For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke, And reverence what I said: I elder sister by six years Not half so glad, or wise, or good: Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood. "Homer, though greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed And rough-hewn men: but what are such To us who learn of Christ?" The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak. "To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant. "Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page, Is this the man, the less than men Of this degenerate age?" "Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness." But here she paused our eyes had met, And I was whitening with the jeer She rose: "I went too far," she said Spoke low: "Forgive me, dear. "Honoured all heroes whose high deeds Through life, through death, enlarge their span Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man." "Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod? "He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price: Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice. Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was! "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: 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? "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. 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. "Or, look again, dim Dian's face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night: Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white? "A shame it is, our aimless life I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed- "The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand." Her needle erred a moment's pause, A moment's patience, all was well. "The princess laboured at her loom, Mistress and handmaiden alike Beneath their needles grew the field With warriors armed to strike. "Then heavenly beauty could allay As heavenly beauty stirred the strife: By them a slave was worshipped more Than is by us a wife." She laughed again, my sister laughed Made answer o'er the laboured cloth: "I rather would be one of us Than wife, or slave, or both." "Oh better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away: Then night had holiness of night, And day was sacred day.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |