Only the best composed and worthiest hearts
God sets to act the hard'st and constant'st parts.~Daniel.

Part I.

I.
Of all the princes that in lofty place
With lowly virtues did adornèd stand,
Whom better did these lowly virtues grace
Than all their worldly state, might none demand
A nobler mead of praise than Ferdinand,
Brother of him, whose sceptre ruled of old
Where Tagus pours its waves o'er sands of gold.

II.
His was no higher gladness than to tend
The poor, the needy, whom uncomforted
Not ever from his portals he would send,
Whom sick he watched beside contagious bed,
And whom an-hungered his large bounty fed;
While loving words made ever doubly prized
The gracious acts which he for all devised.

III.
And only was he rigid and severe
With his own self, his weak frame chastening still
With long-drawn fasts and discipline austere,
With vigils which the long night-watches fill:
Yet leaving not to seek all knightly skill
In lists of arms, arrayed in knightly weeds,
Against some coming day of martial deeds.

IV.
For like a clear flame in his bosom burned,
As on an holy altar, fiery zeal,
Though not for meeds of earthly fame he yearned,
Nor willingly for these had bared his steel;
But greatly longed some land that now did feel
The yoke of misbelieving men, once more
To his Redeemer's kingdoms to restore.

V.
He, long confined unto unwelcome ease,
To see renewed his Father's glories yearned,
Who with two hundred vessels crossed the seas,
And for himself a noble title earned,
As first, who to the infidels returned
The wrongs they wrought on Spain, and with high hand
Made Ceuta his, the key of all their land.

VI.
Oh day, when many a heart beat high and fast,
When his exultingly did bound and leap,
For that despaired of long was come at last,--
Once more a gallant host was on the deep,
And every vessel did its due course keep
For Afric, and at each prow unconfined
A Red-cross banner floated on the wind.

VII.
Far off, that fleet might seem a wandering troop
Of huge sea-monsters gambolling at will
Upon the topmost surge--or clouds that stoop
And lean on Ocean's breast, themselves to fill
With water, which they back in rain distil,
Or flock of snow-white sea-birds, that expand
Huge never-wearied pinions, far from land.

VIII.
Or now he might that goodly sight compare,
Who saw it from afar, to forest vast
In motion, that did all its pines upbear--
They tossing their tall heads, as every mast
Now rose, now yielded to the unsteady blast;
Or now had deemed them, proudly thus advancing,
A city on the inconstant billows dancing.

IX.
Oh joy, when they by tempests unassailed
Set their firm feet upon the Libyan shore,
While loud and clear the holy hymn prevailed,
Which ofttimes heard in Palestine before,--
'The standards of the King advance,'--once more
Filled now the air, and seemed the prelude high
Of near success and certain victory.

X.
--Long were it and a mournful task to tell
How this fair dawn of triumph was defaced
With wrack of envious clouds, and how befell,
And by whose fault that with untimely haste
They were entangled in the desert waste;
Wherein they deeper day by day were led,
Still thinking that the foe before them fled:

XI.
Till when the scorching heat of Afric's sun,
With alternating dews of chilly night,
And pain and travail had their office done,
And theirs already was an evil plight,
A dawning morning showed them every height
Crowned with innumerous hosts, that hemmed their way,
Then rushed to seize an unresisting prey.

XII.
Yet did not then that instant peril tame
The courage of that high heroic band:
The bold Crusaders, worthy that high name,
With dauntless front from morn to evening stand;
Although when darkness did at length command
Brief truce from arms, the boldest needs must own
That to retrace their steps remained alone.

XIII.
Back to their ships they wound in sad retreat,
Enveloped ever in a fiery cloud
Of dust and burning sand, which by their feet
Stirred, hung around them like a dismal shroud:
And choked by agony of thirst, they crowd
Round scanty desert wells, and thence in vain
Strive to assuage their fierce and torturing pain.

XIV.
The hopes of triumph now had quite departed,
But an austerer glory still remained,--
Still to abide mid failing hearts high-hearted;
And though the light that lit their path had waned,
And by no hope of victory sustained,
Still to do well, what still was to be done;--
The Prince amid defeat this glory won.

