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II.
“O Richard, O mon roi.” So minstrels sighed. The many‐centuried voice dies fast away Amidst the turmoil of our modern day. How know we but these green‐wreathed legends hide An ugly truth that never could abide In this our living world’s far purer air?— Nevertheless, O statue, rest thou there, Our Richard, of all chivalry the pride; Or if not the true Richard, still a type Of the old regal glory, fallen, o’er‐ripe, And giving place to better blossoming: Stand—imaging the grand heroic days; And let our little children come and gaze, Whispering with innocent awe—“This was a King.”