XXXV.
What need to sing of deeds within the scope
Of thrice a dozen moons? What need to tell
How fared the King when, by the sanded slope
Where twice a day the sea-waves fret and swell,
He woke? Or devious deeds that oft befell
Clansman and chief in those high-sounding days
Of war-girt peace—a Heaven ringed round with Hell—
Or battle’s loud-lunged shout, or conquest’s blaze,
Or how the blemished King ne’er on his fault did gaze.
CANTO IV.
XXXVI.
’Twas thus—and thus, when thrice a year had sped
King Fergus of his blemish happed to know:—
“I go to mine ablutions (so he said
Unto his bond-maid), girl, the task you know
Of preparation. Haste you, for I go
On mighty mission!” P’r’aps ’twas Fate’s decree
The maiden’s arm in service seemed full slow,
And Fergus, strained of nerve, was swift to see
In microscopic faults, some slight of majesty.
XXXVII.
Howbeit,—the fire to firelike will give blaze,
And progeny of one small word or deed
Count thousand-thousand. Half in wide amaze,
And half in wild vexation that slow heed
The maiden gave to that his will decreed,
He strode into her presence: then on high
He raised the stinging lash his stout-skinned steed
Oft felt, and flinched, and, drawing swiftly nigh,
Its serpent hiss was drowned in the smit’ maiden’s cry.
XXXVIII.
“A curse upon your laggard form!” he hissed.
The smitten girl swift raised her flashing eyes
In scarlet indignation, nor was missed
The blemish on the Monarch’s face. She cries:
“King Fergus, heartless coward! I loathe, despise
Your craven hand, nor e’en a word would deign,
But that I deem your spirit’s shape and size
Must match your brute-like visage.” Purpling plain
With rage, he drew his sword and cut the maid in twain.