XV.
But ever as they drew the shore more near,
And as each ship received its willing freight,
The Moorish squadrons on their feeble rear
And their diminishing ranks with added weight,
With louder cries and more tumultuous hate
Thronged, pressing on more fiercely and more fast:
He who had been the first, was now the last.

XVI.
He fain the last would quit the hostile shore,
Who leaped the foremost on its fatal strand:
Around him throng the Moors, behind, before:
Of those true-hearted that beside him stand
Some fall in death--the noble Ferdinand,
(Skill courage and despair alike in vain,)
In the foe's hands a captive must remain.

XVII.
--'Not in ignoble bondage, nor for long,
If Christian hearts can worth or valour prize,
O gallant Prince, shalt thou endure this wrong,
This unbeseeming yoke, which on thee lies;'
With such well-sounding gentle courtesies
The Mauritanian king him greeted fair,
When of his prisoner's high estate aware.

XVIII.
'To-morrow a swift ship shall cleave the main,
Bearing this message to the Tagus' shore,
That freedom shall to thee be given again,
If Ceuta will thy brother hold no more,
But unto us its rightful lords restore;
This for a brother will not be denied;
Meanwhile with me, my guest thou shalt abide.'

XIX.
Frank recognition of his grace the Prince
Rendered again--yet did not, when he heard
Of that so near deliverance, joy evince,
Nor of that ransom answered he a word:
Only it seemed some thought within him stirred,
That some large thought was stirring in his breast,
Which he had well-nigh spoke and then represt.

XX.
But now there waned not many moons, before
By favouring breezes wafted o'er the sea
They came, the prompt embassadors that bore
Large powers to set the princely captive free;
Whom at this cost did ransom willingly
His loving brother, and did only yearn
That he should hasten his desired return.

XXI.
And all seemed finished now, when 'Hear me,' cried
The Prince--'Here me, although a captive thrall;
Ye know that if my brother childless died,
Mine would be then the throne of Portugal:
While this is so, no power has he at all
Aught of its state to alienate or lose,
Unless with my consent, which I refuse.

XXII.
'Shall that fair city, on whose walls my Sire
With his own hands first planted the five shields
Of Portugal -- shall Ceuta, glorious hire
Of labours long on stormy battle-fields,
Which o'er this land such broad dominion wields,
Be in a moment bartered for one poor
And worthless life? who would such thought endure?

XXIII.
'Its golden crosses glittering in the air,
Shall they give place to crescents foul and pale?
And for glad bells that call to Christian prayer,
The muezzin's melancholy voice prevail,
Bidding to impious rites? and at the tail
Of horses shall our images divine
Be dragged?--to stables turned each sacred shrine?

XXIV.
'No--rather if just ransom thou for me,
Such as a faithful man can pay, refuse,
And for my partners in captivity,--
For I not any liberty will use,
In which they share not,--then I rather choose
Of this poor life whatever may remain,
Till death release, to spend in captive pain.'

XXV.
More he had said, but him the Moorish king
Not suffered to proceed -- 'And dost thou ween
To find captivity that easy thing,
Which by my grace it hitherto has been?
While thou in me this grace hast only seen,
Without thine harm thou thinkest to despoil
Us of the just reward of all our toil.

XXVI.
'Oh fool, to think I have no power nor will
To make thy bondage bitter unto thee--
That I with gall and wormwood cannot fill
Brimming the cup of thy captivity!
Thou art my slave--a slave's lot thine shall be,
Labour and pains--and harder to be borne,
Insult and ignominy, strips and scorn.

XXVII.
'But when sore laden with thy shameful task,
Of thy long bondage thou shalt weary be,
And when mid basest labours thou shalt ask
For pity, ask it of thyself--not me:
For thou dost in thine own hands hold the key
Of thine own prison--yield to me that place,
Else shalt thou vainly crave the poorest grace.

XXVIII.
'And ye, that did your bootless message bring,
Go back and say what sight these lands afford--
A Christian prince, the brother of your king,
Tending the horses of his Moorish lord.
Come and redeem him with the spear and sword,
If ye are willing once again to try
The welcome of our Moslem chivalry.'

