University of Virginia Library

An ancient woman sat alone
At nightfall, with her look
Fixed on the fire, as if she read
Its embers like a book;
Her hands were folded on her knee,
Long had they ceased to twine
The filmy flax-threads from the reel
With finger sure and fine;
Her face was set; an ice-bound lake
Wears not a stiller look,
Unstirred by current from beneath,
By passing breeze unshook,
So passionless, it seemed a mould
By Death already cast,
When sudden over it a gleam
Of wintry sunshine past,
And o'er her faded features spread
A flush of joy and pride,
To hear Lord Ronald's stately tread
And see him at her side.
“Welcome unto these failing eyes!
Thy first looks were on me—
Thy nurse, that stilled thy infant cries,
And soothed thee on my knee.
And may mine, Lord Ronald, ere I die,
Be turned the last on thee:
Then she arose and kissed his hand,
And laid it reverently
Upon her heart, “what seeks my son
At such an hour with me?”

Then Ronald leant his thoughtful brow
Upon his hand; his eyes
Were fixed on hers; “I know that thou
Art true, and count thee wise;
Yet hold not with the churls” he said
And smiled, “that thou hast riven
From spirits of the air or deep
The hidden things of Heaven;
And yet I seek thee, for I deem
Thou hast a surer key
Of things on earth, that are or seem
To pierce the mystery.”
She smiled, but sadly; “true, my son,
No wizard page I turn,
But one whose deep and hidden lore
Is full as hard to learn;
They that with spirits in their hour
Have striven, still with pain
Have paid for mastery and power,
With loss for every gain;
Even so, my son, a heavy weird
Lies on them, that through strife,
And weariness, and loss, have wrung
The secret out of Life!”

Lord Ronald mused again, then spoke,
“Thou knowest me, the rest
Deem still, that with all else I share
The heart within my breast;
Because I was not born to look
On woe or weal unmoved,
And many are there I have served—
Yet

“Yes! many thousands, Max, have I enriched,
Rewarded them with lands, requited them
With honours and with place.—Thee have I loved;
My heart, my very self have given to Thee;
They were all strangers, Thou the House's child.

Wallenstein.

two that I have loved,
Henry and Sybil; nay, perchance
They also have not guessed
That they alone of all the world
Are folded in my breast,
And also deem of me as one
Who loveth none the best;
For all too seldom doth the heart
Win back its measure just,
Too seldom wins the perfect love,
The free and perfect trust;
All is not as it used to be
With Sybil; she doth fold
Her thoughts from me; I read them not,
But feel that still untold
Hath something come between us two,
That never was of old;
I ever thought she loved me well;
Nay! she doth love me! still
The heart can love but to its power,
And not unto its will;
Its wealth is not for prizing set,
Its gifts must still be free,
Well saith the Maker,
“Never, yet,
Bent Love to Mastery.”
Mother! my speech is but my thought,
And both are rude and plain,
I cannot sing to ladies' eyes
In Minnesinger's strain;
But this I know, it is not Love
That strives not to its best,
All other earthly aims above
To make the loved one blest.
Ye need but give a beggar gold
If ye would see him gay,
Or give a child its toy to hold,
Ye cannot miss the way;
But with the heart 'tis not like these,
And ye must let it chuse,
(If ye would give it joy or ease)
To have or to refuse;
What skills it all that mine could give
For Sybil, when, perchance,
More power to gladden her's may live
Within a stranger's glance!”

He fixed upon that aged face
A troubled eye, that sought
E'en while it dreaded, there to trace
The answer to his thought;
Her pale lips trembled; to herself
She muttered low and weak,
“Nay! never yet hath Truth wrought ill,
Though it were hard to speak,”
Then spreading forth her withered hands,
She spake full solemnly,
“It has been thine through life, my son,
To draw Love after thee!
May the best blessing thou hast won,
And may the truest prayer
That ever rose for thee to Heaven,
And met together there,
Be with thee now, and come betwixt
Thy spirit and Despair.”
Then with a feeble step and slow
She rose, and in his ear,
She whispered for a moment low,
Though none were by to hear;
Lord Ronald covered up his face;
He spoke no word, I trow,
But one that from his heaving breast
Burst “Thou, and even Thou.”
And when he raised his brow a mark
That was not there before
Was set, and something from his look
Was gone, that came no more;
And at his heart there was a thought
That left it not; I wis;
“Would it had been an enemy,
Whose hand had wrought me this!”