"Good, dutiful, and worthy, as you are,
"You must have griefs, and you must learn to bear."
Thus I went on, trite moral truths to string,--
All chaff, mere chaff, where love has spread his wing:
She cared not, listen'd not, nor seem'd to know
What was my aim, but wiped her burning brow,
Where sat more eloquence and living power
Than language could embody in an hour.
With soften'd tone I mention'd Alfred's name,
His wealth, our poverty, and that sad blame
Which would have weigh'd me down, had I not told
The secret which I dare not keep for gold,
Of Alfred's love, o'erheard the other morn.
The gardener, and the woodbine, and the thorn;
And added, "Though the lady sends you home,
"You are but young, child, and a day may come"--
"She has _not_ sent me home," the girl replied,
And rose with sobs of passion from my side;
"She has _not_ sent me home, dear father, no;
"She gives me leave to tarry or to go;
"She has not _blamed_ me,--yet she weeps no less,
"And every tear but adds to my distress;
"I am the cause,--thus all that she has done
"Will bring the death or misery of her son.
"Jealous he might be, could he but have seen
"How other lads approach'd where I have been;
"But this man's voice offends his very soul,
"That strange antipathy brooks no control;
"And should I leave him now, or seem unkind,
"The thought would surely wreck his noble mind;