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vv. 379–405. Only as deemeth well

One wise of mood.

Never shall state nor gold

Shelter his heart from aching

Whoso the Altar of Justice old

Spurneth to Night unwaking.

The tempting of misery forceth him, the dread

Child of fore-scheming Woe!

And help is vain; the fell desire within

Is veilèd not, but shineth bright like Sin:

And as false gold will show

Black where the touchstone trieth, so doth fade

His honour in God's ordeal. Like a child,

Forgetting all, he hath chased his wingèd bird,

And planted amid his people a sharp thorn.

And no God hears his prayer, or, have they heard,

The man so base-beguiled

They cast to scorn.

Paris to Argos came;

Love of a woman led him;

So God's altar he brought to shame,

Robbing the hand that fed him.

She hath left among her people a noise of shield and sword,

A tramp of men armèd where the long ships are moored;