With cry to the four royal winds, to Heaven,
    And to the swerving roll of the great forest,
    That César has no crown....

    [_A_ NURSE _passes under the balcony leading a young child_.

    ... No crown, no race--I have not borne a son.

    [_She bows her face over her arms._

                        There is not any
    Among the Kings gold-browed as this. Oh, peace!
    But lift it in your hands--’tis Gideon’s fleece
    This forthright weft of silky blond. And many
    Dumb animals lurk at the eyelids’ crease,
    Under the eyes--a serpent that from fenny
    Marish finds sluice; a lion when in den he
    Deviseth rage; an ox beneath the trees:
    Yea, and an eagle droopeth for its prey,
    A malign eagle, in the slack, dull gaze.
    But on the lips what panting savagery,
    The fang of the wolf on winter forest-ways!
    Yet is the face soft, lonely, over all
    A honied mystery that must appal.

     Elogia virorum illustrium, 1551.

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