This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart, Must I withstand myself, and also thee? Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy part; That honor leads thee on which holds back me. No, thou sweet woman; by love's great increase, I will reject thee for thy truer peace. Then said he, "Lady!--look upon my face; Consider well this scar upon my brow; I have had all misfortune but disgrace; I do not look for marriage blessings now. Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know Thou think'st it is thy duty--I will go! "I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, Skilled in the reason; though my heart be rude, I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, The more for thee--of woman's nobleness." Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, And her white raiment glistened in his sight. And, hark! the vesper chimes began to sound, Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead, They sent their message sifting through the boughs Of cedars; when they ceased his lady said, "Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, And one short moment looked him in the face. Then straight he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one As no word yet were said between us twain, And know thou that in this I yield to none-- love thee, sweetheart, love thee!" So full fain, While she did leave to silence all her part, He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart-- The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, Entreating him, and saying, "Do not go!" "I will not, sweetheart; nay, not now," quoth he, "By faith and troth, I think thou art for me!" And so she won a name that eventide, Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek; And chasing from his voice the touch of care, That made her weep when first she heard it there. One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, But O! it went so fast, too fast away. Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless-- It was the evening of a sultry day, There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir, Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet: And he recalled, and pondered as he went, All her most duteous love and converse sweet, Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him.