No longer eager for the coming prize,
But keen and steadfast: many an ageing line,
Half-hidden by his sweeping beard and fine,
Ploughed his thin cheeks; his hair was more than grey,
And like to one he seemed whose better day
Is over to himself, though foolish fame
Shouts louder year by year his empty name.
Unarmed he was, nor clad upon that morn
Much like a king: an ivory hunting-horn
Was slung about him, rich with gems and gold,