’He offered vengeance, lifelong grief
  To one dear ghost, uncounted price: 
Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself,
    Heaped up the sacrifice.

’Self-immolated to his friend,
  Shrined in world’s wonder, Homer’s page,
Is this the man, the less than men,
    Of this degenerate age?’ 140

’Gross from his acorns, tusky boar
  Does memorable acts like his;
So for her snared offended young
    Bleeds the swart lioness.’

But here she paused; our eyes had met,
  And I was whitening with the jeer;
She rose:  ‘I went too far,’ she said;
    Spoke low:  ’Forgive me, dear.

’To me our days seem pleasant days,
  Our home a haven of pure content; 150
Forgive me if I said too much,
    So much more than I meant.

‘Homer, tho’ greater than his gods,
  With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed
And rough-hewn men:  but what are such
    To us who learn of Christ?’

The much-moved pathos of her voice,
  Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek
Grown pale, confessed the strength of love
    Which only made her speak:  160

For mild she was, of few soft words,
  Most gentle, easy to be led,
Content to listen when I spoke
    And reverence what I said;

I elder sister by six years;
  Not half so glad, or wise, or good: 
Her words rebuked my secret self
    And shamed me where I stood.

She never guessed her words reproved
  A silent envy nursed within, 170
A selfish, souring discontent
    Pride-born, the devil’s sin.

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: 
  ’The wisest man of all the wise
Left for his summary of life
    “Vanity of vanities.”

’Beneath the sun there’s nothing new: 
  Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: 
If I am wearied of my life,
    Why so was Solomon. 180

’Vanity of vanities he preached
  Of all he found, of all he sought: 
Vanity of vanities, the gist
    Of all the words he taught.

’This in the wisdom of the world,
  In Homer’s page, in all, we find: 
As the sea is not filled, so yearns
    Man’s universal mind.

’This Homer felt, who gave his men
  With glory but a transient state:  190
His very Jove could not reverse
    Irrevocable fate.

’Uncertain all their lot save this—­
  Who wins must lose, who lives must die: 
All trodden out into the dark
    Alike, all vanity.’

She scarcely answered when I paused,
  But rather to herself said:  ’One
Is here,’ low-voiced and loving, ’Yea,
    Greater than Solomon.’ 200

So both were silent, she and I: 
  She laid her work aside, and went
Into the garden-walks, like spring,
    All gracious with content,