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.