“The King’s touch—there is magic in it!
When the early dawn in the east is red,
And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,
I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.
Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden gray
I will steal like a shadow over the hills,
And down where the pendulous willows sway,
And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—
Till I reach the edge of the forest wide;
And there will I bide, where the still shades are,
Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,
And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.
I will wait and listen until I see
The nodding plumes of the merry men
And the glancing pennants floating free,
A gleam of light in the lonely glen.
Then low in the dust at his royal feet
I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;
Perchance he will give ere I entreat,
Before I cry he may understand!
The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow—
A wise old man with a reverent air—
And the laughing courtiers, row on row;
Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.
’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all.
His eye will discover the wound concealed;
He will bend to hear me before I call.
Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell!
She was dust and ashes long ago,
With the proud young king and his leech as well,
And the smiling courtiers, row on row.
But whether the dawn in the east be red,
Or whether the stars bloom out afield,
This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead:
“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
“BY DIVERS PATHS”
Unknown to me thy name or state,
Save that a mantle saintly
Of rare and sweet unworldliness
Enfolded thee most quaintly.
We came and went by divers paths;
We planned nor time, nor meeting;
We spake not, save by nod, or smile,
Or glance of casual greeting.
Yet, led by some strange chance or fate
To-day by ruined altars,
Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,
The pitying sunshine falters;
To-morrow where your blue lakes shine,
And bloom your English daisies;
Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crest
The sunset splendor blazes;
Or where deep organ-thunders roll
Through grand cathedral arches,
And stately Durham’s triple towers
Look toward the Scottish marches;
Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew
Each other’s name nor mission,
The while a subtile kinship grew
To silent recognition.
At length where stretched a princely street
In long, receding splendor,
Down which the golden sunshine threw
A radiance warm and tender;
While far above us, frowning, hung
A castle old and hoary,
Stern on its battlemented heights
Renowned in song and story;
And near us, throned in marble state,
O’er time and death victorious,
_He_ sat, the magic of whose pen
Made king and castle glorious—
There, face to face, once more we met,
Like leaves in autumn weather,
That blown afar by varying winds,
Yet drift again together.
A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”
A little low, sweet laughter,
Just one close clasp of meeting hands,
And then, a moment after,
Between us swept the surging crowd
And we were borne asunder.
O, friend unknown, in what far land
Will we next meet, I wonder?