The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm,
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost
The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart,
E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch,
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade!
The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess,
Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on