XXIX.
By this from off his shoulders rudest men
Had torn his decent robes, and garmented
In prison-dress of coarsest serge, and then
Him to his task dishonourable led,
He nought resisting--only this he said,
'If that herein there be dishonour, thine
Is the dishonour and the shame, not mine.'

XXX.
And his companions each and all were borne
One way or other to some servile toil,
Mid blows and curses and tumultuous scorn,--
Whom all were free to buffet and to spoil,
Until they wet that cruel Afric soil
WIth mingled blood and tears, and scarcely thought
They would with life to that day's end be brought:

XXXI.
So that when they were thrust in harshest wise
Into a noisome vault at that day's close,
That noisome vault appeared a paradise,
Because it gave some shelter from the blows,
The taunts and insults of their cruel foes--
Because its bars and iron-strengthened gate
Rose strong between them and that clamorous hate.

XXXII.
But when there lacked not of their number one,
The Prince so joyed, as though he found reward
For all the suffering he that day had known:
Yet when a light permitted to regard
Their garments rent, swoln hands, and faces marred,
He, strong before all weakness to restrain,
Not any longer might from tears refrain.

XXXIII.
--'Dear friends, that I have dragged you down with me
Into this gulf of woe, this makes my smart,
That of this suffering and captivity
I may not for myself claim every part:
Oh this it is that causes my weak heart
To die within me;--tell me you forgive
Only this wrong, and I again shall live.'

XXXIV.
Nothing they spake--but of that faithful band
One after other rising from his place
Drew near, and knelt and kissed the Prince's hand,
As though that hand dispersed all gifts and grace:
He raised and wound them in a strict embrace
One after other--'Brothers of my heart,
Henceforth for good or ill we never part.'

XXXV.
--'Oh wish us not then any more away,
Our dear, dear Lord--nor grudge to us our share
In this high suffering'--so they all did say--
'What could we wish more goodly or more fair,
Than that when men hereafter shall declare
Thy noble acts, that they should then as well
Of us thy servants and true comrades tell?'

XXXVI.
But he to them--'We know not what shall be,
Nor whither these things tend--if that we bore
To-day of outrage and indignity
Be but the first and least, and far, far more--
Yea, mortal suffering be for us in store;
Or if, when God awhile our faith has proved,
All suffering shall from us be then removed.

XXXVII.
'But He who knoweth that we hither came
Not in the lust of spoil, nor heat of pride,
Nor with the hope to win ourselves a name,
But the dear faith of Christ to spread more wide,
Can give us strength in patience to abide,
Till one way or another grief has end;
Then let us unto him our cause commend.'

XXXVIII.
What of the night remained, when thus the smart
Of their new bleeding wounds had been allayed
With the sweet balm of loving words, in part
Was spent in holy prayer; they knelt and made
Their supplications unto God for aid;
And then they did their weary eyelids close
In blest oblivion of all earthly woes.

XXXIX.
In dreams they wandered by familiar places
In their own land, unto their childhood dear;
And some were locked in loving, fond embraces,
And sweet the voices of their home and clear
Came to them;--pain was gone, and doubt and fear;
And all the dreary and the dread Between
Was gone, like aught which had not ever been.

XL.
What happy dreams, blest visions without number
Were scattered by their rude tormentors' tone,
Snapping in twain the golden links of slumber!
Then each poor captive staggering rose, as one
From off whose heart there had been rolled a stone
A little moment -- to return again
With added weight, a sense of hopeless pain.

XLI.
And this their mournful life continued long
Without a change, unless when some new day
Brought with it some new insult or new wrong,
Sharp taunt or scorn, which they might not gainsay
Nor seem to feel; which, if one did repay
With but an angry look, he then would find
That there was worse and keener wrong behind.

XLII.
But, oh! what gladness was it when they met,
The long day's miserable task-work o'er,
In their dank vault, and shared the black bread set,
With water from the pools drawn, them before!
Then made they of that coarse and scanty store
A glorious meal, while love makes all things sweet,
And it is always joy, when brethren meet.

