And in your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,—what hath she?
Her own bless’d place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye,
Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play’d,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass’d,
Woe to the one, the last!
Woe, yet not long! She linger’d but to trace