Ever South, across the desert, up the
Mountains, down the mountains; leaping rivers,
Smiting foes, taking cities,—thus they march’d;
Thus, a cloud of eagles, roll’d they from the
North; thus on the South they fell, as autumn
Frosts upon the fruits of summer fall.
And now the priests were glad,—the singer sung of Heaven; and the warriors were aroused,—his voice was like a battle-cry, and the theme was the proud tradition of the conquering march of their fathers from the distant North. Sitting with clasped hands and drooped head, the king followed the chant, like one listening to an oracle. Yet stronger grew the minstrel’s voice,—
Pass’d
Many years of toil, and still the Nation march’d;
Still Southward strode the king; still Sunward rose