VII.

Strange that a love supreme Should be swayed by a petty pride, As a straw might turn aside The swift onflowing tide Of a mighty seaward stream!

I know that the fault was mine, But I cannot, will not speak; How should I, suppliant, meek, His gracious pardon seek— Tho' the fault were mine—all mine?

Aye, tho' my heart should break, Something—or pride or shame— Forbids me that I should claim As mine the fault, the blame— Aye, tho' my heart should break,