CONTENT AND ASPIRATION.
THUS far forth on the march I have fared to a region of darkness ; Winds blow loudly and stern ; pondering, doubting I stand. Yonder the plain of the homes of the people, the streets of the city, Masts on the smooth-flowing stream, fields, and the charm of the cot : There dwell the pleasures of love, calm faith, sweet peace for the lowly ; Daytime labour and wage ; sleep is the end of their toil.
There, too, the mean and the base, souls lost in the marshes of Mammon, Blind-eyed slaves of the sense, wreathed with the vapour of lies. This is the Heroes' Gate, and the long, long pass through the mountains, Rugged and swept by the storms, dim-lighted footing for one : Ever the thundering surge of the torrent is dashing across it, Ruthless into its jaws sweeping the bones of the dead.
Past the abysses, the crags, and the hunger and cold of the mountains, Gain we wider domains, nearer the homes of the gods. A.
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