Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/85

Rh THE PILGRIM OF FATE.

To Destiny I pilgrim went For whom alone no altars rise, No incense fumes, no spikenard drips. She gazes down the centuries On all eternity intent. A smile upon her marble lips.

I mute before her Idol bowed Whose peace nor praise nor prayer stirs, Whom Gods revere and Dæmons dread, Who still, by myriad ministers The passive leads but dragdrags [sic] the proud The way predestin'd each must tread.

How should she heedthat stony sphynx The tiny flame which lights our years? Our puny heart that throbs and bleeds?