And what deem'd Constance now, that, face to face,
She could the contrast of the Portraits trace?—
Could see the image of the soul in each
By thought reflected on the waves of speech—
Could listen here (as when the Master's ease
Glides with light touch along melodious keys)
To those rich sounds which, flung to every gale,
Genius awakes from Wisdom's music scale;
And there admire when lively Fashion wound
Its toy of small talk into jingling sound.
Like those French trifles, elegant enough,
Which serve at once for music and for snuff,
Some minds there are which men you ask to dine
Take out, wind up, and circle with the wine.
Two tunes they boast; this Flattery—Scandal that;
The one A sharp—the other something flat:
Such was the mind that for display and use
Cased in ricoco, Harcourt could produce—
Touch the one spring, an air that charm'd the town
Tripp'd out and jigg'd some absent virtue down;
Touch next the other, and the bauble plays
"Fly from the world" or "Once in happier days."
For Flattery, when a Woman's heart its aim,
Writes itself Sentiment—a prettier name.
And to be just to Harcourt and his art,
Few Lauzuns better play'd a Werter's part;
He dress'd it well, and Nature kindly gave
His brow the paleness and his locks the wave.
Mournful his smile, unconscious seem'd his sigh;
You'd swear that Goethe had him in his eye.
Well these had duped when young Romance surveys
Life's outlines—lost amid its own soft haze.
Compared with Ruthven still doth Harcourt seem
The true Hyperion of the Delian dream.
Ah, ofttimes Love its own wild choice will blame,
Slip the blind bondage, yet doat on the same.
Was it thus wilful, Constance, still with thee,
Or did the reason set the fancy free?
PART THE FIFTH.
I.
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 Amalthæan 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."
II.
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!
III.
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.
IV.
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." }