With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee I gave my heart away! _Pre._ Dost thou remember When first we met? _Vic._ It was at Cordova, In the Cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. _Pre._ ’Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, And then anon the great Cathedral bell. It was the elevation of the Host. We both of us fell down upon our knees, Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. I never had been happy, till that moment. _Vic._ Thou blessed angel! _Pre._ And when thou wast gone I felt an aching here. I did not speak To any one that day. _Vic._ Sweet Preciosa! I lov’d thee even then, though I was silent! _Pre._ I thought I ne’er should see thy face again. Thy farewell had to me a sound of sorrow. _Vic._ That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone. _Pre._ That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings? _Vic._ So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. As drops of rain fall into some dark well, And from below comes a scarce audible sound— So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, And their mysterious echo reaches us. _Pre._ I’ve felt it so, but found no words to say it! I cannot reason—I can only feel! But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. Thou art a scholar: and sometimes I think We cannot walk together in this world! The distance that divides us is too great! Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; I must not hold thee back. _Vic._ Thou little skeptic! Dost thou still doubt?—What I most prize in woman Is her affection, not her intellect! Compare me with the great men of the earth— What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants! But if thou lovest—mark me! I say lovest— The greatest of thy sex excels thee not! The world of the affections is thy world— Not that of man’s ambition. In that stillness Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, Feeding its flame. The element of fire Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, But burns as brightly in a gipsy camp As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced? _Pre._ Aye, that I love thee, as the good love heaven, But that I am not worthy of that heaven. How shall I more deserve it? _Vic._ Loving more. _Pre._ I cannot love thee more; my heart is full. _Vic._ Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, As in the summer-time the thirsty sands