There by Ilion’s gate Many a soldier sleepeth, Young men beautiful; fast in hate Troy her conqueror keepeth. (_For the Shedder of Blood is in great peril, and not unmarked by God. May I never be a Sacker of Cities!_) But the rumour of the People, it is heavy, it is chill; And tho’ no curse be spoken, like a curse doth it brood; And my heart waits some tiding which the dark holdeth still, For of God not unmarked is the shedder of much blood. And who conquers beyond right … Lo, the life of man decays; There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years; He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies. There is peril in the praise Over-praised that he hears; For the thunder it is hurled from God’s eyes. Glory that breedeth strife, Pride of the Sacker of Cities; Yea, and the conquered captive’s life, Spare me, O God of Pities! DIVERS ELDERS. —The fire of good tidings it hath sped the city through, But who knows if a god mocketh? Or who knows if all be true? ’Twere the fashion of a child, Or a brain dream-beguiled, To be kindled by the first Torch’s message as it burst, And thereafter, as it dies, to die too. —’Tis like a woman’s sceptre, to ordain Welcome to joy before the end is plain! —Too lightly opened are a woman’s ears; Her fence downtrod by many trespassers, And quickly crossed; but quickly lost The burden of a woman’s hopes or fears. [_Here a break occurs in the action, like the descent of the curtain in a modern theatre. A space of some days is assumed to have passed and we find the Elders again assembled_.] LEADER. Soon surely shall we read the message right; Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light True speakers, or but happy lights, that seem And are not, like sweet voices in a dream. I see a Herald yonder by the shore, Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore Rent raiment cries a witness from afar, Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war, That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke; But either shouting for a joyful day, Or else…. But other thoughts I cast away. As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray! —And whoso for this City prayeth aught Else, let him reap the harvest of his thought! [_Enter the_ HERALD, _running. His garments are torn and war-stained. He falls upon his knees and kisses the Earth, and salutes each Altar in turn._] HERALD. Land of my fathers! Argos! Am I here … Home, home at this tenth shining of the year, And all Hope’s anchors broken save this one! For scarcely dared I dream, here in mine own Argos at last to fold me to my rest…. But now—All Hail, O Earth! O Sunlight blest! And Zeus Most High! [_Checking himself as he sees the altar of Apollo._]