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...MY SENSES DO NOT DECEIVE ME by MARIANNE MOORE RAIN AFTER A VAUDEVILLE SHOW by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE SLEEP by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SEVEN TIMES ONE [- CHILDHOOD. EXULTATION] by JEAN INGELOW THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JUNE by EDMUND SPENSER INSTRUCTIONS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN PARIS, FOR THE MOB IN ENGLAND by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK |