Ay, he wakes,— and dull of cheer,
Though this queen be very dear,
Though a respite come with day
From th’ abhorrèd flight and fray,
E'en though life be not the cost,
Nay, nor crown nor honour lost;
For in his soul abideth fear
Worse than of the Khalif's spear,
Smiting when perforce in flight
He was borne,— for that was night,
That his weird. But now‘ t is day,
‘ And good sooth I know not — nay,
Know not how this thing could be.
Never, more it seemeth me
Than when left the weird to dree,
I am I. And it was I
Felt or ever they turned to fly,
How, like wind, a tremor ran,
The right hand of every man
Shaking. Ay, all banners shook,
And the red all cheeks forsook,
Mine as theirs. Since this was I,
Who my soul shall certify
When again I face the foe
Manful courage shall not go.
Ay, it is not thrust o’ a spear,
Scorn of infidel eyes austere,
But mine own fear — is to fear.’