For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast?
Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not way
To its deep yearning, so, at thy behest,
To tread thy streets once more: I could not bend
Truth to the shameless compromise! Unrest,
Want, banishment, were better, than to lend
Myself to falsehood! More thou neededst me
Than I thee. So, I know, unto the end,
How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to see
Anarchy’s gory reign; to beg my bread