The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P. Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
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 his look,
And with a warmer clasp his host's wan hand he took:
"Joy to thee, friend, thy race is not yet o'er,
Thy fortunes still thy genius shall restore:
Thy house from ruin reascends, to stand
Firm as of old, a column of the land.—
Joy, Seaton, joy!"—"O mock me not—Explain!
The bark once sunk beneath the obdurate main,
No tide throws up!"—"New galleons Fortune gives.
Fortune ne'er dies for him whose honour lives."—
"Is fortune not the usurer?—Kind while yet
The hand that borrows may repay the debt;
When all is lavish'd, she hath nought to lend!"
"But can she give not? Hast thou call'd me Friend?"
He paused, and glanced on Constance—while his breast
Heaved with the tumult which the lip represt.
Till she, but looking on her father's face,
In his joy joyous—sprang from his embrace,
Before the Benefactor paused, and bow'd;
Falter'd a blessing, knelt, and wept aloud:
"Not there, not there, O Constance," Ruthven cried,
"Here be thy place—for ever side by side!
Thanks—and to me!—Ah no! the boon be thine,
Thy heart the generous, and the grateful mine.
Oh pardon—if my soul its suit delay'd
Till the world's dross the worldly equal made;
And left to thee to grant and me receive
Man's earliest treasures—Paradise and Eve!
Beloved one, speak! Not mine the silver tongue,
And toil leaves manhood nought that lures the young;
But in these looks is truth—these accents, love:
And in thy faith all that survive above
The graves of Time, as in Elysium meet!—
Hope flies to thee as to its last retreat."
Speechless she heard—till, as he paused, the voice
Of the fond Sire usurp'd and doom'd the choice:
"May she repay thee!" In his own he drew
Her hand and Ruthven's, smiled and join'd the two—
"Ah! could I make thee happy,"—thus she said
And ceased:—her sentence in his eyes she read—
Eyes that the rashness of delight reveal:
Love