The later summer in that second spring When the turf glistens with the fairy ring, When oak and elm assume a livelier green, And starry buds on water-flowers are seen; When parent nests the new-fledged goldfinch leaves, And earliest song in airiest meshes weaves; When fields wave undulous with golden corn, And August fills his Amalthaean horn-- The later summer shone on Ruthven's towers, And Lord and wife (with guests to cheer the hours, Not faced alone) to that grey pile return'd; Harcourt with these, and Seaton, who had learn'd Eno' to call him from his world of strife, To watch that Home which makes the Woman's life. Not ev'n to Juliet Constance had betray'd Those griefs the House-gods if they cause should shade, Nor friendship now in truth the grief could share-- } A dying parent needed Juliet's care, } In climes where Death comes soft--in Tuscan air. } And least to Seaton would his child have shown One hidden wound; her heart still spared his own. But when the father trembling at her side Saw the smooth tempter, not the watchful guide,-- Saw through the quicksands flow each sever'd life, Here the cold Lord and there the courted wife, Then fearful, wrathful--yet uncertain still; For warning ofttimes makes more sure the ill, Or fires suspicion to believe the worst, Or bids temptation be more fondly nurst;-- Nought ripens evil like too prompt a blame, And virtue totters if you sap its shame;-- Uncertain thus came Seaton, with the rest, His prudence watchful, and his fears supprest, Resolved to learn what fault, if fault were there, Had outlaw'd Constance from a husband's care, And left the heart (the soul's frail fort) unbarr'd, For youth to storm. "Well age," he sigh'd, "shall guard." II. Meantime, the cheek of Constance lost its rose, Food brought no relish, slumber no repose: The wasted form pined hour by hour away, But still the proud lip struggled to be gay; And Ruthven still the proud lip could deceive, Till the proud man forgot the proud in smiling grieve! III. In that old pile there was a huge square tower, Whence look'd the warder in its days of power; Still, in the arch below, the eye could tell Where on the steel-clad van the grim portcullis fell; And from the arrow-headed casements, deep Sunk in the walls of the abandon'd keep, The gaze look'd kingly in its wide command O'er all the features of the subject land; From town and hamlet, copse and vale, arise The hundred spires of Ruthven's baronies; And town and hamlet, copse and vale, around, Its arms of peace the azure Avon wound. IV.