PART THE FIFTH.

The later summer in that second spring When the turf glistens with the fairy ring, When oak and elm assume a livelier green, And starry buds on water-flowers are seen;

When parent nests the new-fledged goldfinch leaves, And earliest song in airiest meshes weaves; When fields wave undulous with golden corn, And August fills his Amalthaean horn —

The later summer shone on Ruthven's towers, And Lord and wife ( with guests to cheer the hours, Not faced alone ) to that grey pile return'd; Harcourt with these, and Seaton, who had learn'd

Eno’ to call him from his world of strife, To watch that Home which makes the Woman's life. Not ev'n to Juliet Constance had betray'd Those griefs the House-gods if they cause should shade,

Nor friendship now in truth the grief could share — } A dying parent needed Juliet's care, } In climes where Death comes soft — in Tuscan air. } And least to Seaton would his child have shown

One hidden wound; her heart still spared his own. But when the father trembling at her side Saw the smooth tempter, not the watchful guide,— Saw through the quicksands flow each sever'd life,

Here the cold Lord and there the courted wife, Then fearful, wrathful — yet uncertain still; For warning ofttimes makes more sure the ill, Or fires suspicion to believe the worst,

Or bids temptation be more fondly nurst;— Nought ripens evil like too prompt a blame, And virtue totters if you sap its shame;— Uncertain thus came Seaton, with the rest,

His prudence watchful, and his fears supprest, Resolved to learn what fault, if fault were there, Had outlaw'd Constance from a husband's care, And left the heart ( the soul's frail fort ) unbarr'd,

For youth to storm. “Well age,” he sigh'd, “shall guard.” Meantime, the cheek of Constance lost its rose, Food brought no relish, slumber no repose: The wasted form pined hour by hour away,

But still the proud lip struggled to be gay; And Ruthven still the proud lip could deceive, Till the proud man forgot the proud in smiling grieve! In that old pile there was a huge square tower,

Whence look'd the warder in its days of power; Still, in the arch below, the eye could tell Where on the steel-clad van the grim portcullis fell; And from the arrow-headed casements, deep

Sunk in the walls of the abandon'd keep, The gaze look'd kingly in its wide command O'er all the features of the subject land; From town and hamlet, copse and vale, arise

The hundred spires of Ruthven's baronies; And town and hamlet, copse and vale, around, Its arms of peace the azure Avon wound. A lonely chamber in this rugged tower,

The lonely lady made her favourite bower — From her more brilliant chambers crept a stair, That, through a waste of ruin, ended there; And there, unseen, unwitness'd, none intrude,

Nor vex the spirit from the solitude. How, in what toil or luxury of mind, Could she the solace or the Lethe find? Music or books?— nay, rather, might be guess'd

The art her maiden leisure loved the best; For there the easel and the hues were brought, Though all unseen the fictions that they wrought. Harcourt more bold the change in Constance made;

Sure, love lies hidden in that depth of shade! That cheek how hueless, and that eye how dim,— “Wherefore,” he thought and smiled, “if not for him?” More now his manner and his words, disarm'd

Of their past craft, the anxious sire alarm'd. True, there was nought in Constance to reprove, But still what hypocrite like lawless love? One eve, as in the oriel's arch'd recess

Pensive he ponder'd, linking guess with guess, Words reach'd his ear — if indistinct — yet plain Enough to pierce the heart and chill the vein. ‘ Tis Constance, answering in a faltering tone

Some suit; and what — was by the answer shown “Yes!— in an hour,” it said.— “Well, be it so.” — “The place?” — “Yon keep.” — “Thou wilt not fail me!” — “No!” ‘ Tis said;— she first, then Harcourt, quits the room.

“Would,” groan'd the Sire, “my child were in the tomb!” He gasp'd for breath, the fever on his brow — “Was it too late?— What boots all warning now? If saved to-day — to-morrow, and the same }

Danger and hazard! had he spared the shame } To leave the last lost Virtue but a name.” } Sickening and faint, he gain'd the outer air, Reach'd the still lake, and saw the master there;

Listless lay Ruthven, droopingly the boughs Veil'd from the daylight melancholy brows; Listless he lay, and with indifferent eye Watch'd the wave darken as the cloud swept by.

