adventure, dungeon, wreck,
  Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love
  Crown'd after trial; sketches rude and faint,
  But where a passion yet unborn perhaps
  Lay hidden as the music of the moon
  Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.
  And thus together, save for college-times
  Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair
  As ever painter painted, poet sang,
  Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew.
  And more and more, the maiden woman-grown,
  He wasted hours with Averill; there, when first
  The tented winter-field was broken up
  Into that phalanx of the summer spears
  That soon should wear the garland; there again
  When burr and bine were gather'd; lastly there
  At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall,
  On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth
  Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even
  My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid
  No bar between them: dull and self-involved,
  Tall and erect, but bending from his height
  With half-allowing smiles for all the world,
  And mighty courteous in the main—his pride
  Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring—
  He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism,
  Would care no more for Leolin's walking with her
  Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran
  To loose him at the stables, for he rose
  Twofooted at the limit of his chain,
  Roaring to make a third: and how should Love,
  Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes
  Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow
  Such dear familiarities of dawn?
  Seldom, but when he does, Master of all.

    So these young hearts not knowing that they loved,
  Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar
  Between them, nor by plight or broken ring
  Bound, but an immemorial intimacy,
  Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied
  By Averill: his, a brother's love, that hung
  With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace,
  Might have been other, save for Leolin's—
  Who knows? but so they wander'd, hour by hour
  Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank
  The magic cup that fill'd itself anew.

    A whisper half reveal'd her to herself.
  For out beyond her lodges, where the brook
  Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran
  By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes,
  A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls
  That dimpling died into each other, huts
  At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom.
  Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought
  About them: here was one that, summer-blanch'd,
  Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy
  In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here
  The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth
  Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle:
  One look'd all rosetree, and another wore
  A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars:
  This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers
  About it; this, a milky-way on earth,
  Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens,
  A lily-avenue climbing to the doors;
  One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves
  A summer burial deep in hollyhocks;
  Each, its own charm; and Edith's everywhere;
  And Edith ever visitant with him,
  He but less loved than Edith, of her poor:
  For she—so lowly-lovely and so loving,
  Queenly responsive when the loyal hand
  Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past,
  Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by,
  Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height
  That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice
  Of comfort and an open hand of help,
  A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs
  Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves
  To ailing wife or wailing infancy
  Or old bedridden palsy,—was adored;
  He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp
  Having the warmth and muscle of the heart,
  A childly way with children, and a laugh
  Ringing like proved golden coinage true,
  Were no false passport to that easy realm,
  Where once with Leolin at her side the girl,
  Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth
  The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles,
  Heard the good mother softly whisper 'Bless,
  God bless 'em; marriages are made in Heaven.'

    A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her.
  My Lady's Indian kinsman unannounced
  With half a score of swarthy faces came.
  His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly,
  Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair;
  Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour,
  Tho' seeming boastful: so when first he dash'd
  Into the chronicle of a deedful day,
  Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile
  Of patron 'Good! my lady's kinsman! good!'
  My lady with her fingers interlock'd,
  And rotatory thumbs on silken knees,
  Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear
  To listen: unawares they flitted off,
  Busying themselves about the flowerage
  That stood from our a stiff brocade in which,
  The meteor of a splendid season, she,
  Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago,
  Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days:
  But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him
  Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life:
  Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye
  Hated him with a momentary hate.
  Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he:
  I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd
  His oriental gifts on everyone
  And most on Edith: like a storm he came,
  And shook the house, and like a storm he went.

    Among the gifts he left her (possibly
  He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return
  When others had been tested) there was one,
  A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it
  Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself
  Fine as ice-ferns on January panes
  Made by a breath. I know not whence at first,
  Nor of what race, the work; but as he told
  The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves
  He got it; for their captain after fight,
  His comrades having fought their last below,
  Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot:
  Down from the beetling crag to which he clung
  Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet,
  This dagger with him, which when now admired
  By Edith whom his pleasure was to please,
  At once the costly Sahib yielded it to her.

    And Leolin, coming after he was gone,
  Tost over all her presents petulantly:
  And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying
  'Look what a lovely piece of workmanship!'
  Slight was his answer 'Well—I care not for it:'
  Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand,
  'A gracious gift to give a lady, this!'
  'But would it be more gracious' ask'd the girl
  'Were I to give this gift of his to one
  That is no lady?' 'Gracious? No' said he.
  'Me?—but I cared not for it. O pardon me,
  I seem to be ungraciousness itself.'
  'Take it' she added sweetly 'tho' his gift;
  For I am more ungracious ev'n than you,
  I care not for it either;' and he said
  'Why then I love it:' but Sir Aylmer past,
  And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard.

    The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds
  They talk'd