IV.Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreatCheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit;What though no tidings came to brighten time,To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime.Easier to blame the elements unkind,The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind,Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll,Than place distrust where soul confides in soul.But ever foremost in her wish was yetTo hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret;That in her looks this comfort still might be,"Father, I smile—and joy yet lives for thee!"Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown;To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown;As we live on, the finer tints of truthFade from the landscape.—Age is blind to youth.
IV.
Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreatCheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit;What though no tidings came to brighten time,To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime.Easier to blame the elements unkind,The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind,Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll,Than place distrust where soul confides in soul.But ever foremost in her wish was yetTo hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret;That in her looks this comfort still might be,"Father, I smile—and joy yet lives for thee!"Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown;To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown;As we live on, the finer tints of truthFade from the landscape.—Age is blind to youth.
I.Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream,What time the noon invites of song to dream,Where stately oak with silver poplar weavesThe hospitable shade of amorous leaves,And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance,The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A]Young Constance came;—a bank with wild flowers drestAs for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest.Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade,With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade;Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the rayAround the cot which meekly shunn'd the day:But stern and high, above the deep reposeOf vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose;Like souls unshelter'd because high they are,The nearer heaven the more from peace afar;Built by the mighty Architect, to formBulwarks for man, and battle with the storm;To soar and suffer with defying crest,And guard the humble, not partake their rest.A lonely spot! at times a passing oarDash'd the wave quicker to the gradual shore;But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair,Starts the fond cushat from her tender care,Silencecame back, with wings that seem'd to broodIn watch more loving over solitude.
I.
Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream,What time the noon invites of song to dream,Where stately oak with silver poplar weavesThe hospitable shade of amorous leaves,And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance,The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A]Young Constance came;—a bank with wild flowers drestAs for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest.Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade,With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade;Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the rayAround the cot which meekly shunn'd the day:But stern and high, above the deep reposeOf vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose;Like souls unshelter'd because high they are,The nearer heaven the more from peace afar;Built by the mighty Architect, to formBulwarks for man, and battle with the storm;To soar and suffer with defying crest,And guard the humble, not partake their rest.
A lonely spot! at times a passing oarDash'd the wave quicker to the gradual shore;But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair,Starts the fond cushat from her tender care,Silencecame back, with wings that seem'd to broodIn watch more loving over solitude.
II.Thus Constance sate, by some sweet sorcerer's rhymeCharm'd into worlds beyond the marge of Time,When a dim shadow o'er the herbage stole,And light boughs stirr'd above the violet knoll;In vain the shadow stole, the light bough stirr'd,Her sense yet spell-bound by the magic word;Spell-bound no less, his steps the stranger stay'd—And gazed as Cymon on the sleeping Maid.—And, oh! that brow so angel-clear from guile,That childlike lip unconscious of its smile,That virgin bloom where blushes went and cameFrom deeps of feeling never stirr'd by shame,Seem'd like the Una of the Poet's pageCharm'd into life by some bright Archimage.Not till each gaudier Venus crowds adore,And desecrate adoring—dupes no more,Comes the true Goddess, by her blushes known—The dove her symbol, innocence her zone!At the first glance her birth the Urania proves.Heaven smiles, and Nature blossoms where she moves.
II.
Thus Constance sate, by some sweet sorcerer's rhymeCharm'd into worlds beyond the marge of Time,When a dim shadow o'er the herbage stole,And light boughs stirr'd above the violet knoll;In vain the shadow stole, the light bough stirr'd,Her sense yet spell-bound by the magic word;Spell-bound no less, his steps the stranger stay'd—And gazed as Cymon on the sleeping Maid.—And, oh! that brow so angel-clear from guile,That childlike lip unconscious of its smile,That virgin bloom where blushes went and cameFrom deeps of feeling never stirr'd by shame,Seem'd like the Una of the Poet's pageCharm'd into life by some bright Archimage.Not till each gaudier Venus crowds adore,And desecrate adoring—dupes no more,Comes the true Goddess, by her blushes known—The dove her symbol, innocence her zone!At the first glance her birth the Urania proves.Heaven smiles, and Nature blossoms where she moves.
III.The virgin rose; the gazer quick withdrew;The favouring thicket closed her form from view.Slow went she homeward up the sunlit ground;Unseen he followed, where the woodlands wound;The spell that first arrested now lured on,And in that spell a frown from earth seem'd gone.As in the languid noon of summer dayBirds fold the pinion and suspend the lay—So hopes lie silent in the human heartTill all at once the choirs to music start,From the long hush rejoicing wings arise,Sport round the blooms, or glance into the skies.
III.
The virgin rose; the gazer quick withdrew;The favouring thicket closed her form from view.Slow went she homeward up the sunlit ground;Unseen he followed, where the woodlands wound;The spell that first arrested now lured on,And in that spell a frown from earth seem'd gone.As in the languid noon of summer dayBirds fold the pinion and suspend the lay—So hopes lie silent in the human heartTill all at once the choirs to music start,From the long hush rejoicing wings arise,Sport round the blooms, or glance into the skies.
