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.
'Honoured all heroes whose high deeds
Thro' life, till death, enlarge their span:
Only Achilles in his rage
And sloth is less than man.'