Into a new and multitudinous life

That likeness fashions to community,

Mother divine of customs, faith and laws.
'Tis ripeness, 'tis fame's zenith that kills hope.
Huge oaks are dying, forests yet to come
Lie in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds.

0

Because our race has no great memories,
I will so live, it shall remember me
For deeds of such divine beneficence

As rivers have, that teach men what is good
By blessing them.

-0

The rich heritage, the milder life, Of nations fathered by a mighty Past.

-0

'Life and more life unto the chosen, death To all things living that would stifle them!'

So speaks each god that makes a nation strong.

-0

Royal deeds

May make long destinies for multitudes.

Strong souls

Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength

In farthest striving action; breathe more free

In mighty anguish than in trivial ease.

'Tis a vile life that like a garden pool
Lies stagnant in the round of personal loves ;
That has no ear save for the tickling lute
Set to small measures-deaf to all the beats
Of that large music rolling o'er the world:
A miserable, petty, low-roofed life,

That knows the mighty orbits of the skies
Through nought save light or dark in its own cabin.
The very brutes will feel the force of kind

And move together, gathering a new soul-
The soul of multitudes.

In vain, my daughter!

Lay the young eagle in what nest you will,

The cry and swoop of eagles overhead

Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame,

And make it spread its wings and poise itself
For the eagle's flight.

(To Fedalma.)—Nay, never falter: no great deed is done

By falterers who ask for certainty.

No good is certain, but the steadfast mind,

The undivided will to seek the good :
'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings
A human music from the indifferent air.
The greatest gift the hero leaves his race
Is to have been a hero. Say we fail !—
We feed the high tradition of the world,
And leave our spirit in our children's breasts.

Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak?
For men erect to crawl like hissing snakes?
I choose not-I am Zarca. Let him choose
Who halts and wavers, having appetite
To feed on garbage.

Things are achieved when they are well begun.
The perfect archer calls the deer his own
While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye
Never sees failure, sees the mark alone.

Fighting for dear life men choose their swords For cutting only, not for ornament.

What nought but Nature gives, man takes perforce Where she bestows it, though in vilest place.

Can he compress invention out of pride,

Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail
Towards great discoveries with a pedigree?

Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers
Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once
Founded a dynasty, and raised on high

The leathern apron over armies spread

Between the mountains like a lake of steel.

·0·

He who rules

Must humour full as much as he commands;

Must let men vow impossibilities;

Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish

And serve the ends of wisdom.

High device is still the highest force,

And he who holds the secret of the wheel
May make the rivers do what work he would.
With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls,
Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly
Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind.
Tell me what's mirrored in the tiger's heart,
I'll rule that too.

What man is he who brandishes a sword
In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then
Against the night that kept him ignorant ?

A woman's dream-who thinks by smiling well

To ripen figs in frost.

-0

Vengeance is just :

Justly we rid the earth of human fiends
Who carry hell for pattern in their souls.
But in high vengeance there is noble scorn :
It tortures not the torturer, nor gives
Iniquitous payment for iniquity.

The great avenging angel does not crawl
To kill the serpent with a mimic fang;
He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge
That slays like lightning.

Men might well seek

For purifying rites; even pious deeds

Need washing.

(To Fedalma.)

Ah, yes! all preciousness

To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear.

All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme,

Its own perfection-seeing, feeling change

From high to lower, dearer to less dear.

Can love be careless? If we lost our love

What should we find ?—with this sweet Past torn off,