That my first grief: but, oh! in after-years
Were other deaths, that call’d for other tears.
No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint— }
That patient sufferer, that enduring saint, }
Holy and lovely—but all words are faint. }
But here I dwell not—let me, while I can, 70
Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man!
Sweet was the morning’s breath, the inland tide, }
And our boat gliding, where alone could glide }
Small craft—and they oft touch’d on either side. }