Of triumph and of glory,

A Question suddenly, as from the grave,

Rose in me, culpatory.

"Whence come to you this joyance and this strength"

It said, "this might of vision?

This will that measures all things to its length,

That cuts with calm decision?

"This blood within your veins, that is as wine

Which Destiny's self blesses.

Whence flows it, from what grape that is divine,

Or trodden from what presses?

[Pg 49]

"Do you so proud forget what hands have borne

You to the heights and crowned you?

Would you behold what sackcloth has been worn

That laurels may surround you?"...

"I would—O lips invisible! whose breath"—

I answered—"so arraigns me;

Whose voice is as a sound sent forth of Death,

And like to Death entrains me.

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