He scaled the summit while the sun
Yet shone upon his conquer'd track:
Nor falter'd till the goal was won,
Nor struggling upward, once look'd back.

But what avails the "pride of place",
Or winged chariot rolling past?
He heeds not now who wins the race,
Alike to him the first or last.




Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood').



Perdita


She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair
And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,
The delicate hues of brow and cheek
Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;
That matchless frame yet holds at bay
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.

There is no fear in her great dark eyes --
No hope, no love, no care,
Stately and proud she looks around