A vision pale, of happiest years a trace,
My soul rejoices in this gift of thine.
For, though to passions new I’m now resigned,
That once-loved face I cannot cease to love;
The shrine forsaken still retains the shrined;
O’erthrown the image, yet God reigns above.
THE DAGGER.
Well do I love thee, my dagger of steel,
My comrade so bright and so cold!
Thou wast forged in hate by a Georgian fell,