Be gladdened! O my gentle Lira!—thou,
That dwell’st for ever in such harmony
Amidst the thoughts that throng my fantasy,
That suffering grows glorious for thy sake;—
What ails thee, love? On what are bent thy thoughts,
Chief honor of mine own?
Lira.
I think, how fast
All happiness is gliding both from thee
And me; and that, before this cruel war