To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is, To seek one nature that is always new, Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss, Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to, Nor feel deserted afterwards,--for this But with our destined co-mate we can do,-- Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope Of the young soul with one mysterious hope. XII. So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore Of love's enticing secrets; and although She had found none to cast it down before, Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go To pay her vows, and count the rosary o'er Of her love's promised graces:--haply so Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand. XIII. A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom, Unwedded yet and longing for the sun, Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, Her being was, watching to see the bloom Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be For him who came to hold her heart in fee. XIV. Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, Whose heart in secret fed upon the light And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate Of his close vow catching what gleams he might Of the free heaven, and cursing--all too late-- The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in, And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin. XV. For he had met her in the wood by chance, And, having drunk her beauty's wildering spell, His heart shook like the pennon of a lance That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, And thenceforth, in a close-enfolded trance, From mistily golden deep to deep he fell; Till earth did waver and fade far away Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay. XVI. A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth Had shed its blossoms even in opening, Leaving a few that with more winning ruth Trembling around grave manhood's stem might cling, More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring:-- A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, A youth half-smiling by an open tomb. XVII. Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; Who saw him always wished to know him more, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at its core; Little he loved, but power most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto. XVIII.