Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould!
But thou art breathing now in purer air,
I well believe, and freed from all of error,
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with terror.
LXVI.
And if the love, which here was passing light,
Went with what died not—oh! that this we knew,
But this!—that through the silence of the night,
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true,
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose,