Up from thy sweet mouth,-up to I never was worthy of you, Douglas; May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers: My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years; Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king. -A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout [victorious, As thou sit'st at the feet of God "Philip, the king!" Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, I love you, Douglas, tender and |