Let us make it fit for him!
He will come ere many hours
Are passed over. Strew these flowers
Where the floor is hard and bare!
Ever was his royal whim
That his place of rest were fair.
Such a narrow little room!
Think you he will deign to use it?
Yes, we know he would not choose it
Where there any other near;
Here there is such damp and gloom,
And such quietness is here.
That he loved the light, we know;
And we know he was the gladdest
Always when the mirth was maddest
And the laughter drowned the song;
When the fire’s shade and glow
Fell upon the loyal throng.
Yet it may be, if he come,
Now, to-night, he will be tired;
And no more will be desired
All the music once he knew;
He will joy the lutes are dumb
And be glad the lights are few.
Heard you how the fight has gone?
Surely it will soon be ended!
Was their stronghold well defended
Ere it fell before his might?
Did it yield soon after dawn,
Or when noon was at its height?
Hark! His trumpet! It is done.
Smooth the bed. And for a cover
Drape those scarlet colors over;
And upon these dingy walls
Hang what banners he has won.
Hasten ere the twilight falls!
They are here!—We knew the best
When we set us to prepare him
Such a place; for they that bear him
—They as he—seem weary, too;
Peace! and let him have his rest;
There is nothing more to do.
