XXXVI.

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn-- Pride--sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound By these at times, even as with adamant round, Kept so from breaking! Yet not _thus_ upborne She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave Lifted her fervent soul--a sister for the brave!