No time to woo! The train must go Long ere the sun is down, To reach, before the night-winds blow, The many-steepled town. 'T is midnight,--street and square are still; Dark roll the whispering waves That lap the piers beneath the hill Ridged thick with ancient graves. Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth The weary couch of pain, When all thy poppies fail to soothe The lover's throbbing brain! 'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun Peals o'er the glistening bay. "Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye He hails the morning shine:-- "If art can win, or gold can buy, The maiden shall be mine!" PART THIRD THE CONQUEST "Who saw this hussy when she came? What is the wench, and who?" They whisper. "Agnes--is her name? Pray what has she to do?" The housemaids parley at the gate, The scullions on the stair, And in the footmen's grave debate The butler deigns to share. Black Dinah, stolen when a child, And sold on Boston pier, Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, Speaks in the coachman's ear: "What, all this household at his will? And all are yet too few? More servants, and more servants still,-- This pert young madam too!" "_Servant!_ fine servant!" laughed aloud The man of coach and steeds; "She looks too fair, she steps too proud, This girl with golden beads! "I tell you, you may fret and frown, And call her what you choose, You 'll find my Lady in her gown, Your Mistress in her shoes!" Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame, God grant you never know The little whisper, loud with shame, That makes the world your foe! Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, That won the maiden's ear,-- The fluttering of the frightened heart, The blush, the smile, the tear? Alas! it were the saddening tale That every language knows,-- The wooing wind, the yielding sail, The sunbeam and the rose. And now the gown of sober stuff Has changed to fair brocade, With broidered hem, and hanging cuff, And flower of silken braid; And clasped around her blanching wrist A jewelled bracelet shines, Her flowing tresses' massive twist A glittering net confines; And mingling with their truant wave A fretted chain is hung; But ah! the gift her mother gave,-- Its beads are all unstrung! Her place is at the master's board, Where none disputes her claim; She walks beside the mansion's lord, His bride in all but name. The busy tongues have ceased to talk, Or speak in softened tone, So gracious in her daily walk The angel light has shown. No want that kindness may relieve Assails her heart in vain, The lifting of a ragged sleeve Will check her palfrey's rein. A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace In every movement shown, Reveal her moulded for the place She may not call her own. And, save that on her youthful brow There broods a shadowy care, No matron sealed with holy vow In all the land so fair. PART FOURTH THE RESCUE