XI.

And now he gains, and pauses at the door-- } Why beats so loud the heart so stern before? } He nerved his pride--one effort, and 'tis o'er. } Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters:--there Kneels Constance yonder--can she kneel in prayer? What object doth that meek devotion chain In yon dark niche? Before his steps can gain Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale, And o'er the object draws the curtain veil. But there the implements of art betray What thus the conscience dare not give to day. A portrait? whose but his, the loved and lost, Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost? So Ruthven guess'd--more dark his visage grown, And thus he spoke:--"Once more we meet alone. Once more--be tranquil--hear me! not to upbraid, And not to threat, thy presence I invade; But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept, If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept, If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine-- Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been THINE, Hear me--O hear me, for thy father's sake! For the full heart that thy disgrace would break! By all thine early innocence--by all The woman's Eden--wither'd with her fall-- I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide, Implore the daughter, not command the bride; Protect--nor only from the sin and shame, Protect from _slander_--thine, my Mother's--name! For hers thou bearest now! and in her grave Her name thou honourest, if thine own thou save! I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start? From him, as me--the time hath come to part; And ere for ever I relieve thy view-- The one thou lov'st must be an exile too. Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice Betray thy secret--Flight shall seem _his_ choice; A fair excuse--a mission to some clime, Where--weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time! This heart is not of iron, and the worm That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form; And then, perchance, thy years may run the course Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse. And now, farewell for ever!" As he spoke, From her cold silence with a bound she broke, And clasp'd his hand. "Oh, leave me not! or know, Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so, But wrongs no more."

"No more?--Oh, spurn the lie; Harcourt but now hath left thee! Well--deny!" "Yes, he hath left me!" "And he urged the suit That--but thou madden'st me! false lips, be mute!" --"He urged the suit--it is for ever o'er; Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore, One word, nay less, one gesture" (and she blush'd) "Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumption crush'd." --"What! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care?" "There did I point and say '_My heart is there_!'"

Amazed, bewilder'd--struggling half with fear And half delight--his steps the curtain near. He lifts the veil: that face--It is his own! But not the face her later gaze had known; Not stern, nor sad, nor cold,--but in those eyes, The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies; The fond smile beaming the glad lips above, Bright as when radiant with the words "I love." An instant mute--oh, canst thou guess the rest? The next his Constance clinging to his breast; All from the proud reserve, at once allied To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride, Melting in sobs and happy tears--and words Swept into music from long-silent chords. Then came the dear confession, full at last. Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past; And as a sudden footstep nears the door, As a third shadow dims the threshold floor-- As Seaton, entering in his black despair, Pauses the tears, the joy, the heaven to share-- The happy Ruthven raised his princely head, "Give her again--this day in truth we wed!"

And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves, A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir.

MILTON.

IN FOUR PARTS.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

This Poem was originally composed in very early youth. It was first published in 1831, and though unfortunately coupled with a very jejune and puerile burlesque called 'The Siamese Twins' (which to my great satisfaction has been long since forgotten), it was honoured by a very complimentary notice in the _Edinburgh Review_, and found general favour with those who chanced to read it. In the present edition, although the conception and the general structure remain the same, many passages have been wholly re-written, and the diction throughout carefully revised, and often materially altered. I have sought, in short, from an affection for the subject (too partial it may be) to give to the ideas which visited me in the freshness of youth, whatever aid from expression they could obtain in the taste and culture of mature manhood. No doubt, however, faults of exuberance in form, as in fancy, still remain, and betray the age in which we scarcely look beyond the Spring that delights us, nor comprehend that the multitude of the blossoms can be injurious to the bearing of the tree. Nevertheless, such faults may find more indulgence among my younger readers than those of an opposite nature, incident to the style, closer and more compressed, which my present theories of verse have led me to adopt in most of the poems I have composed of late years.

It will be observed that the design of this poem is that of a picture. It is intended to portray the great Patriot Poet in the three cardinal divisions of life--Youth, Manhood, and Age. The first part is founded upon the well-known, though ill-authenticated, tradition of the Italian lady or ladies seeing Milton asleep under a tree in the gardens of his college, and leaving some tributary verses beside the sleeper. Taking full advantage of this legend, and presuming to infer from Milton's Italian verses (as his biographers have done before me) that in his tour through Italy he did not escape the influence of the master passion, I have ventured to connect, by a single thread of romantic fiction, the segments of a poem in which narrative after all is subservient to description. This idea belongs to the temerity of youth, but I trust it has been subjected to restrictions more reverent than those ordinarily imposed on poetic licence.

PART THE FIRST.

"Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eve by haunted stream."--L'ALLEGRO.