With such wrong and woe exhausted - what I suffered and occasioned, As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes, And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned, Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies, So I fell, struck down before her! Do you blame me friend, for weakness? 'Twas my strength of passion slew me!-fell before her like a stone; Fast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its roaring wheels of blackness! When the light came I was lying in this chamber — and alone. There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius: Into work the poet kneads them,and he does not die till then. CONCLUSION. Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell the tears on every leaf: Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life, but yet kingborn, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power, Only, are likest gods, who have attained Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazenheaded spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. "Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncalled for), but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiased by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward through a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinewed with action, and the fullgrown will, Circled through all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' "Here she ceased, And Paris pondered, and I cried, 'O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! "O mother Ida, many-fountained Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vinebunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eves, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whispered in his ear, 'I promise thee |