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The wooded hills sloped upward all

around With gradual rise, and made an even

rim, So that it seemed a mighty casque uno

bound From some huge Titan's brow to

lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground, Where the slow soil had mossed it to

thie brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide


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XXIII. Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun

flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks

on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be

A gothic window in its blazing pride, When the low sun, two arching elms

between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which,

autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor

start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art.

XXIV. Here, leaning once against the old oak's

trunk, Mordred, for such was the young

Templar's name, Saw Margaret come ; unseen, the falcon

shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of

tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a

monk, And all the outworks of his pride

o'ercame : Flooded he seemed with bright delicious

pain, As if a star had burst within his brain.

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Xxv. Such power hath beauty and frank in

nocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine

glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem ;

the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm

grew less, And thoughts of childish peace,

he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many

an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue.

She turned and saw him, but she felt no

Her purity, like adamantine mail,

XXVIII. How they went home together through

the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze

the blood, What need to tell? Fit language

there is none For the heart's deepest things. Who

ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have

done ? For, when the soul is fullest, the bushed

tongue Voicelesslytrembles lıkealuteunstrung.

XXIX. But all things carry the heart's mes

sages And know it not, nor doth the heart

well know, But nature hath her will; even as the

bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and


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Levite eyes

III. Her fittest triumph is to show that good

Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast,

and withstood, Can without end forgive, and yet

have store ; God's love and man's are of the self

same blood, And He can see that alwaysat the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt.


atever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to

let through The unsuspicious eyes of honesty ; But Margaret's heart was too sincere

and true Aught but plain truth and faithfulness

to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof.

V. Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight

meet In northern chi ves; she full of grow

ing day

On those poor fallen by too much

faith in man, She that upon thy freezing threshold

lies, Starved' to more sinning by thy say

age ban, Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More godlike than thy virtue is,

whose span Shuts out the wretched only, - is more

free To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever be !

VIII. Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty

feet With such salt things as tears, or

witb rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at

meat With him who made her such, and

speak'st him fair, Leaving God's wandering lamb the

while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless

air :

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