The ignominious cord,
When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid
On heads that moulder in ignoble mire.
Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe
With Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,
Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,
Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,
But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars
Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springs
The Heraclidean seed of heroes: then