Beat out life's usual time, and slowly rung
The long, loud hours, that exclaimed, "Be quick!—
Arise!—Go forth!—Hear how her black wrongs call!—
Make them the salve to cure thy wounds withal!"—
XI
They were my balsam: for, ere autumn came,
Weak still, but over eager to be gone,
I took my leave of him. A little lame
From that hip wound, and somewhat thin and wan,