| |
| THE WINDS that once the Argo bore | |
| Have died by Neptune’s ruined shrines, | |
| And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor, | |
| Though shaped of Pelion’s tallest pines. | |
| You may seek her crew on every isle | 5 |
| Fair in the foam of Ægean seas, | |
| But out of their rest no charm can wile | |
| Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. | |
| |
| And Priam’s wail is heard no more | |
| By windy Ilion’s sea-built walls; | 10 |
| Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, | |
| Shouts “O ye gods, ’t is Hector falls!” | |
| On Ida’s mount is the shining snow, | |
| But Jove has gone from its brow away; | |
| And red on the plain the poppies grow | 15 |
| Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. | |
| |
| Mother Earth, are the heroes dead? | |
| Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? | |
| Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red | |
| All that is left of the brave of yore? | 20 |
| Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, | |
| Far in the young world’s misty dawn? | |
| Or teach as gray-haired Nestor taught? | |
| Mother Earth, are the heroes gone? | |
| |
| Gone? In a grander form they rise. | 25 |
| Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, | |
| And catch the light of their clearer eyes, | |
| And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. | |
| Wherever a noble deed is done, | |
| ’T is the pulse of a hero’s heart is stirred; | 30 |
| Wherever Right has a triumph won, | |
| There are the heroes’ voices heard. | |
| |
| Their armor rings on a fairer field | |
| Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod; | |
| For Freedom’s sword is the blade they wield, | 35 |
| And the gleam above is the smile of God. | |
| So, in his isle of calm delight, | |
| Jason may sleep the years away; | |
| For the heroes live, and the sky is bright, | |
| And the world is a braver world to-day. | 40 |
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