Nor guide with faltering hand the helm of state;
Ours is the holier right to soften party hate,
And teach the lesson, lofty and divine,
Ambition’s fairest flowers are laid at Virtue’s shrine.”
“Have you any idea what all that means?” asked Marie discontentedly.
“Oh, I don’t have to say what it means,” returned Elizabeth, far too sensible to try to understand anything she would not be called upon to explain. “Reverend Mother makes that out for herself.”
“Not ours the right to guide the battle’s storm,
Where strength and valour deathless deeds perform.
Not ours to bind the blood-stained laurel wreath
In mocking triumph round the brow of death.