"Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish, The fond and flattering pain Of passion's anguish to create In her young breast again. Bright was the lustre of her eyes, When they caught fire from mine; If I had power--this very hour, Again I'd light their shine. "But where she is, or how she lives, I have no clue to know; I've heard she long my absence pined, And left her home in woe. But busied, then, in gathering gold, As I am busied now, I could not turn from such pursuit, To weep a broken vow. "Nor could I give to fatal risk The fame I ever prized; Even now, I fear, that precious fame Is too much compromised." An inward trouble dims his eye, Some riddle he would solve; Some method to unloose a knot, His anxious thoughts revolve. He, pensive, leans against a tree, A leafy evergreen, The boughs, the moonlight, intercept, And hide him like a screen He starts--the tree shakes with his tremor, Yet nothing near him pass'd; He hurries up the garden alley, In strangely sudden haste. With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet, Steps o'er the threshold stone; The heavy door slips from his fingers-- It shuts, and he is gone. What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul?-- A nervous thought, no more; 'Twill sink like stone in placid pool, And calm close smoothly o'er. II. THE PARLOUR. Warm is the parlour atmosphere, Serene the lamp's soft light; The vivid embers, red and clear, Proclaim a frosty night. Books, varied, on the table lie, Three children o'er them bend, And all, with curious, eager eye, The turning leaf attend. Picture and tale alternately Their simple hearts delight, And interest deep, and tempered glee, Illume their aspects bright. The parents, from their fireside place, Behold that pleasant scene, And joy is on the mother's face, Pride in the father's mien. As Gilbert sees his blooming wife, Beholds his children fair, No thought has he of transient strife, Or past, though piercing fear. The voice of happy infancy Lisps sweetly in his ear, His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, Sits, kindly smiling, near. The fire glows on her silken dress, And shows its ample grace, And warmly tints each hazel tress, Curled soft around her face. The beauty that in youth he wooed, Is beauty still, unfaded; The brow of ever placid mood No churlish grief has shaded. Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, Abides the guest of years; There Want or Discord never come, And seldom Toil or Tears. The carpets bear the peaceful print Of comfort's velvet tread, And golden gleams, from plenty sent, In every nook are shed.