Virgin of Troy, the days were well with thee
⁠When, wandering singing by the singing streams
⁠Of Ilion, thou beheld'st the golden gleams
Of the bold sun that might not facèd be

Come murmuring to thy feet caressingly;
⁠But best that day when, steeped in noontide dreams,
⁠The young Apollo wrapped thee in his beams,
And quenched his love in thine as in a sea!

And later, in thy tower 'twas sweet to teach
⁠The loveless night the joys high day had known;
To dream, to wake, — and find thy love impeach
⁠Late sleep with kisses, and thy spirit flown
To his, and at the ivoried gates of speech
⁠Breaking in words as burning as his own.

How far from llion, and how far from joy,
⁠Captive Kassandra, wert thou, when in sight
⁠Of conquering Greece thou satest on thy height
Of shame, — a waif from out the wreck of Troy!

Thine still the burning word, but slave's employ
⁠Had from thy trembling lip effaced quite
⁠The kisses of the god, and heaven's light
Now shone upon thee only to destroy.

For thee, sun-stricken one, th' abysmal sties
⁠Of sin lay open as the secret grave, —
Things of which speech seemed madness, — while thy cries
⁠On wronged Apollo lost the way to save;
Till at the last, the faith of upturned eyes
⁠Brought him to right, as death to free the slave.

Daughter of gods and men, great ruling will,
⁠Seething in oily rage within the sphere
⁠Which gods and men assign the woman here,
Till, stricken where the wound approved thee still

Mother and mortal, all the tide of ill
⁠Rushed through the gap, and nothing more seemed dear
⁠But power to wreck high ruin, nothing clear
But the long dream you waited to fulfil.

Mother and spouse, — queen of the king of men, —
⁠What fury brought Ægysthus to thy side? —
That bearded semblant, man to outward ken,
⁠But else mere mawworm, made to fret man's pride;
Woman, thy foot was on thy tyrant then!
⁠Mother, thou wert avenged for love defied!

Woman and Greek, — so doubly trained in art! —
⁠Spreading the purple for the conqueror's tread,
⁠Bowing with feline grace thy royal head, —
How perfect, whelp-robbed lioness, thy part!

One wrong the more to wring the ancient smart,
⁠Then three swift strokes, and the slow hope blooms red;
⁠Who shamed the hero lays him with the dead,
Where nevermore his word may vex her heart.

Bold queen, what were to thee the gods of Greece?
⁠What had been any god of any name,
More than the lion-heart you made to cease —
⁠Or the live dog to all your humors tame?
The very furies left your soul in peace
⁠Until Orestes' sword drove home their claim.

Mark the forget-me-not by yon brookside.
Its roots the mud, its stem the waters hide;
⁠Its blossoms seek the sky.
So, though thy feet be rooted in earth's slime,
Raise thou thy head above the waves of time —
⁠Look up on high!

See how the blossoms, earthward-bent awhile,
Turn as they ope to meet the sun's bright smile,
⁠And, as they upward gaze,
First flush with pink, then mirror heaven's own blue,
And every flow'ret bears, of sunny hue,
⁠A crown of rays.

O thou whose thoughts are fixed on this world's toys,
Look up to Him from whom are all thy joys.
⁠The beatific sight
Will change thee till the human grow divine,
And at the last upon thy brow shall shine
⁠A crown of light.