And face to face, within thy chamber lone,
To urge again my right to what hath flown:
A bygone trust, a passion coldly check'd!
Were I a king of men, or laurel-deck'd,
I were not fit to claim thee as mine own.
VI.
What am I then? The sexton of a joy,
So lately slain,—so lately on its bier
Laid out in state,—I dare not, for the fear