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CULLEN GOULDSBURY.
257
From shadows passing, shadow-ward they went;
Nor gave me greeting, as I sat the while
Beside the looped-up doorway of my tent,
The tedium to beguile.
Only, it chanced, some tribesmen slouching by
Stiffened their backs, and turned to greet their king
With ceremonious clapping, and a cry
That made the red rocks ring.
I turned, and caught the pride that lit his face,
The sudden majesty that fired his brain—
Old and forgotten stories of his race
Glowed in his eyes again.
Then, silence—and his eyes were veiled anew—
Stiffly, he hobbled onward as he came.
"Faith!" said I, musing as he passed from view—
"Is kingship but a name?"
Cullen Gouldsbury.
