<h2>XXXVII</h2>
<p>Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make<br/>
Of all that strong divineness which I know<br/>
For thine and thee, an image only so<br/>
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.<br/>
It is that distant years which did not take<br/>
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,<br/>
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo<br/>
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake<br/>
Thy purity of likeness and distort<br/>
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.<br/>
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,<br/>
His guardian sea-god to commemorate,<br/>
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort<br/>
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.</p>
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