VI.

Seaton, meanwhile, the heart of Ruthven read, With hopes which robb'd the future of its dread; Could he but live to see his child the bride Of one so wise, so kind, lover at once and guide! Silent at first, at last the deeps o'er-flow'd. One eve they sate without their calm abode, Father and Child, and mark'd the vermeil glow Of clouds that floated where the sun set slow; But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shone The last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone, Left to the space above that grand decay The rosiest tints, and last to fade away. The Father mused; then with impulsive start Turn'd and drew Constance closer to his heart, Murmuring--"Ah, there, let but thy lot be cast, And Fate withdraws all sadness from the past. Blest be the storm that wreck'd us, here to find One whom my soul had singled from mankind If mine the palace still, and his the cot,-- For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not." Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dream To note his listener, he pursues the theme. Pale as the dead, she hears his gladness speak, Sees the rare smile illume the careworn cheek; Dear if the lover in her sunny day, More dear the Sire since sunshine pass'd away. How dare to say,--"No, let thy smile depart, And take back sorrow from a daughter's heart?"