“Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, ’Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy: _Their home_ knew but affection’s looks and speech— A little Heaven, above dissension’s reach. But midst her kindred there was strife and gall; Save one congenial sister, they were all Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race. Her nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal, Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal; And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed, Unwearied still her kindness interposed. “Oft on those errands though she went, in vain, And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, He bore her absence for its pious end.— But public grief his spirit came to bend; For war laid waste his native land once more, And German honour bled at every pore. Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back One broken band, or perish in the wrack! Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt His purpose: like herself she spoke and felt:— ‘Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe Except its loss!—but with you let me go To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight; Harm will not reach me—hazards will delight!’ He knew those hazards better; one campaign In England he conjured her to remain, And she expressed assent, although her heart In secret had resolved _they_ should not part. “How oft the wisest on misfortune’s shelves Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves! _That_ little fault, _that_ fraud of love’s romance, _That_ plan’s concealment, wrought their whole mischance. _He_ knew it not preparing to embark, But felt extinct his comfort’s latest spark, When, midst those numbered days, she made repair Again to kindred worthless of her care. ’Tis true she said the tidings she would write Would make her absence on his heart sit light; But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, And left him in his home a lonely man.