X.

X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the nations--let it be-- And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me-- 'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted,--they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.