Broke into song, or, from a covert dark, A bounding deer its dappled haunches showed As though it heard the stag-hound’s distant bark. The wistful Prince with loitering purpose bode, And thought how good it were to spend one’s life Far off from men, nor jostled with their strife. Even as he mused he saw his host ahead, Speeding to welcome him, in lordly wont, And all the household in a line bestead; And lightly with that escort, at the front, A peerless woman rode across the green; Then the Prince thought, “It surely is the Queen, Who comes to meet me of her loving grace!” And his blood mounted; but he knew how fair The royal locks, and, when she neared his place, He saw the lady’s prodigal dark hair And wondrous loveliness were wide apart From the sweet, tranquil picture next his heart. And when the chamberlain, with halted suit, Made reverence, and was answered courteous-wise, The lady to her knightly guest’s salute Turned her face full, so that he marked her eyes,— How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid, And danger somewhere in their light lay hid. There are some natures housed so chaste within Their placid dwellings that their heads control The tumult of their hearts; and thus they win A quittance from this pleading of the soul For Love, whose service does so wound and heal; How should they crave for what they cannot feel? From passion and from pain enfranchised quite, Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret, Calm as the blind who have not seen the light, The dumb who hear no precious voice; and yet The sun forever pours his lambent fire And the high winds are vocal with desire. And there are those whose fervent souls are wed To glorious bodies, panoplied for love, Born to hear sweetest words that can be said, To give and gather kisses, and to move All men with longing after them,—to know What flowers of paradise for lovers grow. The Vestal, with her silvery content, The Lesbian, with the passion and the pain,— Which creature hath their one Creator lent More light of heaven? Who would dare restrain The beams of either? who the radiance mar Of the white planet or the burning star? If in its innocence a life is bound With cords that thrall its birthright and design, Let those whose hands the evil meshes wound Pray that it cast no look beyond their line; That no strong voice too late may enter in Its prison-range, to teach what might have been. Was there no conscious spirit thus to plead For this bright lady, as the wondering guest Closed with his welcomers, and each took heed Of each, and horse to horse they rode abreast, Nearing a fair and spacious house that stood, Half hidden, in the edges of the wood?