The hunters come leaping on. She turns like a heart at bay. They do with her as they will. ... O thou who thinkest on this! Stand like a star, and be still, 

 Where the soil oozes under thy feet. Better, ah, better to die Than to take one step in the mire! Oh, blessed to die or to live, With garments of holy fire! 

 

 

 UNQUENCHED.[1] 

 I think upon the conquering Greek who ran (Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old— Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire. 

 Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal; A torch it bore, and cherished to the end, And rescued from the winds the sacred fire. 

 O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush! And listen long enough to learn of him Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire. 

 Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail. Who doubles contest, doubles victory. Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire. 

 O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak. Stay near. The runner faints—the torch falls pale. Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher! 

 Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to thine; Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong, Against the wind there fights the eternal fire. 

 

  [1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar.  "In this contest, only he was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race." 

 

 

 THE KING'S IMAGE. 

 Of iron were his arms; they could have held The need of half the kingdom up; and in His brow were iron atoms too. Thus was He built. His heart, observe, was wrought of gold, Burnished; it dazzled one to look at it. His feet were carved of clay—and so he fell. 

 Clay unto clay shall perish and return. The tooth of rust shall gnaw the iron down. The conqueror of time, gold must endure. 

 Thou great amalgam! Suffering in thyself, The while inflicting still the certain fate Of thy 

 Prev. P 42/63 next