'The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing,
But you, twin sister of the morning sun,
Forelead the Sun!'
Who that ever heard it can forget the pathos of Ellen Terry as she parted from Sinnatus, and delivered these lovely lines—
'He is gone already;
Oh, look! yon grove upon the mountain—white
In the sweet moon, as with a lovelier snow!
But what a blotch of blackness underneath!
Sinnatus, you remember,—yea you must—
That there three years ago, the vast vine-bowers