Low as the lapping of tile sea, as the song of the lark is
clear, Wild as the moaning of pine branches; the king was fain
to hear.

"What is the song, and who is the singer?" he said; "before
the throne
Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and all but
this are known."

Seven mighty kings went out the minstrel man to find:
And all they found was a dead cyprus soughing in the wind.

And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled,
And the burning summers waned away, and the king grew very
old;

Dull, worn, feeble, bent; and once he thought, "to die
Were rest, at least." And as he thought the music wandered by.

Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came,
And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were clear
as flame.

"What is the song you play, and what the theme your praises
sing?
It is sweet; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet," said the weary
king.

"I sing my country," said the singer, "a land that is sweeter
than song."