At once not rashly all disclose, His plans or bidding to oppose,-- That his quick temper would not brook; But I will watch a gracious look, And foster an auspicious hour, To try both love and reason's power. Zealous I cannot fail to be, Thou canst not guess to what degree, Dear Marie, when I plead for thee!' "That the result was plain, I knew, For I had often heard him sue, And never known a boon denied. In secret I became his bride: But heaven the union disapprov'd-- The father he so truly lov'd, Before this first offence was told, Though neither sick, infirm, or old, Without a moment's warning, died! "This seal'd his silence for awhile; For, till he saw his mother smile, Till time the cloud of woe should chace From her pale, venerable face, He felt the tale he dar'd not break,-- He could not on the subject speak! And oh! the gentle mourn so long, The faint lament outlasts the strong! "Her waning health was fair pretence To keep his voyage in suspence; But still the king, averse or mute, Heard coldly his dejected suit, To give the lingering treaty o'er; And once exclaim'd, 'Persuade no more! This measure 'tis resolv'd to try! We must that veering subject buy; Else, let the enemy advance, De Brehan surely sides with France!'" The harp again was silent; still No fiat of the general will Bade her to cease or to proceed: Oft an inquiring eye, indeed, The strangers rais'd; but instant check'd, Lest the new vassals should suspect They thought the monarch's reasons just, And faith so varying brought mistrust. De Brehan, with a bitter smile, Eyes closing, lips compress'd the while, Although Remorse, with keenest dart, And disappointment wrung his heart; Although he long'd to thunder--"Cease!" Restrain'd his fury, kept his peace. The Lay of Marie. CANTO FOURTH. Marie, as if upon the brink Of some abyss, had paus'd to think; And seem'd from her sad task to shrink. One hand was on her forehead prest, The other clasping tight her vest; As if she fear'd the throbbing heart Would let its very life depart. Yet, in that sad, bewilder'd mien, Traces of glory still were seen; Traces of greatness from above, Of noble scorn, devoted love; Of pity such as angels feel, Of clinging faith and martyr'd zeal!