August 7: 1645

Cold blue cloud on the hill-tops,
Cold buffets of hill-side rain:--
As a bird that they hunt on the mountains,
The king, he turns from Rhos lane:
A writing of doom on his forehead,
His eyes wan-wistful and dim;
For his comrades seeking a shelter:
But earth has no shelter for him!

Gray silvery gleam of armour,
White ghost of a wandering king!
No sound but the iron-shod footfall
And the bridle-chains as they ring:
Save where the tears of heaven,
Shed thick o'er the loyal hills,
Rush down in the hoarse-tongued torrent,
A roar of approaching ills.

But now with a sweeping curtain,
In solid wall comes the rain,
And the troop draw bridle and hide them
In the bush by the stream-side plain.
King Charles smiled sadly and gently;
''Tis the Beggar's Bush,' said he;
'For I of England am beggar'd,
And her poorest may pity me.'

--O safe in the fadeless fir-tree
The squirrel may nestle and hide;
And in God's own dwelling the sparrow
Safe with her nestlings abide:--
But he goes homeless and friendless,
And manlike abides his doom;
For he knows a king has no refuge
Betwixt the throne and the tomb.

And the purple-robed braes of Alban,
The glory of stream and of plain,
The Holyrood halls of his birthright
Charles ne'er will look on again:--
And the land he loved well, not wisely,
Will almost grudge him a grave:
Then weep, too late, in her folly,
The dark Dictator's slave!