MEL. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-- That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold-- The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee; I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy Tended, unmark'd by thee--a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. And from that hour I grew--what to the last I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell--how maidens, sprung from kings, Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter. My father died; and I, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart-- Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, And every muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy--of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not; But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy thee. PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him! MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And set them to thee--such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name--appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; That very hour--when passion, turn'd to wrath, Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour The tempters, found me a revengeful tool For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-- It turned and stung thee!