THE KNELL.
147
Yet still to share
A few more welcomes from thy soft blue eye,
A few more pressures of thy snowy hand,
And ruby lip, could I enchain thee here
To all that change and plenitude of ill
Which we inherit? Hence thou selfish grief!
Thy root is in the earth, and all thy fruits
Bitter and baneful. Holy joy should spring
When pure hearts take their portion.
Go beloved!
First, for thou wert most worthy.—I will strive,
As best such frail one may, to follow thee.
