And yet he sang of peace;
And marked how mock'ry curled her lip
With scorn as, 'neath each finger-tip,
The chords breathed pastoral content:
Till haughtiness, that beauty lent
To beauty, sneered, "Would'st feel the whip?—
O fool, surcease!"
III
He had no hope to win her hand,
A harper in a tyrant's land,