'Duke,' she answer'd him slow,

'My place is wherever my duty is clear;

'And therefore my place, at this moment, is here.

'O lady, this morning my place was beside

'Your husband, because (as she said this she sigh'd)

'I felt that from folly fast growing to crime

'The crime of self-blindness-Heaven yet spared me time 'To save for the love of an innocent wife

'All that such love deserved in the heart and the life
'Of the man to whose heart and whose life you alone
'Can with safety confide the pure trust of your own.'

She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her
Her soft quiet hand ...

"Tis, O lady, the honour
'Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite
'Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night-
'Save for both of you, lady! for yours I revere;
'Duc de Luvois, what say you ?-my place is not here?'

XII.

And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught,
Wound one arm round her waist unresisted, and sought
Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot.
The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not.
But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lucile
Her tender and delicate burden could feel

Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt down,
Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her own
The poor bosom beating against her.

The moon,

Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brim-full of June,
Floated up from the hill-side, sioped over the vale,
And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one pale,
Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star

Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car,

2 A

Thus to each of those women revealing the face
Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace
Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame
The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame.
With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile

Trembled visibly yet; for she could not but feel
That a heavenly hand was upon her that night,
And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light.

'In the name of your husband, dear lady,' she said;

In the name of your mother, take heart! Lift your head,

'For those blushes are noble. Alas! do not trust

'To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust,

'That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's. 'Take heart! and take refuge and strength in your life's 'Pure silence, there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, and wait!' 'Saved, Lucile!' sobb'd Matilda, 'but saved to what fate? 'Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes.'

'Hush!' the sweet voice replied.

'Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side

'Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And return
For the love you can give, with the love that you yearn
'To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now?
'Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how

Love is nourish'd by love. 'Your heart worthy of love,

Well! henceforth you will prove since it knows how to love.'

XIII.

'What gives you such power over me, that I feel
'Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?'
Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face

Of Lucile.

There pass'd suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown.

'The pupil of sorrow, perchance' . . . she replied.
'Of sorrow?' Matilda exclaim'd .. 'O confide

To my heart your affliction. In all you made known
'I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!'

'And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears 'Of another have not flow'd for me many years.'

It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand
Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and
Thus together they enter'd the house.

Of Matilda.

XIV.

'Twas the room

The languid and delicate gloom

Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft

From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft.
The casement oped into the garden. The pale
Cool moonlight stream'd through it.

One lone nightingale

Sung aloof in the laurels.

And here, side by side,

Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried,

Save by guardian angels.

As, when, sparkling yet

From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet

The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines

To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines

As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech,

Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each
Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair,

So united, yet diverse, the two women there

Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem,
In the soft light that tenderly rested on them.

All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows?
All that heart gain'd from heart?

Leave the lily, the rose,

Undisturb'd with their secret within them.

For who

To the heart of the flowret can follow the dew?

A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen,
The footsteps of sentinel angels, between

The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard
Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watch-word

Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell

From earth's heart, which it eased... 'All is well! all is well!'

CANTO IV.

I

THE Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it,
But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it.
And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic,
Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic.
And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly,
My earlier verses, sighs Commonplace sadly !'

As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly;
But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly
In despite of their languishing looks, on my word,
That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford.
Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard
Better far than Longinus himself can reward
The appeal to her feelings of which she approves ;
And the critics I most care to please are the Loves.

Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head
And a brass on his breast,-when a man is once dead?
Ay

were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's?-a creed by posterity learnt

A century after its author is burnt!