Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/68

38 Who did not love her better:—in her home,

A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,

Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,

The settled shadow of an inward strife,

And an unquiet drooping of the eye,

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,

And he who had so loved her was not there

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,

Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.

What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,

Nor could he be a part of that which preyed

Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand

Before an Altar—with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made

The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came

The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock