AS tyrant eats the selfhood of his slave,

As captive strikes no root in loneliness,

Must draughtsman ship avoid all figure save

These two,—the centre less circumference,

And that self-weariness of Present whence

Nor silvern hopes nor pure gold memories gave

Access to one, friend-welcome, fetterless ?

High dreams have limned the triptych, scored the stave.

Now stave is set with ampler harmonies ;

Ulysses has resailed from Ithaca,—

To fairest apples of Hesperides,

Beyond our drossed horizons, traveller ;

And Argo's prow is aimed for Colchis Fleece :

Foam-plash of silver. . . .courage.. shimmering peace.