IV.She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood,Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood,When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear,And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear;Then all grew silent as he gain'd the doorWhich gaped ajar;—he cross'd the threshold floor:Now sounds more low;—he still pass'd on and saw,Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.—The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast;The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd;The hard officials, with familiar leerAnd ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer;On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced,Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced."And what this old Man's crime?"—"My orders say,"Quoth Law, and smiled—"a debt he cannot pay!"Then from his child the poor proud captive broke—Sign'd to the door—raised moistening eyes, and spoke—"I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous timeI was not harsh to others—for this crime;Sirs, I am ready!"—Ere the word was o'er,The parchment fell in fragments on the floor."The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.—"My Lord," said Law,"I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw."
IV.
She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood,Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood,When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear,And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear;Then all grew silent as he gain'd the doorWhich gaped ajar;—he cross'd the threshold floor:Now sounds more low;—he still pass'd on and saw,Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.—The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast;The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd;The hard officials, with familiar leerAnd ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer;On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced,Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced."And what this old Man's crime?"—"My orders say,"Quoth Law, and smiled—"a debt he cannot pay!"Then from his child the poor proud captive broke—Sign'd to the door—raised moistening eyes, and spoke—"I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous timeI was not harsh to others—for this crime;Sirs, I am ready!"—Ere the word was o'er,The parchment fell in fragments on the floor."The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.—"My Lord," said Law,"I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw."
V.Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere?Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear!Say'st thou—"Alas, kind acts requited ill,Made me loathe men!"—I answer, "Do them still."On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy;Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.—Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come,Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home;Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known,But well—too proud for pity—veil'd his own.Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul,Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole,He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd,The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid.Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung,Hush'd when she spoke—enraptured when she sung;And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd,Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd,As the cold canvas with the image warms,As from the blank start forth the breathing forms,So would he look within him, and compareWith those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there.Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose,The young fresh world the Ideal only knows;The world of which both Art and Passion areBuilders;—to this so near—from this so far.What music charm'd the verse on which she gazed!—How doubly dear the poet that she praised!And when he spoke, and from the affluent mindThat books had stored, and intercourse refined,Pour'd forth the treasures,—still his choice addrestTo her mild heart what seem'd to please it best;And yet the maiden dream'd not thathelovedWho flatter'd never, and at times reproved—Reproved—but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'erBut for such faults as soils the purest bear;A trust too liberal in our common race,Dividing scarce the noble from the base,A sight too dazzled by the outward hues—A sense though clear, too timid to refuse;Yielding the course that it would fain pursue,Still to each guide that proffer'd it the clue;And that soft shrinking into self—allied,If half to Diffidence—yet half to Pride.He loved her, and she loved him not; reveredHis lofty nature, and in reverence fear'd.The glorious gifts—the kingly mind she saw,Yet seeing felt not tenderness, but awe.And the dark beauty of his musing eyeChill'd back the heart, from which it woo'd reply:Harcourt—the gay—the prodigal of youth,Still charm'd her fancy, while he chain'd her truth.
V.
Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere?Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear!Say'st thou—"Alas, kind acts requited ill,Made me loathe men!"—I answer, "Do them still."On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy;Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.—
Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come,Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home;Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known,But well—too proud for pity—veil'd his own.Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul,Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole,He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd,The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid.Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung,Hush'd when she spoke—enraptured when she sung;And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd,Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd,As the cold canvas with the image warms,As from the blank start forth the breathing forms,So would he look within him, and compareWith those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there.Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose,The young fresh world the Ideal only knows;The world of which both Art and Passion areBuilders;—to this so near—from this so far.What music charm'd the verse on which she gazed!—How doubly dear the poet that she praised!And when he spoke, and from the affluent mindThat books had stored, and intercourse refined,Pour'd forth the treasures,—still his choice addrestTo her mild heart what seem'd to please it best;And yet the maiden dream'd not thathelovedWho flatter'd never, and at times reproved—Reproved—but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'erBut for such faults as soils the purest bear;A trust too liberal in our common race,Dividing scarce the noble from the base,A sight too dazzled by the outward hues—A sense though clear, too timid to refuse;Yielding the course that it would fain pursue,Still to each guide that proffer'd it the clue;And that soft shrinking into self—allied,If half to Diffidence—yet half to Pride.He loved her, and she loved him not; reveredHis lofty nature, and in reverence fear'd.The glorious gifts—the kingly mind she saw,Yet seeing felt not tenderness, but awe.And the dark beauty of his musing eyeChill'd back the heart, from which it woo'd reply:Harcourt—the gay—the prodigal of youth,Still charm'd her fancy, while he chain'd her truth.
VI.Seaton, meanwhile, the heart of Ruthven read,With hopes which robb'd the future of its dread;Could he but live to see his child the brideOf one so wise, so kind, lover at once and guide!Silent at first, at last the deeps o'er-flow'd.One eve they sate without their calm abode,Father and Child, and mark'd the vermeil glowOf clouds that floated where the sun set slow;But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shoneThe last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone,Left to the space above that grand decayThe rosiest tints, and last to fade away.The Father mused; then with impulsive startTurn'd and drew Constance closer to his heart,Murmuring—"Ah, there, let but thy lot be cast,And Fate withdraws all sadness from the past.Blest be the storm that wreck'd us, here to findOne whom my soul had singled from mankindIf mine the palace still, and his the cot,—For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not."Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dreamTo note his listener, he pursues the theme.Pale as the dead, she hears his gladness speak,Sees the rare smile illume the careworn cheek;Dear if the lover in her sunny day,More dear the Sire since sunshine pass'd away.How dare to say,—"No, let thy smile depart,And take back sorrow from a daughter's heart?"
