Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/86

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When seen, was like the visions that were brought In unreal beauty on his sleeping thought. And Love is like the lightning in its might, Winging where least bethought its fiery flight, Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard. Love, passionate Love, hast thou not thy reward, Despite of all the soil and stain that clings When earth thou touchest with thy heavenly wings, In rich return'd affection, which doth make Light of all suffering, for its own dear sake? Together they had fled by sea and land, And the youth led her to Italia's strand, Where he had a lone home in Arno's vale, A fit nest for his lovely nightingale, Till stopp'd by those fierce outlaws who had paid Their life's base forfeit to the victor's blade.