By rites that may not be reveal’d?

—A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone,

A passing sound, forgot when gone!

Nay, shrink not from me—I would fly,

That he by other hands may die!

What! think’st thou I would live to trace

Abhorrence in that angel face?

Beside thee should the lover stand,

The father’s life-blood on his brand?

No! I have bade my home adieu,