VI.
Seaton, meanwhile, the heart of Ruthven read,With hopes which robb'd the future of its dread;Could he but live to see his child the brideOf one so wise, so kind, lover at once and guide!Silent at first, at last the deeps o'er-flow'd.One eve they sate without their calm abode,Father and Child, and mark'd the vermeil glowOf clouds that floated where the sun set slow;But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shoneThe last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone,Left to the space above that grand decayThe rosiest tints, and last to fade away.The Father mused; then with impulsive startTurn'd and drew Constance closer to his heart,Murmuring—"Ah, there, let but thy lot be cast,And Fate withdraws all sadness from the past.Blest be the storm that wreck'd us, here to findOne whom my soul had singled from mankindIf mine the palace still, and his the cot,—For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not."Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dreamTo note his listener, he pursues the theme.Pale as the dead, she hears his gladness speak,Sees the rare smile illume the careworn cheek;Dear if the lover in her sunny day,More dear the Sire since sunshine pass'd away.How dare to say,—"No, let thy smile depart,And take back sorrow from a daughter's heart?"
VII.And while they sate, along the sward belowCame Ruthven's stately form, and footstep slow;She saw—she fled—her chamber gain'd—and thereSobb'd out that grief which youth believes despair.Thenceforth her solitude was desolate;Forebodings chill'd her as a shade from Fate.At Ruthven's step her colour changed—and dreadHush'd her low voice: such signs his hope misled.Hope, to its own vain dreams the idle seer,Whisper'd—"First love comes veil'd in virgin fear!"And now, o'er Harcourt's image, as the rustO'er the steel mirror, crept at length distrust.The ordeal year already pass'd away,And still no voice came o'er the dreary sea;No faithful joy to cry—"The ordeal's past,And loved as ever, thou art mine at last."
VII.
And while they sate, along the sward belowCame Ruthven's stately form, and footstep slow;She saw—she fled—her chamber gain'd—and thereSobb'd out that grief which youth believes despair.Thenceforth her solitude was desolate;Forebodings chill'd her as a shade from Fate.At Ruthven's step her colour changed—and dreadHush'd her low voice: such signs his hope misled.Hope, to its own vain dreams the idle seer,Whisper'd—"First love comes veil'd in virgin fear!"And now, o'er Harcourt's image, as the rustO'er the steel mirror, crept at length distrust.The ordeal year already pass'd away,And still no voice came o'er the dreary sea;No faithful joy to cry—"The ordeal's past,And loved as ever, thou art mine at last."
VIII.But Ruthven's absence now, if not to grief,At least to one vague terror, gave relief:For days, for weeks, some cause, unknown to all,Had won the lonely Master from his hall.—Much Seaton marvell'd! half disposed to blame;}"Gone, and no word ev'n absence to proclaim!"}When, sudden as he went, the truant came.}Franker his brow, and brighter was his look,And with a warmer clasp his host's wan hand he took:"Joy to thee, friend, thy race is not yet o'er,Thy fortunes still thy genius shall restore:Thy house from ruin reascends, to standFirm as of old, a column of the land.—Joy, Seaton, joy!"—"O mock me not—Explain!The bark once sunk beneath the obdurate main,No tide throws up!"—"New galleons Fortune gives.Fortune ne'er dies for him whose honour lives."—"Is fortune not the usurer?—Kind while yetThe hand that borrows may repay the debt;When all is lavish'd, she hath nought to lend!""But can she give not? Hast thou call'd me Friend?"He paused, and glanced on Constance—while his breastHeaved with the tumult which the lip represt.Till she, but looking on her father's face,In his joy joyous,—sprang from his embrace,Before the Benefactor paused, and bow'd;Falter'd a blessing, knelt, and wept aloud:"Not there, not there, O Constance," Ruthven cried,"Here be thy place—for ever side by side!Thanks—and to me!—Ah no! the boon be thine,Thy heart the generous, and the grateful mine.Oh pardon—if my soul its suit delay'dTill the world's dross the worldly equal made;And left to thee to grant and me receiveMan's earliest treasures—Paradise and Eve!Beloved one, speak! Not mine the silver tongue,And toil leaves manhood nought that lures the young;But in these looks is truth—these accents, love:And in thy faith all that survive aboveThe graves of Time, as in Elysium meet!—Hope flies to thee as to its last retreat."Speechless she heard—till, as he paused, the voiceOf the fond Sire usurp'd and doom'd the choice:"May she repay thee!" In his own he drewHer hand and Ruthven's, smiled and join'd the two—"Ah! could I make thee happy,"—thus she saidAnd ceased:—her sentence in his eyes she read—Eyes that the rashness of delight reveal:Love gave the kiss, and Fate received the seal.
VIII.
