III

Mother, I have not—however their tongues may have babbled of me—

Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all but a dwarf was he,

And all but a hunchback too; and I look'd at him, first, askance,

With pity—not he the knight for an amorous girl's romance!

Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in the light of a dowerless smile,

Having lands at home and abroad in a rich West-Indian isle;

But I came on him once at a ball, the heart of a listening crowd—

Why, what a brow was there! he was seated—speaking aloud

To women, the flower of the time, and men at the helm of state—

Flowing with easy greatness and touching on all things great,

Science, philosophy, song—till I felt myself ready to weep

For I knew not what, when I heard that voice,—as mellow and deep

As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd from an organ,—roll

Rising and falling—for, Mother, the voice was the voice of the soul;

And the sun of the soul made day in the dark of his wonderful eyes.

Here was the hand that would help me, would heal me—the heart that was wise!

And he, poor man, when he learnt that I hated the ring I wore,

He helpt me with death, and he heal'd me with sorrow for evermore.