By girlish choice and whim of her first will She had espoused the amiable Lord L., A worthy nobleman, in high repute For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot; A silent man, well mannered and well dressed, Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed With fortune's favours, but without pretence, Whom manners almost made a man of sense. In early life he had aspired to fame In the world of letters by the stratagem Of a new issue, from his private press, Of classic bards in senatorial dress, "_In usum Marchionis._" He had spent Much of his youth upon the Continent, Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems, In every town from Tiber unto Thames, And gaining store of curious knowledge too On divers subjects that the world least knew: Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid With dust and lumber somewhere in his head. A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life Had never quite been lighted for the strife And turmoil of the world, but flickered down In an uncertain twilight of its own, With an occasional flash, that only made A deeper shadow for its world of shade. When he returned to England, all admired The taste of his collections, and inquired To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall To wear these gems and jewels after all. But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone, A snare and stumbling-block to more than one, Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said, Lord L. already had too long delayed. Be it as it may, he abdicated life The day he took Griselda to his wife. And then Griselda loved him. All agreed, The world's chief sponsors for its social creed, That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not The very fool some said and idiot, Or whether under cloak of dulness crass, He veiled that sense best suited to his case, Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light, For curtain eloquence and dead of night; And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread, Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed, Here at this word all sides agreed to rest: Griselda did her duty with the best. Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth, And watched with sad and ever jealous eye The vision of your beauty passing by, Why was it that that brow inviolate, That virginal courage yet unscared by fate, That look the immortal queen and huntress wore To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously, And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why? How shall I tell the secret of your soul Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole My boyhood's ancient folly to declare Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were, Though such the truth?