If Lucy mourn'd his absence, not before Her sire's dim eyes the face of grief she wore; Haply her woman heart divined the spell Of her own power, by flight proclaim'd too well; And not in hours like these may self control The generous empire of a noble soul: Lo, her first thought, first duty--the soft reign Of Woman--patience by the bed of pain! As mute the father, yet to him made clear The cause of flight untold to Lucy's ear; Thus ran the lines that met, at morn, his eyes:-- "Farewell! my place a daughter now supplies!-- Thou hast pass'd the gates of Death, and bright once more Smile round thy steps the sunlight and the shore. Farewell; and if a soul, where hatred's gall Melts into pardon that embalmeth all, Can with forgiveness bless thee;--from remorse Can pluck the stone which interrupts the course Of thought to God;--and bid the waters rest Calm in Heaven's smile,--poor fellow-man, be blest! I, that can aid no more, now need an aid Against myself; by mine own thoughts dismay'd: I dare not face thy child--I may not dare To commune with my heart--thy child is there! I hear a voice that whispers hope, and start In shame, to shun the tempter and depart. How vile the pardon that I yield would seem, If shaped and colour'd from the egoist's dream; A barter'd compromise with thoughts that take The path of conscience but for passion's sake-- If with the pardon I could say--'The Tomb Devours the Past, so let the Moment bloom, And see Calantha's brother reconciled, Kneel to Calantha's lover, for his child!' It may not be; sad sophists were our vain Desires, if Right were not a code so plain; In good or ill leave casusits on the shelf, 'He never errs who sacrifices self!'"