To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd.Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind.
But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd,
Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold:
Reverses came, the whirlwind of a day
Swept the strong labours of a life away;
Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought,
And left but name and honour—men said "nought."
True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise:
Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes;
The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall,
And one rich chance may yet reconquer all."
There on his priest the earth-god lost control,
And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul
"Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone—
Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own."
And so, life passing from the gorgeous stage,
The curtain fell on Poverty and Age.
III.
Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth,
And one sweet voice gave music still to earth;
On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled;
"Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child.
Beautiful Constance!—As the icy air
Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star,
So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes,
Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies.
Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd,
And griefs that wept not on a father's breast.
In brighter days, such love as fancy knows
(That youngest love whose couch is in the rose)
Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste,
Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced;
But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart,
And deepening from the surface, gains the heart;
In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please—
Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease;
The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul,
And that self-love which brings such self-control.
High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he
To dream of love and cots in Arcady;
His tastes were like the Argonauts of old,
And only pastoral if the fleece was gold.
The less men feel, the better they can feign—
To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain?
No, the calm master of the Histrio's art
Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart;
Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept,
Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.
Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd,
Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd;
Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, }
Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, }
And whisper'd this wise counsel—"Wait a year!" }
In vain the lover pleaded to the maid;
"A year soon passes," Constance smiling said.
Just then—for Harcourt's service was the sword—
Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd;
Cursed by a country which at times forgets
It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets,
Some isle, resentful of our lax control,
Rebels on purpose to distract his soul.
A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore,
When paled those charms to which such faith he swore;
News came that left to Constance not a grace,
The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;—
"Oh heavens!—so handsome! Gone in one short hour!"
"What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?"
"No, the dower."
IV.
Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreat
Cheer'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 yet
To 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 truth
Fade from the landscape.—Age is blind to youth.
PART THE SECOND.
