Oh that the earth might swallow me!" Again
Gush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain.
"Nay, nay, be cheer'd—we must not more delay;
Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay;
No, for thy sake—for thine—I must begone."
She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone.
IX.
By the opposing door, from that unseen,
Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen,
Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled bride
Look'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side!
They gazed in silence face to face: his own,
Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone.
At length the low and hollow accents stirr'd
His blanching lip, that writhed with every word:
"Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear;
A love so hated wounds no more thine ear.
I thank thee—I—!" His lips would not obey
His pride—and all the manly heart gave way.
Low at his feet she fell: the alter'd course
Of grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse;
"Forgive me!—O forgive!"
"Forgive!" he cried,
And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied.
"Vile mockery! Bid me in the desert live
Alone with treason—and then say 'Forgive!'
Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made,
Faith in all things thy falsehood has betray'd! Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youth Dream'd its safe haven, murmuring—'Here is Truth!' Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast, Exult! thy fraud surpasses all the rest. No! close, my heart—grow marble! Human worth Is not; and falsehood is the name for earth!"
X.
Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he paced
The floor to feel the world indeed a waste;
For as the earth if God were not above,
Man's hearth without the Lares—Faith and Love!
But what his woe to hers?—for him at least
Conscience was calm, though ev'ry hope had ceased.
But she!—all sorrow for herself had paused,
To live in that worse anguish she had caused:
"No, Ruthven, no! Thy pardon not for me;
But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on thee
So worthless I, so worthless thy regret;
Oh that repentance could requite thee yet!
Oh that a life that henceforth ne'er shall own,
One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone—
Obedience, honour——"
"These may make the wife
A faultless statue:—love but breathes the life!
Poor child! Nay, weep not; bitterer far, in truth,
Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth:
For manhood's pride the love at last may quell,
But when could Woman with Indifference dwell?
No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared.
O Heaven—the solitude thy soul has dared!
But thou hast chosen! Vain for each regret;
All that is left—to seem that we forget.
No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall;
Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence—take them all!
May they console thee, Constance, for a heart
That—but enough! So let the loathed depart;
These chambers thine, my step invades them not;
Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot.
Henceforth all love has lost its hated claim;
If wed, be cheer'd; our wedlock but a name.
Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart above
The power of beauty, when disarm'd of love.
And so, may Heaven forgive thee!"
"Ruthven, stay!
Generous—too noble: can no distant day
Win thy forgiveness also, and restore
Thy trust, thy friendship, even though love be o'er?"
He paused a moment with a soften'd eye;—
"Alas! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply:
If ever, Constance, that blest day should come,
When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home;
If ever, when with those who court thee there,
The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare,
And feel that if thy choice thou couldst recall,
Him now unloved, thy love would choose from all
Why then, one word, one whisper!—oh, no more—"
And fearful of himself, he closed the door!
PART THE FOURTH.
I.
Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true!
'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue:
What we call Matter, in this outer earth,
Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth.
How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled;
But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild!
Man's soul is as an everlasting dream,
Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream:
To-day, in glory all the world is clad—
Wherefore, O Man?—because thy heart is glad.
To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey—
The same! Oh no—the pomp hath pass'd away! Wherefore the change? Within, go, ask reply— Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky! Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;— Light—Darkness—Seasons—these are in the soul!
II.
"Trite truth," thou sayest—well, if trite it be,
Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee?
Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know,
We bear the climate with us where we go!
To that immense Bethesda, whither still
Each worse disease seeks cures for every ill;
To that great well, in which the Heart at strife,
Merges its own amidst the common life—
Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal,
Or Self-Ambition, still