So through the young man’s dream the kingly flame
  In his own breast was undiminished borne. 
And other peoples catching from his fame
  A noble heat, in neighbouring lands forlorn,
Would glow with new power and the ancient name
  Bless, that had brightened through their narrow morn. 
And purer yet and steadier would pass on
The sacred flame to son and son and son.

Or with contracting mind he saw the host
  Of mountain warriors banded, moving down
Untrodden ways, as on young buds a frost
  Falls, and the spring lies stiff.  The air was sown
With strife, the fields with blood, the night with ghost
  Wandering by ghost, and wounded men were strown
Surprised, unweaponed; and chill air congealed
Each hurt, and with the blood their breath was sealed.

And the loved tones of music sounded fierce
  When the returning files with aspect proud
Approached, and brandished their rich trophied spears. 
  Sweet the pipes’ spearlike music, sweet and loud,
And music of smitten arms was sweet to tears;
  Sweet the dance unto smiling gods new vowed,
Sweet the recounting song and choral cries,
And age’s quaverings and girls’ envious sighs.

—­So of himself, a father-king, he dreamed,
  Holding an equal nation in his eye. 
O with what golden points the future gleamed! 
  Rustled the years like laden mule-trains by,
Each with its burthen of old time redeemed.... 
  Splendour on splendour poured, and so would lie
Unnoted and unmeasured:—­metals, herds,
Distant-sought wonders, strange growths, beasts and birds.

Within the summer of that splendid shade
  Might men live happy and nought left to fear,
Or if an antique restless spirit played
  Fretful within their bones, and change drew near
Drumming wild airs, and another music made,
  A father-king, speaking assured and clear,
Bidding them follow he would lead them forth
Through the yet undiscovered frowning north.

And the last fire on the warm stones would burn,
  And the smoke linger on the mountain skies. 
And seeing, they would muse yet of return
  And then forget their sadness in the cries
Confused of the great caravan; and so turn
  Towards the next sun-setting and the next sunrise
Many and many a day and wind and wind
Through foreign earth, as a dream through the mind.

Flowing on with the changes of its thought. 
  And doubtful kings entreating them to stay
Would sleep the easier when they lingered not;
  And sullen tribes menacing would make way,
And broad slow rivers in their tide be caught,
  And the long caravan o’er the ford all day
And all day and all day pass; while the tide slept
In sluggish shallows, or through marsh-reeds crept.

So would they on and on, with death and birth
  For wayfellows and nightly stars for guide,
While seasons bloomed and faded on the earth,
  And jealous gods their wandering gods would chide. 
Until, weary of endless going forth
  Dark-locust-like, the old fret would subside,
And young men with aged men and women cry,
“In this full-rivered pasture let us lie!