XIV
With how august contrition, and what tears
Of penitential unavailing shame,
Thy venerable foster-mother hears
The sons of song impeach her ancient name,
Because in one rash hour of anger blind
She thrust thee forth in exile, and thy feet
Too soon to earth’s wild outer ways consigned,—
Far from her well-loved seat,
Far from her studious halls and storied towers
And weedy Isis winding through his flowers.