For her who dared not plead, or would not save,
For her who thought the poet’s suit brought shame,
Whose passion hath immortalized her name!
And Egmont, with his noble heart betrayed,—
And Carlo’s haunted by a murder’d shade,—
And Faust’s strange legend, sweet and wondrous wild,
Stole many a tear;—Creation’s loveliest child!
Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret,
‘Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet?’ ”
If such a quantity of poetry and such poetry—Spencer, Milton, Dryden, Cowper, Shakspeare, Dante, Tasso and Göethe did not enlighten the “young innocent,” respecting the emotions with which she regarded the “fond companion of her dreams,” we do not know to whom to commend her for instruction. But we must hurry on with the story; the pair wander over Italy, and a picture is presented, of mountain and vale, of orange and myrtle groves, of grottoes, fountains, palaces, paintings, and statues that would “create a soul” under the ribs of a utilitarian. We were inclined to think that he of “the most noble brow,” entrapped the young affections of the dreamer in the “old library,” but we do not believe that she breathed the delicious confession into his ear until they reached the sunny clime of Italy. It was the unrivalled music of that land which unsealed her lips.