The father bounded to the idler's side — } “Awake, cold guardian of a soul!” he cried; } “Why, sworn to cherish, fail'st thou ev'n to guide?” } “Why?” echoed Ruthven's heart — his eye shot flame —

“Dare she complain, or he presume to blame?” Thus ran the thought, he spoke not;— silent long As Pride kept back the angry burst of wrong. At length he rose, shook off the hand that prest,

And calmly said, “I listen for the rest — Whatever charge be in thy words convey'd, Speak;— I will answer when the charge is made!” Like many an offspring of our Saxon clime,

Who makes one seven-day labour-week of time, Who deems reprieve a sloth, repose a dearth, And strikes the Sabbath of the soul from earth; In Seaton's life the Adam-curse was strong;

He loved each wind that whirl'd the sails along; He loved the dust that wrapt the hurrying wheel; And, form'd to act, but rarely paused to feel. Thus men who saw him move among mankind,

Saw the hard purpose and the scheming mind, And the skill'd steering of a sober brain, Prudence the compass and the needle gain. But now, each layer of custom swept away,

The Man's great nature leapt into the day: He stretch'd his arms, and terrible and wild, His voice went forth — “I gave thee, Man, my child; I gave her young and innocent — a thing

Fresh from the Heaven, no stain upon its wing; One form'd to love, and to be loved, and now ( Few moons have faded since the solemn vow ) How do I find thou hast discharged the trust?

Account!— nay, frown not — to thy God thou must, Pale, wretched, worn, and dying: Ruthven, still These lips should bless thee, couldst thou only kill. But is that all?— Death is a holy name,

Tears for the dead dishonour not!— but Shame! O blind, to bid her every hour compare With thine his love — with thy contempt his care! Yea, if the light'ning blast thee, I, the Sire,

Tell thee thy heart of steel attracts the fire; Hadst thou but loved her, that meek soul I know — Know all” — His passion falter'd in its flow; He paused an instant, then before the feet

Of Ruthven fell. “Have mercy! Save her yet! Take back thy gold: say, did I not endure, And can again, the burthen of the poor? But she — the light, pride, angel, of my life —

God speaks in me — O husband, save thy wife!” “Save! and from whom, old Man?” Yet, as he spoke, A gleam of horror on his senses broke; “From whom? What! know'st thou not who made the first,

Though fading fancy, youth's warm visions nurst? This Harcourt — this” — he stopp'd abrupt — appall'd! Those words how gladly had his lips recall'd; For at the words — the name — all life seem'd gone

From Ruthven's image:— as a shape of stone, Speechless and motionless he stood! At length The storm suspended burst in all its strength: “And this to me — at last to me!” he cried,

“Thine be the curse, who hast love to hate allied: Why, when my life on that one hope I cast, Why didst thou chain my future to her past — Why not a breath to say,‘ She loved before;

Pause yet to question, if the love be o'er!’ Didst thou not know how well I loved her — how Worthy the Altar was the holy vow? That in the wildest hour my suit had known,

Hadst thou but said,‘ Her heart is not her own,’ Thou hadst left the chalice with a taste of sweet? I — I had brought the Wanderer to her feet — Had seen those eyes through grateful softness shine,

Nor turn'd — O God!— with loathing fear from mine; And from the sunshine of her happy breast Drawn one bright memory to console the rest!— But now, thy work is done — till now, methought,

There was one plank to which the shipwreck'd caught. Forbearance — patience might obtain at last The distant haven — see! the dream is past — She loves another! In that sentence — hark

The crowning thunder!— the last gleam is dark; Time's wave on wave can but the more dissever; The world's vast space one void for ever and for ever!” Humbled from all his anger, and too late

Convinced whose fault had shaped the daughter's fate, The father heard; and in his hands he veil'd His face abash'd, and voice to courage fail'd; For how excuse — and how console? And so,

As when the tomb shuts up the ended woe, Over that burst of anguish closed the drear Abyss of silence — sound's chill sepulchre! At length he dared the timorous looks to raise,