XLIII.
Yet oft the wantonness of fell despite
Would grudge them this poor respite of their woes;
And then harsh voices in the middle night,
Just as their leaden eyelids 'gan to close,
And their tired limbs were sinking to repose,
Would bid them forth, and task them to renew
The past day's work, or merely to undo.

XLIV.
Yet amid all still kept his constant mind,
Not to be wearied out by toil or pain,
Or all which malice could of outrage find,
The steadfast Prince; on him were spent in vain
All shafts of malice -- able to sustain
Not his own heart alone, but aye to speak
Strength to the fainting, courage to the weak.

XLV.
Yet if they cursed their foes, or wished them dead,
With gentle words, but firm, he would put down
Such evil thoughts:--'Shall we be angerèd
With them that help us to a martyr's crown?
Shall we not rather our tormentors own
As scourges with which God doth scourge our sin,
And far unhappier than are we therein?

XLVI.
'Your curses cannot harm them, but can make
Of your own hearts a hell instead of heaven;
Its healing virtue from affliction take,
And mar all gracious ends for which 'twas given.
With mortal men ye gloriously have striven;
An harder task remains you -- to oppose
Revenge, and scorn, and hate, far deadlier foes.'

XLVII.
Yet once, what time others sleeping lay,
To one, an aged and faithful servant true,
Who, though he 'scaped that last disastrous day,
Yet when his lord's captivity he knew,
To share his bondage and his sufferings flew,--
He once unto this faithful servant old
More of his inmost bosom did unfold:

XLVIII.
'To these, my poor companions, seem I strong,
And at some times such am I, as a rock
That has upstood in middle ocean long,
And braved the winds' and waters' angriest shock,
Counting their fury but an idle mock;
Yet sometimes weaker than the weakest wave
That dies about its base, when storms forget to rave.

XLIX.
'I from my God such strength have sometimes won,
That all the dark, dark future I am bold
To face;--but, oh! far otherwise anon,
When my heart sinks and sinks to depths untold,
Till Being seems no deeper depth to hold,
Unfathomed by the line of my despair;
And with my spirit so it now doth fare.

L.
'O God, that I had fall'n with them who fell
In that disastrous conflict by Tangiers!
Oh happy you, my brethren, ending well!
Oh, not to be lamented with such tears
As we, condemned to waste inglorious years
In this captivity, which shall extend,
Without release, unto life's utmost end!

LI.
'Yet is not here the answer to my prayer?
For I remember when upon my nod
Men waited, and the world did speak me fair,
Then thinking on my Saviour and my God,
And on the thorny path of life he trod
With bleeding feet, deep shame possessed my heart,
That I should in his sufferings bear no part.

LII.
'And then in secret prayed I earnestly
That I might to some likeness with my Lord
Be brought -- not courted, praised, and honoured be,
While he was scorned, and buffeted, and gored
With cruel wounds:--I knew my prayer was heard,
Though on what side affliction would appear,
I strove in vain to guess;--now all is clear.'

PART II.

I.
What man shall say that he the deepest deep
Has reached, whereto misfortune may him bring?
That never from her fatal urn may leap
A lot inscribed with heavier suffering
Than that he knows? that now of everything
Which sweetens life, his life is stript so bare,
That worse with him henceforth it cannot fare?

II.
Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rude
Down from the honourable high estate
Where in observed and reverenced once he stood;
He yet must be misfortune's trustier mate--
Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:
He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,
Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.

III.
For now his foes, by malice partly moved,
Because they saw it solaced him to share
All griefs and labours which the others proved;
And how that all, though oft they threatened were,
And punished for their deed, yet still would bear
To him all reverence and respect, and bring
Homage to him as to a crownèd king;--

IV.
And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,
Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,
And evidently weaker now became
With each succeeding day, should wholly fail,
Nor longer to sustain itself avail;--
Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,
And them of all their promised gain despoil,--

V.
They now denied him the sad liberty
To share whatever pains the others knew:
Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,
Shut from their fellowship and service true;
There he his resolution high may rue,
If ever truth on high and noble deeds,
Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.

VI.
Oh dreary months! months growing into years,
Which o'er their heads, bringing no respite, past;
And they must mingle still their drink with tears,
While fell upon them thicker and more fast
The shafts of anguish;--yet for him at last,
The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,
The hour of this deliverance was at hand.

