Removed from his sires by long stretch of years,Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred,Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red,Their dogged valors, which had now been fears,Are still his coaches and untimely peers,Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread,Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled,And cups paid bitter down in price of tears,As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast,And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old,’Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold,This, their own grim shadow from a weary past.And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not growTo keener vision, should a cuter earNot catch Time’s footfall, nor so dare the Law,Which, how so trespass do impugn it here—As if its charter on mere probate ran—Stars yet Time’s reaches since his maze began,Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere:Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove,For franker answer ’tward the Life, ’tward all—Some response more worthy of the conscious soul—God, man, and thing, and Nations move?Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will,Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still?
Removed from his sires by long stretch of years,Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred,Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red,Their dogged valors, which had now been fears,Are still his coaches and untimely peers,Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread,Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled,And cups paid bitter down in price of tears,As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast,And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old,’Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold,This, their own grim shadow from a weary past.And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not growTo keener vision, should a cuter earNot catch Time’s footfall, nor so dare the Law,Which, how so trespass do impugn it here—As if its charter on mere probate ran—Stars yet Time’s reaches since his maze began,Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere:Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove,For franker answer ’tward the Life, ’tward all—Some response more worthy of the conscious soul—God, man, and thing, and Nations move?Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will,Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still?
Removed from his sires by long stretch of years,Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred,Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red,Their dogged valors, which had now been fears,Are still his coaches and untimely peers,Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread,Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled,And cups paid bitter down in price of tears,As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast,And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old,’Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold,This, their own grim shadow from a weary past.And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not growTo keener vision, should a cuter earNot catch Time’s footfall, nor so dare the Law,Which, how so trespass do impugn it here—As if its charter on mere probate ran—Stars yet Time’s reaches since his maze began,Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere:Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove,For franker answer ’tward the Life, ’tward all—Some response more worthy of the conscious soul—God, man, and thing, and Nations move?Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will,Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still?
Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph ringsExultant with that haughty word?To grace its clarion, tempering bringsNo music of a nobler chord?Twice trophied, not what gentler strain?Which, wiped no blot its honor caught,Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain,Still foul the cheer kind victory brought?In the bugle’s drown the choral song,What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe?Deck fresh the brow of fated StrongWith teemy bud of baser wreath?For, lo, it was a gallant fight!And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up,Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right,Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup.Tho’ unlineal stripped the lineal True,Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt,What witness here but purging threwIts passioned gage, to bear it out,That worse than steel or murd’rous flareOf gaping mouth, whose sudden gustFlicks out the flame of little life, it were to bearThe yoke that galls with rude Unjust;That they slay not half, who merely kill,Nor holds within the execution of the swordYon cunning stab which numbs the will,In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord;That sweet blood spilt in noble cause,Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew,So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows,Past choke of False, the larger True;No harvest else come worth its seed,Which holds not fast, gives o’er to tauntThis word—not what is bred, but what we breedForegathered hoard, but what we plant,Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,Make nought the sap of lustful days;So pledged alone endure, enlarge,Make good, withal, some vicared trust,Undue to hope yon scruteless chargeWhose brief is Time and riddling Dust;So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds,Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight,In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.Shall hours blank its annaled score,But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount,Which, say it flow through beast and slave,Withal, bids man stand up, assert, accountExalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;Yon voice of Just, whose auguring soothWide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph ringsExultant with that haughty word?To grace its clarion, tempering bringsNo music of a nobler chord?Twice trophied, not what gentler strain?Which, wiped no blot its honor caught,Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain,Still foul the cheer kind victory brought?In the bugle’s drown the choral song,What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe?Deck fresh the brow of fated StrongWith teemy bud of baser wreath?For, lo, it was a gallant fight!And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up,Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right,Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup.Tho’ unlineal stripped the lineal True,Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt,What witness here but purging threwIts passioned gage, to bear it out,That worse than steel or murd’rous flareOf gaping mouth, whose sudden gustFlicks out the flame of little life, it were to bearThe yoke that galls with rude Unjust;That they slay not half, who merely kill,Nor holds within the execution of the swordYon cunning stab which numbs the will,In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord;That sweet blood spilt in noble cause,Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew,So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows,Past choke of False, the larger True;No harvest else come worth its seed,Which holds not fast, gives o’er to tauntThis word—not what is bred, but what we breedForegathered hoard, but what we plant,Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,Make nought the sap of lustful days;So pledged alone endure, enlarge,Make good, withal, some vicared trust,Undue to hope yon scruteless chargeWhose brief is Time and riddling Dust;So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds,Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight,In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.Shall hours blank its annaled score,But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount,Which, say it flow through beast and slave,Withal, bids man stand up, assert, accountExalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;Yon voice of Just, whose auguring soothWide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph ringsExultant with that haughty word?To grace its clarion, tempering bringsNo music of a nobler chord?
