* * Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where he vital breathes there must be joy.

So like a star I listened, till mine eye Caught that lone land across the water-way Wherein my lady breathed,now breathing is 'O Dante,' then I said, 'she more than I Should know thy comfort, go to her, I pray.' 'Nay!' answered he, 'for she hath Beatrice.'

The same sad spirit breathes also through the following passages: "Soon, very soon, thou wilt be ashes, or a skeleton, and either a name, or not even a name; but name is sound and echo.