With Constance came a friend of earlier years,Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears;
Leaf intertwined with leaf, their youth together
Ripen'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 here
Mourn 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 love
Dwelt 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 craft
I '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—all
That 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 thee
Questions 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!
Yet could I hate, through all the earth I know But 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 stir
No faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her:
Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no replies
To 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 all
His voice might welcome to his father's hall:
There, on the antique walls, the lamp from high
Show'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 grace
To the old warrior-pastime of the chase.
Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne;
The Hawker's
