The lucid well; one snowy knee was prest Against the margin flowers; a dreadful light Came from her golden hair, her golden helm And all her golden armour on the grass, And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark For ever, and I heard a voice that said ‘Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much, And speak the truth that no man may believe.’ Son, in the hidden world of sight, that lives Behind this darkness, I behold her still, Beyond all work of those who carve the stone, Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood, Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance, And as it were, perforce, upon me flash’d The power of prophesying - but to me No power - so chain’d and coupled with the curse Of blindness and their unbelief, who heard And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague, Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunderbolt, And angers of the Gods for evil done And expiation lack’d — no power on Fate, Theirs, or mine own! for when the crowd would roar For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom, To cast wise words among the multitude Was flinging fruit to lions; nor, in hours Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb The madness of our cities and their kings. Who ever turn’d upon his heel to hear My warning that the tyranny of one Was prelude to the tyranny of all? My counsel that the tyranny of all Led backward to the tyranny of one? This power hath work’d no good to aught that lives, And these blind hands were useless in their wars. О therefore that the unfulfill’d desire, The grief for ever born from griefs to be, The boundless yearning of the Prophet’s heart — Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear’d To some great citizen, win all praise from all Who past it, saying, ‘That was he!’ In vain! Virtue must shape itself in deed, and those Whom weakness or necessity have cramp’d Within themselves, immerging, each, his urn In his own well, draw solace as he may. Menoeceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear Too plainly what full tides of onset sap Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war Rides on those ringing axles! jingle of bits, Shouts, arrows, tramp of the hornfooted horse That grind the glebe to powder! Stony showers Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash Along the sounding walls. Above, below, Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering War-thunder of iron rams; and from within The city comes a murmur void of joy, Lest she be taken captive — maidens, wives, And mothers with their babblers of the dawn, And oldest age in shadow from the night, Falling about their shrines before their Gods, And wailing ‘Save us.’ And they wail to thee! These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own, See this, that only in thy virtue lies The saving of our Thebes; for, yesternight, To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss Is war, and human sacrifice — himself Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt With stormy light as on a mast at sea, Stood out before a darkness, crying ‘Thebes, Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of these By his own hand - if one of these —’ My son, No sound is breathed so potent to coerce, And to conciliate, as their names who dare For that sweet mother land which gave them birth Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names, Graven on memorial columns, are a song Heard in the future; few, but more than wall And rampart, their examples reach a hand
