e
For castle than for cot. Truth is a spear
Thrown by the blind. Truth is a Nemesis
Which leadeth her beloved by the hand
Through all things; giving him no task to break
A bruised reed, but bidding him stand firm
Though she crush worlds."

P. 21, 22.

Take, for its harrowing power, blended with beauty, the description of a
"Lost Female," symbolizing the degradation of Italy, and addressed to
the heroine of the tale:

"Or, oh, prince's daughter, if
In some proud street, leaning 'twixt night and day
From out thy palace balcony to meet
The breeze--that tempted by the hush of eve,
Steals from the fields about a city's shows,
And like a lost child, scared with wondering, flies,
From side to side in touching trust and terror,
Crying sweet country names and dropping flowers--
Leaning to meet that breeze, and looking down
To the so silent city, if below,
With dress disordered, and disheveled passions
Streaming from desperate eyes that flash and flicker
Like corpse-lights (eyes that once were known on high
Morning and night, as welcome there as thine),
And brow of trodden snow, and form majestic
That might have walked unchallenged through the skies.
And reckless feet, fitful with wine and woe,
And songs of revel that fall dead about
Her ruined beauty--sadder than a wail--
(As if the sweet maternal eve for pity
Took out the joy, and, with a blush of twilight,
Uncrowned the Bacchanal)--some outraged sister
Passeth, be patient, think upon yon heaven,
Where angels hail the Magdalen, look down
Upon that life in death, and say, 'My country!'"

P. 36.

Take, for its wondrous pathos and truth, the description of "Infancy:"

"Thou little child,
Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope--thou bright
Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their gladness--
Thou little potentate of love, who comest
With solemn sweet dominion to the old,
Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged
With the grave embassage of that dear past,
When they were young like thee--thou vindication
Of God--thou living witness against all men
Who have been babes--thou everlasting promise
Which no man keeps--thou portrait of our nature,
Which in despair and pride we scorn a