Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd, Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd; Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, } Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, } And whisper'd this wise counsel--"Wait a year!" } In vain the lover pleaded to the maid; "A year soon passes," Constance smiling said. Just then--for Harcourt's service was the sword-- Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd; Cursed by a country which at times forgets It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets, Some isle, resentful of our lax control, Rebels on purpose to distract his soul. A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore, When paled those charms to which such faith he swore; News came that left to Constance not a grace, The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;-- "Oh heavens!--so handsome! Gone in one short hour!" "What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?" "No, the dower." IV. Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreat Cheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit; What though no tidings came to brighten time, To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime. Easier to blame the elements unkind, The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind, Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll, Than place distrust where soul confides in soul. But ever foremost in her wish was yet To hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret; That in her looks this comfort still might be, "Father, I smile--and joy yet lives for thee!" Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown; To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown; As we live on, the finer tints of truth Fade from the landscape.--Age is blind to youth. PART THE SECOND. I. Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream, What time the noon invites of song to dream, Where stately oak with silver poplar weaves The hospitable shade of amorous leaves, And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance, The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A] Young Constance came;--a bank with wild flowers drest As for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest. Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade, With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade; Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the ray Around the cot which meekly shunn'd the day: But stern and high, above the deep repose Of vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose; Like souls unshelter'd because high they are, The nearer heaven the more from peace afar; Built by the mighty Architect, to form Bulwarks for man, and battle with the storm; To soar and suffer with defying crest, And guard the humble, not partake their rest.