'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet. Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.' 'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.' 'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.' XII. 'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore, Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say, If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more; What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay." XIII. I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace. For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing, Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.' 'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.' THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. The white moon wasteth, And cold morn hasteth Athwart the snow, The red east burneth And the tide turneth, And thou must go. Think not, sad rover, Their story all over Who come from far-- Once, in the ages Won goodly wages Led by a star. Once, for all duly Guidance doth truly Shine as of old, Opens for me and thee Once, opportunity Her gates of gold. Enter, thy star is out, Traverse nor faint nor doubt Earth's antres wild, Thou shalt find good and rest As found the Magi blest That divine Child. AN ARROW-SLIT. I clomb full high the belfry tower Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower In the wallèd garden where she doth play.' My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, White rose, red rose about her hung, And I aloft with the doves and the daws. They coo and call to their callow young. Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, 'T is I would render her service tender, Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.' Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, When she grows older how will it be, I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day That heed not, need not, or mine or me. Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, 'T is I would render her service tender, And carry her, carry her on my breast.' WENDOVER. Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love On the crest of a soft swelling down Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet Sail on above Wendover town. Wendover town takes the smile of the sun As if yearning and strife were no more, From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, All the weight of the world is our own. Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace As the wide mead from storm and from bale, We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there And how strange is their calm in the vale. As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away As if grief might attain to forget.