Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet—Oh more than all!—untired by time—
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent—
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;300
Which nought remov'd—nor menaced to remove—
If there be love in mortals—this was love!
He was a villain—aye—reproaches shower
On him—but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!
XIII.
He paused a moment—till his hastening men
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen.
"Strange tidings!—many a peril have I passed,
"Nor know I why this next appears the last!310
"Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,
"Nor shall my followers find me falter here.
"'Tis rash to meet—but surer death to wait—
