XL.

But thee that breath hath touch’d not; thee, nor him, The true in all things found!--and thou wert blest Even then, that no remember’d change could dim The perfect image of affection, press’d Like armour to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept Watch by thy brother’s couch of pain, and wept, Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith Unto thy soul; one light, one hope ye chose----one death.