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Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.


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How rich am I to whom the Orient sends
Such gifts as yonder fair and liberal Day,
Whose argosy o'ersails the mist-bar gray,
And now its shining length of cable spends.
Upon its decks are signal-waving friends,

Who by their every jocund token say : “ Hence from thy spirit put distrust

away, This bountihood thy slackened fortune mends ! We've olives from the soft gray trees of Peace, And damask apples heaped for thee in sport By the blithe Hours of young Aurora's court, And myrrh thy heart in worship to release ; Such freight is thine for Power's and Joy's increase ; Oh, be no longer doubtful, — Day’s in port!”



Who reads this measure flowing strong and deep,
It seems to him old Homer's voice he hears ;
But soon grows up a sound that moves to tears,
Tears such as Homer cannot make us weep,
Whether a grieving god bids Death and Sleep
Bear slain Sarpedon home unto his peers,
Or gray-haired Priam, kneeling, full of tears,
Seeks Hector's corse torn by the chariot's sweep.
Lightly these sorrows move us, in compare
With that which moans along the Oxus' tide,
Where by his father's hand young Sohrab died,
Great father and great son met unaware
On Fate's dark field ; in awe we leave them there,
Wrapped in the mists that from the river glide.

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