II.

Was she not happy then?—what shadow stole
Over her full contentedness of soul?—
It was that as the days less swiftly flew
A weariness o'er Ranolf's spirit grew;
page 421 Not of her charms or her—foT none the less
He loved his Wonder of the Wilderness.
But that the Life he led of savage ease
The more it was prolonged, seemed less to please.
Perhaps his love of roving was too strong,
Too deep-engrained to be quiescent long:
But this was nut a conscious need, nor would
Have been the parent of his present mood:
It was the crave for intellectual food.
For which a young enthusiast Thinker pines,
Who daringly has tasted of the Tree,
Forbidden still, of Knowledge of a Good
Beyond the actual still to be pursued
In all things 10 all ends; an Evil still
To be assailed by Reason still more free,
By wider Love and more exalted Will,
It was the crave for Books—the mighty mines
Where all the extinguished forests of mankind
In diamond-thoughts lie crystallised—enshrined:
And 'twas the haply sadder doom to be
Excluded from the guidance—sympathy—
The fellowship or presence of the prime
Of men who towards the Light the highest climb:
And head the onslaught of the human Mind
Against the strongholds of dim Destiny.
Ambition—progress—all the hope and pride
Of true Existence seemed to him denied.
That land so rich in Beauty's sensuous smile.
Seemed for the Soul, only a desert Isle.
If ever chance-sent rumours reached his ear
Of the great Nations in their grand career,
They seemed dim records of aerial hosts
Who struggled in the heavens—or shadowy ghosts.
page 422 All the loud wonder-throes of peace or war
Seemed melted to a murmur faint and far!
What marvel if a feeling would intrude
Of something wanting in this solitude?—
Was it a treason to almighty Love
This sense of unfulfilled desire to prove?
Could any Love in any Paradise,
Howe'er impassioned, mutual, melting, true—
Alone for any lovers long suffice?—
Not poets' dreams can make it ever new—
Not even a bustling dove can always coo!

And anxious Amo could not but perceive
His thoughts were often wandering far away;
Her keen-eyed love would note, and inly grieve,
The shadow on his features once so gay.
The very love that, to her faithful breast,
So magnified the merits he possessed;
On which to dwell and feel them all her own
Were highest bliss to be conceived or known:
Made her inclined to rate herself loo low;
With timid doubt it could indeed be so,
That such a treasure was reserved for her!
And often to her memory would recur.
With what a glow he answered her demand
To paint the Beauties of his native Land.
And when her fond eye marked—more frequent now.
His sad abstracted air and troubled brow,
She could not check the thought, how full of woe,
"Ah! he is pining for those charms, I know,
Those lovely beings all of light and snow!
O my o'erweening pride to think that he
The glorious one, could be content with me!—"
page 423 Then would she seek the saddened heart to ease,
And ply with simple craft her arts to please;
With skilful change her finest mantles choose
Of broadest purfle and the fairest hues;
Their folds around her shapely shoulders place
Or dainty waist, in each remembered way
He most had praised for piquancy and grace:
Or the soft glitter of her lustrous hair—
So glossy black, the lights thrown off would play
In sharp metallic gleams of bluish gray—
In crimson flowers he loved her so to wear,
Or wax-white creeper-wreaths, she would array,
With chance-taught Taste so sure—such careless Care!
Or she would set herself a serious task,
Through tangled woods and thickets dense to range
In search of plants and insects—else despised—
Because he took in them an interest strange,
She knew not why and scarcely cared to ask,
Since 'twas enough they were by Ranolf prized.
Or she would summon all her Damsels gay,
To lively dance or sportive game, that best
Would dexterous skill or native grace display:
Or send them on a harvest-gathering quest
Of clustering purple-fringes whence they squeeze
Sweet jellies ruby-clear; because the sight
Once seemed his fancy so to strike and please
Of these wild Wood-nymphs trooping through the trees
Back with their mirth-lit eyes—teeth glittering white
With laughter—tresses floating on the breeze,
And cheeks and foreheads in their reckless mood
All dashed and splashed with crimson berry-blood;
Like nymphs that frolic reeled in Bacchic dance
In Nature's golden-aged exuberance,
page 424 Or with goat-borne Silenus loved to romp
In grape-empurpled grace and tipsy pomp!
And Ranolf would her loving purpose guess;
And chide himself that he could not repress
The weary longing that would o'er him steal;
And force a gaiety he could not feel;
And show her deeper love and double tenderness.
But how should this content her? whose sole aim
Was to light up the old gladness in his eyes;
And little cared what of herself became,
Were that secured at any sacrifice;
But gained from true love far too keen a glance
To be deceived by any simulance
Of feeling, or affectionate pretence;—
Beyond material Nature and above;
Clear-seeing, with its supernatural sense
The sympathetic object through and through?
Into its inmost being swift to dart,
In strange emotion take magnetic part,
And throb with beatings of the loved one's heart?—
So Ranolf fondly sought—but sought in vain
From those fond eyes to hide his inward pain.