Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love. It may be, I am colder than the dead,

Who, being dead, love always. But for me

Once killed,.. this ghost of Marian loves no mcre, except the child! . . no more at all.

No more.
I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead;

And now, she thinks I'll get up from my grave,
And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding-veil,
And glide along the churchyard like a bride,
While all the dead keep whispering through the
withes,

'You would be better in your place with us,
'You pitiful corruption!' At the thought,
The damps break out on me like leprosy,
Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erle :
As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not clean :
I have not so much life that I should love,
.. Except the child. Ah God! I could not bear
To see my darling on a good man's knees,
And know by such a look, or such a sigh,
Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes,
'This child was fathered by some cursed wretch'..
For, Romney,-angels are less tender-wise
Than God and mothers: even you would think
What we think never. He is ours, the child;
And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven
By coupling with it the dead body's thought,
It left behind it in a last month's grave,
Than, in my child, see other than . . my child.
We only, never call him fatherless
Who has God and his mother. O my babe,
My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind
Once blew upon my breast! can any think
I'd have another,-one called happier,

A fathered child, with father's love and race
That's worn as bold and open as a smile,

To vex my darling when he's asked his name
And has no answer? What! a happier child
Than mine, my best,—who laughed so loud to-night
He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, I swear
By life and love, that, if I lived like some,

And loved like.. some. . ay, loved you, Romney
Leigh,

As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear),
I've room for no more children in my arms;
My kisses are all melted on one mouth;
I would not push my darling to a stool
To dandle babies. Here's a hand, shall keep
For ever clean without a marriage-ring,
To tend my boy, until he cease to need
One steadying finger of it, and desert
(Not miss) his mother's lap, to sit with men.
And when I miss him (not he me) I'll come
And say, 'Now give me some of Romney's work,
To help your outcast orphans of the world,
And comfort grief with grief.' For you, meantime,
Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife,

And open on each other your great souls,

I need not farther bless you. If I dared

But strain and touch her in her upper sphere,
And say, 'Come down to Romney-pay my debt!
I should be joyful with the stream of joy

Sent through me. But the moon is in my face..
I dare not, though I guess the name he loves;
I'm learned with my studies of old days,
Remembering how he crushed his under-lip

When some one came and spoke, or did not come. Aurora, I could touch her with my hand,

And fly, because I dare not.'

She was gone.

He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. 'Forgive her she sees clearly for herself: Her instinct's holy.'

'I forgive?' he said,

'I only marvel how she sees so sure,

While others' . . there he paused,-then hoarse, abrupt,

'Aurora, you forgive us, her and me?

For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child,
If once corrected by the thing I know,
Had been unspoken; since she loves you well,
Has leave to love you:-while for me, alas,
If once or twice I let my heart escape

This night,. . remember, where hearts slip and fall
They break beside: we're parting,-parting,-ah,
You do not love, that you should surely know
What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant;
It had not been, but that I felt myself
So safe in impuissance and despair,

I could not hurt you though I tossed my arms
And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch
Will choose his postures when he comes to die.
However in the presence of a queen :
And you'll forgive me some unseemly spasms
Which meant no more than dying. Do you think
I had ever come here in my perfect mind,
Unless I had come here, in my settled mind,
Bound Marian's, bound to keep the bond, and give
My name, my house, my hand, the things I could,
To Marian! For even I could give as much;
Even I, affronting her exalted soul

By a supposition that she wanted these,

Could act the husband's coat and hat set up

To creak i' the wind and drive the world-crows off
From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill
A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last,
I own heaven's angels round her life suffice
To fight the rats of our society,

Without this Romney: I can see it at last;
And here is ended my pretension which
The most pretended. Over-proud of course,
Even so!-but not so stupid.. blind. . that I,
Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world
Has set to meditate mistaken work,

My dreary face against a dim blank wall

Throughout man's natural lifetime,—could pretend
Or wish. . O love, I have loved you! O my soul,
I have lost you!-but I swear by all yourself,
And all you might have been to me these years,
If that June-morning had not failed my hope,—
I'm not so bestial, to regret that day

This night, this night, which still to you is fair;
Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest

Those stars above us, which I cannot see .. ...

'You cannot.'.

'That if Heaven itself should stoop,

Remix the lots, and give me another chance,
I'd say, 'No other!'-I'd record my blank.
Aurora never should be wife of mine.'

'Not see the stars?'

"Tis worse still, not to see To find your hand, although we're parting, dear. A moment let me hold it, ere we part: And understand my last words-these at last! I would not have you thinking, when I'm gone,

That Romney dared to hanker for your love,
In thought or vision, if attainable,
(Which certainly for me it never was)
And wish to use it for a dog to-day,

To help the blind man stumbling. God forbid!
And now I know he held you in his palm,
And kept you open-eyed to all my faults,
To save you at last from such a dreary end.
Believe me, dear, that if I had known, like Him,
What loss was coming on me, I had done
As well in this as He has.-Farewell, you,
Who are still my light,-farewell! How late it is:
I know that, now: you've been too patient, sweet.
I will but blow my whistle toward the lane,

And some one comes. . the same who brought me

here.

Get in-Good night.'

'A moment. Heavenly Christ! A moment. Speak once, Romney. 'Tis not true. I hold your hands, I look into your faceYou see me?'

'No more than the blessed stars. Be blessed too, Aurora. Ah, my sweet,

You tremble. Tender-hearted! Do you mind
Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old John,
And let the mice out slyly from his traps,
Until he marvelled at the soul in mice
Which took the cheese and left the snare? The same
Dear soft heart always! 'Twas for this I grieved
Howe's letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard
Of illness,—not the issue. . not the extent:
My life long sick with tossings up and down;
The sudden revulsion in the blazing house,-
The strain and struggle both of body and soul,