Like many an offspring of our Saxon clime, Who makes one seven-day labour-week of time, Who deems reprieve a sloth, repose a dearth, And strikes the Sabbath of the soul from earth; In Seaton's life the Adam-curse was strong; He loved each wind that whirl'd the sails along; He loved the dust that wrapt the hurrying wheel; And, form'd to act, but rarely paused to feel. Thus men who saw him move among mankind, Saw the hard purpose and the scheming mind, And the skill'd steering of a sober brain, Prudence the compass and the needle gain. But now, each layer of custom swept away, The Man's great nature leapt into the day: He stretch'd his arms, and terrible and wild, His voice went forth--"I gave thee, Man, my child; I gave her young and innocent--a thing Fresh from the Heaven, no stain upon its wing; One form'd to love, and to be loved, and now (Few moons have faded since the solemn vow) How do I find thou hast discharged the trust? Account!--nay, frown not--to thy God thou must, Pale, wretched, worn, and dying: Ruthven, still These lips should bless thee, couldst thou only kill. But is that all?--Death is a holy name, Tears for the dead dishonour not!--but Shame! O blind, to bid her every hour compare With thine his love--with thy contempt his care! Yea, if the light'ning blast thee, I, the Sire, Tell thee thy heart of steel attracts the fire; Hadst thou but loved her, that meek soul I know-- Know all"--His passion falter'd in its flow; He paused an instant, then before the feet Of Ruthven fell. "Have mercy! Save her yet! Take back thy gold: say, did I not endure, And can again, the burthen of the poor? But she--the light, pride, angel, of my life-- God speaks in me--O husband, save thy wife!" VII.