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Had tended me, as if I were her own
And only offspring. When a very child,
She said, her soothing whispers oft beguiled
The achings of my heart—that in my youth,
She, too, had given me dreams of Honour, Truth,
Of Glory and of Greatness—and of Fame—
And the bright vision of a deathless name!
And she had turned my eye, with upward look,
To read the bravely star-enamelled book
Of the blue skies—and in the rolling spheres
To con strange lessons, penned in characters
Of most mysterious import—she had made
Life's thorny path to be all sown with flowers
Of diverse form and fragrance, of each shade
Of loveliness that glitters in the bowers
Of princely damoisels,'—Nay, more, her hand
Had plucked the bright flowers of another land,
Belike of Faerye, and had woven them
Like to a chaplet, or gay diadem,
For me to wear in triumph—But that she
Had fostered me so long, she feared, I'd spoil
With very tenderness, nor ever be
Fit for this world's coarse drudgery and moil;
Did she not even now take leave of me,
And her protecting, loving arms uncoil
