Thy brother’s friend? Oh! trust me, not in joy
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows—and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not! Our God, the All-just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty—
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him! Yet make it not thy hope: