Of such a lady proud’s the lord,
And that her happy bosom knows;
She takes his arm without a word,
In lanes of laurel and of rose.”[[119]]
And here at last is her “Departure,” as told in the latest volume:
“It was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have naught other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent
Of how, that July afternoon,
You went,