Tradition of Conquest

His grace of Marlborough, legends say,   Though battle-lightnings proved his worth, Was scathed like others, in his day,   By fiercer fires at his own hearth. The patient chief, thus sadly tried,—   Madam, the Duchess, was so fair,— In Blenheim’s honors felt less pride   Than in the lady’s lovely hair. Once ( shorn, she had coiled it there to wound   Her lord when he should pass, ’t is said), Shining across his path he found   The glory of the woman’s head. No sudden word, nor sullen look,   In all his after days, confessed He missed the charm whose absence took   A scar’s pale shape within his breast. I think she longed to have him blame,   And soothe him with imperious tears:— As if her beauty were the same,   He praised her through his courteous years. But when the soldier’s arm was dust,   Among the dead man’s treasures, where He laid it as from moth and rust,   They found his wayward wife’s sweet hair.