Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found
Worthy a brave man’s love!—oh, urge me not
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears,
In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce
Bring aught like this!
Elm. All, all thy gentle race,
The beautiful beings that around thee grew,
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?
She, too, thy daughter—doth her smile unmark’d
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day?