And where her low turf shrine

Showed Modesty divine

The fairest mother's daughter far more fair

Hide on her breast the heavenly shame

That kindled once with love should kindle Troy with flame.

19.

Nor less the light of story than of song

With graver glories girt his godlike head,

Reverted alway from the temporal throng

Of lives that live not toward the living dead.

The shadows and the splendours of their throng

Made bright and dark about his board and bed

The lines of life and vision, sweet or strong

With sound of lutes or trumpets blown, that led

Forth of the ghostly gate

Opening in spite of fate

Shapes of majestic or tumultuous tread,

Divine and direful things,

These foul as priests or kings,

Those fair as heaven or love or freedom, red

 Prev. P 18/114 next