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vv. 89–110. That guards the city, the deep, the high,

Gods of the mart, gods of the sky,

The altars blaze.

One here, one there,

To the skyey night the firebrands flare,

Drunk with the soft and guileless spell

Of balm of kings from the inmost cell.

Tell, O Queen, and reject us not,

All that can or that may be told,

And healer be to this aching thought,

Which one time hovereth, evil-cold,

And then from the fires thou kindlest

Will Hope be kindled, and hungry Care

Fall back for a little while, nor tear

The heart that beateth below my breast.

It is ours to tell of the Sign of the War-way given,

To men more strong,

(For a life that is kin unto ours yet breathes from heaven

A spell, a Strength of Song:)

How the twin-throned Might of Achaia, one Crown divided

Above all Greeks that are,