Page:The Cornhill magazine (Volume 1).djvu/213

On to the conscious maiden pass'd
    Those words without the tongue;
Half petulantly back she cast
    The glist'ning curls that hung
About her neck, and answer'd fast:
    "Yes, I am young—too young:

"Yet am I graver than my wont,
    Gravest when he is here;
Beneath the glory of his front
    I tremble—not with fear:
But as I read, Bethesda's font
    Felt with the Angel near.

"Must I mate only with my kind,
    With something as unwise
As my poor self; and never find
    Affection I can prize
At once with an adoring mind,
    And with admiring eyes?"

"My mother trusts to drag me down
    To some low range of life,
By pleasures of the clam'rous town,
    And vanity's mean strife;
And in such selfish tumult drown
    My hope to be his wife."

Then darker round the lady grew
    The meditative cloud,—
And stormy thoughts began to brew
    She dar'd not speak aloud;
For then without disguise she knew
    That rivalry avow'd.

"What is my being if I lose
    My love's last stake? while she
Has the fair future where to choose
    Her woman's destiny—
Free scope those means and powers to use,
    Which time denies to me.