And presently her feet grew cool, the grass
Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 
The air was full of voices, and the scent
Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts;
For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount,
And reared in such a sort that it looked down
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades,
And richest plains o’ the island.  It was set
Midway between the snows majestical
And a wide level, such as men would choose
For growing wheat; and some one said to her,
“It is the hill Parnassus.”  So she walked
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear
The calling of an unseen multitude
To some upon the mountain, “Give us more”;
And others said, “We are tired of this old world: 
Make it look new again.”  Then there were some
Who answered lovingly—­(the dead yet speak
From that high mountain, as the living do);
But others sang desponding, “We have kept
The vision for a chosen few:  we love
Fit audience better than a rough huzza
From the unreasoning crowd.”

Then words came up: 
“There was a time, you poets, was a time
When all the poetry was ours, and made
By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete!  Be you as they: 
Our heroes die and drop away from us;
Oblivion folds them ’neath her dusky wing,
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them.  We fall so low for lack of them,
That many of us think scorn of honest trade,
And take no pride in our own shops; who care
Only to quit a calling, will not make
The calling what it might be; who despise
Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work
Dull, and degrade them.”

Then did Gladys smile: 
“Heroes!” quoth she; “yet, now I think on it,
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh,
Certes, a hero ready-made.  Methinks
I see him burnishing of golden gear,
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low,
’London is thirsty’—­(then he weighs a chain): 
’’Tis an ill thing, my masters.  I would give
The worth of this, and many such as this,
To bring it water.’

“Ay, and after him
There came up Guy of London, lettered son
O’ the honest lighterman.  I’ll think on him,
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves,
After his shop was closed:  a still, grave man,
With melancholy eyes.  ‘While these are hale,’
He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd
Cheerily working; where the river marge
Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves
Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,—­
’While these are hale, ’tis well, ’tis very well. 
But, O good Lord,’ saith he, ’when these are sick,—­
I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship
Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 
Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you,
Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away,
And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid,
Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.’ 
Well, we have heard the rest.