A swift report has gone our city through,From fire, the good-news messenger: if true,Who knows? Or is it not a god-sent lie?Who is so childish and deprived of senseThat, having, at announcements of the flameThus novel, felt his own heart fired thereby,He then shall at a change of evidence,Be worsted just the same?It is conspicuous in a woman’s nature,Before its view to take a grace for granted:Too trustful, — on her boundary, usurpatureIs swiftly made;But swiftly, too, decayed,The glory perishes by woman vaunted.

KLUTAIMNESTRA.Soon shall we know — of these light-bearing torches,And beacons and exchanges, fire with fire —If they are true, indeed, or if, dream-fashion,This gladsome light came and deceived our judgment.Yon herald from the shore I see, o’ershadowedWith boughs of olive: dust, mud’s thirsty brother,