Yet anger, or revenge, envy or hate
The damsel knew not: when her bosom burned
And injury darkened the decrees of fate,
She had more pitious wept to see that pain returned.
Or if, perchance, tho' formed most just and pure,
Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,
Such germ all mortal bosoms must immure
Which sometimes show their poisonous heads unbid--
If haply such the lovely Hebrew finds,
Self knowledge wept th' abasing truth to know,
And _innate pride,_ that _queen of noble minds,_
Crushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.