Naught that shy beauty promised him,
Merry had watched him crave:
And the day she married Gothland's King
When her father's town was brave
With flags, drums, seething battlements,
After a duel for her sake
Wounded and nigh the grave,
(Think you that could his spirit break
Or force the Count's head on his breast
Like any quivering slave?)
He arose, lean in his uniform,
Pulse not a stroke too fast,
Waited her brilliant-eyed approach,
And saw her start aghast,
And she, the drawn face and the frown.
On gallant knee downcast
He tendered her his secret gift,
The poor enthusiast!
Out of his square palm's brawny foil
She took the pearls. Faint gems entoil
Clasp-opals of their massy coil.
Then, with a jibe, he passed. ...
She stood, she sighed, she took the gift
Because it was the last;
Took that amazing gift of pearls
(Unweeting all he gave)
Thrice-pityingly, reluctantly,
As 'twere a soul to save.

That night she wore the coil of pearls
With her bride's diadem,
And she locked away that coil of pearls
With many a holy gem
In a casket in her chambers high,
And thought no more of them.
Ah, dark towers! For of faerie,
Steep as Jerusalem!