Of vengeance smiteth sore. One said of old, _The gods list not to hold A reckoning with him whose feet oppress The grace of holiness—_ An impious word! for whensoe’er the sire Breathed forth rebellious fire— What time his household overflowed the measure Of bliss and health and treasure— His children’s children read the reckoning plain, At last, in tears and pain. On me let weal that brings no woe be sent, And therewithal, content! Who spurns the shrine of Right, nor wealth nor power Shall be to him a tower, To guard him from the gulf: there lies his lot, Where all things are forgot. Lust drives him on—lust, desperate and wild, Fate’s sin-contriving child— And cure is none; beyond concealment clear, Kindles sin’s baleful glare. As an ill coin beneath the wearing touch Betrays by stain and smutch Its metal false—such is the sinful wight. Before, on pinions light, Fair Pleasure flits, and lures him childlike on, While home and kin make moan Beneath the grinding burden of his crime; Till, in the end of time, Cast down of heaven, he pours forth fruitless prayer To powers that will not hear. And such did Paris come Unto Atrides’ home, And thence, with sin and shame his welcome to repay, Ravished the wife away— And she, unto her country and her kin Leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships, And bearing unto Troy destruction for a dower, And overbold in sin, Went fleetly thro’ the gates, at midnight hour. Oft from the prophets’ lips Moaned out the warning and the wail—Ah woe! Woe for the home, the home! and for the chieftains, woe Woe for the bride-bed, warm Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form Of her who loved her lord, a while ago! And woe! for him who stands Shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands That find her not, and sees, yet will not see, That she is far away! And his sad fancy, yearning o’er the sea, Shall summon and recall Her wraith, once more to queen it in his hall. And sad with many memories, The fair cold beauty of each sculptured face— And all to hatefulness is turned their grace, Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes! And when the night is deep, Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing pain Of hopings vain— Void, void and vain, for scarce the sleeping sight Has seen its old delight, When thro’ the grasps of love that bid it stay It vanishes away On silent wings that roam adown the ways of sleep.