And what deem'd Constance now, that, face to face, She could the contrast of the Portraits trace?-- Could see the image of the soul in each By thought reflected on the waves of speech-- Could listen here (as when the Master's ease Glides with light touch along melodious keys) To those rich sounds which, flung to every gale, Genius awakes from Wisdom's music scale; And there admire when lively Fashion wound Its toy of small talk into jingling sound. Like those French trifles, elegant enough, Which serve at once for music and for snuff, Some minds there are which men you ask to dine Take out, wind up, and circle with the wine. Two tunes they boast; this Flattery--Scandal that; The one A sharp--the other something flat: Such was the mind that for display and use Cased in _ricoco_, Harcourt could produce-- Touch the one spring, an air that charm'd the town Tripp'd out and jigg'd some absent virtue down; Touch next the other, and the bauble plays "Fly from the world" or "Once in happier days." For Flattery, when a Woman's heart its aim, Writes itself _Sentiment_--a prettier name. And to be just to Harcourt and his art, Few Lauzuns better play'd a Werter's part; He dress'd it well, and Nature kindly gave His brow the paleness and his locks the wave. Mournful his smile, unconscious seem'd his sigh; You'd swear that Goethe had him in his eye. Well these had duped when young Romance surveys Life's outlines--lost amid its own soft haze. Compared with Ruthven still doth Harcourt seem The true Hyperion of the Delian dream. Ah, ofttimes Love its own wild choice will blame, Slip the blind bondage, yet doat on the same. Was it thus wilful, Constance, still with thee, Or did the reason set the fancy free? [B] Schiller. PART THE FIFTH. I.