The Oracles

Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain     When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,     And mutes 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 shrieking     That 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 theres 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 theres no returning.     The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.