THE FUGITIVE KING

Cold blue cloud on the hill-tops,

Cold buffets of hill-side rain:—

As a bird that they hunt on the mountains,

The king, he turns from Rhos lane:

A writing of doom on his forehead,

His eyes wan-wistful and dim;

For his comrades seeking a shelter:

But earth has no shelter for him!

Gray silvery gleam of armour,

White ghost of a wandering king!

No sound but the iron-shod footfall

And the bridle-chains as they ring:

Save where the tears of heaven,

Shed thick o'er the loyal hills,

Rush down in the hoarse-tongued torrent,

A roar of approaching ills.

But now with a sweeping curtain,

In solid wall comes the rain,

And the troop draw bridle and hide them

In the bush by the stream-side plain.

King Charles smiled sadly and gently;

‘'Tis the Beggar's Bush,’ said he;

‘ For I of England am beggar'd,

And her poorest may pity me.’

— O safe in the fadeless fir-tree

The squirrel may nestle and hide;

And in God's own dwelling the sparrow

Safe with her nestlings abide:—

But he goes homeless and friendless,

And manlike abides his doom;

For he knows a king has no refuge

Betwixt the throne and the tomb.

And the purple-robed braes of Alban,

The glory of stream and of plain,

The Holyrood halls of his birthright

Charles ne'er will look on again:—

And the land he loved well, not wisely,

Will almost grudge him a grave:

Then weep, too late, in her folly,

The dark Dictator's slave!