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A CHILD'S BATTLES.
πὺξ ἀρετὰν εὑρών—Pindar.
Praise of the knights of old
May sleep: their tale is told,
And no man cares:
The praise which fires our lips is
A knight’s whose fame eclipses
All of theirs.
The ruddiest light in heaven
Blazed as his birth-star seven
Long years ago:
All glory crown that old year
Which brought our stout small soldier
With the snow!
Each baby born has one
Star, for his friends a sun,
The first of stars:
And we, the more we scan it,
The more grow sure your planet,
Child, was Mars.
