Phantastes, A Faerie Romance

The time passed away in work and song, in talk and ramble, in friendly

fight and brotherly aid. I would not forge for myself armour of heavy

mail like theirs, for I was not so powerful as they, and depended more

for any success I might secure, upon nimbleness of motion, certainty of

eye, and ready response of hand. Therefore I began to make for myself a

shirt of steel plates and rings; which work, while more troublesome,

was better suited to me than the heavier labour. Much assistance did the

brothers give me, even after, by their instructions, I was able to make

some progress alone. Their work was in a moment abandoned, to render any

required aid to mine. As the old woman had promised, I tried to repay

them with song; and many were the tears they both shed over my ballads

and dirges. The songs they liked best to hear were two which I made for

them. They were not half so good as many others I knew, especially some

I had learned from the wise woman in the cottage; but what comes nearest

to our needs we like the best.

I The king sat on his throne

Glowing in gold and red;

The crown in his right hand shone,

And the gray hairs crowned his head.

His only son walks in,

And in walls of steel he stands:

Make me, O father, strong to win,

With the blessing of holy hands."

He knelt before his sire,

Who blessed him with feeble smile

His eyes shone out with a kingly fire,

But his old lips quivered the while.

"Go to the fight, my son,

Bring back the giant's head;

And the crown with which my brows have done,

Shall glitter on thine instead."

"My father, I seek no crowns,

But unspoken praise from thee;

For thy people's good, and thy renown,

I will die to set them free."

The king sat down and waited there,

And rose not, night nor day;

Till a sound of shouting filled the air,

And cries of a sore dismay.

Then like a king he sat once more,

With the crown upon his head;

And up to the throne the people bore

A mighty giant dead.

And up to the throne the people bore

A pale and lifeless boy.

The king rose up like a prophet of yore,

In a lofty, deathlike joy.

He put the crown on the chilly brow:

"Thou should'st have reigned with me

But Death is the king of both, and now

I go to obey with thee.

"Surely some good in me there lay,

To beget the noble one."

The old man smiled like a winter day,

And fell beside his son.