POEMS.
229
And the golden chain of love
Has bound thee to the realm above.
If there be one small, mean doubt.
One serpent thought that tied not out,
Take instead the serpent-rod,—
Thou art neither man nor God.
Guard thee from the powers of evil,—
Who cannot trust, vows to the devil.
Walk thy slow and spoil-bound way,
Keep on thy mask, or shun the day,—
Let go my hand upon the way.
