"Methinks I need not tell to thee my brother's mournful fate; He lies within his bloody grave—a churl usurps his state— Mœandrius lords it o'er the land, my brother's base born slave; Restore me to that throne, oh king! this, this, the boon I crave.
VII.
"Nay, start not; let me tell my tale! I pray thee look on me, And, prince, thou soon shalt know the cause that I ask this gift of thee; Round Persia's king a bristling ring of spearmen standeth now, But when Cambyses wore the crown—a wanderer poor wast thou!
VIII.
"Remember'st not, oh king! the day when, in old Memphis town, Upon the night ye won the fight, thou wast pacing up and down? The costly cloak that then I wore, its colours charm'd thy eye— In sooth it was a gorgeous robe, of purple Tyrian dye—
IX.
"Let base-born peasants buy and sell, I gave that cloak to thee! And for that gift on thee bestow'd, grant thou this boon to me— I ask not silver, ask not gold—I ask of thee to stand A prince once more on Samos' shore—my own ancestral land!"
X.
"Oh! best and noblest," quoth the king, "thou ne'er shalt rue the day, When to Cambyses' spearman poor thou gav'st thy cloak away; The faithless eye each well-known form and feature may forget, But the deeds of generous kindness done—the heart remembers yet.