them girth-deep.

Stephen.

Over head and ears,

No matter! 'Tis a gallant enemy;

How like a comet he goes streaming on.

But we must plague him in the flank, — hey, friends? We are well breathed, follow!

SCENE II. Another part of the Field.

(Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter Glocester, Knights, and Forces.)

Glocester. Now may we lift our bruisèd visors up, And take the flattering freshness of the air,

While the wide din of battle dies away
Into times past, yet to be echoed sure
In the silent pages of our chroniclers.

Ist Knight. Will Stephen's death be mark'd there,

my good lord,

Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers?

Glocester. Fain would I know the great usurper's

Glocester. What of the King?
Ist Captain.

He sole and lone maintains

A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms,
And with a nimble savageness attacks,
Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew
Eludes death, giving death to most that dare
Trespass within the circuit of his sword!

He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken;
And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag

He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down.
God save the Empress!

Glocester.

Now our dreaded Queen:

Royal Maud

What message from her highness?

2d Captain.

From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath look'd down,

Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion,

And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet.

She greets most noble Glocester from her heart,
Entreating him, his captains, and brave knights,
To grace a banquet. The high city gates
Are envious which shall see your triumph pass;
The streets are full of music.