"Will you give your hand where your heart goes not
To a man who is grave and stern and old;
And whose love compared with my passion-heat,
As the snow of the frozen North, is cold?"

And Rose--I could feel her cheek grow pale--
Her voice was tremulous, then grew strong--
"Richard," she said, "your words are wild,
And you do my guardian bitter wrong.

"Did you never hear how, years gone by," --
She spoke in a tremulous undertone--
"Bereft of friends, o'er the world's highways,
I wandered forth as a child alone?

"He opened to me his home and heart--
He whom you call so stern and cold--
And my grateful heart I may well bestow
On him for his kindness manifold."

"Rose," he said, in a saddened tone,
"I thank him for all he has done for thee;
He has acted nobly--I did him wrong--
But is there no voice in your heart for me?"

And Rose--she trembled--I felt it all;
I heard her quick breath come and go;
Her voice was broken; she only said,
"Have pity, Richard, and let me go!"