Makes cold our trust in comfort of the Gods

And blind our eye toward outlook; yet not here,

Here never shall the Thracian plant on high

For ours his father's symbol, nor with wreaths

A strange folk wreathe it upright set and crowned

500

Here where our natural people born behold

The golden Gorgon of the shield's defence

[Pg 29]

That screens their flowering olive, nor strange Gods

Be graced, and Pallas here have praise no more.

And if this be not I must give my child,

Thee, mine own very blood and spirit of mine,

Thee to be slain. Turn from me, turn thine eyes

A little from me; I can bear not yet

To see if still they smile on mine or no,

If fear make faint the light in them, or faith

510

Fix them as stars of safety. Need have we,

Sore need of stars that set not in mid storm,

 Prev. P 34/116 next