For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, All that it hath of Life with us is living; So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving; All it hath felt, inflicted, passed, and proved, Hushed into depths beyond the watcher's diving: There lies the thing we love with all its errors And all its charms, like Death without its terrors. CXCVIII. The Lady watched her lover--and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude O'erflowed her soul with their united power; Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. CXCIX. Alas! the love of Women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 't is lost, Life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel. CC. They are right; for Man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to Women: one sole bond Awaits them--treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage--and what rests beyond? A thankless husband--next, a faithless lover-- Then dressing, nursing, praying--and all's over. CCI. Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; Few changes e'er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:[cd] Some play the devil, and then write a novel.[164] CCII. Haidée was Nature's bride, and knew not this; Haidée was Passion's child, born where the Sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond,--her heart beat _here_. CCIII. And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good--I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. CCIV.