MARY. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest thanks.
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river?
POLE. We had your royal barge, and that same chair,
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck.
Our silver cross sparkled before the prow,
The ripples twinkled at their diamond-dance,
The boats that follow'd, were as glowing-gay
As regal gardens; and your flocks of swans,
As fair and white as angels; and your shores
Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise.
My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed
To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames;
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle;
And here the river flowing from the sea,
Not toward it (for they thought not of our tides),
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide--
In quiet--home your banish'd countryman.
MARY. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin.
POLE. A dizziness.
MARY. And how came you round again?
POLE. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life;
And mine, a little letting of the blood.
MARY. Well? now?
POLE. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant
Had but to touch the ground, his force return'd--
Thus, after twenty years of banishment,
Feeling my native land beneath my foot,
I said thereto: 'Ah, native land of mine,
Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine,
That hastes with full commission from the Pope
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy.
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