VIII.

Humbled from all his anger, and too late Convinced whose fault had shaped the daughter's fate, The father heard; and in his hands he veil'd His face abash'd, and voice to courage fail'd; For how excuse--and how console? And so, As when the tomb shuts up the ended woe, Over that burst of anguish closed the drear Abyss of silence--sound's chill sepulchre! At length he dared the timorous looks to raise, But gone the form on which he fear'd to gaze. Calm at his feet the wave crept murmuring; Calm sail'd the cygnet with its folded wing; Gently above his head the lime-tree stirr'd, The green leaves rustling to the restless bird; But he who, in the beautiful of life, Alone with him should share the heart at strife, Had left him there to the earth's happy smile-- Ah! if the storms within earth's calmness could beguile!