Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell
With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame,
And his first cry of misery was—“Farewell!”
His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot
Is still for happier lands to pine—and reach them not.
V.
Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld
Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep?
From all its founts the world of waters swell’d,