VII.
For once, when they as usual passed before
His vault, and softly called him, no reply
Might they obtain;--but listening at the door,
They only heard him breathing heavily,
And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;
Till, more times called, he faintly did desire
Who called to know, and what they might require.

VIII.
--'Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,
That now thou dost no more our voices know,
Who once could'st tell us each from each, if we
Did but so much as near thy dungeon go,
Bound on our weary errands to and fro?'
--'Oh, pardon me, my friends,--my extreme pain
Hath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.

IX.
'But go and say in what an evil case
I find me now;--perchance they will relent
So far that I may in this noisome place,
For my short time remaining, not be pent;
Or at my prayer they will at least consent
That one of you may now continue nigh,
And watch beside me--for, dear friends, I die.'

X.
To the king's presence straight they forced their way,
Regardless of what dangers they might meet:
Before him prone upon the earth they lay;
They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,
Laying the dust with tears, and did entreat
In anguish that their lord might not be left
Unhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.

XI.
But little might they find of pity there;
New insults and new taunts were all they won;
These, with rude blows, their only answer were:
--'Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs--begone--
Away! from me compassion finds he none:
Let him upon himself compassion show;
I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!

XII.
'What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,
God's people to extirpate shall ye come,
And then, when it fares ill with you, demand
Our pity?--no; accept your righteous doom,
O fools! that in your own land had not room
To dwell--that had not strength to conquer ours;
Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!

XIII.
'Where are they now, that with the fire and sword
Our land to harry were so free of old?
Can they no pity to your Prince afford?
Where is your King, and where your captains bold?
Or has it not in Portugal been told
What here is done, and what by him is borne
Of shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?'

XIV.
It seemed that for those votaries of Mahound
All love, all mercy quite had fled away;
Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,
That when their tasks were ended of the day,
He who the dungeon where the sufferer lay
Kept, unto them consented to afford
A brief communion with their dying lord.

XV.
Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,
Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:
Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;
They knelt beside him,--kissed his hands, the chain
That on his wasted limbs did still remain;
They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,
And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.

XVI.
Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to behold
The lineaments so marred and so defaced,
Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.
He too was deeply moved, but sooner chased
The weakness from him, and with calm replaced:
Then from the strawen pallet where he lay
Himself a little raising, thus did say:--

XVII.
'If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,
That I might breathe again my native air,
And tread my natal soil--this wish was bred
By the desire I cherished to prepare
For you such honourable shelter there,
As could none other do, who did not know
How truly you have served me in my woe.

XVIII.
'For had I sate a king upon my throne,
All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,
You never could have truer service shown
Than you have shown me in my misery--
Nor I from any found more loyalty,
Than that which I have found upon your parts,
Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!

XIX.
'And now that I am hastening to my rest,
One only thought of trouble doth employ
My soul, that I am leaving you opprest
With this huge weight of woe;--the perfect joy
My bosom feels, knows only this alloy,
That many, when my lips are closed in death,
Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.

XX.
'But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,
Seek not this manner to evade your woe.
Be true to God--on him in faith abide,
And sure deliverance you at length shall know;
It may be that some path his hand will show
To your dear earthly homes--or he will shape
For you at length my way of glad escape.

XXI.
'Be true to God--forsake not him, and you
In all your griefs forsake he never will;
The true of heart have found him ever true:
And this I say, who having known much ill,
Do now affirm him faithful to fulfil
All promises--and boldly say that he
In all my griefs hath not forsaken me.'

XXII.
No more he spake--but speechless sank, oppressed
With the fierce fever that within him burned;
But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessed
Of that poor captive band, who weeping turned,
And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,--
Forth filing from that vault, a weeping train
Who had beheld him now, and should not see again.

XXIII.
Now seemed they desolate--for he, although
Helpless his dearest to defend with power
From the least insult of the meanest foe,
Had seemed to them a shelter and a tower
Of refuge in affliction's fiercest hour,
From his lone dungeon spreading broad above
Their heads the buckler of his faith and love.

