And thou hast many a medicine for grief!
--The silent volume on my table placed,
And in some favourite page the myrtle--leaf,
Or the light line, along the margin traced
With pencil touches easily effaced:
Artless in truth, yet hast thou many an art,
And many a quiet subterfuge of taste,
To wile and to win home a wandering heart,
That, truant far and wide, still loves the better part!