But Ruthven's absence now, if not to grief,At least to one vague terror, gave relief:For days, for weeks, some cause, unknown to all,Had won the lonely Master from his hall.—Much Seaton marvell'd! half disposed to blame;}"Gone, and no word ev'n absence to proclaim!"}When, sudden as he went, the truant came.}Franker his brow, and brighter was his look,And with a warmer clasp his host's wan hand he took:"Joy to thee, friend, thy race is not yet o'er,Thy fortunes still thy genius shall restore:Thy house from ruin reascends, to standFirm as of old, a column of the land.—Joy, Seaton, joy!"—"O mock me not—Explain!The bark once sunk beneath the obdurate main,No tide throws up!"—"New galleons Fortune gives.Fortune ne'er dies for him whose honour lives."—"Is fortune not the usurer?—Kind while yetThe hand that borrows may repay the debt;When all is lavish'd, she hath nought to lend!""But can she give not? Hast thou call'd me Friend?"He paused, and glanced on Constance—while his breastHeaved with the tumult which the lip represt.Till she, but looking on her father's face,In his joy joyous,—sprang from his embrace,Before the Benefactor paused, and bow'd;Falter'd a blessing, knelt, and wept aloud:"Not there, not there, O Constance," Ruthven cried,"Here be thy place—for ever side by side!Thanks—and to me!—Ah no! the boon be thine,Thy heart the generous, and the grateful mine.Oh pardon—if my soul its suit delay'dTill the world's dross the worldly equal made;And left to thee to grant and me receiveMan's earliest treasures—Paradise and Eve!Beloved one, speak! Not mine the silver tongue,And toil leaves manhood nought that lures the young;But in these looks is truth—these accents, love:And in thy faith all that survive aboveThe graves of Time, as in Elysium meet!—Hope flies to thee as to its last retreat."Speechless she heard—till, as he paused, the voiceOf the fond Sire usurp'd and doom'd the choice:"May she repay thee!" In his own he drewHer hand and Ruthven's, smiled and join'd the two—"Ah! could I make thee happy,"—thus she saidAnd ceased:—her sentence in his eyes she read—Eyes that the rashness of delight reveal:Love gave the kiss, and Fate received the seal.
I.Between two moments in the life of manAn airy bridge divided worlds may span;Fine as the hair which sways beneath a soulBy Azrael summon'd to the spectre goal,It springs abrupt from that sharp point in timeWhere, soft behind us in its orient clime,Lies the lost garden-land of young Romance:Beyond, with cloud upon the cold expanse,Looms rugged Duty;—and betwixt them swellAbysmal deeps, in which to fall were hell.O thou, who tread'st along that trembling line,The stedfast step, the onward gaze be thine!Dread Memory most!—the light thou leav'st would blind,Thy foot betrays thee if thou look behind!If Constance yet escaped not from the past,At least she strove:—the chain may break at last.Veil'd by the smile, Grief can so safely grieve:Love that confides, a smile can so deceive:And Ruthven kneeling at the altar's baseGuess'd not the idol which profaned the place;But smiles forsake when secret hours bestowThe angry self-confessional of woe;When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet,And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit.Ah! what a world were this if all were known,And smiles on others track'd to tears alone!Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye,Her soul had spoken and confess'd its lie:But sometimes natures least obscured by clayShine through an awe that scares the meek away;And, near as life may seem to life,—alas!Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass.Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsookHer lip, and died, abash'd, before his look;His foes his virtues—honour seem'd austere,And all most reverenced most provoked the fear.
I.
Between two moments in the life of manAn airy bridge divided worlds may span;Fine as the hair which sways beneath a soulBy Azrael summon'd to the spectre goal,It springs abrupt from that sharp point in timeWhere, soft behind us in its orient clime,Lies the lost garden-land of young Romance:Beyond, with cloud upon the cold expanse,Looms rugged Duty;—and betwixt them swellAbysmal deeps, in which to fall were hell.O thou, who tread'st along that trembling line,The stedfast step, the onward gaze be thine!Dread Memory most!—the light thou leav'st would blind,Thy foot betrays thee if thou look behind!
If Constance yet escaped not from the past,At least she strove:—the chain may break at last.Veil'd by the smile, Grief can so safely grieve:Love that confides, a smile can so deceive:And Ruthven kneeling at the altar's baseGuess'd not the idol which profaned the place;But smiles forsake when secret hours bestowThe angry self-confessional of woe;When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet,And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit.Ah! what a world were this if all were known,And smiles on others track'd to tears alone!Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye,Her soul had spoken and confess'd its lie:But sometimes natures least obscured by clayShine through an awe that scares the meek away;And, near as life may seem to life,—alas!Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass.Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsookHer lip, and died, abash'd, before his look;His foes his virtues—honour seem'd austere,And all most reverenced most provoked the fear.
