University of Virginia Library

The iron Spartans in the grand old Past,
Men of heroic mind, whose aims were vast
And acts yet greater, deemed dishonour worse
Than any kind of pain or fleshly curse
Or death itself, and never from the fight
Returned unless as conquerors in their might.
Resolved that Victory, which at times withdrew,
Should lead them still to battle as she flew
Fair in their van, lo! on the temple's brow
They set her image, strong with many a vow,
And bound its beauty in a heavy chain.
But all their clumsy shackles were in vain,
They bound not her but the poor outward form.
And in the last dread shaking of the storm,
That broke for ever Sparta's iron day,
She spread her splendid wings and flew away.

The light Athenians, nursed in gentle codes,
And softened by the sway of sweeter modes,
No less decreed that victory should not fly
From their bright heavens, and the far brighter sky
Of glorious art that had not yet turned sere,
And culture with its kindly atmosphere.
And their keen wit, long bent on curious lore,
Hungering for somewhat new or somewhat more
Than they possessed, and versed in subtle things,
Set up her statue too—but without wings:
As if, when Fortune's favouring smile were gone,
Her fickle presence could not flit with none.
And so, when Athens suffered shame and loss,
Men looked in vain to Niké Apteros,
And filled her fanes; wave only followed wave,
Till what had been been her glory was her grave.

Thus I—who in my youth's proud joyous prime,
Seemed to have conquered death itself and Time,
With my strong will, that owned no earthly bound
And some new help in each new hindrance found,
That still delighted storm-clouds to disperse,
Itself the centre of the universe,
King in the world of thought, and even when tired
Yet all insatiate then; that yet aspired
To inconjecturable heights of hope,
And those great steps that ever upward slope
To light through darkness—I who boldly faced
Most fearful odds, and hell itself embraced
As though my bride, who laughed at dangers' frown
In gay assurance, and who trampled down
Dread difficulties like the ocean swell,
And never knew what was impossible—
Who with firm footstep lightly crost
Fate's fiery gulf—who played and never lost
At every game of Fortune—I at length,
One day awoke to find my conquering strength
Gone like a dream of glory, gone for aye,
Like the sweet fruit you suck and throw away,
Gone with my hope and that exulting might
Which from defeat wrung victory as right,
Which never doubted, never faltered still,
Secure in its grand capital of will
And jubilant young pride—yea, all was gone
That made earth lovely; and yet I lived on.
Nay, I lived not, for I was wholly dead,
With hope's broad blossoms that so brightly spread
Their colours to the sun, and but my frame
Dragged out in dreary emptiness and shame
A vegetable being, like the ruck
Who eat and drink and curse their barren luck;
While from some dim and distant world of shade,
I saw my dreams of greatness flit and fade;
Snatched from the joy and fever of the strife,
To the cold funeral of my own fair life.
Smooth victory that smiled on me so long,
And made my pulses dance a measure strong
To the heart's music, now had turned and flown,
Ere I could woo her to abide my own—
Ere I could forge one fetter that might stay
The fickle impulse of her wanton way
And faithless flight—ere I could clip a wing,
Or to some fleeting straw of promise cling.
All, all was lost with fortune: I had failed,
In the old arms that once so well availed,
The dauntless courage, and the faith intent
That had created sea and continent,
If there were none to conquer—that had called
New worlds to light to live and be enthralled,
If the old perished. Yea, it was too late,
To pluck the sting of shame from cruel fate,
Or make misfortune now unmeasured scorn,
Though big with pain a thing that might be borne,
And overcome with daily wear and wont,
By resolution's adamantine front
Which wrath and hate and every ill can tame,
And turns to crowns of glory crowns of shame.
Ah, could I, like the good old Hebrew king,
The stream of life roll backward to its spring
And have again my youth, then would I make
A prison-house that victory could not break,
And keep her captive behind golden bars,
Beneath the heaven of hope's unsetting stars.
But Fortune, with her painted harlot face,
With all her harlot tricks and bought embrace,
Has left me in the shadow of sharp need,
Sore bruised and broken, and with wounds that bleed
At many a gaping mouth, even unto death
That dallies grimly with my lingering breath.
Across the fiery surface of my mind
Flit fearful shapes I cannot loose or bind,
With veiled averted eyes, and hands that wave
My tottering footsteps to a shameful grave:
Shapes bodied outward by the sickly brain,
That haunt with terror though they are but vain.
And on my shoulders fall the fiery surge
Of woe that lashes me as with a scourge,
That still rolls on where mortal hath not trod,
And beats for ever at the feet of God.