’Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flintiest rock,
States climb to power by; slippery those with gold
Down which they stumble to eternal mock: 
No chafferer’s hand shall long the sceptre hold,
Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell the block.

’We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and woe,
Mystic because too cheaply understood;
Dark sayings are not ours; men hear and know,
See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good,
Yet hope to stem God’s fire with walls of tow. 80

’Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is,
That offers choice of glory or of gloom;
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his. 
But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss.’

‘But not for him,’ I cried, ’not yet for him,
Whose large horizon, westering, star by star
Wins from the void to where on Ocean’s rim
The sunset shuts the world with golden bar,
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim! 90

’His shall be larger manhood, saved for those
That walk unblenching through the trial-fires;
Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes,
And he no base-born son of craven sires,
Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes.

’Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win
Death’s royal purple in the foe-man’s lines;
Peace, too, brings tears; and mid the battle-din,
The wiser ear some text of God divines,
For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin. 100

’God, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep,
But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit! 
And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,
Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit,
And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!’

So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain,
Thinking of dear ones by Potomac’s side;
Again the loon laughed mocking, and again
The echoes bayed far down the night and died,
While waking I recalled my wandering brain. 110

TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLONDEL

AUTUMN, 1863

SCENE I.—­Near a castle in Germany.

’Twere no hard task, perchance, to win
  The popular laurel for my song;
’Twere only to comply with sin,
  And own the crown, though snatched by wrong: 
Rather Truth’s chaplet let me wear,
  Though sharp as death its thorns may sting: 
Loyal to Loyalty, I bear
  No badge but of my rightful king.

Patient by town and tower I wait,
  Or o’er the blustering moorland go; 10
I buy no praise at cheaper rate,
  Or what faint hearts may fancy so;
For me, no joy in lady’s bower,
  Or hall, or tourney, will I sing,
Till the slow stars wheel round the hour
  That crowns my hero and my king.

While all the land runs red with strife,
  And wealth is won by pedler-crimes,
Let who will find content in life
  And tinkle in unmanly rhymes; 20
I wait and seek; through dark and light,
  Safe in my heart my hope I bring,
Till I once more my faith may plight
  To him my whole soul owns her king.