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

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OTHO THE GREAT.
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Send forth instantlyAn hundred horsemen from my honored gates,To scour the plains and search the cottages.Cry a reward, to him who shall first bringNews 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 beholdThan that same quick-eyed pagan's. By the saints,This coming night of banquets must not lightHer dazzling torches; nor the music breatheSmooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peaceAnd in-door melodies; nor the ruddy wineEbb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not,In my first cup, that Arab!
 Albert.Mighty Monarch,I wonder not this stranger's victor deedsSo hang upon your spirit. Twice in the fightIt was my chance to meet his olive brow,Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd rhomb;And, to say truth, in any Christian armI 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,
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