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And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.

C

Then in Life's goblet freely press,
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give!

And he who has not learned to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe,
With which its brim may overflow,
He has not learned to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light;
Through all that dark and desperate fight,
The blackness of that noonday night,

He asked but the return of sight,

To see his foeman's face.

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Let our unceasing, earnest prayer

Be, too, for light,-for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair

One half the human race.

O suffering, sad humanity!
O
ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, and yet afraid to die,

Patient, though sorely tried!

I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!
The Battle of our Life is brief,

The alarm, the struggle,-the relief,—
Then sleep we side by side.

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MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies

Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

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