XXXIX.

Fallen, fallen, I seem’d--yet, oh! not less beloved, Though from thy love was pluck’d the early pride, And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved, And sear’d with shame! Though each young flower had died, There was the root,--strong, living, not the less That all it yielded now was bitterness; Yet still such love as quits not misery’s side, Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, Nor turns away from death’s its pale heroic face.