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.