Though from thy love was pluck’d the early pride,
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved,
And sear’d with shame! Though each young flower had died,
There was the root,—strong, living, not the less
That all it yielded now was bitterness;
Yet still such love as quits not misery’s side,
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace,
Nor turns away from death’s its pale heroic face.
XL.
Yes! thou hadst follow’d me through fear and flight!