Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.
I would not touch thee with my finger tips,
But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.
XX.
And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,
In all the wide dominions of the air,
No trace of thee among the natives there,
I would not bide with them—No! not to win
A seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,
And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!