XXV. THE ORACLES
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Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountainWhen winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old. I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shriekingThat she and I should surely die and never live again. Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before. The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.
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