IDONEA That dismal Moor—­
              In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
              I never can forgive it:  but how steadily
              You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
              Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!—­
              I thought the Convent never would appear;
              It seemed to move away from us:  and yet,
              That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
              Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
              And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
              I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods—­
              A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
              Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
              Heavier than work, raised it:  within that hut
              We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
              And thankfully there rested side by side
              Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
              Have hailed the morning sun.  But cheerily, Father,—­
              That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
              To fling’t away from you:  you make no use
              Of me, or of my strength;—­come, let me feel
              That you do press upon me.  There—­indeed
              You are quite exhausted.  Let us rest awhile
              On this green bank.

[He sits down.]

HERBERT (after some time)
                                  Idonea, you are silent,
              And I divine the cause.

IDONEA Do not reproach me: 
              I pondered patiently your wish and will
              When I gave way to your request; and now,
              When I behold the ruins of that face,
              Those eyeballs dark—­dark beyond hope of light,
              And think that they were blasted for my sake,
              The name of Marmaduke is blown away: 
              Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
              For all this world can give.

HERBERT Nay, be composed: 
              Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
              My frame, and I bethought me of two things
              I ne’er had heart to separate—­my grave,
              And thee, my Child!

IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire! 
              ’Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
              And you mistake the cause:  you hear the woods
              Resound with music, could you see the sun,
              And look upon the pleasant face of Nature—­