VII.

"Save! and from whom, old Man?" Yet, as he spoke, A gleam of horror on his senses broke; "From whom? What! know'st thou not who made the first, Though fading fancy, youth's warm visions nurst? This Harcourt--this"--he stopp'd abrupt--appall'd! Those words how gladly had his lips recall'd; For at the words--the name--all life seem'd gone From Ruthven's image:--as a shape of stone, Speechless and motionless he stood! At length The storm suspended burst in all its strength: "And this to me--at last to me!" he cried, "Thine be the curse, who hast love to hate allied: Why, when my life on that one hope I cast, Why didst thou chain my future to her past-- Why not a breath to say, 'She loved before; Pause yet to question, if the love be o'er!' Didst thou not know how well I loved her--how Worthy the Altar was the holy vow? That in the wildest hour my suit had known, Hadst thou but said, 'Her heart is not her own,' Thou hadst left the chalice with a taste of sweet? I--I had brought the Wanderer to her feet-- Had seen those eyes through grateful softness shine, Nor turn'd--O God!--with loathing fear from mine; And from the sunshine of her happy breast Drawn one bright memory to console the rest!-- But now, thy work is done--till now, methought, There was one plank to which the shipwreck'd caught. Forbearance--patience might obtain at last The distant haven--see! the dream is past-- She loves another! In that sentence--hark The crowning thunder!--the last gleam is dark; Time's wave on wave can but the more dissever; The world's vast space one void for ever and for ever!"