Such a noble sinner as Harry is.

In His own image created He him,
And He called man 'good' on the virgin sod;
And when He beheld His image grow dim,
He died to redeem it--the gracious God!

Rebuking myself with an angry pain--
What was I wishing for? What would I have?
A paragon fram'd by my shallow brain,
And not the sinner God died to save?




I have _driven_ madness out of my brain,
Studying life with intolerant eyes;
Praying and weeping and praying again--
Earth is good for nothing but prayers and sighs.

We all are made up of follies and faults,
That, if time but serv'd, would lead us to crime;
And for every time my darling halts,
I am sure I have halted fifty times!

I am not blinded or prejudiced here;
I have sought the truth and found what I sought;
I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;
You should not have play'd and quarrell'd and fought.