Through the wild Babel of our fevered time
The song of Homer cometh, grave and stern,
With tidings from the world's fresh, healthy prime, —
Tidings which our worn, wearied age concern.
Unchanged, through all the long unnumbered years,
The voice of Homer sings the song divine,
Which tells of godlike toils, of heroes' tears,
And of the punishment of Priam's line.
The battle in the plain is raging yet;
The watchfires blaze, the beak'd ships line the shore;
For us the foe in grim array is set;
Ah! but do we fight as they fought of yore?
For we, too, like the heroes long ago,
Must wage slow wars and sail the bitter sea;
Fierce is the conflict, loud the tempests blow,
And the waves roar and rage unceasingly.
Still must we wander o'er the stormy main;
'Twixt rocks and whirlpools a dread passage make;
Still must the Sirens sing to us in vain;
Still from the toils of Circe must we break.
Turn, then, to Homer's Psalm of Life, and see
How they endured, whose pilgrimage is done;
And hear the message they have left for thee:
Only by patience is the victory won.