That Lionel great wealth had left By will to me, and that of all The ready lies of law bereft _1230 My child and me, might well befall. But let me think not of the scorn, Which from the meanest I have borne, When, for my child's beloved sake, I mixed with slaves, to vindicate _1235 The very laws themselves do make: Let me not say scorn is my fate, Lest I be proud, suffering the same With those who live in deathless fame. She ceased.--'Lo, where red morning thro' the woods _1240 Is burning o'er the dew;' said Rosalind. And with these words they rose, and towards the flood Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind With equal steps and fingers intertwined: Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore _1245 Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies, And with their shadows the clear depths below, And where a little terrace from its bowers, Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, _1250 Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er The liquid marble of the windless lake; And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, Under the leaves which their green garments make, They come: 'Tis Helen's home, and clean and white, _1255 Like one which tyrants spare on our own land In some such solitude, its casements bright Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun, And even within 'twas scarce like Italy. And when she saw how all things there were planned, _1260 As in an English home, dim memory Disturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as one Whose mind is where his body cannot be, Till Helen led her where her child yet slept, And said, 'Observe, that brow was Lionel's, _1265 Those lips were his, and so he ever kept One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. You cannot see his eyes--they are two wells Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet.' But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept _1270 A shower of burning tears, which fell upon His face, and so his opening lashes shone With tears unlike his own, as he did leap In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.