In Thule lived a monarch old, True even to the grave, To whom a goblet, wrought of gold, His dying leman gave. And naught more richly did he prize, At every feast 'twas drained; And often, as he quaffed, his eyes With tears o'erbrimming rained. And when his death drew nigh, with care He counts his cities up; No wealth begrudging to his heir, Except the golden cup. A solemn feast he held, with all His Knights as company; 'Twas in his proud, ancestral hall That hung above the sea. There stood that king-carouser old His last life-draught to drain, Then hurled the treasured cup of gold Far down into the main. He saw it splash: it filled, it sank, Deep, deep the waves beneath; With downcast eyes he watched, nor drank One drop again till death! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PSALM 121 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE FLOWER OF FINAE by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED by RALPH ERSKINE THE NUANCES OF MENDACITY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS EXPECTATION by GLADYS BRIERLY ASHOUR |