Years passed. Griselda from my wandering sight Had waned and vanished, like a meteor bright, Leaving no pathway in my manhood's heaven, Save only memories vaguely unforgiven Of something fair and sad, which for a day Had lit its zenith and had gone its way. Rome and the Prince, the tale that I had heard, Griselda's beauty--all that once had stirred My curious thought to wonder and regret, In the vexed problem of her woman's fate, Had yielded place to the world's work-day cares, The wealth it covets and the toil it dares. I was no more a boy, when idle chance And that light favour which attends romance Brought me once more within the transient spell Of other days, and dreams of Lady L. 'Twas in September (I have always found That month in my life's record dangerous ground, Whether it be due to some unreasoned stress Of the mad stars which dog our happiness, Or whether--since in truth most things are due To natural causes, if our blindness knew-- To the strong law of Nature's first decay, Warning betimes of time that cannot stay, And summer perishing, and hours to come, Lit by less hope in the year's martyrdom; And so we needs must seize at any cost Fleet pleasure's hem lest all our day be lost) 'Twas in September, at a country house In the Midland shires, where I had come, God knows, Without a thought but of such joyous sort As manhood ventures in the realms of sport With that dear god of slaughter England's sons Adore with incense-smoke and roar of guns, That this new chapter opens. Who had guessed So rare a phœnix housed in such a nest? For we, in truth, were no wise company, Men strong and joyous, keen of hand and eye, And shrewd for pleasure, but whose subtlest wit Was still to jest at life while using it, And jest at love, as at a fruit low hung To all men's lips, no matter whence it sprung. A fool's philosophy, yet dear to youth Bred without knowledge of the nobler truth, And seeming wisdom, till the bitter taste Of grief has come to cure its overhaste. Naught was there, in the scene nor in the parts Played by the actors, worthy serious hearts, Or worthy her whose passion trod a stage High o'er the frailties of our prurient age, Griselda and her unattained fair dream Of noble deeds and griefs unknown to them. How came she there? Our hostess was a woman Less famed for wisdom than a heart all human, Rich in life's gifts, a wealthy generous soul, But still too fair and still too bountiful. The rest, mad hoydens of the world, whose worth Lay mired with folly, earthiest of the earth. How came she there?