“In the fields where never the dawn grows old
There’s a place of refuge still
From the weary strife of death and life,
The strife of good and ill.
“And this you shall have for a golden crown,
And this for a place of pride—
The star that shines where the sun goes down,
The peace where the hills spread wide.
“You shall have, for the clamour of men, the call
Of the free wind in your ears;
You shall have the stainless well-water
For the burning of salt, salt tears.
“Our saying for you is sooth and sad—
For the troth wherein you trust,
Yea, the shining sword, and the plighted word,
Are ashes, and dross, and dust.
“And this you shall have if you will not heed—
A road with never an end,
A bitter smart, and a broken heart,
And Death for your kindest friend.
“This you shall have as a sorrow in sleep—
A sigh that shall never be still—
The song of the burn in Scotland’s fern,
The cry of the horn on the hill.
“This shall be yours as a waking woe
That shall tear your heart in twain—
The faith forlorn, and the losing love
Of those that have hoped in vain.”
The prince he started in his sleep,
And spoke like one in mirth:
“Oh, dearer to me than fairy dreams
The chances and cheer of earth!
“This I will have—the fate of a man,
With my sword to be my friend,
And burning life, and love, and strife,
And Death to make an end.”
There was a cloud o’er the waning moon,
And never a stir in the grass,
When the Men of Peace rode over the hill,
And passed as the shadows pass.