Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/381

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OTHO THE GREAT.
365
The solitary warfare, fought for loveOf honor 'mid the growling wilderness.My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword,Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ringOf shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'dHenry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague.Was't to this end I louted and becameThe menial of Mars, and held a spearSway'd by command, as corn is by the wind?Is it for this, I now am lifted upBy Europe's throned Emperor, to seeMy honor be my executioner,—My love of fame, my prided honestyPut to the torture for confessional!Then the danm'd crime of blurting to the worldA woman's secret!—Though a fiend she be,Too tender of my ignominious life;But then to wrong the generous EmperorIn such a searching point, were to give upMy 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 skyFor a throng'd tavern,—and these stubbed treesFor 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.
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