Single as beasts, or if allied, allied
But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair
To hound for common need, which scarce supplied,
He lone returns with his disputed share,—
Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,
Each man of these pursued his way on high,
Still high and higher, seeking through the grey
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.
Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing
Shadows continuing never in one stay;—
This was a people that had lost its king.
Then as the day wore on, and none descried
The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,
As strength declined, and hope within them died
A sad new birth,—the fruit of their despair,—
Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry
Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry
Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play
Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,
Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling
In fealty that was only joined to pray;
This was a people that had lost its king.
So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,
With gathering power and ever lessening care,
The veiled beguilements of the way defied
They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;
Till lo upon its crown at last they vie
In songs of rapture as they hail the sky,
And trace their lost one through the vast array
Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay
Their questing love, but help to waft and wing;
And over all a voice which seems to say,
This is a people that has found its king!
Envoy.
Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay.
Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring,
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway.
This was the people that had lost its king!
Emily Pfeiffer.
KING BOREAS.
(Chant Royal.)
I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar,
Beyond the level land of endless snow,
For months I see the brilliant polar star
Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.
Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,—
My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey
My many minions from the isles of Day;
And when my heralds sound aloud, behold
My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am the god of the winds that are!
I blow where'er I list,—I come, I go.
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car
I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright
To hear my clarion on the mountain height.
The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,
"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?"
I am as aged as the earth is old,
Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.