| |
| “AY, not at home, then, didst thou say? | |
| —And, prithee, hath he gone to court?” | |
| “Nay; he hath sailed but yesterday, | |
| With Edmund Spenser, from this port. | |
| |
| “This Spenser, folk do say, hath writ | 5 |
| Twelve cantos, called ‘The Faërie Queene.’ | |
| To seek for one to publish it, | |
| They go—on a long voyage, I ween.” | |
| |
| Ah me! I came so far to see | |
| This ruffed and plumëd cavalier,— | 10 |
| He whom romance and history, | |
| Alike, to all the world make dear. | |
| |
| And I had some strange things to tell | |
| Of our New World, where he hath been; | |
| And now they say—I marked them well— | 15 |
| They say the Master is not in! | |
| |
| The knaves speak not the truth; I see | |
| Sir Walter at the window there. | |
| —That is the hat, the sword, which he | |
| In pictures hath been pleased to wear. | 20 |
| |
| There hangs the very cloak whereon | |
| Elizabeth set foot. (But oh, | |
| Young diplomat, as things have gone, | |
| Pity it is she soiled it so!) | |
| |
| And there—but look! he ’s lost in smoke: | 25 |
| (That weirdly charmed Virginia weed!) | |
| Make haste, bring anything; his cloak— | |
| They save him with a shower, indeed! | |
| |
| … Ay, lost in smoke. I linger where | |
| He walked his garden. Day is dim, | 30 |
| And death-sweet scents rise to the air | |
| From flowers that gave their breath to him. | |
| |
| There, with its thousand years of tombs, | |
| The dark church glimmers where he prayed; | |
| Here, with that high head shorn of plumes, | 35 |
| The tree he planted gave him shade. | |
| |
| That high head shorn of plumes? Even so | |
| It stained the Tower, when gray with grief. | |
| O tree he planted, as I go, | |
| For him I tenderly take a leaf. | 40 |
| |
| I have been dreaming here, they say, | |
| Of one dead knight forgot at court. | |
| —And yet he sailed but yesterday, | |
| With Edmund Spenser, from this port. | |
| |
