Still to weak things love grants the victory.”
More dulcet than the viol rang her laugh;
Low laughed her mother; laughed her nurse full loud:
“Not thee I fear,” she cried, indignant half,
And kissed, methought, the head o'er which she bowed.
VII.
My Lyre reproved my childish mirth:
My Lute, remembering sad, old years,
Complained, “Thy feet are yet on earth;
Thou caroll'st in the vale of tears.”