CXIV.

   I have not loved the world, nor the world me, —
   But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
   Though I have found them not, that there may be
   Words which are things,—­hopes which will not deceive,
   And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
   Snares for the falling:  I would also deem
   O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;
   That two, or one, are almost what they seem, —
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

   My daughter! with thy name this song begun —
   My daughter! with thy name this much shall end —
   I see thee not, I hear thee not,—­but none
   Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
   To whom the shadows of far years extend: 
   Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
   My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
   And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, —
A token and a tone, even from thy father’s mould.

CXVI.

   To aid thy mind’s development,—­to watch
   Thy dawn of little joys,—­to sit and see
   Almost thy very growth,—­to view thee catch
   Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! 
   To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
   And print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss, —
   This, it should seem, was not reserved for me
   Yet this was in my nature:  —­As it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

   Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
   I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
   Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
   With desolation, and a broken claim: 
   Though the grave closed between us,—­’twere the same,
   I know that thou wilt love me:  though to drain
   my blood from out thy being were an aim,
   And an attainment,—­all would be in vain, —
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

   The child of love,—­though born in bitterness,
   And nurtured in convulsion.  Of thy sire
   These were the elements, and thine no less. 
   As yet such are around thee; but thy fire
   Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. 
   Sweet be thy cradled slumbers!  O’er the sea,
   And from the mountains where I now respire,
   Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!

CANTO THE FOURTH.

I.