Classic Poem

(F ROM THE Ballads OF W. G OETHE )

T HERE was a king in Thule
Right loyal to the grave,
To whom his dying ladye
A golden goblet gave.

Naught valued he above it,
He drained it every bout:
He wept, so did he love it,
When'er he drank thereout.

And when death called this lover
He reckoned town and pelf,
To heirs all handed over,
All, save the goblet's self.

He called to his royal table
His knights, then down sate he
In his castle, high and stable,
Above the restless sea.

Rose that old toper: slowly
He quaffed his life's last glow,
Then hurled the goblet holy
Far in the flood below.

He watched it falling, filling,
Sinking deep in the sea:
To close his eyes now willing,
Ne'er another drop drank he.