With those fair orbs which lit her common air }
That which should be her guardian planet there }
Now cold if radiant did the wife compare? }
If so, alas we lose the Chaldee's power
To shape the life if we neglect the hour.
And in the crowd was now their only meeting—
They who from crowds should so have hail'd retreating.
But in the crowd if eye encounter'd eye,
Whence came her blush, or wherefore heaved his sigh?
Ah! woe when lost the Heavenly confidence,
Man's gentle right, and woman's strong defence!—
Like the frank sunflower, Household Love to-day
Must ope its leaves;—what shades it, brings decay.
V.
The world look'd on, and construed, as it still
Interprets, all it knows not into ill.
"Man's home is sacred," flattering proverbs say;
Yes, if you give the home to men's survey,
But if that sanctum be obscured or screen'd,
In every shadow doubt suggests a fiend:
So churchyards seen beneath a daylight sky
Are holy to the clown who saunters by;
But vex his vision by the glimmering light,
And straight the holiness expires in fright;
He hears a goblin in the whispering grass,
And cries "Heaven save us!"—at the Parson's ass!
"Was ever Lord so newly wed so cold?
Poor thing!—forsaken ere a year be told!
Doubtless some wanton—whom we know not, true,
But those proud sinners are so wary too!
Oh! for the good old days—one never heard
Of men so shocking under George the Third!"
So ran the gossip. With the gossip came
The brood it hatch'd—consolers to the dame.
The soft and wily wooers, who begin
Through sliding pity, the smooth ways to sin.
My lord is absent at the great debate,
Go, soothe his lady's unprotected state;
Go, gallant,—go, and wish the cruel Heaven
To thee such virtue, now so wrong'd, had given!
Yes, round her flock'd the young world's fairest ones,
The soft Rose-Garden's incense-breathing sons:
Roused from his calm, Lord Ruthven's watchful eye
Mark'd the new clouds that darken'd round his sky;
And raptured saw—though for his earth too far—
How fleets and fades each cloud before that stainless Star.
VI.
Now came the graver trial, though unseen
By him who knew not where the grief had been—
He knew not that an earlier love had steel'd
Her heart to his—that curse, at least conceal'd;
Enough of sorrow in his lonely lot—
The why, what matter—that she loved him not?
One night, when Revel was in Ruthven's hall,
He near'd the brilliant cynosure of all:
"Deign" (thus he whisper'd) "to receive with grace
Him who may hold the honours of my race:—
When the last Ruthven dies, behold his heir!"
He said, she turn'd—O Heaven!—and Harcourt there!
Harcourt the same as when her glance he charm'd,
For surer conquest by compassion arm'd—
The same, save where a softer shadow, cast
O'er his bright looks, reflected the sad Past!
Now, when unguarded and in crowds alone,
The Future dark—the household gods o'erthrown;
Now, when those looks (that seem, the while they grieve,
Ne'er to reproach)—can pity best deceive;
The sole affection she of right can claim—
Now, Virtue, tremble not—the Tempter came!
VII.
He came, resolved to triumph and avenge—
Sure of a heart whose sorrow spoke no change;
Pleased at the thought to bind again the chain—
For they who love not still can love to reign;
Calm in the deeper and more fell design
To sever those whom outward fetters join—
To watch the discord Scandal rumours round,
Fret every sore, and fester every wound;
Could he but make Dissension firm and sure,
Success would render larger schemes secure;
"Let Ruthven die but childless!" ran his prayer,
And in the lover's sigh cold avarice prompts the heir.
He came and daily came, and daily schemed—
Soft, grave, and reverent, but the friend he seem'd.
These distant cousins, from their earliest days,
To different goals had trod their varying ways:
If Ruthven oft with generous hand supplied
What were call'd luxuries, did Shoreditch decide,
But what no Jury of Mayfair could doubt
Are just the things life cannot live without;
Yet gifts are sometimes as offences view'd,
And envy is the mean man's gratitude;
And, truth to own, whate'er the one bestow'd,
More from his own large, careless nature flow'd
Than through the channels tenderer sources send,
When Favour equals—since it asks a Friend.
But Ruthven loved not, in the days gone by,
The cold, quick shrewdness of that stealthy eye,
That spendthrift recklessness, which still was not
The generous folly which itself forgot.
You love the prodigal; the miser loathe,
Yet oft the clockwork is the same in both:
Ope but the works—the penury and excess
Chime from one point—the central selfishness:—
And though men said (for those, who wear with ease
The vulgar vices, seldom much displease),
"His follies injure but himself alone!"
His follies spared no welfare but his own:
Mankind he deem'd the epitome of self,
And never laid that volume on the shelf.
Somewhat of this, had Ruthven mark'd before—
Now he was less acute, or Harcourt more:
The first absorb'd in sorrow or in thought;
The last in craft's smooth lessons deeper taught.
Not over anxious to be undeceived
Ruthven reform in what was rot believed;
They held the same opinions on the state,
And were congenial—in the last debate;
Harcourt had wish'd to join the patriot crew
Who botch our old laws with a patch of new;
Ruthven the wish approved; and found the seat—
And so the Cousins' union grew complete.
Well then at board behold the constant guest,
With love as yet by eyes alone exprest:
From the past vows he dared not yet invoke
The ancient Voice;—yet of the past he spoke.
Whene'er expected least, he seem'd to glide
A faithful shadow to her haunted side.
But why relate how men their victims woo!—
He left undone no art that can undo.
VIII.