She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood, Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood, When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear, And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear; Then all grew silent as he gain'd the door Which gaped ajar;--he cross'd the threshold floor: Now sounds more low;--he still pass'd on and saw, Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.-- The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast; The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd; The hard officials, with familiar leer And ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer; On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced, Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced. "And what this old Man's crime?"--"My orders say," Quoth Law, and smiled--"a debt he cannot pay!" Then from his child the poor proud captive broke-- Sign'd to the door--raised moistening eyes, and spoke-- "I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous time I was not harsh to others--for this crime; Sirs, I am ready!"--Ere the word was o'er, The parchment fell in fragments on the floor. "The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.--"My Lord," said Law, "I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw." V. Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere? Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear! Say'st thou--"Alas, kind acts requited ill, Made me loathe men!"--I answer, "Do them still." On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy; Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.-- Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come, Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home; Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known, But well--too proud for pity--veil'd his own. Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul, Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole, He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd, The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid. Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung, Hush'd when she spoke--enraptured when she sung; And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd, Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd, As the cold canvas with the image warms, As from the blank start forth the breathing forms, So would he look within him, and compare With those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there. Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose, The young fresh world the Ideal only knows; The world of which both Art and Passion are Builders;--to this so near--from this so far. What music charm'd the verse on which she gazed!-- How doubly dear the poet that she praised! And when he spoke, and from the affluent mind That books had stored, and intercourse refined, Pour'd forth the treasures,--still his choice addrest To her mild heart what seem'd to please it best; And yet the maiden dream'd not that _he_ loved Who flatter'd never, and at times reproved-- Reproved--but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'er But for such faults as soils the purest bear; A trust too liberal in our common race,