Canto CVIII

Thy converse drew us with delight,

      The men of rathe and riper years:

      The feeble soul, a haunt of fears,

Forgot his weakness in thy sight.

On thee the loyal-hearted hung,

      The proud was half disarm'd of pride,

      Nor cared the serpent at thy side

To flicker with his treble tongue.

The stern were mild when thou wert by,

      The flippant put himself to school

      And heard thee, and the brazen fool

Was soften'd, and he knew not why;

While I, thy dearest, sat apart,

      And felt thy triumph was as mine;

      And loved them more, that they were thine,

The graceful tact, the Christian art;

Not mine the sweetness or the skill,

      But mine the love that will not tire,

      And, born of love, the vague desire

That spurs an imitative will.