XXXIII.

Not thus is woman. Closely _her_ still heart Doth twine itself with e’en each lifeless thing Which, long remember’d, seem’d to bear its part In her calm joys. For ever would she cling, A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth Where she hath loved, and given her children birth, And heard their first sweet voices. There may spring Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief.