Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/289



Or it may be my bitter doom

To stand a handmaid at the loom,

In distant Athens of supreme renown;

And weave some wondrous tapestry,

Or work in bright embroidery,

Upon the crocus-flowered robe and saffron-coloured gown,

The flying horses wrought in gold,

The silver chariot onward rolled

That bears Athena through the Town;

Or the warring giants that strove to climb

From earth to heaven to reign as kings,

And Zeus the conquering son of Time

Borne on the hurricane's eagle wings;

And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell

From the risen cloud at the god's behest,

And hurled the rebels to darkness of hell,

To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest.

Alas! our children's sorrow, and their pain

In slavery.

Alas! our warrior sires nobly slain

For liberty. 275