XXXVI.
For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn,
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn—
Pride—sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound
By these at times, even as with adamant round,
Kept so from breaking! Yet not thus upborne
She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave
Lifted her fervent soul—a sister for the brave!