IV.

A lonely chamber in this rugged tower, The lonely lady made her favourite bower-- From her more brilliant chambers crept a stair, That, through a waste of ruin, ended there; And there, unseen, unwitness'd, none intrude, Nor vex the spirit from the solitude. How, in what toil or luxury of mind, Could she the solace or the Lethe find? Music or books?--nay, rather, might be guess'd The art her maiden leisure loved the best; For there the easel and the hues were brought, Though all unseen the fictions that they wrought. Harcourt more bold the change in Constance made; Sure, love lies hidden in that depth of shade! That cheek how hueless, and that eye how dim,-- "Wherefore," he thought and smiled, "if not for him?" More now his manner and his words, disarm'd Of their past craft, the anxious sire alarm'd. True, there was nought in Constance to reprove, But still what hypocrite like lawless love? One eve, as in the oriel's arch'd recess Pensive he ponder'd, linking guess with guess, Words reach'd his ear--if indistinct--yet plain Enough to pierce the heart and chill the vein. 'Tis Constance, answering in a faltering tone Some suit; and what--was by the answer shown "Yes!--in an hour," it said.--"Well, be it so."-- "The place?"--"Yon keep."--"Thou wilt not fail me!"--"No!" 'Tis said;--she first, then Harcourt, quits the room. "Would," groan'd the Sire, "my child were in the tomb!" He gasp'd for breath, the fever on his brow-- "Was it too late?--What boots all warning now? If saved to-day--to-morrow, and the same } Danger and hazard! had he spared the shame } To leave the last lost Virtue but a name." }