Mel. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time: by pride That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould 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 sceptre. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future! 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 gaolers of the daring heart Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men! 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. Has he a magic to exorcise hate! Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent 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 turn'd and stung thee! Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge? Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf!--a slave!