Or asks how she came by it, or through what mire it has been?
From sleep or strife new roused to life that lights her antique face,
No monkish train nor slavish chain to cramp her strength and grace,
What wonder if she hardly know in soberness to still
The throbbing of late-loosened blood, the stir of waking will?
Others are there, though notable, less notable than these:
See Russia, blue-eyed giantess, still rude and ill at ease:
But who can tell what undrawn wells of power and strength are there,
Under the brow that looms so broad below her fell of hair?
And Austria, motley madam, 'twixt Vienna demi-monde,