IX.

With a swift step, and with disorder'd mind, Through which one purpose still its clue could find, Lord Ruthven sought his home. "Yes, mine no more," So mused his soul, "to hope or to deplore; No more to watch the heart's Aurora break O'er that loved face, the light to life to speak-- No more, without a weakness that degrades, Can Fancy steal from Truth's eternal shades! Yes, we must part! But if one holier thought Still guards that shrine my fated footstep sought, Perchance, at least, I yet her soul may save, And leave her this one hope--a husband's grave!"