Whose very sadness was my weakness’ stay,
With every step more intimate and near—
“Take heart, poor child! ’tis I; have thou no fear.
V.
“Take heart, and I thy faltering steps will lead
Above the earth-mists and the brier-strewn road
To my far mountain-tops, the pure abode
Of heaven-born stream, and fair enamelled mead
Whose flow’rs immortal fells not any scythe.
Long have I sought thee 'mid the withering flowers