III.

Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth, And one sweet voice gave music still to earth; On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled; "Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child.

Beautiful Constance!--As the icy air Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star, So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes, Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies. Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd, And griefs that wept not on a father's breast. In brighter days, such love as fancy knows (That youngest love whose couch is in the rose) Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste, Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced; But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart, And deepening from the surface, gains the heart; In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,-- Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease; The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control. High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold. The less men feel, the better they can feign-- To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain? No, the calm master of the Histrio's art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.

Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd, Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd; Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, } Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, } And whisper'd this wise counsel--"Wait a year!" } In vain the lover pleaded to the maid; "A year soon passes," Constance smiling said. Just then--for Harcourt's service was the sword-- Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd; Cursed by a country which at times forgets It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets, Some isle, resentful of our lax control, Rebels on purpose to distract his soul. A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore, When paled those charms to which such faith he swore; News came that left to Constance not a grace, The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;-- "Oh heavens!--so handsome! Gone in one short hour!" "What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?"

"No, the dower."