"My soul, my soul!" she said; "O my true soul! This shall not be, my soul!"--He heard her low Voice pleading softly, and, deep in his heart, New life leapt up, and sang in every pulse, "She loves me! yea, she loves me!"--And it seemed He heard her as men hear the voice of hope Upon despair's black brink; and see one star Bloom, like a lily with a heart of fire Throbbing within it, slowly out of night. Each syllable the petal of a flower, A rose of music, welcome as the star, The first the eve gives silvery utterance to; Or as the firstling bud, the wildwood rose, Dropped from the rosy lips of laughing Spring:-- "I have remembered. Think'st thou I have not?-- O son of Evrawc, thou who couldst not see, 'Neath bells of folly and a merry mask, A girl's dear secret through her tinsel acts.-- Or was _thy_ love but fancy?--Ah, too soon, I heard the vapid ending of a tale Coquetry had begun for other end.-- But, if thou wilt, we can resume the tale; The beautiful story of true love.--Tell on! Tell on, my heart! Or have we reached the end? And is it wedlock?--Both were wrong. The one: Because his love was blind, impetuous, Nor saw the love that would have proved 'twas love, Not lust, before surrender. The other: that She sought for wisdom in the frivolous, And so made falsehood of her dearest truth, Deceived more than deceiving.--Wilt thou go?" He had no rhetoric to make reply: Only his arms about her, and his eyes Upon her eyes, and kisses on her mouth. Long time they stood.--Outside, the sunset flung Barbaric glory on the autumn wood.-- And lifting up her face he said to her: "Hast thou thy lute still? Then come sing to me; That song again, that pleased me once so ill-- Two years ago at parting. If it please No better now, straightway I will depart, And--thou with me. Yea, on one steed, if needs, We will ride forth together to the Queen, To old Caerleon, and King Arthur's Court; And Gwenhwyvar shall kiss thee and confess Thou art her loveliest flower, my own wild rose, And give thee to me who will wear thee here." ISOLT "_But when the queen, La beale Isoude heard these tidings shee made such sorrow that shee was full nigh out of her minde, and so upon a day she thought to slay herselfe, and never for to live after Sir Tristram's death._"--Le Morte d'Arthure. I The wild dawn flares o'er wood and vale, O'er all the world she used to love: Low on her couch it finds her pale, The dawn that breaks with flame above. Her lute, that once was all her care, To which her love had often sung, Upon a damask-covered chair Now lies neglected and unstrung. Back from her face her hair she throws, Her heavy hair that falls and slips, Then, rising, to the casement goes With languid eyes and pallid lips. II