So they fared on, such love they bore to her,
Till evermore more weary grew the way,
And all the glaring landscape reeled and swam,
And on the olives played a quivering haze,
And like a nightmare showed the far-off shrine,
Distant, unreal, ghostly; and evermore,

Such darts the great Far-worker aimed at them,
Their eyes grew dim, their hearts throbbed hard and high,
Their youthful limbs hung heavy with the toil;
Yet with no word of murmur or complaint,
Revering the high service which they owed

To Heré, and their mother, they toiled on,

Each cheering each,—each heartening each with words,

All day until the evening; till at length

They reached the distant city, wherein they saw

High, on a scarpëd rock, the shining house

Of Heré set above them. So at last,
Panting as when they ran and won the crown
At Elis; ere the oxen left the plough
They toiled along the sounding colonnades,
And all the crowd retreating as they came,
Sank on the icy marble of the floor,
Before the large-eyed Heré :-there they lay

Supine, and all their limbs were loosed in sleep.

Then she, their mother, bending reverent knee
To sovereign Heré, full of pious pride,

For that her sons were such; and knowing well
How hard it is to live a life unstained ;

Prayed, if perchance, the goddess might be pleased
To give them what best gift was hers to give,
And choicest. As she spake, there seemed to come
A softer glance in Heré's awful eyes,—

The prayer was heard. But not on earth they woke.
Two thousand years have past and more, yet still
Men tell the simple story of their end.

AT HAVRE DE GRACE.

ABOVE the busy Norman town,

The high precipitous sea-cliffs rise,

And from their summit looking down

The twin-lights shine with lustrous eyes;

Far out upon the fields of foam,

The first to greet the wanderer home.

Man here has known at last to tame

Nature's wild forces to his will;

Those are the lightning's fires which flame, From yon high towers with ray so still: And knowledge, piercing through the night Of time, has summoned forth the light.

And there, hard by the light-house door,
The earthly set by the divine;

At a stone's cast, or scarcely more,
Rises a little pagan shrine,'

Where the rough seamen come to pray,
And wives, for dear ones far away.

There, on a starry orb, there stands
A heavenly goddess, proud and fair;

No infant holds she in her hands

Which must a queenly sceptre bear.
Nay; wonder not, for this is she
Who rules the fury of the sea.

Star of the sea, they call her, yet
Liker to Heré doth she show,

Than Aphrodité, rising wet

From the white waves, with limbs aglow. Calmer she seems, more pure and sweet, To the poor kneelers at her feet.

Before her still the vestal fires

Burn unextinguished day and night;

And the sweet frankincense expires

And fair flowers blow, and gems are bright:

For a great power in heaven is she,

This star and goddess of the sea.

Around the temple, everywhere,

Rude tablets hung, attest her might;

Here the fierce surge she smooths, and there
Darts downward on a bar of light :

To quench the blazing ship, or save
The shipwrecked from the hungry wave.

And sea-gifts round the shrine are laid,
Poor offerings, costlier far than gold :

Such as the earlier heathen made,

To the twin Deities of old,

Toy ships, shells, coral, glittering spar,
Brought here by grateful hands from far.

A very present help indeed,

This goddess is to whom they bow; We seek Thy face with hearts that bleed,

And straining eyes, dread Lord; but Thou Hidest Thyself so far away,

Our thoughts scarce reach Thee as we pray.

But is this she, whom the still voice
Of angels greeted in the night;
Bidding the poor maid's heart rejoice,
With visions hid from wiser sight:
This heathen nymph, this tinselled queen,

First of all mothers who have been?

Gross hearts and purblind eyes, to make
An idol of a soul so sweet!

Could you no meaner essence take,
No brazen image with clay feet;
No saint from out the crowd of lies,
False signs and shameful prodigies?