His Lordship! I beheld a placid man, With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan, And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace Of youth or age, and so had left it bare, As it had left its colour to his hair. An old young man perhaps, or really old, Which of the two could never quite be told. I judged him younger than his years gave right: His looks betrayed him least by candlelight. Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me Sublime, the priest of her divinity At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff My tale requires than this first boyish love, Which never found the hour its fate to prove. My Lady smiling motions with her hand; The crowd falls back; his Lordship, gravely bland, Leads down the steps to where his footmen stay In state. Griselda's carriage stops the way! And was Griselda happy? Happy?--Yes, In her first year of marriage, and no less Perhaps, too, in her second and her third. For youth is proud, nor cares its last sad word To ask of fate, and not unwilling clings To what the present hour in triumph brings. It was enough, as I have said, for her That she was young and fortunate and fair. The world that loved her was a lovely world, The rest she knew not of. Fate had not hurled A single spear as yet against her life. She would not argue as 'twixt maid and wife, Where both were woman, human nature, man, Which held the nobler place in the world's plan. Her soul at least was single, and must be Unmated still through its eternity. And, even here in life, what reason yet To doubt or question or despair of Fate? Her youth, an ample web, before her shone For hope to weave its subtlest fancies on, If she had cared to dream. Her lot was good Beyond the common lot of womanhood, And she would prove her fortune best in this, That she would not repine at happiness. Thus to her soul she argued as the Spring Brought back its joy to each begotten thing-- Begotten and begetting. Who shall say Which had the better reason, she or they? In the fourth year a half acknowledged grief Made its appearance in Griselda's life. Her sisters married, younger both than she, Mere children she had thought, and happily. Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss, Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress. Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote Things that like swords against her bosom smote, The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears. Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears. Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown, Had vanished from the world. She was alone.