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vv. 479–500. 'Twere the fashion of a child,

Or a brain dream-beguiled,

To be kindled by the first

Torch's message as it burst,

And thereafter, as it dies, to die too.

—'Tis like a woman's sceptre, to ordain

Welcome to joy before the end is plain!

—Too lightly opened are a woman's ears;

Her fence downtrod by many trespassers,

And quickly crossed; but quickly lost

The burden of a woman's hopes or fears.

Soon surely shall we read the message right;

Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light

True speakers, or but happy lights that seem

And are not, like sweet voices in a dream.

I see a Herald yonder by the shore,

Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore

Rent raiment cries a witness from afar,

Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war,

That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke

Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke;

But either shouting for a joyful day,

Or else But other thoughts I cast away.

As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray!