Streamed in their black profusion from the head
Of matron loveliness—more touchingly.
More sadly beautiful, and pale, and still—
A shape of half-divine humanity,
Worthy of Chantry's steel, or Milton's quill.
Or heaven-taught Raphael's soul-expressing skill!
And must she wake that poor o'erlabored youth?
Oh yes, or Edmund will his mother chide;
For he this morn would hear the words of truth
From lips inspired on Shirecliffe's lofty side.