XIII

What barriers are these that bid me stand Baffled, amazed, and wrathful at the sign That threatens me for claiming what is mine! Have we not walked together hand in hand Down lanes of Devon; mused upon the sand Beside the Bay of Naples; drunk the wine Of famed Fiesole, where Shelley's line Thundered of freedom for Italia's land!

Tradition built this guarded shadow-wall, And Shelley's song hath strength to sing it down. Come, brave the craven face funereal, Of Pharisees who weave of thorns a crown For him who has not faltered at the cross, But counts that gain which others reckon loss.