Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain.

XXV.

Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue.

XXVI.

She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail, Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest l.u.s.tre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white.

XXVII.

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' might, And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, Until there grew a mist before her sight, And where the present was she half forgot, Borne backward through the realms of old delight,-- Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone.

XXVIII.

How they went home together through the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into one Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done?

For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung.

XXIX.

But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen;--hard if these Found not some all unthought-of way to show Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid.

x.x.x.

Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns them miserly and cold as stone, And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss Which but in giving truly is their own;-- She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth.

x.x.xI.

Her summer nature felt a need to bless, And a like longing to be blest again; So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, And his beneath drank in the bright caress As thirstily as would a parched plain, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray Forever, ever, falling far away.

x.x.xII.

How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, Closes its leaves around its warm delight; Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune Is all shut out, no boding shade of light Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss.

x.x.xIII.

All beauty and all life he was to her; She questioned not his love, she only knew That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir In her whole frame but quivered through and through With this glad thought, and was a minister To do him fealty and service true, Like golden ripples hasting to the land To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand.

x.x.xIV.

O dewy dawn of love! O hopes that are Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar With every heavier billow! O unrest Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far!

How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, Making it readier to shrink and start Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart.

x.x.xV.

Here let us pause: O, would the soul might ever Achieve its immortality in youth, When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor After the starry energy of truth!

Here let us pause, and for a moment sever This gleam of sunshine from the days unruth That sometime come to all, for it is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood.

PART SECOND.

I.

As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;--

II.

So, from the sunshine and the green of love, We enter on our story's darker part; And, though the horror of it well may move An impulse of repugnance in the heart, Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, So also there is naught that falls below Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe.

III.

Her fittest triumph is to show that good Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, Can without end forgive, and yet have store; G.o.d's love and man's are of the self-same blood, And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt.

IV.

It ever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to let through The unsuspicious eyes of honesty; But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true Aught but plain truth and faithfulness to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof.

V.

Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power had made love sweet To him, and, when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour.

VI.

He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, Even in the gaining of his loathsome end; G.o.d doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; Let him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall Of love, and faith too generous to defend Its very life from him she loved, be sin, What hope of grace may the seducer win?

VII.

Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes On those poor fallen by too much faith in man.

She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban,-- Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More G.o.d-like than thy virtue is, whose span Shuts out the wretched only,--is more free To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever be!