II.Pass by some weeks: to London Seaton went,His genius glorying in its wonted vent;New props are built, and new foundations laid,And once more rose thy crowded temple—Trade!Then back the sire and daughter bent their way,There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the day!With Constance came a friend of earlier years,Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears;Leaf intertwined with leaf, their youth togetherRipen'd to bloom through life's first April weather.To Juliet Constance had no care untold,Here grief found sympathy and wept consoled;On woman's pitying heart could woman hereMourn perish'd hope, or pour remorseful fear;And breathe those prayers which woman breathes for one,Who fading from her world is still its sun.These made their commune, when from darkening skies,Pale as lost joys, stars gleam'd on tearful eyes.They guess'd not how the credulous gaze of loveDwelt on the moon that rose their roof above,Saw as on Latmos fall the enchanted beams—And bless'd the Dian for Endymion's dreams.
II.
Pass by some weeks: to London Seaton went,His genius glorying in its wonted vent;New props are built, and new foundations laid,And once more rose thy crowded temple—Trade!Then back the sire and daughter bent their way,There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the day!With Constance came a friend of earlier years,Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears;Leaf intertwined with leaf, their youth togetherRipen'd to bloom through life's first April weather.To Juliet Constance had no care untold,Here grief found sympathy and wept consoled;On woman's pitying heart could woman hereMourn perish'd hope, or pour remorseful fear;And breathe those prayers which woman breathes for one,Who fading from her world is still its sun.These made their commune, when from darkening skies,Pale as lost joys, stars gleam'd on tearful eyes.They guess'd not how the credulous gaze of loveDwelt on the moon that rose their roof above,Saw as on Latmos fall the enchanted beams—And bless'd the Dian for Endymion's dreams.
III.Meanwhile, to England Harcourt's steps return'd,And Seaton's new-born state the earliest news he learn'd:What the emotions of this injured man?He had a friend—and thus his letter ran:"Back to this land, where merit starves obscure,Where wisdom says—'Be anything but poor,'Return'd, my eyes the path to wealth explore,And straight I hear—'Constance is rich once more!'Thou know'st, my friend, with what a dexterous craftI 'scaped the cup a tenderer dupe had quaff'd;For in the chalice misery holds to life,What drop more nauseous than a dowerless wife?Yet she was fair, and gentle, charming—allThat man would make his partner at a ball!And, for the partner of a life, what more?Plate at the board, a porter at the door!Cupid and Plutus, though they oft divide,If bound to Hymen should walk side by side;A boon companion halves the longest way,—When Plutus join'd, I own that Love was gay;But Plutus left, where Hymen did begin,The way look'd dreary and the God gave in:Now his old comrade once more is bestow'd,And Cupid starts refresh'd upon the road.'But how,' thou ask'st, 'how dupe again the ear,In which thy voice slept silent for a year?And how explain, how'—Why impute to theeQuestions whose folly thy quick glance can see?Who loves is ever glad to be deceived,Who lies the most is still the most believed.Somewhat I trust to Eloquence and Art,And where these fail—thank Heaven she has a heart!More it disturbs me that some rumours run,That Constance, too, can play the faithless one;That, where round pastoral meads blue streamlets purl,Chloë has found a Thyrsis—in an Earl!And oh! that Ruthven! Hate is not for me;Who loves not, hates not,—both bad policy!YetcouldI hate, through all the earth I knowBut that one man my soul would honour so.Through ties remote—by some Scotch grand-dam's side,We are, if scarce related, yet allied;And had his mother been a barren dame,Mine were those lands, and mine that lordly name:Nay, if he die without an heir, ev'n yet—Oh, while I write, perchance the seal is set!Farewell! a letter speeds to her retreat,The prayer that wafts her Harcourt to her feet;There to explain the past—his faith defend,And claim,et cetera—Yours, in haste, my friend!"
III.
Meanwhile, to England Harcourt's steps return'd,And Seaton's new-born state the earliest news he learn'd:What the emotions of this injured man?He had a friend—and thus his letter ran:"Back to this land, where merit starves obscure,Where wisdom says—'Be anything but poor,'Return'd, my eyes the path to wealth explore,And straight I hear—'Constance is rich once more!'Thou know'st, my friend, with what a dexterous craftI 'scaped the cup a tenderer dupe had quaff'd;For in the chalice misery holds to life,What drop more nauseous than a dowerless wife?Yet she was fair, and gentle, charming—allThat man would make his partner at a ball!And, for the partner of a life, what more?Plate at the board, a porter at the door!Cupid and Plutus, though they oft divide,If bound to Hymen should walk side by side;A boon companion halves the longest way,—When Plutus join'd, I own that Love was gay;But Plutus left, where Hymen did begin,The way look'd dreary and the God gave in:Now his old comrade once more is bestow'd,And Cupid starts refresh'd upon the road.'But how,' thou ask'st, 'how dupe again the ear,In which thy voice slept silent for a year?And how explain, how'—Why impute to theeQuestions whose folly thy quick glance can see?Who loves is ever glad to be deceived,Who lies the most is still the most believed.Somewhat I trust to Eloquence and Art,And where these fail—thank Heaven she has a heart!More it disturbs me that some rumours run,That Constance, too, can play the faithless one;That, where round pastoral meads blue streamlets purl,Chloë has found a Thyrsis—in an Earl!And oh! that Ruthven! Hate is not for me;Who loves not, hates not,—both bad policy!YetcouldI hate, through all the earth I knowBut that one man my soul would honour so.Through ties remote—by some Scotch grand-dam's side,We are, if scarce related, yet allied;And had his mother been a barren dame,Mine were those lands, and mine that lordly name:Nay, if he die without an heir, ev'n yet—Oh, while I write, perchance the seal is set!Farewell! a letter speeds to her retreat,The prayer that wafts her Harcourt to her feet;There to explain the past—his faith defend,And claim,et cetera—Yours, in haste, my friend!"
