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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Slight change there was in him: perchance his brow
Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now;
Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd,
Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest;
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall.
I will say that he loved her, but say not
That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot;
For ever in man's bosom will man's pride
An equal empire with his love divide.
It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute,
Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute
With snatches of sad song; Leoni paced
His stately hall, and much might there be traced
What were the workings of its owner's mind.
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,
