IV.

Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreat Cheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit; What though no tidings came to brighten time, To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime. Easier to blame the elements unkind, The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind, Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll, Than place distrust where soul confides in soul. But ever foremost in her wish was yet To hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret; That in her looks this comfort still might be, "Father, I smile--and joy yet lives for thee!" Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown; To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown; As we live on, the finer tints of truth Fade from the landscape.--Age is blind to youth.

PART THE SECOND.