And far from memory of his land's defence.

vii.

Be this my meed,—to die for love of thee,

B

B

B

As when the sun goes down upon the sea

And finds no mate in all the realms of earth.

I, too, have look'd on Nature in its worth

And found no resting-place in all the spheres,

And no relief beyond my sonnet-tears,—

The soul-fed shudderings of my lonely harp

That knows the gamut now of all my fears.

viii.

[57] 

[57]

I wear thy colours till the day I die:

I

I

I

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