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OTHO THE GREAT.
365
The solitary warfare, fought for love
Of honor 'mid the growling wilderness.
My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword,
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring
Of shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'd
Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague.
Was't to this end I louted and became
The menial of Mars, and held a spear
Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind?
Is it for this, I now am lifted up
By Europe's throned Emperor, to see
My honor be my executioner,—
My love of fame, my prided honesty
Put to the torture for confessional!
Then the danm'd crime of blurting to the world
A woman's secret!—Though a fiend she be,
Too tender of my ignominious life;
But then to wrong the generous Emperor
In such a searching point, were to give up
My soul for foot-ball at Hell'd holiday!
I must confess,—and cut my throat,—to-day?
To-morrow? Ho! some wine!
Of honor 'mid the growling wilderness.
My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword,
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring
Of shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'd
Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague.
Was't to this end I louted and became
The menial of Mars, and held a spear
Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind?
Is it for this, I now am lifted up
By Europe's throned Emperor, to see
My honor be my executioner,—
My love of fame, my prided honesty
Put to the torture for confessional!
Then the danm'd crime of blurting to the world
A woman's secret!—Though a fiend she be,
Too tender of my ignominious life;
But then to wrong the generous Emperor
In such a searching point, were to give up
My soul for foot-ball at Hell'd holiday!
I must confess,—and cut my throat,—to-day?
To-morrow? Ho! some wine!
Enter Sigifred.
Sigifred. A fine humor—
Albert. Who goes there? Count Sigifred? Ha! ha!
Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky
For a throng'd tavern,—and these stubbed trees
For old serge hangings,—me, your humble friend,
For a poor waiter? Why, man, how you stare!
What gypsies have you been carousing with?
No, no more wine; methinks you've had enough.
For a throng'd tavern,—and these stubbed trees
For old serge hangings,—me, your humble friend,
For a poor waiter? Why, man, how you stare!
What gypsies have you been carousing with?
No, no more wine; methinks you've had enough.
