LVII.
But she—as falls a willow from the storm,
O’er its own river streaming—thus reclined
On the youth’s bosom hung her fragile form,
And clasping arms, so passionately twined
Around his neck—with such a trusting fold,
A full deep sense of safety in their hold,
As if naught earthly might th’ embrace unbind!
Alas! a child’s fond faith, believing still
Its mother’s breast beyond the lightning’s reach to kill?