Alone' I said from earlier than I know, Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world I loved the woman: he, that doth not, lives A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay.' 6 Said Ida, tremulously, so all unlike— 'But I,' It seems you love to cheat yourself with words: This mother is your model. Never, Prince; You cannot love me.' 'Nay but thee' I said From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood: now Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee Indeed I love the new day comes, the light Lived over lift thine eyes; doubt me no more; Like yonder morning on the blind half-world; In that fine air I tremble, all the past Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this I scarce believe, and all the rich to come Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels Athwart the smoke of burning leaves. Forgive me, I waste my heart in signs; let be. My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, And so thro' those dark gates across the wild That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come, : Yield thyself up my hopes and thine are one : Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.' CONCLUSION. So closed our tale, of which I give you all The words are mostly mine; for when we ceased 'I wish she had not yielded!' then to me, What, if you drest it up poetically!' So pray'd the men, the women: I gave assent: Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of seven Together in one sheaf? What style could suit? The men required that I should give throughout The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, With which we banter'd little Lilia first : The women-and perhaps they felt their power, For something in the ballads which they sang, Or in their silent influence as they sat, Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, Not make her true-heroic, true-sublime? Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, Betwixt the mockers and the realists: And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, And yet to give the story as it rose, I moved as in a strange diagonal, And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part In our dispute the sequel of the tale Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass, She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt A showery glance upon her aunt and said 'You-tell us what we are' who might have told, |