In whom he trusted with such perfect trust
As should be Heaven's alone,—Mark'st thou my words?
Should he then find this man, not girt and armed,
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord,
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith,
Holding luxurious revels with his foes;
How wouldst thou meet his glance?
Sylveira. As I do thine,
Keen tho' it be, and proud.
Sebastian. Why, thou dost quail
Before it, even as if the burning eye
Of the broad Sun, pursued thy shrinking soul,
Through all its depths.
Sylveira. Away! He died not there!
He should have died then, with the chivalry,
And strength, and honour of his kingdom, lost
By his impetuous rashness.
Sebastian. This from thee.
Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze
At its unmasked and withering mien should blight
High souls at once? I wake. And this from thee!
There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold
And gems within earth's caverns, far below
The everlasting hills: but who hath dared
To dream that heaven's most awful attribute
Invested his mortality, and to boast
That through its inmost folds his glance could read
One heart, one human heart? Why then to love,
And trust, is but to lend a traitor arms
