“Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past: ’Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last, And deep misgivings on his spirit fell, That all with Udolph’s household was not well. ’Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear That augurs griefs inevitably near, Yet makes them not less startling to the mind, When come. Least looked-for then of human kind, His Udolph (’twas, he thought at first, his sprite) With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durst Inquire his tidings,—he revealed the worst. ‘At first,’ he said, ‘as Julia bade me tell, She bore her fate high-mindedly and well, Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide, And from the world’s compassion saved our pride; But still her health gave way to secret woe, And long she pined—for broken hearts die slow! Her reason went, but came returning, like The warning of her death-hour—soon to strike; And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs, Is once to see Theodric ere she dies. Why should I come to tell you this caprice? Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace. I blame myself, and ne’er shall cease to blame, That my insane ambition for the name Of brother to Theodric, founded all Those high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall. I made her slight a mother’s counsel sage, But now my parents droop with grief and age; And though my sister’s eyes mean no rebuke, They overwhelm me with their dying look. The journey’s long, but you are full of ruth; And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, Has faith in your affection, far above The fear of a poor dying object’s love.’ ‘She has, my Udolph,’ he replied, ‘’tis true; And oft we talk of Julia—oft of you.’ Their converse came abruptly to a close; For scarce could each his troubled looks compose, When visitants, to Constance near akin (In all but traits of soul), were ushered in. They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band The sister who alone, like her, was bland; But said—and smiled to see it gave him pain— That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, Theodric blamed his Constance’s intent.— The demons went, and left him as they went, To read, when they were gone beyond recall, A note from her loved hand, explaining all. She said, that with their house she only staid That parting peace might with them all be made; But prayed for love to share his foreign life, And shun all future chance of kindred strife. He wrote with speed, his soul’s consent to say: The letter missed her on her homeward way. In six hours Constance was within his arms: Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms, And breathless—with uplifted hands outspread— Burst into tears upon his neck, and said,— ‘I knew that those who brought your message laughed