Thy Master sits not in the unapproached mountains, Nor dwells in the mirage which floats on the air, Nor shalt thou discover His magical fountains In pathways of sand that encircle despair.

And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous victory renowned, 450 The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, [Y] innumerable foes, When to those famous fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there;

It would have been so easy for Sylvia to lean upon that strong encircling arm, so easy that she wondered afterwards how she restrained the impulse to do so.