“Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half, Still knew him—smiled on him with feeble laugh— And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh! But lo! while Udolph’s bursts of agony, And age’s tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those? ’Twas tidings by his English messenger, Of Constance—brief and terrible they were. She still was living when the page set out From home, but whether now was left in doubt. Poor Julia! saw he then thy death’s relief— Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief? It was not strange; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot co-exist, And that alarm which now usurped his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain. ’Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud That covered Julia made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that wept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul’s saint Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast, Till reaching home, terrific omen! there The straw-laid street preluded his despair— The servant’s look—the table that revealed His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed— Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear That he had now to suffer—not to fear. He felt as if he ne’er should cease to feel— A wretch live-broken on misfortune’s wheel; Her death’s cause—he might make his peace with Heaven, Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. “The ocean has its ebbings—so has grief; ’Twas vent to anguish, if ’twas not relief, To lay his brow e’en on her death-cold cheek. Then first he heard her one kind sister speak: She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear With self-reproach to deepen his despair: ‘’Twas blame,’ she said, ‘I shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling’s fate; Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw, Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw Our House’s charm against the world’s neglect— The only gem that drew it some respect. Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke To change her purpose—grew incensed, and broke With execrations from her kneeling child. Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild, Feared that she should not long the scene outlive, Yet bade e’en you the unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight or none; But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on: Foreseeing their event, she dictated And signed these words for you.’ The letter said—