THE ABDICATION.
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From little signs, like little stars,Whose faint impression on the senseThe very looking straight at mars,Or only seen by confluence;From instinct of a mutual thought,Whence sanctity of manners flow’d;From chance unconscious, and from whatConcealment, overconscious, show’d;Her hand’s less weight upon my arm,Her lowlier mien; that match’d with this;I found, and felt with strange alarmI stood committed to my bliss. 2 I grew assured, before I ask’d,That she’d be mine without reserve,And in her unclaim’d graces bask’d,At leisure, till the time should serve,With just enough of dread to thrillThe hope, and make it trebly dear;Thus loth to speak the word to killEither the hope or happy fear. 3 Till once, through lanes returning late,Her laughing sisters lagg’d behind;And, ere we reach’d her father’s gate,We paused with one presentient mind;And, in the dim and perfumed mist,Their coming stay’d, who, friends to me,And very women, loved to assistLove’s timid opportunity. 4 Twice rose, twice died my trembling word;The faint and frail Cathedral chimesSpake time in music, and we heardThe chafers rustling in the limes.Her dress, that touch’d me where I stood,The warmth of her confided arm,Her bosom’s gentle neighbourhood,Her pleasure in her power to charm;Her look, her love, her form, her touch,The least seem’d most by blissful turn,Blissful but that it pleased too much,And taught the wayward soul to yearn.It was as if a harp with wiresWas traversed by the breath I drew;And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,She, answering, own’d that she loved too. 5 Honoria was to be my bride!The hopeless heights of hope were scaledThe summit won, I paused and sigh’d,As if success itself had fail’d.It seem’d as if my lips approach’dTo touch at Tantalus’ reward,And rashly on Eden life encroach’d,Half-blinded by the flaming sword.The whole world’s wealthiest and its best,So fiercely sought, appear’d when found,Poor in its need to be possess’d,Poor from its very want of bound.My queen was crouching at my side,By love unsceptred and brought low,Her awful garb of maiden prideAll melted into tears like snow;The mistress of my reverent thought,Whose praise was all I ask’d of fame,In my close-watch’d approval soughtProtection as from danger and blame;Her soul, which late I loved to investWith pity for my poor desert,Buried its face within my breast,Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.
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