Beyond the wooded park spread, where the deer
Slept 'neath old trees; and on a glittering lake—
The willows grew around it—was the home
Of stately swans. The lady of my tale
Was of an ancient ancestry, and wooed,
Half for her wealth and half for her sweet self,
By the land's chivalry; but him she loved
Was not of her degree. Ah! what cares Love
For all the poor distinctions wherewith pomp
Invests its nothingness? And still he hath
Scutcheon and herald in the beating heart.
They loved—they parted; he to win a name
Mid the red wars. Great Heaven! what vain beliefs
Have stirred the pulse and led the hopes of man!
As if that honour could be bought by blood,
And that the fierce right hand was better worth
Than the fine mind, and high and generous heart!—
Blame not the lovers—'twas their age's fault;
And even that I were full loath to blame.
Perchance our own, which now, quick-sighted, sees
The many faults and follies of the past,
Has a successor in the wheel of time
To which our errors will be just as clear.
'Twas pity that they parted. But one week,
And the stern father died; none save his child—
'Twas a child's duty, and she wept for him—
Sorrowed above the harsh and cold one's grave:
A monument was all his memory.
The gentle lady was now free to choose,
And faithfully she kept to her first love.
