V.

Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere? Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear! Say'st thou--"Alas, kind acts requited ill, Made me loathe men!"--I answer, "Do them still." On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy; Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.--

Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come, Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home; Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known, But well--too proud for pity--veil'd his own. Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul, Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole, He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd, The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid. Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung, Hush'd when she spoke--enraptured when she sung; And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd, Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd, As the cold canvas with the image warms, As from the blank start forth the breathing forms, So would he look within him, and compare With those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there. Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose, The young fresh world the Ideal only knows; The world of which both Art and Passion are Builders;--to this so near--from this so far. What music charm'd the verse on which she gazed!-- How doubly dear the poet that she praised! And when he spoke, and from the affluent mind That books had stored, and intercourse refined, Pour'd forth the treasures,--still his choice addrest To her mild heart what seem'd to please it best; And yet the maiden dream'd not that _he_ loved Who flatter'd never, and at times reproved-- Reproved--but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'er But for such faults as soils the purest bear; A trust too liberal in our common race, Dividing scarce the noble from the base, A sight too dazzled by the outward hues-- A sense though clear, too timid to refuse; Yielding the course that it would fain pursue, Still to each guide that proffer'd it the clue; And that soft shrinking into self--allied, If half to Diffidence--yet half to Pride. He loved her, and she loved him not; revered His lofty nature, and in reverence fear'd. The glorious gifts--the kingly mind she saw, Yet seeing felt not tenderness, but awe. And the dark beauty of his musing eye Chill'd back the heart, from which it woo'd reply: Harcourt--the gay--the prodigal of youth, Still charm'd her fancy, while he chain'd her truth.