IV.To Constance came a far less honest scroll,Yet oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul!Fear, hope—reports that madden'd, yet could stirNo faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her:Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no repliesTo lines unwrit; the eloquence of lies!And more than all, the assurance still too dear,Of Love surviving that vast age—a year!Such were the tidings to the maiden borne,And—woe the day—upon her Bridal Morn!
IV.
To Constance came a far less honest scroll,Yet oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul!Fear, hope—reports that madden'd, yet could stirNo faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her:Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no repliesTo lines unwrit; the eloquence of lies!And more than all, the assurance still too dear,Of Love surviving that vast age—a year!Such were the tidings to the maiden borne,And—woe the day—upon her Bridal Morn!
V.It was the loving twilight's rosiest hour,The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower,As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride,With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side;For Ruthven went before, that first of allHis voice might welcome to his father's hall:There, on the antique walls, the lamp from highShow'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by.Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive,Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave;Below the Gothic masks, grotesque and grim,Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim,Hung the accoutrements that lent a graceTo the old warrior-pastime of the chase.Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne;The Hawker's glove, the Huntsman's soundless horn;On the huge hearth the hospitable flameLit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame;Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd,On their new daughter ominously frown'd;To the young Stranger, shivering to behold,The Home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old.
V.
It was the loving twilight's rosiest hour,The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower,As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride,With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side;For Ruthven went before, that first of allHis voice might welcome to his father's hall:There, on the antique walls, the lamp from highShow'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by.Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive,Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave;Below the Gothic masks, grotesque and grim,Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim,Hung the accoutrements that lent a graceTo the old warrior-pastime of the chase.Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne;The Hawker's glove, the Huntsman's soundless horn;On the huge hearth the hospitable flameLit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame;Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd,On their new daughter ominously frown'd;To the young Stranger, shivering to behold,The Home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old.
VI."Doth it so chill thee, Constance? Dare I own,The charm that haunts what childhood's years have known,How many dreams of fame beyond my sires,Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires!Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time,As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime;In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live,To every relic some weird legend give;And muse such hopes of glorious things to be,As they, the Dead, mused once;—wild dreams—fulfill'd in thee!Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone,A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own!And what if all that charm'd me then, depart?Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n—thy heart!What, drooping still! Nay love, we are not allSo sad within, as this time-darken'd hall.Come!"—and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side)To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride.There, all of later luxury lent its smile,To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile.What though the stately tapestry met the eyes,Gay were its pictures, brilliant were its dyes;There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof,In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof.There, in the Gothic niche, the harp was placed,There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste;Through the half-open casement you might viewThe sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue;And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain,Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain:Within, without, all plann'd, all deck'd to greetThe Queen of all—whose dowry was deceit!Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above—All save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's Hymn to Love!As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breastShe fell; and passionate tears, till then supprest,Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tearsBetray'd no secret that could rouse his fears—For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt—The tears but proved how well his love was felt.And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hearThanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear,He whisper'd, "Linger not!" and closed the door,And Constance sobbed—"Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more!"
VI.
"Doth it so chill thee, Constance? Dare I own,The charm that haunts what childhood's years have known,How many dreams of fame beyond my sires,Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires!Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time,As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime;In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live,To every relic some weird legend give;And muse such hopes of glorious things to be,As they, the Dead, mused once;—wild dreams—fulfill'd in thee!Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone,A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own!And what if all that charm'd me then, depart?Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n—thy heart!What, drooping still! Nay love, we are not allSo sad within, as this time-darken'd hall.Come!"—and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side)To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride.There, all of later luxury lent its smile,To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile.What though the stately tapestry met the eyes,Gay were its pictures, brilliant were its dyes;There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof,In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof.There, in the Gothic niche, the harp was placed,There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste;Through the half-open casement you might viewThe sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue;And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain,Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain:Within, without, all plann'd, all deck'd to greetThe Queen of all—whose dowry was deceit!Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above—All save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's Hymn to Love!As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breastShe fell; and passionate tears, till then supprest,Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tearsBetray'd no secret that could rouse his fears—For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt—The tears but proved how well his love was felt.And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hearThanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear,He whisper'd, "Linger not!" and closed the door,And Constance sobbed—"Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more!"
VII.Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode,And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd,Pass'd is the Porch—he gains the balmy air,Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair.The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines,On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines.A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink,Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink;And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides,Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides.Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused;The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused;It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown,And left to Nature, Love and God alone!Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there,His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer.
VII.
Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode,And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd,Pass'd is the Porch—he gains the balmy air,Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair.The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines,On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines.A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink,Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink;And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides,Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides.Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused;The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused;It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown,And left to Nature, Love and God alone!Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there,His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer.
