At this grave hour, nor feels a ghost,
Cool-handed, bid his courage pause?
Two: dog-like droops the dreaming head
Of mean Thersites evil-eyed;
And Paris on his broidered bed
Sleeps well at swan-white Helen’s side.
No scruple sharp the selfist finds;
The wrangler no remorses fret:
The loved of gods in lofty minds
Have room to house a high regret.