‘Julia,’ Theodric said, with purposed look Of firmness, ‘my reply deserved rebuke; But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, And by the dignity of womankind, Swear that when I am gone you’ll do your best To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.’ “The abrupt appeal electrified her thought;— She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought, Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, And signified the vow she could not speak. “Ere long he communed with her mother mild: ‘Alas!’ she said, ‘I warned—conjured my child, And grieved for this affection from the first, But like fatality it has been nursed; For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, And when your name in all she spoke was mixed, ’Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, And Udolph’s pride—perhaps her own—believe That could she meet, she might enchant e’en you. You came.—I augured the event, ’tis true, But how was Udolph’s mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude? And that unconscious you had cast a spell On Julia’s peace, my pride refused to tell: Yet in my child’s illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have been: Nor can it cancel, howsoe’er it end, Our debt of friendship to our boy’s best friend.’ At night he parted with the aged pair; At early morn rose Julia to prepare The last repast her hands for him should make, And Udolph to convoy him o’er the lake. The parting was to her such bitter grief, That of her own accord she made it brief; But, lingering at her window, long surveyed His boat’s last glimpses melting into shade. “Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved His journey’s object. Much was he relieved When Udolph’s letters told that Julia’s mind Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstacy, And interchanged with Constance’s own breath The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. “To paint that being to a grovelling mind Were like portraying pictures to the blind. ’Twas needful e’en infectiously to feel Her temper’s fond and firm and gladsome zeal, To share existence with her, and to gain Sparks from her love’s electrifying chain, Of that pure pride, which lessening to her breast Life’s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, Before the mind completely understood That mighty truth—how happy are the good!— “E’en when her light forsook him, it bequeathed Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed A sweetness that survived her living days As odorous scents outlast the censer’s blaze.