But gone the form on which he fear'd to gaze. Calm at his feet the wave crept murmuring; Calm sail'd the cygnet with its folded wing; Gently above his head the lime-tree stirr'd,

The green leaves rustling to the restless bird; But he who, in the beautiful of life, Alone with him should share the heart at strife, Had left him there to the earth's happy smile —

Ah! if the storms within earth's calmness could beguile! With a swift step, and with disorder'd mind, Through which one purpose still its clue could find, Lord Ruthven sought his home. “Yes, mine no more,”

So mused his soul, “to hope or to deplore; No more to watch the heart's Aurora break O'er that loved face, the light to life to speak — No more, without a weakness that degrades,

Can Fancy steal from Truth's eternal shades! Yes, we must part! But if one holier thought Still guards that shrine my fated footstep sought, Perchance, at least, I yet her soul may save,

And leave her this one hope — a husband's grave!” Home gain'd, he asks — they tell him — her retreat: He winds the stairs, and midway halts to meet His rival passing from that mystic room,

With a changed face, half sarcasm and half gloom. Writhed Ruthven's lip — his hands he clench'd;— his breast Heaved with man's natural wrath; the wrath the man supprest. “Her name, at least, I will not make the gage

Of that foul strife whose cause a husband's rage.” So, with the calmness of his lion eye, He glanced on Harcourt, and he pass'd him by. And now he gains, and pauses at the door — }

Why beats so loud the heart so stern before? } He nerved his pride — one effort, and‘ tis o'er. } Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters:— there Kneels Constance yonder — can she kneel in prayer?

What object doth that meek devotion chain In yon dark niche? Before his steps can gain Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale, And o'er the object draws the curtain veil.

But there the implements of art betray What thus the conscience dare not give to day. A portrait? whose but his, the loved and lost, Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost?

So Ruthven guess'd — more dark his visage grown, And thus he spoke:— “Once more we meet alone. Once more — be tranquil — hear me! not to upbraid, And not to threat, thy presence I invade;

But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept, If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept, If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine — Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been THINE,

Hear me — O hear me, for thy father's sake! For the full heart that thy disgrace would break! By all thine early innocence — by all The woman's Eden — wither'd with her fall —

I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide, Implore the daughter, not command the bride; Protect — nor only from the sin and shame, Protect from slander — thine, my Mother's — name!

For hers thou bearest now! and in her grave Her name thou honourest, if thine own thou save! I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start? From him, as me — the time hath come to part;

And ere for ever I relieve thy view — The one thou lov'st must be an exile too. Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice Betray thy secret — Flight shall seem his choice;

A fair excuse — a mission to some clime, Where — weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time! This heart is not of iron, and the worm That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form;

And then, perchance, thy years may run the course Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse. And now, farewell for ever!” As he spoke, From her cold silence with a bound she broke,

And clasp'd his hand. “Oh, leave me not! or know, Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so, But wrongs no more.” “No more?— Oh, spurn the lie;

Harcourt but now hath left thee! Well — deny!” “Yes, he hath left me!” “And he urged the suit That — but thou madden'st me! false lips, be mute!” — “He urged the suit — it is for ever o'er;

Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore, One word, nay less, one gesture” ( and she blush'd ) “Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumption crush'd.” — “What! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care?”

“There did I point and say‘ My heart is there!’” Amazed, bewilder'd — struggling half with fear And half delight — his steps the curtain near. He lifts the veil: that face — It is his own!

But not the face her later gaze had known; Not stern, nor sad, nor cold,— but in those eyes, The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies; The fond smile beaming the glad lips above,

Bright as when radiant with the words “I love.” An instant mute — oh, canst thou guess the rest? The next his Constance clinging to his breast; All from the proud reserve, at once allied

To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride, Melting in sobs and happy tears — and words Swept into music from long-silent chords. Then came the dear confession, full at last.

Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past; And as a sudden footstep nears the door, As a third shadow dims the threshold floor — As Seaton, entering in his black despair,

Pauses the tears, the joy, the heaven to share — The happy Ruthven raised his princely head, “Give her again — this day in truth we wed!” And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves

In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves, A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir.