LVII.

But she--as falls a willow from the storm, O’er its own river streaming--thus reclined On the youth’s bosom hung her fragile form, And clasping arms, so passionately twined Around his neck--with such a trusting fold, A full deep sense of safety in their hold, As if naught earthly might th’ embrace unbind! Alas! a child’s fond faith, believing still Its mother’s breast beyond the lightning’s reach to kill?