'Go on!—why falter if the truth thou speak?'"Who dares deny it?"—Thou!—thy lip—thine eye—
Thy heart—thy conscience—these are what deny? O Heaven, that I were not thy priest!'
"His look
Grew stern and dark—the natural Adam shook
The reverend form an instant;—like a charm
The pious memory stay'd the lifted arm;
And shrunk to self-rebuke the threatening word,
'Man's not my weapons—I thy servant, Lord!'
Moved, I replied—'Could love suffice alone }
In this hard world—the love to thee made known, }
A bliss to cherish, 'twere a pride to own: }
And if I pause, and if I falter—yet
I hide no shame, I strive with no regret.
Believe mine honour—wait the ripening hour;
Time hides the germ, the season brings the flower.'
Wildly he cried—'What words are these?—but one
Sentence I ask—her sire should call thee son! Hist, let the heavens but hear us!—in her life Another lives—if pure she is thy wife! Now answer!'
I had answer'd, as became
The native manhood and the knightly name;
But shall I own it? the suspicious chill,
The world-wise know, froze up the arrested will.
Whose but her lips, sworn never to betray, Had fail'd their oath, and dragg'd my name to day? True, she had left the veil upon the shrine, But set the snare to make confession mine. Thus half resentment, half disdain, repell'd The man's frank justice, and the truth withheld. Yet, so invoked, I scorn'd at least the lie, And met the question with this proud reply:— 'If thou dost doubt thy child, depart secure, My love is sinless, and her soul is pure. This by mine honour, and to Heaven, I swear! Dost thou ask more?—then bid thy child declare; What she proclaims as truth, myself will own; What she withholds, alike I leave unknown; What she demands, I am prepared to yield; Now doubt or spurn me—but my lips are seal'd.' I ceased, and stood with haughty mien and eye, That seem'd all further question to defy; He gazed, as if still spell'd in hope or fear, And hungering for the word that fail'd the ear. At last, and half unconscious, in the thrall Of the cold awe, he groan'd—
'And is this all?
Courage, poor child—there may be justice yet—
Justice, Heaven, justice!'
With this doubtful threat
He turn'd, was gone!—that look of stern despair,
The uncertain footstep tottering down the stair,
The clapping door; and then that void and chill,
Which would be silence, were the conscience still;
That sense of something gone, we would recall;
The soul's dim stun before it feels its fall.
VII.
"Next day, the sire my noble kinsman sought;
One ruling senates must be just, he thought.
What chanced, untold—what follow'd may declare: }
Behold me summon'd to my uncle's chair! }
See his cold eye—I saw my ruin there! } I saw and shrunk not, for a sullen pride Embraced alike the kinsman and the bride: Scorn'd here, the seeming snare by cunning set; And there, coarse thraldom, with rebellion met.
"Brief was my Lord—
'An old man tells me, sir,
You woo his child, to wed her you demur;
Who knows, perhaps (and such his shrewd surmise),
The noose is knit—you but conceal the ties!
Please to inform me, ere I go to court,
How stands the matter?—sir, my time is short.'
"'My Lord,' I answer'd, with unquailing brow,
'Not to such ears should youth its faults avow;
And grant me pardon if I boldly speak,
Youth may have secrets honour shuns to seek.
I own I love, proclaim that love as pure!
If this be sin—its sentence I endure.
All else belongs unto that solemn shrine,
In the veil'd heart, which manhood holds divine.
Men's hearths are sacred, so our laws decree;
Are hearts less sacred? mine at least is free.
Suspect, disown, forsake me, if thou wilt;
I prize the freedom where thou seest the guilt.'
My kinsman's hand half-shaded the keen eye,
Which glanced askant;—he paused in his reply.
At length, perchance, his practised wit foresaw
Threats could not shake where interest fail'd to awe;
And judged it wise to construe for the best
The all I hid, the little I confess'd;
Calmly he answer'd—
'Sir, I like this heat;
Duper or duped, a well-bred man's discreet;
Take but this hint (one can't have all in life),
You lose the uncle if you win the wife.
In this, you choose Rank, Station, Power, Career;
In that, Bills, Babies—and the Bench, I fear.
Hush;—'the least said' (old proverb, sir, but true!)—
As yet your fault indulgently I view.
Words—notes (sad stuff!)—some promise rashly made—
Action for breach—that scandal must be stay'd. I trust such scrapes will teach you to beware; 'Twill cost some hundreds—that be my affair. Depart at once—to-morrow—nay, to-day: When fairly gone, there will be less to pay!' So spoke the Statesman, whom experience told The weight of passion in the scales of gold. Pleased
