Though all the bolts of heaven descend;
Not the fierce grandeur of despair,
That half exults its fate to dare;
Nor that wild energy which leads
Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds:
Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued,
Was fix’d in silent fortitude;
Not in its haughty strength elate,
But calmly, mournfully sedate.
’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold