"Thou art right," returned the noble man. "It were hard, indeed, not to
have some love in return for such a gift as he hath given thee. I, too,
owe him more than words can speak."
Humbled before them, with an aching and desolate heart, I yet could not
restrain my words: "Let me, then, be the moon of thy night still, O woman! And when thy day
is beclouded, as the fairest days will be, let some song of mine comfort
thee, as an old, withered, half-forgotten thing, that belongs to an
ancient mournful hour of uncompleted birth, which yet was beautiful in
its time."
They sat silent, and I almost thought they were listening. The colour of
the lady's eyes grew deeper and deeper; the slow tears grew, and filled
them, and overflowed. They rose, and passed, hand in hand, close
to where I stood; and each looked towards me in passing. Then they
disappeared through a door which closed behind them; but, ere it closed,
I saw that the room into which it opened was a rich chamber, hung with
gorgeous arras. I stood with an ocean of sighs frozen in my bosom. I
could remain no longer. She was near me, and I could not see her; near
me in the arms of one loved better than I, and I would not see her, and
I would not be by her. But how to escape from the nearness of the best
beloved? I had not this time forgotten the mark; for the fact that I
could not enter the sphere of these living beings kept me aware that,
for me, I moved in a vision, while they moved in life. I looked all
about for the mark, but could see it nowhere; for I avoided looking
just where it was. There the dull red cipher glowed, on the very door of
their secret chamber. Struck with agony, I dashed it open, and fell at
the feet of the ancient woman, who still spun on, the whole dissolved
ocean of my sighs bursting from me in a storm of tearless sobs. Whether
I fainted or slept, I do not know; but, as I returned to consciousness,
before I seemed to have power to move, I heard the woman singing, and
could distinguish the words: O light of dead and of dying days!
O Love! in thy glory go,
In a rosy mist and a moony maze,
O'er the pathless peaks of snow.
But what is left for the cold gray soul,
That moans like a wounded dove?
One wine is left in the broken bowl!--
'Tis--TO LOVE, AND LOVE AND LOVE.