18.

" Bend not thy cruel brow on me,
Priest! " Adwick answer'd mournfully;
" I know thy power, and pity thee.
The feet that on long-suffering trod
Cannot crush out my trust in God;
Nor canst thou waste, or use in vain,
His fund of dreadful mercy, pain.
Me thou can'st rack, my blood canst spill;
But there's a power thou canst not kill,
The will and power To Think and Know.
Sure is its march, however slow;
And it shall put to shame and flight
That darkness which to thee is light:
Torturing, and blackening, like a sky

16.

Then, Adwick saw, approaching nigh,
A form of haughtiest dignity.
Never was grander presence seen,
Or loftier stature.
The demon in his nature
Wore a sublimely mournful mien;
And as he trod
The shrinking sod,
He seem'd not less than demigod.
Crisp, curl'd his locks of auburn hue
O'er features beautiful,
High brow, thin lips, arch'd nose;
A face of marble-like repose,
Whose coldness sham'd young June's white rose.
Yet on his front scowl'd rigor. Blue,

15.

Sad, from the dell of Ravensly,
A wail of chaunting echo'd wide;
Harsh, in oak-waving Denaby,
A trumpet's brazen laugh replied;
And far o'er Watchly came the cry
That ever told when doom was nigh,
When cruel gods claim'd bloody rites,
And men prepar'd for ghastly sights.
But Adwick heard no trumpet blow,
No chaunt, no death-dirge, wailing low;
Mute as a stone, and tranc'd in woe,
He stood! and mov'd
Nor hand, nor foot, nor lock of hair;
But, like a statue of despair,
Gaz'd on the warm, yet lifeless snow,

13.

How like the beauteous awfulness
That moulders into clay,
And humbles man's hard-heartedness
With its sublime decay,
Upon her couch of death she lay!
Nor limb, nor feature stirr'd.
But when lord Konig's foot she heard,
Like one arising from the dead,
She started, she lean'd up in bed;
(Oh, Love is strong!) she rose to greet him;
(Oh, Love is strength!) she went to meet him;
She met him — met his dear embrace;
And in his bosom hid her face.

14.

They seated them upon a stone,

12.

Lord Konig in his bark is gone,
Over the lake of Dar and Don,
To lonely Waterside,
Where everplayful Telmarine,
With looks that sweetly chide,
Wonders at silent Etheline!
" Why will not mother speak? "
She says, with saddening cheek,
And still-enquiring eyes,
To which no voice, no look replies!
While Adwick, watching near,
And scarcely seeming ought to hear,
Or feel, or know,
(Yet too, too conscious,) stands,
With cold, damp forehead, and clasp'd hands,

11.

As light, when noon puts darkness on,
Gilds a wan rose, and disappears;
So Telma, smiling on his tears,
Turns from her Konig — and is gone.
He gasps, he bids the vision stay;
His heart hath years of thought to say.
What would'st thou clasp? and whom address
Here smiles no lov'd one's loveliness.
The stirless air, the lake at rest,
The light and silence on its breast,
The sleeping cloud, the sleeping tree,
The music of the busy bee,
The tremble of the lifted leaf;
And one vain mortal — bow'd with grief,

10.

" Konig! " in speech that was not song,
Yet sweeter far, she said,
Or whispered,
" The hours of God seem long
To man's impatience, and to me;
For slowly, mercifully still,
Ev'n to the freed of death,
Himself and his unerring will
The All-wise discovereth.
We are not fitted yet to be
Where dwell the painless, where the pure
Live with the pure in purity.
Much must thou dare, and more endure,
Ere we can wed as spirits wed.
Yet did I err not when I said,

9.

While, thus, she spoke, lord Konig pac'd
His castle and the lake between,
With cold hand on his hot brow plac'd,
And blood-shot eyeballs, in despair
Fix'd wildly on the Wizard's chair,
Far over wood and water seen.
Earth, and the clear heav'n overhead,
Were tranquil as the sinless dead;
They might have sooth'd and tranquilliz'd
A heart less torn and agoniz'd;
But the mute clouds, the stirless air,
The silent light, the lake at rest,
All, mock'd the tumult in his breast,
The tempest raging there;

8

" The little hand of Telmarine
Presses thy bosom, Etheline!
The soft warm cheek of Telmarine
Rests on thy cold face, Etheline.
Konig's blue eyes, in Telmarine
Smile on the softer blue of thine
Is it not well? " said Adwick, sighing;
" Art thou not happy? " " Yes, and dying,
My Adwick! " pressing with her own
His hand, she said, in sweetest tone, Her eyes on his o'erflowing eyes
Fix'd, " I am dying. Be not thou
(My Friend! my Love!) offended now,
That my soul yearns again to see
My Konig's face, If thou lov'st me,

7

Then came o'er Adwick's frenzied min
A change, like coulour to the blind. Oh, deem not him a cruel man,
That victim of a ruthless ban,
And of compassionate sympathy,
Which suffers in his destiny,
And darkly, dreadly shares the fate
That made him desolate!
If thou would'st see the gentle sky
Its tortur'd waves forsake;
Then shall the banks, the whispering trees
The cloud, the herd, the rock, the hill
The foxglove, ay, the birds and bees,
Live in that mirror bright and still.