I felt him, rather than beheld him. Up I rose, as if he were my king indeed, And then sate down, in trouble at myself, And struggling for my woman’s empery. ’Tis pitiful; but women are so made: We’ll die for you, perhaps,—’tis probable; But we’ll not spare you an inch of our full height: We’ll have our whole just stature,—five feet four, Though laid out in our coffins: pitiful! —‘You, Romney!—— Lady Waldemar is here?’ He answered in a voice which was not his. ‘I have her letter; you shall read it soon: But first, I must be heard a little, I, Who have waited long and travelled far for that, Although you thought to have shut a tedious book And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such a page, And here you find me.’ Did he touch my hand, Or but my sleeve? I trembled, hand and foot,— He must have touched me.—‘Will you sit?’ I asked, And motioned to a chair; but down he sate, A little slowly, as a man in doubt, Upon the couch beside me,—couch and chair Being wheeled upon the terrace. ‘You are come, My cousin Romney?—this is wonderful. But all is wonder on such summer-nights; And nothing should surprise us any more, Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.’ I signed above, where all the stars were out, As if an urgent heat had started there A secret writing from a sombre page, A blank last moment, crowded suddenly With hurrying splendours. ‘Then you do not know’— He murmured. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘I know. I had the news from Vincent Carrington. And yet I did not think you’d leave the work In England, for so much even,—though, of course, You’ll make a work-day of your holiday, And turn it to our Tuscan people’s use,— Who much need helping since the Austrian boar (So bold to cross the Alp by Lombardy And dash his brute front unabashed against The steep snow-bosses of that shield of God Who soon shall rise in wrath and shake it clear,) Came hither also,—raking up our vines And olive-gardens with his tyrannous tusks, And rolling on our maize with all his swine,’