Unmannerly times! But now we sat Stranger than strangers; till I caught And answer’d Mildred’s smile; and that Spread to the rest, and freedom brought. The Dean talk’d little, looking on, Of three such daughters justly vain. What letters they had had from Bonn, Said Mildred, and what plums from Spain! By Honor I was kindly task’d To excuse my never coming down From Cambridge; Mary smiled and ask’d Were Kant and Goethe yet outgrown? And, pleased, we talk’d the old days o’er; And, parting, I for pleasure sigh’d. To be there as a friend, (since more), Seem’d then, seems still, excuse for pride; For something that abode endued With temple-like repose, an air Of life’s kind purposes pursued With order’d freedom sweet and fair. A tent pitch’d in a world not right It seem’d, whose inmates, every one, On tranquil faces bore the light Of duties beautifully done, And humbly, though they had few peers, Kept their own laws, which seem’d to be The fair sum of six thousand years’ Traditions of civility. CANTO II. Mary And Mildred. PRELUDES. I. _The Paragon_. WHEN I behold the skies aloft Passing the pageantry of dreams, The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft, A couch for nuptial Juno seems, The ocean broad, the mountains bright, The shadowy vales with feeding herds, I from my lyre the music smite, Nor want for justly matching words. All forces of the sea and air, All interests of hill and plain, I so can sing, in seasons fair, That who hath felt may feel again. Elated oft by such free songs, I think with utterance free to raise That hymn for which the whole world longs, A worthy hymn in woman’s praise; A hymn bright-noted like a bird’s, Arousing these song-sleepy times With rhapsodies of perfect words, Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes. But when I look on her and hope To tell with joy what I admire, My thoughts lie cramp’d in narrow scope, Or in the feeble birth expire; No mystery of well-woven speech, No simplest phrase of tenderest fall, No liken’d excellence can reach Her, thee most excellent of all, The best half of creation’s best, Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome. Nay, might I utter my conceit, ’Twere after all a vulgar song, For she’s so simply, subtly sweet, My deepest rapture does her wrong. Yet is it now my chosen task To sing her worth as Maid and Wife; Nor happier post than this I ask, To live her laureate all my life. On wings of love uplifted free, And by her gentleness made great, I’ll teach how noble man should be To match with such a lovely mate; And then in her may move the more The woman’s wish to be desired,