As when it issued from its native hill.
So to thine early grave didst thou run on,
Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,
Thine innocent and playful infancy
Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit
In that illimitable gulf which bounds
Our mortal continent. But not there lost,
Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,
Who can talk much and learnedly of life,
Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell