II.

Lo, how the lips that Portia pressed but late Against the opened casket, blessing lead With the gold beauty of her bended head, In proud abandonment to that dear fate It gave her forth, the casket fortunate,— Lo, how these lips forego their wreathéd red Above the scroll that speaks his danger dread Who holds her lover in sad heart and great!

Now in her spacious soul doth Sorrow meet Warm Joy, that, generous, gives the pale one place, And in the tremulous lines of her fair face An exquisite and soft remorse appears That Love, of right, must take the sovereign seat, And Friendship lower pass, for all his years.