Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/357

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OTHO THE GREAT.
341

Send forth instantly
An hundred horsemen from my honored gates,
To scour the plains and search the cottages.
Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring
News of that vanished Arabian,
A full-heaped helmet of the purest gold.

Otho. More thanks, good Conrad; for, except my son's.
There is no face I rather would behold
Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By the saints,
This coming night of banquets must not light
Her dazzling torches; nor the music breathe
Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace
And in-door melodies; nor the ruddy wine
Ebb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not,
In my first cup, that Arab!

Albert.Mighty Monarch,
I wonder not this stranger's victor deeds
So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the fight
It was my chance to meet his olive brow,
Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd rhomb;
And, to say truth, in any Christian arm
I never saw such prowess.

Otho.Did you ever?
O, 'tis a noble boy!—tut—what do I say?
I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes,
When in the glorious scuffle they met mine,
Seem'd to say—"Sleep, old man, in safety sleep;
I am the victory!"

Conrad.Pity he's not here.

Otho. And my son too, pity he is not here.
Lady Auranthe I would not make you blush,