"His look Grew stern and dark--the natural Adam shook The reverend form an instant;--like a charm The pious memory stay'd the lifted arm; And shrunk to self-rebuke the threatening word, 'Man's not my weapons--I thy servant, Lord!' Moved, I replied--'Could love suffice alone } In this hard world,--the love to thee made known, } A bliss to cherish, 'twere a pride to own: } And if I pause, and if I falter--yet I hide no shame, I strive with no regret. Believe mine honour--wait the ripening hour; Time hides the germ, the season brings the flower.' Wildly he cried--'What words are these?--but one Sentence I ask--her sire should call thee _son_! Hist, let the heavens but hear us!--in her life Another lives--if pure she is thy wife! Now answer!' I had answer'd, as became The native manhood and the knightly name; But shall I own it? the suspicious chill, The world-wise know, froze up the arrested will. Whose but _her_ lips, sworn never to betray, Had fail'd their oath, and dragg'd my name to day? True, she had left the veil upon the shrine, But set the snare to make confession mine. Thus half resentment, half disdain, repell'd The man's frank justice, and the truth withheld. Yet, so invoked, I scorn'd at least the lie, And met the question with this proud reply:-- 'If thou dost doubt thy child, depart secure, My love is sinless, and her soul is pure. This by mine honour, and to Heaven, I swear! Dost thou ask more?--then bid thy child declare; What she proclaims as truth, myself will own; What she withholds, alike I leave unknown; What she demands, I am prepared to yield; Now doubt or spurn me--but my lips are seal'd.' I ceased, and stood with haughty mien and eye, That seem'd all further question to defy; He gazed, as if still spell'd in hope or fear, And hungering for the word that fail'd the ear. At last, and half unconscious, in the thrall Of the cold awe, he groan'd-- 'And is this all? Courage, poor child--there may be justice yet-- Justice, Heaven, justice!' With this doubtful threat He turn'd, was gone!--that look of stern despair, The uncertain footstep tottering down the stair, The clapping door; and then that void and chill, Which would be silence, were the conscience still; That sense of something gone, we would recall; The soul's dim stun before it feels its fall. VII.