XV

For he had met her in the wood by chance,
  And, having drunk her beauty’s wildering spell,
His heart shook like the pennon of a lance
  That quivers in a breeze’s sudden swell,
And thenceforth, in a close-infolded trance,
  From mistily golden deep to deep he fell;
Till earth did waver and fade far away
Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay. 120

XVI

A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth
  Had shed its blossoms even in opening,
Leaving a few that with more winning ruth
  Trembling around grave manhood’s stem might cling,
More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth,
  Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring: 
A twilight nature, braided light and gloom,
A youth half-smiling by an open tomb.

XVII

Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore
  A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; 130
Who saw him alway wished to know him more,
  As if he were some fate’s defiant thrall
And nursed a dreaded secret at his core;
  Little he loved, but power the most of all,
And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew
By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto.

XVIII

He had been noble, but some great deceit
  Had turned his better instinct to a vice: 
He strove to think the world was all a cheat,
  That power and fame were cheap at any price, 140
That the sure way of being shortly great
  Was even to play life’s game with loaded dice,
Since he had tried the honest play and found
That vice and virtue differed but in sound.

XIX

Yet Margaret’s sight redeemed him for a space
  From his own thraldom; man could never be
A hypocrite when first such maiden grace
  Smiled in upon his heart; the agony
Of wearing all day long a lying face
  Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, 150
Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood
And scorned the weakness of his demon-mood.

XX

Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought,
  Which would not let the common air come near,
Till from its dim enchantment it had caught
  A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear
With sweetness more ethereal than aught
  Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere
Rained down from some sad angel’s faithful harp
To cool her fallen lover’s anguish sharp. 160

XXI

Deep in the forest was a little dell
  High overarched with the leafy sweep
Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell
  A slender rill that sung itself to sleep,
Where its continuous toil had scooped a well
  To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep
The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook
From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook.