He spoke, and from his ocean bed
The righteous[567] monarch heaved his head,
And gave, sedate, his calm reply
To him whom fate impelled to die:
“Not mine, not mine the power,” he cried,
“To cope with thee in battle tried;
But listen to my voice, and seek
The worthier foe of whom I speak.
The Lord of Hills, where hermits live
And love the home his forests give,