LXV.

They forced him from that spot. It might be well, That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell, Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung, Were mark’d as guilt. There are who note these things Against the smitten heart; its breaking strings --On whose low thrills once gentle music hung-- With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange tones replying.