style="font-size:15px;"> 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 compare
With 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 are
Builders;—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 mind
That books had stored, and intercourse refined,
Pour'd forth the treasures—still his choice addrest
To her mild heart what seem'd to please it best;
And yet the maiden dream'd not that he loved Who flatter'd never, and at times reproved— Reproved—but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'er But 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; revered His 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 eye Chill'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 bride
Of 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 glow
Of clouds that floated where the sun set slow;
But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shone
The last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone,
Left to the space above that grand decay
The rosiest tints, and last to fade away.
The Father mused; then with impulsive start
Turn'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 find
One whom my soul had singled from mankind
If mine the palace still, and his the cot—
For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not."
Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dream
To 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 below
Came Ruthven's stately form, and footstep slow;
She saw—she fled—her chamber gain'd—and there
Sobb'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 dread
Hush'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 rust
O'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