XXIV.
And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,
As each his fellow weeping did remind
Of all his loving gentle courtesies,
And gracious acts--how oft, as one that pined,
E'en ere that sickness took him, he declined
His scanty portion of the food prepared,
Which among them with this pretext he shared.

XXV.
--'He knew our fetters' clank, and with quick ear
One from another by that mournful sound
He could discern, nor ever passed we near
His dungeon, on our weary labour bound,
But he for us some words of comfort found,
And still he begged us pardon him, as though
Himself he owned the cause of all our woe.

XXVI.
'And what most grieved him, more than all he bore
In his own person of injurious wrong,
Piercing his very bosom's inmost core,
Was, if the tale was brought him that among
Us, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,
As sometimes did--for grief is quick and wild,--
Then left he not, till we were reconciled.'

XXVII.
--Beside the Prince might only one remain
In that unlighted vault the livelong night:
Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,
Nothing he spake--but tossed from left to right,
Like one who vainly did some ease invite;
Till when it verged toward morning, he that kept
That anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:

XXVIII.
Or sometimes feared he was already dead,
So noiseless now that chamber's silence deep;
Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dread
Lest he should chase away that sweetest sleep
Of morning, which comes over them that keep
Pained watches through the night;--till tardily
The morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.

XXIX.
When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,
His eyes unclosed--and stood in each a tear,
And round his mouth a sweeter smile did play
Than ever might on mortal lips appear:
No mortal joy could ever have come near
The joy that bred that smile--with waking eye
He seemed to mark some vision streaming by.

XXX.
Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,
And back again with noiseless step retired
That good old man--nor nearer would advance,
Though of his weal he gladly had required.
He waited, and a long long hour expired,
And it was silence still--when to his bed
Him beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said--

XXXI.
'What I shall speak, now promise that to none
Of all my fellow captives shall be told,
That not till this poor body shall have gone
The way of all the earth, thou wilt unfold
My words, yea evermore in silence hold,
Unless hereafter should a time betide,
When by the telling God were glorified.

XXXII.
'Two hours or more before the spring of day,
As I within me mused how poor and leer
This world, and as in pain I waking lay,
Thought upon all the happy souls, that here
Once suffered, but are now exempt from fear
And pain and wrong, there woke within my breast
A speechless longing for that heavenly rest.

XXXIII.
'Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wall
Turned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;
I saw a vision bright, majestical,
One seated on a throne--and many fair
And dazzling shapes before him gathered were,
With palms in hand--such glory from his face
Was shed, as lightened all this dismal place.

XXXIV.
'This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,
This sunless dwelling of eternal night,
Which I have felt so long my living tomb,
Showed like the court of heaven--so clear, so bright,
So full of odours, harmonies and light--
And music filled the air--an heavenly strain,
That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.

XXXV.
'Then one came forward from that blessed throng,
And kneeled to him, and said--'Compassion take
On this thy servant, who has suffered long
Such great and heavy troubles for thy sake,
We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt make
Thy servant's many woes to end, that he
Into our choir admitted now will be.'

XXXVI.
'When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,
And by his banner and his scales, I knew
It was the great Archangel Michaël:
And by his side there knelt another too,
Who in one hand a chalice held in view,
The other clasped a book, and there was writ,
'In the beginning was the Word,' in it.

XXXVII.
'But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,
And with sweet smile ineffable he said,
'To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!'--
With music, as it came, then vanishèd
The vision--but within me it has bred
Sweet comfort that remains, and now I know
To-day I leave the world, and end my woe.

XXXVIII.
'My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is this
That thou hast not disdained to visit me,
And give me tidings of my coming bliss--
Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?
Oh gladly will I bear whate'er by thee
May be appointed, ere my race be run,
Of pain or travail--Lord, thy will be done.'

XXXIX.
In calmest quiet waiting his release,
When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:
'Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,'
Were the last words which he was heard to say,
Upon his left side turning, as the day
Slow sinking now with more than usual pride
Streamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.

XL.
When that flush had faded from the west,
When the last streak of golden light was gone,
They looked, but he had entered on his rest--
He too his haven of repose had won,
Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,
That what the scroll upon his shield did say,
That well his life had proved--Le bien me plaît.