xv.
I'll not believe that eyes so bright as thine
Were meant for malice in the summer-shine,
Or that a glance thereof, though changed to fire,
Could injure one whose spirit, like a lyre,
Has throbb'd to music of remember'd joys,—
The pride thereof, and all the tender poise
Of trust with trust,—the symphonies of grief
Made all mine own,—and Faith which never cloys.