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20 There by Ilion's gate

Many a soldier sleepeth,

Young men beautiful; fast in hate

Troy her conqueror keepeth.

But the rumour of the People, it is heavy, it is chill;

And tho' no curse be spoken, like a curse doth it brood;

And my heart waits some tiding which the dark holdeth still,

For of God not unmarked is the shedder of much blood.

And who conquers beyond right Lo, the life of man decays;

There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years;

He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies.

There is peril in the praise

Over-praisèd that he hears;

For the thunder it is hurled from God's eyes.

Glory that breedeth strife,

Pride of the Sacker of Cities;

Yea, and the conquered captive's life,

Spare me, O God of Pities!

—The fire of good tidings it hath sped the city through,

But who knows if a god mocketh? Or who knows if all be true?