XX. Yet by long sufferance this love had grown So day by day he nursed a bitterer ache XXI. He could seem noble a rich end to gain, A gift as cheap and common as the rain; Praise was a thing it seemed he could not bear, Wrapping himself therefrom in high disdain, Yet his most careless deeds were done with care, And, if they were unheeded or unseen, A passing shade of gall would cloud his mien. XXII. He had been noble, but some great deceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat, Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound. XXIII. But none can wholly put his heart away, Of steady fraud to keep his soul at bay, Yet sometimes through his breast an instinct ran, That roused the memory of a purer day Ere life to be a bitter toil began: A self-made minotaur, half man half beast, He bound himself and longed to be released. XXIV. Spurn at the world and it will deem you great, Set down your value at your own huge rate, The world will pay it;—such was his weak scheme To make the most of life, and it serves well Those who would go no deeper than the shell. XXV. Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of its demon-mood. XXVI. Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp XXVII. Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarched with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself asleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook XXVIII. The wooded hills sloped upward all around Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew. XXIX. Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art. |