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vv. 242–367. A face in a picture, striving amazedly;

The little maid who danced at her father's board,

The innocent voice man's love came never nigh,

Who joined to his her little paean-cry

When the third cup was poured

What came thereafter I saw not neither tell.

But the craft of Calchas failed not.—'Tis written, He

Who Suffereth Shall Learn; the law holdeth well.

And that which is to be,

Ye will know at last; why weep before the hour?

For come it shall, as out of darkness dawn.

Only may good from all this evil flower;

So prays this Heart of Argos, this frail tower

Guarding the land alone.

Before thy state, O Queen, I bow mine eyes.

'Tis written, when the man's throne empty lies,

The woman shall be honoured.—Hast thou heard

Some tiding sure? Or is it Hope, hath stirred

To fire these altars? Dearly though we seek

To learn, 'tis thine to speak or not to speak.

Glad-voiced, the old saw telleth, comes this morn,

The Star-child of a dancing midnight born,

And beareth to thine ear a word of joy

Beyond all hope: the Greek hath taken Troy.