Nought but the bloom and sunshine—and for thee,
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given:
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.
XX.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye,
The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die!