To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

[ep. (epode) α.

I take the lyre with steady hand But reverent, knowing well how long And bitter are the ways of song, How few that reach its Promised Land. I know my weakness and my strength; I know that the toil will task me sore; And, though glad and proud, I am made at length More humble of heart than I was before. For I felt, when my song was so o'er-requited, As a maid when she first finds love and is still, And my soul knelt down as a thrall new-knighted, Abashed and wondering, weak to fulfil. For he should be strong who shall wear this crown, Wise and great-hearted, just to king and clown, Sweet and serene and full of grace And pure as Daphne ere the fatal race — Daphne, the daughter of the river god, Whose beauty was a pearl whose worth surpassed The cruel wealth the Cretan's touch amassed. But she loved more the woodland paths she trod Untrammeled, than the rule of Hymen's rod, And pleading many times for leave to cast Her lot with virgin Artemis, at last Won from her father the consenting nod. And she and her maidens withdrew from the fret and the pother Back to the home in the heart of the sweet rough mother,

Mother of all things, the earth, and drank of the crystalline chalice She fills for her children that love her, a cup of refreshing and peace, Chased the roe on the rocks and hunted the hart through the valleys, Raced in sport through the groves with gowns kilted up to the knees, Saw through the mists of the morning the gleam of the cold dawn shining, Ranged through many a woodland and bathed in many a stream, Wonderful, virginal, holy, aloof from desire and repining; And Artemis smiled on the maidens and the days went fleet as a dream.