"that remorseless iron hour
Made cypress of her orange flower,
Despair of Hope, and earth of thee."
It is remarkable how the imagination of the Poet glows over the tender
scenes of home affection, and the great results which he presumes were
arrested by the removal of his friend, who he had hoped would have
attained "to reverence and the silver hair" in company with himself--and
then, in their full old age,
"He that died in Holy Land
Would reach us out the shining hand,
And take us as a single soul."
The mere thought of this forbidden consummation of their friendship shocks
him; it revives the old bitterness of sorrow, and stops
"The low beginnings of content."[58]