And love, in disbelieving mood, Deserting his celestial height. Withal to know, God’s love sent grief To make me less the world’s, and more Meek-hearted: ah, the sick relief! Why bow’d I not my heart before? 3 ‘What,’ I exclaimed, with chill alarm, ‘If this fantastic horror shows The feature of an actual harm!’ And, coming straight to Sarum Close, As one who dreams his wife is dead, And cannot in his slumber weep, And moans upon his wretched bed, And wakes, and finds her there asleep, And laughs and sighs, so I, not less Relieved, beheld, with blissful start, The light and happy loveliness Which lay so heavy on my heart. CANTO VIII. The Koh-i-noor. PRELUDES. I. _In Love_. IF he’s capricious she’ll be so, But, if his duties constant are, She lets her loving favour glow As steady as a tropic star; Appears there nought for which to weep, She’ll weep for nought, for his dear sake; She clasps her sister in her sleep; Her love in dreams is most awake. Her soul, that once with pleasure shook, Did any eyes her beauty own, Now wonders how they dare to look On what belongs to him alone; The indignity of taking gifts Exhilarates her loving breast; A rapture of submission lifts Her life into celestial rest; There’s nothing left of what she was; Back to the babe the woman dies, And all the wisdom that she has Is to love him for being wise. She’s confident because she fears; And, though discreet when he’s away, If none but her dear despot hears, She prattles like a child at play. Perchance, when all her praise is said, He tells the news, a battle won, On either side ten thousand dead. ‘Alas!’ she says; but, if ’twere known, She thinks, ‘He’s looking on my face! I am his joy; whate’er I do, He sees such time-contenting grace In that, he’d have me always so!’ And, evermore, for either’s sake, To the sweet folly of the dove, She joins the cunning of the snake, To rivet and exalt his love; Her mode of candour is deceit; And what she thinks from what she’ll say (Although I’ll never call her cheat), Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. Without his knowledge he was won; Against his nature kept devout; She’ll never tell him how ’twas done, And he will never find it out. If, sudden, he suspects her wiles, And hears her forging chain and trap, And looks, she sits in simple smiles, Her two hands lying in her lap. Her secret (privilege of the Bard, Whose fancy is of either sex), Is mine; but let the darkness guard Myst’ries that light would more perplex! II. _Love Thinking_.