“Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, A month he promised with them to abide; As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they, And felt his joy make e’en the young more gay. How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fanned By yon blue water’s breath,—their walks how bland! Fair Julia seemed her brother’s softened sprite— A gem reflecting Nature’s purest light,— And with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. But did his thoughts to love one moment range?— No! he who had loved Constance could not change! Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned, The unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, That eyes so young on years like his should beam Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem. “True, she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought Which only Music’s heaven-born art can bring, To sweep across the mind with angel wing. Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, She paused o’ercome: he thought it might be chance, And, when his first suspicions dimly stole Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense’s rack again, Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. “And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met the explanatory hour;— Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar prize; And pride, like that of one more woman-grown, Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice’s tone. ’Twas then she struck the keys, and music made That mocked all skill her hand had e’er displayed: Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, She looked the very Muse of magic sound, Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, Until the mind’s eye saw them melt and glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she played, And sang no words to give its pathos aid; But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak, And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek; But when he told her how he oft had planned Of old a journey to their mountain land, That might have brought him hither years before, ‘Ah! then,’ she cried, ‘you knew not England’s shore; And, had you come,—and wherefore did you not?’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it would have changed our lot!’ Then burst her tears through pride’s restraining bands, And with her handkerchief, and both her hands, She hid her face and wept.—Contrition stung Theodric for the tears his words had wrung. ‘But no,’ she cried, ‘unsay not what you’ve said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed; To think I could have merited your faith, Shall be my solace even unto death?’—