As o'er that ancient weird Arlesian plain Where Zeus hail'd boulder-stones on the giant crew, And changed to stone, or slew, No bud may burgeon in Spring's gracious rain, No blade of grass or grain: --So bare, so scourged, a prey to chaos cast The wisest despot leaves his realm at last! Though for the land he toil'd with iron will, Earnest to reach persuasion's goal through power, The fruit without the flower! And pray'd and wrestled to charm good from ill; Waking perchance, or not, in death,--to find Man fights a losing fight who fights mankind! And as who in the Theban avenue, Sphinx ranged by Sphinx, goes awestruck, nor may read That ancient awful creed Closed in their granite calm:--so dim the clue, So tangled, tracking through That labyrinthine soul which, day by day Changing, yet kept one long imperious way: Strong in his weakness; confident, yet forlorn; Waning and waxing; diamond-keen, or dull, As that star Wonderful, Mira, for ever, dying and reborn:-- Blissful or baleful, yet a Power throughout, Throned in dim altitude o'er the common rout. Alas, great Chief! The pity of it!--For he Lay on his unlamented bier; his life Wreck'd on that futile strife To wed things alien by heaven's decree, Sword-sway with liberty:-- Coercing, not protecting;--for the Cause Smiting with iron heel on England's laws: --Intolerant tolerance! Soul that could not trust Its finer instincts; self-compell'd to run The blood-path once begun, And murder mercy with a sad 'I must!' Great lion-heart by guile and coarseness marr'd; By his own heat a hero warp'd and scarr'd. Despot despite himself!--And when the cry Moan'd up from England, dungeon'd in that drear Sectarian atmosphere, With glory he gilt her chains; in Spanish sky Flaunting the Red Cross high;-- Wars, just or unjust, ill or well design'd, Urged with the will that masters weak mankind. --God's hammer Thou!--not hero!--Forged to break The land,--salve wounds with wounds, heal force by force; Sword-surgeon keen and coarse:-- To all who worship power for power's own sake,-- Strength for itself,--Success, the vulgar test,-- Fit idol of bent knee, and servile breast! --O in the party plaudits of the crowd Glorious, if this be glory!--o'er that shout A small still voice breathes out With subtle sweetness silencing the loud Hoarse vaunting of the proud,-- A song of exaltation for the vale, And how the mountain from his height shall fail! How God's true heroes, since this earth began, Go sackcloth-clad through scourge and sword and scorn, Crown'd with the bleeding thorn, Down-trampled by man's heel as foes to man, And whispering _Eli_, _Eli_! as they die,-- Martyrs of truth and Saint Humility.