Which for so many years concentrated
In him. * * * God never bless’d them with a son;
So she, it seems, had calculated on
A son-in-law, in Arnold; but alas!
This hope had fled. (Not like the blade of grass,
Which in the summer-time for lack of rain
Decays and dies, whilst there comes up again
One equally as rare when clouds recruit,
And shed their globulès down to its root.
Nor like the corn-crops yellowing in July,