'Fuller sense of affliction.'

'Poor innocent child!'

He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled,

As he told her the tale he had heard-something more

The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore.

Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand for you;

'And with these, my Matilda, what may I not do?

You know not, I knew not myself till this hour, 'Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power.' And I too,' she murmur'd, 'I too am no more

The mere infant at heart you have known me before. 'I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life. 'O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife,

The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel!

'For I-love you, my husband!'

As though to conceal

Less from him, than herself, what that motion express'd,
She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast.
'O lovely as woman, beloved as wife!

6

Evening star of my heart, light for ever my life!

If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus far 'You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star, 'Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven,

'There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given To lead me to life's late achievement; my own,

My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!'

XII.

How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight,

That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night!
How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth,

As she clung to his side full of trust, and of truth!
How lovely to him, as he tenderly press'd
Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd
The glittering tresses which now shaken loose
Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!

XIII.

O Muse,

Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart 'Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.

XIV.

Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least!
No music, save such as the nightingales sung,
Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, uphung,
Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given
From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven.
He open'd the casement: he led her with him,

Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim
Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard
Aloof the invisible, rapturous bird,

With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw
Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw

His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer
From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark-sapphire sphere
The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep,

Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep
Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown

Hollow glooms freshen'd odours around them were blown
Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight,
Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light
Which no longer they needed to read on the face
Of each other's life's last revelation.

The place

Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never
Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavour
Continued about them, unheeded, unseen,

Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green

Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms,
And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms

Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not
His forces, how lovely soever the spot

Where their march lies-the wary, grey strategist, Time,
With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd-Grief and Crime,
Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing,
For his great war with man, new surprises; securing
All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe

To his last narrow refuge-the grave.

XV.

Sweetly though

Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly
Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely
Confiding in that yet untrodden existence

Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance
And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device
Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.

CANTO V.

I.

WHEN Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours
In her chamber, fatigued by long over-wrought powers,
'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back
To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track.
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat
Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at
The insignia of royalty worn for a night;
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light,
And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks
Of her own meagre, rushlighted garret, and shrinks
From the chill of the change that awaits her.

II.

From these

Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries,
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair
That led from her room to the garden.

The air,

With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand,
Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land
Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave:
No sound, save the voice of the long river wave,

D D

And the crickets that sing all the night!

She stood still,

Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.

Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir,

And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.

Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look,

Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who

Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew?

Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both?

What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth?
Hath the darkness a dwelling,-save there, in those eyes?
And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies?
Ay, question, and listen! What answer?

The sound

Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night.

There are hours

Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers,
Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all

That to this race of worms,-stinging creatures, that crawl,
Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,-

Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings.
When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd
Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last;
When she traverses nature and space, till she stands
In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands,
Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd,
And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.

III.

The dark was blanch'd wan, over-head.

One green star

Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar;

The spirits of change, and of awe, with faint breath,
Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath.

The spirits of awe and of change were around,