LXXI.

And we have won a bower of refuge now, In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose Hath cool’d, like dew, the fever of my brow, And whose green oaks and cedars round me close As temple walls and pillars, that exclude Earth’s haunted dreams from their free solitude; All, save the image and the thought of those Before us gone--our loved of early years, Gone where affection’s cup hath lost the taste of tears.