To this Griselda answered nothing. She Was pleased, yet disconcerted. Poetry Is always pleasant to a woman's ear, And to Griselda had been doubly dear, If it had touched less nearly. But her heart Had bounded with too violent a start To leave her certain of her self-control, In this new joy which seemed to probe her soul. And feeling frightened she had tried to find A reason for the tumult of her mind In being angry. He should not have dared To strike so near the truth. Or had she bared Her soul so plain to his that he should speak Of both as an eye-witness? She felt weak And out of temper with herself and him, And with the sudden waking from a dream Too long indulged, and with her own sad fate, Which made all dreams a crime against the State. There yawned indeed a gulf between them. This It needed no such word as had been his To bring back to her memory or show How wide it was, and deep, and far below; And yet she shuddered, for already thought Had led her to the brink where reason fought With folly, and conjured it to look down Into the vast and terrible unknown. This was itself an omen. All that day Griselda had a headache, and said nay To those who called, the Prince among the rest, Who came distrusting and returned distressed. Awhile this humour lasted. Then they met, And Belgirate, venturing a regret For having vexed her with so poor a rhyme, Griselda had protested want of time And want of talent as her sole excuse For having made no answer to his Muse, Yet cast withal a look so pitiful Upon his face it moved his very soul. This closed the incident. He might have spoken Perhaps that instant, and received some token Of more than a forgiveness. But his fate Had willed it otherwise or willed too late. For love forgives not, plead it as we may To speak the unspoken "Yes" of yesterday. CHAPTER III. Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli, The rocks, the foam-white water, and the three Fair ruined temples which adorn the hill? Who has not sat and listened to the shrill Sweet melody of blackbirds, and the roar Of Anio's voice rebounding from the shore, Nor would have given his very soul to greet Some passing vision of a white nymph's feet, And weaving arms, as the wild chasm's spray Beat on his face, for ever answering "Nay?" Who has not turned away with sadder face, Abashed before the genius of the place, A wiser man, and owned upon his knees, The dull transmontane Goth and boor he is? Who that was born to feel?