'
Her needle erred; a moment's pause,
A moment's patience, all was well. 90
Then she: 'But just suppose the horse,
Suppose the rider fell?
'Then captive in an alien house,
Hungering on exile's bitter bread,--
They happy, they who won the lot
Of sacrifice,' she said.
Speaking she faltered, while her look
Showed forth her passion like a glass:
With hand suspended, kindling eye,
Flushed cheek, how fair she was! 100
'Ah well, be those the days of dross;
This, if you will, the age of gold:
Yet had those days a spark of warmth,
While these are somewhat cold--
'Are somewhat mean and cold and slow,
Are stunted from heroic growth:
We gain but little when we prove
The worthlessness of both.'
'But life is in our hands,' she said:
'In our own hands for gain or loss: 110
Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire
Suffice to purge our dross?
'Too short a century of dreams,
One day of work sufficient length:
Why should not you, why should not I
Attain heroic strength?
'Our life is given us as a blank;
Ourselves must make it blest or curst:
Who dooms me I shall only be
The second, not the first? 120
'Learn from old Homer, if you will,
Such wisdom as his books have said:
In one the acts of Ajax shine,
In one of Diomed.
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