VIII.Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night,Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light—"Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I?"And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye;He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'dThe starry heaven of the rapt thoughts it thrill'd;He gain'd the hall—the lofty stair he wound—Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground!The tapestry veil'd him, as its folds, half-raised,Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed:Still Constance wept—and hark what sounds are thoseWhat awful secret those wild sobs disclose!—"No, leave me not!—I cannot meet his eyes!O Heaven! must life be ever one disguise!What seem'd indifference when we pledged the troth,Now grown—O wretch!—to terrors that but loathe!Oh that the earth might swallow me!" AgainGush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain."Nay, nay, be cheer'd—we must not more delay;Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay;No, for thy sake—for thine—I must begone."She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone.
VIII.
Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night,Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light—"Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I?"And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye;He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'dThe starry heaven of the rapt thoughts it thrill'd;He gain'd the hall—the lofty stair he wound—Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground!The tapestry veil'd him, as its folds, half-raised,Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed:Still Constance wept—and hark what sounds are thoseWhat awful secret those wild sobs disclose!—"No, leave me not!—I cannot meet his eyes!O Heaven! must life be ever one disguise!What seem'd indifference when we pledged the troth,Now grown—O wretch!—to terrors that but loathe!Oh that the earth might swallow me!" AgainGush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain."Nay, nay, be cheer'd—we must not more delay;Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay;No, for thy sake—for thine—I must begone."She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone.
IX.By the opposing door, from that unseen,Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen,Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled brideLook'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side!They gazed in silence face to face: his own,Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone.At length the low and hollow accents stirr'dHis blanching lip, that writhed with every word:"Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear;A love so hated wounds no more thine ear.I thank thee—I—!" His lips would not obeyHis pride,—and all the manly heart gave way.Low at his feet she fell: the alter'd courseOf grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse;"Forgive me!—O forgive!""Forgive!" he cried,And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied."Vile mockery! Bid me in the desert liveAlone with treason—and then say 'Forgive!'Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made,Faith inallthings thy falsehood has betray'd!Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youthDream'd its safe haven, murmuring—'Here is Truth!'Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast,Exult! thy fraud surpasses all the rest.No! close, my heart—grow marble! Human worthIs not; and falsehood is the name for earth!"
IX.
By the opposing door, from that unseen,Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen,Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled brideLook'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side!They gazed in silence face to face: his own,Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone.At length the low and hollow accents stirr'dHis blanching lip, that writhed with every word:"Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear;A love so hated wounds no more thine ear.I thank thee—I—!" His lips would not obeyHis pride,—and all the manly heart gave way.Low at his feet she fell: the alter'd courseOf grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse;"Forgive me!—O forgive!""Forgive!" he cried,And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied."Vile mockery! Bid me in the desert liveAlone with treason—and then say 'Forgive!'Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made,Faith inallthings thy falsehood has betray'd!Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youthDream'd its safe haven, murmuring—'Here is Truth!'Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast,Exult! thy fraud surpasses all the rest.No! close, my heart—grow marble! Human worthIs not; and falsehood is the name for earth!"
X.Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he pacedThe floor to feel the world indeed a waste;For as the earth if God were not above,Man's hearth without the Lares—Faith and Love!But what his woe to hers?—for him at leastConscience was calm, though ev'ry hope had ceased.But she!—all sorrow for herself had paused,To live in that worse anguish she had caused:"No, Ruthven, no! Thy pardon not for me;But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on theeSo worthless I, so worthless thy regret;Oh that repentance could requite thee yet!Oh that a life that henceforth ne'er shall own,One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone,—Obedience, honour——""These may make the wifeA faultless statue:—love but breathes the life!Poor child! Nay, weep not; bitterer far, in truth,Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth:For manhood's pride the love at last may quell,But when could Woman with Indifference dwell?No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared.O Heaven—the solitude thy soul has dared!But thou hast chosen! Vain for each regret;All that is left—to seem that we forget.No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall;Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence—take them all!May they console thee, Constance, for a heartThat—but enough! So let the loathed depart;These chambers thine, my step invades them not;Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot.Henceforth all love has lost its hated claim;If wed, be cheer'd; our wedlock but a name.Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart aboveThe power of beauty, when disarm'd of love.And so, may Heaven forgive thee!""Ruthven, stay!Generous—too noble: can no distant dayWin thy forgiveness also, and restoreThy trust, thy friendship, even though love be o'er?"He paused a moment with a soften'd eye;—"Alas! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply:If ever, Constance, that blest day should come,When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home;If ever, when with those who court thee there,The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare,And feel that if thy choice thou couldst recall,Him now unloved, thy love would choose from allWhy then, one word, one whisper!—oh, no more—"And fearful of himself, he closed the door!
X.
Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he pacedThe floor to feel the world indeed a waste;For as the earth if God were not above,Man's hearth without the Lares—Faith and Love!But what his woe to hers?—for him at leastConscience was calm, though ev'ry hope had ceased.But she!—all sorrow for herself had paused,To live in that worse anguish she had caused:"No, Ruthven, no! Thy pardon not for me;But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on theeSo worthless I, so worthless thy regret;Oh that repentance could requite thee yet!Oh that a life that henceforth ne'er shall own,One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone,—Obedience, honour——"
"These may make the wifeA faultless statue:—love but breathes the life!Poor child! Nay, weep not; bitterer far, in truth,Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth:For manhood's pride the love at last may quell,But when could Woman with Indifference dwell?No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared.O Heaven—the solitude thy soul has dared!But thou hast chosen! Vain for each regret;All that is left—to seem that we forget.No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall;Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence—take them all!May they console thee, Constance, for a heartThat—but enough! So let the loathed depart;These chambers thine, my step invades them not;Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot.Henceforth all love has lost its hated claim;If wed, be cheer'd; our wedlock but a name.Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart aboveThe power of beauty, when disarm'd of love.And so, may Heaven forgive thee!"
"Ruthven, stay!Generous—too noble: can no distant dayWin thy forgiveness also, and restoreThy trust, thy friendship, even though love be o'er?"He paused a moment with a soften'd eye;—"Alas! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply:If ever, Constance, that blest day should come,When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home;If ever, when with those who court thee there,The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare,And feel that if thy choice thou couldst recall,Him now unloved, thy love would choose from allWhy then, one word, one whisper!—oh, no more—"And fearful of himself, he closed the door!
I.Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true!'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue:What we call Matter, in this outer earth,Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth.How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled;But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild!Man's soul is as an everlasting dream,Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream:To-day, in glory all the world is clad—Wherefore, O Man?—because thy heart is glad.To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey—The same!Oh no—the pomp hath pass'd away!Wherefore the change?Within, go, ask reply—Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky!Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;—Light—Darkness—Seasons—these are in the soul!
I.
Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true!'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue:What we call Matter, in this outer earth,Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth.How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled;But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild!Man's soul is as an everlasting dream,Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream:To-day, in glory all the world is clad—Wherefore, O Man?—because thy heart is glad.To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey—The same!Oh no—the pomp hath pass'd away!Wherefore the change?Within, go, ask reply—Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky!Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;—Light—Darkness—Seasons—these are in the soul!
II."Trite truth," thou sayest—well, if trite it be,Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee?Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know,We bear the climate with us where we go!To that immense Bethesda, whither stillEach worse disease seeks cures for every ill;To that great well, in which the Heart at strife,Merges its own amidst the common life,—Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal,Or Self-Ambition, still as sure to heal,—From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore;Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more.Flock'd to his board the Magnates of the HourWho clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness—Power!The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race—The Word-besiegers of the Fortress—Place!Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on,A moment gilded—in a moment gone;For Honours fool but with deluding light—The place it glides through,not the wave, is bright![B]The means, if not his ends, with these the same,In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name!Night after night the listening Senate hungOn that roused mind, by Grief to Action stung!Night after night, when Action, spent and worn,Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne;The sight of Home the frown of Life renew'd—The World gave Fame and Home a Solitude!
II.
"Trite truth," thou sayest—well, if trite it be,Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee?Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know,We bear the climate with us where we go!
To that immense Bethesda, whither stillEach worse disease seeks cures for every ill;To that great well, in which the Heart at strife,Merges its own amidst the common life,—Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal,Or Self-Ambition, still as sure to heal,—From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore;Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more.Flock'd to his board the Magnates of the HourWho clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness—Power!The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race—The Word-besiegers of the Fortress—Place!Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on,A moment gilded—in a moment gone;For Honours fool but with deluding light—The place it glides through,not the wave, is bright![B]The means, if not his ends, with these the same,In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name!Night after night the listening Senate hungOn that roused mind, by Grief to Action stung!Night after night, when Action, spent and worn,Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne;The sight of Home the frown of Life renew'd—The World gave Fame and Home a Solitude!
III.And Constance? sever'd from a husband's side,No heart to cherish, and no hand to guide,Still, as if ev'n the very name of wifeDrew her soul upward into loftier life,The solemn sense of woman's holiest tieArm'd every thought against the memory.'Mid shatter'd Lares stood the Marriage Queen—As on a Roman's hearth, with marble smile serene:New to her sight that galaxy of mindWhich moves round men who light and guide their kind,Where all shine equal in their joint degreesAnd rank's harsh outlines vanish into ease.As Power and Genius interchange their huesSo genial life the classic charm renews;Some Scipio's wit a Terence may refine,Some Cæsar's pomp exalt a Maro's line—The polish'd have their flaws, but least espiedAmongst the polish'd is the angle pride;And, howsoever Envy grudge their state,Their own bland laws democratize the great.
III.
And Constance? sever'd from a husband's side,No heart to cherish, and no hand to guide,Still, as if ev'n the very name of wifeDrew her soul upward into loftier life,The solemn sense of woman's holiest tieArm'd every thought against the memory.'Mid shatter'd Lares stood the Marriage Queen—As on a Roman's hearth, with marble smile serene:New to her sight that galaxy of mindWhich moves round men who light and guide their kind,Where all shine equal in their joint degreesAnd rank's harsh outlines vanish into ease.As Power and Genius interchange their huesSo genial life the classic charm renews;Some Scipio's wit a Terence may refine,Some Cæsar's pomp exalt a Maro's line—The polish'd have their flaws, but least espiedAmongst the polish'd is the angle pride;And, howsoever Envy grudge their state,Their own bland laws democratize the great.