XVIII

One scene, Euripides, throughout the years Clings to the moving skirts of memory, Among the images of things that lie In beauty perfected, too deep for tears. ’Tis where, to still his faithful matron’s fears Through lonely days and nights of agony, Having fulfilled his roving chivalry, At length the Paladin of eld appears, Thy Herakles; and wife and children stand ’Neath that majestic manhood pure from blame; The basket circulates from hand to hand. When of a sudden—He was not the same. There could no more, but with the dripping sword. And all that ruth impounded in a word!