II

We thinkers, who have thought for thee and failed,—

      We hopers, who have hoped for thee and lost,—

We poets, wandered round by dreams, who hailed

      From this Atrides' roof (with lintel-post

Which still drips blood,—the worse part hath prevailed)

      The fire-voice of the beacons, to declare

Troy taken, sorrow ended,—cozened through

      A crimson sunset in a misty air,—

What now remains for such as we, to do?

      -God's judgments, peradventure, will He bare

To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue?