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1820–1897

XXXI.

Jean Ingelow

‘ Lady,’ quoth the page,‘ I bring Evil news. Sir king, I say, My good lord of yesterday, Evil news,’ This king saith low,

‘ Yesterday, and yesterday, The queen's yesterday we know, Tell us thine.’‘ Sir king,’ saith he, Hear. Thy castle in the night

Was surprised, and men thy flight Learned but then; thine enemy Of old days, our new king, reigns; And sith thou wert not at pains

To forbid it, hear also, Marvelling whereto this should grow How thy knights at break of morn Have a new allegiance sworn,

And the men-at-arms rejoice, And the people give their voice For the conqueror. I, Sir king, Rest thine only friend. I bring

Means of flight; now therefore fly, A great price is on thy head. Cast her jewel'd mantle by, Mount thy queen i’ the selle and hie

( Sith disguise ye need, and bread ) Down yon pleachèd track, down, down, Till a tower shall on thee frown; Him that holds it show this ring:

So farewell, my lord the king.’

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XXXI. · Jean Ingelow · Poetry Cove