"Nay," answer'd Morvale, gently, "hast thou tried That _second_ youth, to which ev'n follies guide; Which to the wanderer SENSE, when tired and spent, Proclaims the fount by which to fix the tent? The heart but rests when sense forbears to roam; We win back freshness when Love smiles on Home;-- Home not to _thee_, O happy one! denied." } } "To me of all," the impatient listener cried, } "Thy words but probe the wounds I vainly hide; } That which I pine for, thou hast pictured now;-- The hearth, the home, the altar, and the vow; The tranquil love, unintertwined with shame; The child's sweet kiss;--the Father's holy name; The link to lengthen a time-honour'd line;-- These not for me, and yet these should be mine." "If," said the Indian, "counsel could avail, Or pity soothe, a friend invites thy tale." "Alas!" sigh'd Arden, "nor confession's balm Can heal, nor wisdom whisper back to calm. Yet hear the tale--thou wilt esteem me less-- But Grief, the Egoist, yearneth to confess. I tell of guilt--and guilt all men must own, Who but avow the loves their youth has known. Preach as we will, in this wrong world of ours, Man's fate and woman's are contending powers; Each strives to dupe the other in the game,-- Guilt to the victor--to the vanquish'd shame!" He paused, and noting how austerely gloom'd His friend's dark visage, blush'd, and thus resumed. "Nay, I approve not of the code I find, Not less the wrong to which the world is kind. But, to be frank, how oft with praise we scan Men's actions only when they deal with man; Lo, gallant Lovelace, free from every art That stains the honour or defiles the heart,-- _With men_;--but how, if woman the pursuit? What lies degrade him, and what frauds pollute; Yet still to Lovelace either sex is mild, And new Clarissas only sigh--'How wild!'" "Enough," said Morvale; "I perforce believe: Strong Adam owns no equal in his Eve; But worse the bondage in your bland disguise; Europe destroys,--kind Asia only buys! If dull the Harem, yet its roof protects, And Power, when sated, still its slave respects. With you, ev'n pity fades away with love,-- No gilded cage gives refuge to the dove; Worse than the sin the curse it leaves behind: Here the crush'd heart, or there the poison'd mind,-- Your streets a charnel or a market made, For the lorn hunger, or the loathsome trade. Pardon,--Pass on!" "Behold, the Preface done," Arden resumed, "now opens Chapter One!" III. LORD ARDEN'S TALE.