"Far other, she, who charm'd me thus awhile, Thought in each glance, and mind in every smile; Genius was hers, with all the Iris dyes That paint on cloud the arch that spans the skies; Wild in caprice, impassion'd, and yet coy, Woman when mournful, a frank child in joy; The Phidian dream, in one concentring all } The thousand spells with which the charmers thrall, } And pleasing most the eye which years begin to pall. } I do not say I loved her as, in truth, We only love when life is in its youth; But here at least I thought to fix my doom, And from the weary waste reclaim a home. Enough I loved, to woo, to win, to bind To her my fate, if Heaven had so assign'd! The nuptial day was fix'd, the plighting kiss Glow'd on my lips;--that moment the abyss, Which, hid by moss-grown time, yet yawn'd as wide Beneath my feet, divorced me from her side. A letter came--Clanalbin's hand; what made Treason so bold to brave the man betray'd? I break the seal--O Heaven! my Mary yet Lived; in want's weeds the wretch his victim met; Track'd to her home (a beggar's squalid cell!), } Told all the penitence that lips could tell: } 'Come back and plead thyself, and all may yet be well!' } Had I a choice? could I delay to choose?-- Here conscience dragg'd me, there it might excuse. "Few hurried lines, obscurely dark with all The war within, my later vows recall, Breathe passionate prayer--for hopeless pardon sue, And shape soft words to soothe the stern adieu. So, as some soul the beckoning ghost obeys, The haunting shadow of the vanish'd days Lures to the grave of Youth my charmed tread, And sighs, 'At length thou shalt appease the Dead!' "Scarce had I reach'd the shores of England, ere New pomps spring round me,--I am Arden's heir! The last pretender to the princely line, Whose flag had waved from towers in Palestine, Borne to our dark Walhalla,--left me poor In all which sheds a blessing on the boor.-- Yes, thou art right! how, at each sickening grasp For the heart's food, had gold befool'd my clasp! Gorged with a satrap's treasure, the soul's dearth Envied the pauper crawling to his hearth." "But Mary--she--thy wife before Heaven's eye?" "Lost as before!" was Arden's anguish-cry; "Not beggary, famine--not her child (for whom, What could she hope from earth?--as stern a doom!) Could bow the steel of that proud chastity, Which scorn'd as alms the atonement due from me! Out of the sense of wrong her grandeur grown, She look'd on shame from Sorrow as a throne. Once more more she fled;--no sign!--again the same Vain track--vain chase!--Not _here_ was I to blame!" "Thou track the outcast!" mutter'd Morvale!--"No! Too far from Luxury lies the world of Woe!"