1. Your porches though unpeopled now have been
The lion's wonted walk; he scarce could stray

2. Beyond their grounds. Yours is the mighty host,
The fear of which suffices, saving all

3. The toil of war. With lance and sword you challenged
And set them wielding speech 'twixt flank and neck.

4. Your sword therein confused, no pattern set,
Your lance therein a pattern formed, naught strewn.

5. What swarms of foes your valour has created
For hearts with wings of panic and dismay!

6. E'en in peace were you met with but in lands
You had despoiled, where you were free to haste.

7. And so they feared you that no secret could
Be breathed unless yourself stood not behind.

8. You culled all fruits that ripen with experience
So that you spy what's hid from common eyes.

9. Gently, my rivals! His resolve is like
His sword's first stroke, it never will be bent.

10. And if his sword should once forget its cunning,
With its first stroke let it lop off his head.

11. Yours is the rapid pen in the decree
That parts and knits again things far apart,

12. So artfully no skill can separate
The prose it writes from poetry it embellishes.

13. Your thought seems verse; and yet - I know not how -
'Tis noble speech, no speech that poets utter.