Page:Songs of the Springtides - Swinburne (1880).pdf/93

 With subtler glory and rarer Than thrills the sun's own shrine.

Who knows how then his godlike banished gaze Turned haply from its goal of natural days And homeward hunger for the clear French clime, Toward English earth, whereunder now the Accursed Rots, in the hate of all men's hearts inhearsed, A carrion ranker to the sense of time For that sepulchral gift of stone and lime By royal grace laid on it, less of weight Than the load laid by fate, Fate, misbegotten child of his own crime, Son of as foul a bastard-bearing birth As even his own on earth; Less heavy than the load of cursing piled By loyal grace of all souls undefiled