Twice trophied, not what gentler strain?Which, wiped no blot its honor caught,Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain,Still foul the cheer kind victory brought?
In the bugle’s drown the choral song,What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe?Deck fresh the brow of fated StrongWith teemy bud of baser wreath?
For, lo, it was a gallant fight!And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up,Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right,Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup.
Tho’ unlineal stripped the lineal True,Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt,What witness here but purging threwIts passioned gage, to bear it out,
That worse than steel or murd’rous flareOf gaping mouth, whose sudden gustFlicks out the flame of little life, it were to bearThe yoke that galls with rude Unjust;
That they slay not half, who merely kill,Nor holds within the execution of the swordYon cunning stab which numbs the will,In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord;
That sweet blood spilt in noble cause,Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew,So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows,Past choke of False, the larger True;
No harvest else come worth its seed,Which holds not fast, gives o’er to tauntThis word—not what is bred, but what we breedForegathered hoard, but what we plant,Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,Make nought the sap of lustful days;
So pledged alone endure, enlarge,Make good, withal, some vicared trust,Undue to hope yon scruteless chargeWhose brief is Time and riddling Dust;
So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds,Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.
Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight,In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.
Shall hours blank its annaled score,But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—
Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount,Which, say it flow through beast and slave,Withal, bids man stand up, assert, accountExalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;
Yon voice of Just, whose auguring soothWide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lipsA tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slipsOn swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,Charms to its strain the aliens ’t tongue,In yon same music which the high Hopes know,Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung,Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go.And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight;This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose?Unpledging riot, shall the brutal MightNot own the Fountain whence all fathom draws?Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise,Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand,Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce,Made Hell confederate with her blind command;Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath,A serener vision lift that groveling brow,Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe,Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow,And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on handsOrdain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime,In anthems swelling past their starren strands,That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.Why then—shall Hope not speak it, find no moan was lost,She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive,Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed,So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive?Shall Hope not find it—how Mistrust was out,Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute courseAnd wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt,Still foul the bearings of the archer Source?For, has Peace not spoken? on men’s lipsHangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there,Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips,Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear?Has Peace not spoken, has the gentle word,Invoking, blessed not the ear again?Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard,Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men?
The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lipsA tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slipsOn swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,Charms to its strain the aliens ’t tongue,In yon same music which the high Hopes know,Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung,Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go.And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight;This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose?Unpledging riot, shall the brutal MightNot own the Fountain whence all fathom draws?Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise,Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand,Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce,Made Hell confederate with her blind command;Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath,A serener vision lift that groveling brow,Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe,Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow,And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on handsOrdain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime,In anthems swelling past their starren strands,That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.Why then—shall Hope not speak it, find no moan was lost,She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive,Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed,So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive?Shall Hope not find it—how Mistrust was out,Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute courseAnd wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt,Still foul the bearings of the archer Source?For, has Peace not spoken? on men’s lipsHangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there,Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips,Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear?Has Peace not spoken, has the gentle word,Invoking, blessed not the ear again?Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard,Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men?
The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lipsA tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slipsOn swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,
Charms to its strain the aliens ’t tongue,In yon same music which the high Hopes know,Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung,Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go.
And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight;This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose?Unpledging riot, shall the brutal MightNot own the Fountain whence all fathom draws?
Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise,Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand,Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce,Made Hell confederate with her blind command;
Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath,A serener vision lift that groveling brow,Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe,Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow,
And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on handsOrdain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime,In anthems swelling past their starren strands,That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.
Why then—shall Hope not speak it, find no moan was lost,She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive,Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed,So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive?
Shall Hope not find it—how Mistrust was out,Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute courseAnd wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt,Still foul the bearings of the archer Source?
For, has Peace not spoken? on men’s lipsHangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there,Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips,Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear?
Has Peace not spoken, has the gentle word,Invoking, blessed not the ear again?Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard,Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men?
How came his right that he should dare,He, and his two mates-at-noble-arms,To stand erect, and not with bowed heads and bare,Beg mites for build-up of their homestead-farms,Their hearths which Ravage blacked with sorry flame,Their children stricken within pesthouse gates,And all rank glories wherein Empire came,To foist her mission on these latter dates;Not be lions of the hour, garb their prideIn neat devisings at the conqueror’s hands;But let their prayer on yon throb go wideWhich fellows justice with the far-offs’t strands?O, hearts, whose fires whet the valiant sword;Pushed how to heave the suppliant word!O, guilty act! and worthy Fortune’s frown,That ye should speak, let yet accordThis worthy latter with your erst renown!Still trust, stand nobly up, tho’ all seem down!
How came his right that he should dare,He, and his two mates-at-noble-arms,To stand erect, and not with bowed heads and bare,Beg mites for build-up of their homestead-farms,Their hearths which Ravage blacked with sorry flame,Their children stricken within pesthouse gates,And all rank glories wherein Empire came,To foist her mission on these latter dates;Not be lions of the hour, garb their prideIn neat devisings at the conqueror’s hands;But let their prayer on yon throb go wideWhich fellows justice with the far-offs’t strands?O, hearts, whose fires whet the valiant sword;Pushed how to heave the suppliant word!O, guilty act! and worthy Fortune’s frown,That ye should speak, let yet accordThis worthy latter with your erst renown!Still trust, stand nobly up, tho’ all seem down!
How came his right that he should dare,He, and his two mates-at-noble-arms,To stand erect, and not with bowed heads and bare,Beg mites for build-up of their homestead-farms,Their hearths which Ravage blacked with sorry flame,Their children stricken within pesthouse gates,And all rank glories wherein Empire came,To foist her mission on these latter dates;Not be lions of the hour, garb their prideIn neat devisings at the conqueror’s hands;But let their prayer on yon throb go wideWhich fellows justice with the far-offs’t strands?O, hearts, whose fires whet the valiant sword;Pushed how to heave the suppliant word!O, guilty act! and worthy Fortune’s frown,That ye should speak, let yet accordThis worthy latter with your erst renown!Still trust, stand nobly up, tho’ all seem down!
No book alone is this, but very life;A throbbing volume with warm blood-beats writ,To vouch whose pages did the brave deed sit,His traits tho’ lurid with angry strife;To blaze whose image did not Freedom first,To her wide symbol, past best trick of art,In quivering flame-strokes, as no imprint durstTrace plain each feature on her mighty heart?Nay, in her fierce love, so drew them, that to mortal sightThey took on the lineaments of horrid hate,What were but flashes of her beaconed light,The fervent visions of large things that wait;For this man did love her for no worldly store,Might never derogate with venal breathThe divine injunction which her message boreTo voice her biddings, yea, ’gainst grappling Death.And, when such manhood cries you, “peace,” “no more,”Shall not his foeman reach a brother’s hand,Such day not with a double lustre pourIts countenance o’er the darkened land?Shall Love not smile and understand?
No book alone is this, but very life;A throbbing volume with warm blood-beats writ,To vouch whose pages did the brave deed sit,His traits tho’ lurid with angry strife;To blaze whose image did not Freedom first,To her wide symbol, past best trick of art,In quivering flame-strokes, as no imprint durstTrace plain each feature on her mighty heart?Nay, in her fierce love, so drew them, that to mortal sightThey took on the lineaments of horrid hate,What were but flashes of her beaconed light,The fervent visions of large things that wait;For this man did love her for no worldly store,Might never derogate with venal breathThe divine injunction which her message boreTo voice her biddings, yea, ’gainst grappling Death.And, when such manhood cries you, “peace,” “no more,”Shall not his foeman reach a brother’s hand,Such day not with a double lustre pourIts countenance o’er the darkened land?Shall Love not smile and understand?
No book alone is this, but very life;A throbbing volume with warm blood-beats writ,To vouch whose pages did the brave deed sit,His traits tho’ lurid with angry strife;To blaze whose image did not Freedom first,To her wide symbol, past best trick of art,In quivering flame-strokes, as no imprint durstTrace plain each feature on her mighty heart?Nay, in her fierce love, so drew them, that to mortal sightThey took on the lineaments of horrid hate,What were but flashes of her beaconed light,The fervent visions of large things that wait;For this man did love her for no worldly store,Might never derogate with venal breathThe divine injunction which her message boreTo voice her biddings, yea, ’gainst grappling Death.
And, when such manhood cries you, “peace,” “no more,”Shall not his foeman reach a brother’s hand,Such day not with a double lustre pourIts countenance o’er the darkened land?Shall Love not smile and understand?
[3]A sequel to lines on page84.
[3]A sequel to lines on page84.
Full zodiacs three the fiery sun,Thro’ maze of stars, his web has spun,Since War’s late grimy page begunTo blaze its line—the bloody handWhose lurid strokes bade Peace to stand.And, World-heart, O, what hast thou won?And, is the sad act past and done?Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted starTo trace once more upon the LightYon awful cypher of the Night?
Full zodiacs three the fiery sun,Thro’ maze of stars, his web has spun,Since War’s late grimy page begunTo blaze its line—the bloody handWhose lurid strokes bade Peace to stand.And, World-heart, O, what hast thou won?And, is the sad act past and done?Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted starTo trace once more upon the LightYon awful cypher of the Night?
Full zodiacs three the fiery sun,Thro’ maze of stars, his web has spun,Since War’s late grimy page begunTo blaze its line—the bloody handWhose lurid strokes bade Peace to stand.
And, World-heart, O, what hast thou won?And, is the sad act past and done?Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted starTo trace once more upon the LightYon awful cypher of the Night?
The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay—The lowering, then, and stirring hours,Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,Would bind them fair, their story tell,The silent bloom Death loves so well;Nay, haply show, how from their seed,What large effects may leveling breed.That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all;The roistering winds that ravening blewHave ceased their brawl,Mad sport that drewWar’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.While from the din there rose, I thought,Brave strains of man no fear might toss:If, echoing these, a few I wroughtInto rude posies, strove to crossTheir wildness with the rose of art,—Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breatheThose clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.Which, humbly, while their love did wreatheA passioned chaplet for the Muse;Did they, to match her large faith there,To vie the crown she auguring bear,Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,A sister garland for the Truth?
The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay—The lowering, then, and stirring hours,Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,Would bind them fair, their story tell,The silent bloom Death loves so well;Nay, haply show, how from their seed,What large effects may leveling breed.That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all;The roistering winds that ravening blewHave ceased their brawl,Mad sport that drewWar’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.While from the din there rose, I thought,Brave strains of man no fear might toss:If, echoing these, a few I wroughtInto rude posies, strove to crossTheir wildness with the rose of art,—Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breatheThose clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.Which, humbly, while their love did wreatheA passioned chaplet for the Muse;Did they, to match her large faith there,To vie the crown she auguring bear,Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,A sister garland for the Truth?
The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay—The lowering, then, and stirring hours,Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,Would bind them fair, their story tell,The silent bloom Death loves so well;Nay, haply show, how from their seed,What large effects may leveling breed.
That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all;The roistering winds that ravening blewHave ceased their brawl,Mad sport that drewWar’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.While from the din there rose, I thought,Brave strains of man no fear might toss:If, echoing these, a few I wroughtInto rude posies, strove to crossTheir wildness with the rose of art,—Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,
Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breatheThose clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.Which, humbly, while their love did wreatheA passioned chaplet for the Muse;Did they, to match her large faith there,To vie the crown she auguring bear,Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,A sister garland for the Truth?