Dividing scarce the noble from the base, A sight too dazzled by the outward hues-- A sense though clear, too timid to refuse; Yielding the course that it would fain pursue, Still to each guide that proffer'd it the clue; And that soft shrinking into self--allied, If half to Diffidence--yet half to Pride. He loved her, and she loved him not; revered His lofty nature, and in reverence fear'd. The glorious gifts--the kingly mind she saw, Yet seeing felt not tenderness, but awe. And the dark beauty of his musing eye Chill'd back the heart, from which it woo'd reply: Harcourt--the gay--the prodigal of youth, Still charm'd her fancy, while he chain'd her truth. VI. Seaton, meanwhile, the heart of Ruthven read, With hopes which robb'd the future of its dread; Could he but live to see his child the bride Of one so wise, so kind, lover at once and guide! Silent at first, at last the deeps o'er-flow'd. One eve they sate without their calm abode, Father and Child, and mark'd the vermeil glow Of clouds that floated where the sun set slow; But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shone The last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone, Left to the space above that grand decay The rosiest tints, and last to fade away. The Father mused; then with impulsive start Turn'd and drew Constance closer to his heart, Murmuring--"Ah, there, let but thy lot be cast, And Fate withdraws all sadness from the past. Blest be the storm that wreck'd us, here to find One whom my soul had singled from mankind If mine the palace still, and his the cot,-- For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not." Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dream To note his listener, he pursues the theme. Pale as the dead, she hears his gladness speak, Sees the rare smile illume the careworn cheek; Dear if the lover in her sunny day, More dear the Sire since sunshine pass'd away. How dare to say,--"No, let thy smile depart, And take back sorrow from a daughter's heart?" VII. And while they sate, along the sward below Came Ruthven's stately form, and footstep slow; She saw--she fled--her chamber gain'd--and there Sobb'd out that grief which youth believes despair. Thenceforth her solitude was desolate; Forebodings chill'd her as a shade from Fate. At Ruthven's step her colour changed--and dread Hush'd her low voice: such signs his hope misled. Hope, to its own vain dreams the idle seer, Whisper'd--"First love comes veil'd in virgin fear!" And now, o'er Harcourt's image, as the rust O'er the steel mirror, crept at length distrust. The ordeal year already pass'd away, And still no voice came o'er the dreary sea; No faithful joy to cry--"The ordeal's past, And loved as ever, thou art mine at last." VIII.