I pray you note these figures dim, Young Hercules and his weaker brother,— While in affright recoils the other,— The child who holds the writhing snake They grew, and oft the quarrel loud Raged 'twixt them when they were together: Sir Hugh was sullen, wintry, proud, The other fierce as mad March weather,A swift, cloud-blowing, whirling day, That o'er all obstacles makes way, Whether in wrath or whether in play, Striding on to the stormy end, Breaking what will not bow or bend. The soul which lights that face of paint, Knowing himself the younger brother, Our Hercules went to seek his task; His lady-she who bears a crook, And shepherds at her careful side Of mildness chastens half her pride— That child a maiden grown you see, Which wellnigh mocked the painter's skill: It glows as if some morning beam Had poured here in a golden stream, And, when the sun passed, lingered still. A year or two went by, and then His heart was vacant as his hall. No joy was in the world of men: And thrust all other thoughts aside,- Like some mad boatman on a river, The empty hall, or vacant heart, Sounds and re-echoes with a din The webs about the casements float, And flutter on the sudden gust; The phantom Silence dies in air, With questioning eyes and backward hair, Wild Wonder speeds, and mounts the stair, Chasing the echoes' far footfall. Thus into Berkley's hall and heart, Led by his fancy's sudden whim, Passed a new bride,-a face to dart Strange lustre through the twilight dim,— A soul that even startled him, * ° Until he half forgot his pride: Else had he never stooped to embower To common wildwood vines allied. Thus oft the passion most profound, He took her from a rival's breast. Alas! he fell on Berkley's steel; And, it is said, through woe or weal She ever loved the rival best. Her heart was like a crystal spring, (Her heart was with the wildest flowers,) Tossed back at random, wooed the wind, That chased her through the forest bowers. The woodman felt his hand relax A moment on the lifted axe, As through the vistas of the trees He saw her glide, a spirit blithe; Or, when she tript the harvest leas, The singing mower stayed his scythe, Watched where she fled, then took his way, And, mowing, sang no more that day. With no misgiving thought or doubt, |