High things of strong-souled men that loved their land On brass and stone are written, and their deeds On high days chanted; but none graven or sung That ever set men's eyes or spirits on fire, Athenians, has the sun's height seen, or earth Heard in her depth reverberate as from heaven, More worth men's praise and good report of Gods Than here I bring for record in your ears. For now being come to the altar, where as priest Death ministering should meet her, and his hand 1200 Seal her sweet eyes asleep, the maiden stood, With light in all her face as of a bride Smiling, or shine of festal flame by night Far flung from towers of triumph; and her lips Trembled with pride in pleasure, that no fear Blanched them nor death before his time drank dry The blood whose bloom fulfilled them; for her cheeks Lightened, and brighter than a bridal veil Her hair enrobed her bosom and enrolled From face to feet the body's whole soft length 1210 As with a cloud sun-saturate; then she spake With maiden tongue words manlike, but her eyes Lit mildly like a maiden's: _Countrymen, With more goodwill and height of happier heart I give me to you than my mother bare, And go more gladly this great way to death Than young men bound to battle._ Then with face Turned to the shadowiest part of all the shrine And eyes fast set upon the further shade, _Take me, dear Gods_; and as some form had shone 1220 From the deep hollow shadow, some God's tongue Answered, _I bless you that your guardian grace Gives me to guard this country, takes my blood, Your child's by name, to heal it_. Then the priest Set to the flower-sweet snow of her soft throat The sheer knife's edge that severed it, and loosed From the fair bondage of so spotless flesh So strong a spirit; and all that girt them round Gazing, with souls that hung on that sad stroke, Groaned, and kept silence after while a man 1230 Might count how far the fresh blood crept, and bathed How deep the dark robe and the bright shrine's base Red-rounded with a running ring that grew More large and duskier as the wells that fed Were drained of that pure effluence: but the queen Groaned not nor spake nor wept, but as a dream Floats out of eyes awakening so past forth Ghost-like, a shadow of sorrow, from all sight To the inner court and chamber where she sits Dumb, till word reach her of this whole day's end. 1240 CHORUS.