I struck the chords that all men understand.

xiii.

I sang to thee. I praised thee with my praise,

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I

E'en as a bird, conceal'd in sylvan ways,

May laud the rose, and wish, from hour to hour,

That he had petals like the empress-flower,

And there could grow, unwing'd, and be a bud,

With all his warblings ta'en at singing-flood

And turned to vàgaries of the wildest scent

To undermine the meekness in her blood.

xiv.

[18] 

[18]

Ah, those were days! That April should have been

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