XXV. THE ORACLES

‘ Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain

When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,

And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,

And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,

The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;

And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking

That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;

But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.

‘ Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;

And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;

Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.

And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.

The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.