PART THE THIRD.
I.
Between two moments in the life of man
An airy bridge divided worlds may span;
Fine as the hair which sways beneath a soul
By Azrael summon'd to the spectre goal,
It springs abrupt from that sharp point in time
Where, soft behind us in its orient clime,
Lies the lost garden-land of young Romance:
Beyond, with cloud upon the cold expanse,
Looms rugged Duty;—and betwixt them swell
Abysmal deeps, in which to fall were hell.
O thou, who tread'st along that trembling line,
The stedfast step, the onward gaze be thine!
Dread Memory most!—the light thou leav'st would blind,
Thy foot betrays thee if thou look behind!
If Constance yet escaped not from the past,
At least she strove:—the chain may break at last.
Veil'd by the smile, Grief can so safely grieve:
Love that confides, a smile can so deceive:
And Ruthven kneeling at the altar's base
Guess'd not the idol which profaned the place;
But smiles forsake when secret hours bestow
The angry self-confessional of woe;
When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet,
And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit.
Ah! what a world were this if all were known,
And smiles on others track'd to tears alone!
Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye,
Her soul had spoken and confess'd its lie:
But sometimes natures least obscured by clay
Shine through an awe that scares the meek away;
And, near as life may seem to life—alas!
Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass.
Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsook
Her lip, and died, abash'd, before his look;
His foes his virtues—honour seem'd austere,
And all most reverenced most provoked the fear.
II.
Pass by some weeks: to London Seaton went,
His genius glorying in its wonted vent;
New props are built, and new foundations laid,
And once more rose thy crowded temple—Trade!
Then back the sire and daughter bent their way,
There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the day!
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,