Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/191

 When the capes were battle’s lists, and all the straits were slaughter’s, And the myriad Medes as foam-flakes on the scattering air. Ours the lightning was that cleared the north and lit the nations, But the light that gave the whole world light of old was she: Ours an age or twain, but hers are endless generations: All the world is hers at heart, and most of all are we.

Ye that bear the name about you of her glory, Men that wear the sign of Greeks upon you sealed, Yours is yet the choice to write yourselves in story Sons of them that fought the Marathonian field. Slaves of no man were ye, said your warrior poet, Neither subject unto man as underlings: Yours is now the season here wherein to show it, If the seed ye be of them that knew not kings. If ye be not, swords nor words alike found brittle From the dust of death to raise you shall prevail: Subject swords and dead men’s words may stead you little, If their old king-hating heart within you fail. If your spirit of old, and not your bonds, be broken, If the kingless heart be molten in your breasts,