VIII.

Till now, their life had been one thought of joy,
A vision time was destined to destroy—­
As dies the dewy network on the thorn,
Before the sunbeams, with the mists of morn. 
Thus far their lives in one smooth current ran—­
They loved, yet knew not when that love began,
And hardly knew they loved; though it had grown
A portion of their being, and had thrown
Its spirit o’er them; for its shoots had sprung
Up in their hearts, while yet their hearts were young;
Even like the bright leaves of some wandering seed,
Which Autumn’s breezes bear across the mead,
O’er naked wild and mountain, till the wind,
Dropping its gift, a stranger flower we find. 
And with their years the kindling feeling grew,
But grew unnoticed, and no change they knew;
For it had grown, even as a bud displays
Its opening beauties—­one on which we gaze,
Yet note no seeming change from hour to hour,
But find, at length, the bud a lovely flower.

IX.

Thus, thrice six golden summers o’er them fled,
And on their hearts their rip’ning influence shed;
Till one fair eve, when from the gorgeous west,
Cloud upon cloud in varied splendour pressed
Around the setting sun, which blinding shone
On the horizon like its Maker’s throne,
Till veiled in glory, and its parting ray
Fell as a blessing on the closing day;
Or, like the living smile of Nature’s God
Upon his creatures, shedding peace abroad. 
The early lark had ceased its evening song,
And silence reigned amidst the feathered throng,
Save where the chaffinch, with unvarying strain,
Its short, sweet line of music trilled again;
Or where the stock-dove, from the neighbouring grove,
Welcomed the twilight with the voice of love: 
Then Edmund wandered by the trysting-tree,
Where, at that hour, the maid was wont to be;
But now she came not.  Deepening shade on shade,
The night crept round him; still he lonely strayed,
Gazed on the tree till grey its foliage grew,
And stars marked midnight, ere he slow withdrew. 
Another evening came—­a third passed on—­
And wondering, fearing, still he stood alone,
Trembling and gazing on her father’s hall,
Where lights were glittering as a festival;
And, as with cautious step he ventured near,
Sounds of glad music burst upon his ear,
And figures glided in the circling dance,
While wild his love and poverty at once
Flashed through his bursting heart, and smote him now
As if a thunderbolt had scorched his brow,
And scathed his very spirit; as he stood,
Mute as despair—­the ghost of solitude!

X.