Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/128

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For his heart could not but quail to think the answer that might follow,
And his father's love could not but hope she would accept his offer—
For who that longs with all his soul believes his hopes are hollow?
Or who that thought to be refused, his daughter's hand would proffer?

Listen, Crozat! for she speaketh, and her voice is the completeness
Of all softness and smooth accent, all delightful modulation;
And your doom, though she should doom you, being spoken in such sweetness,
Would be soothed of half its sorrow by this honeyed intonation.
Oh, the bitterness of scorn concealed! it stingeth like an adder;
Oh! the canker of a wound that's hid beneath the balm of flowers!
Why, the very choice she took of words but made his soul the madder,
And the agony of her mild speech taxed all his manliest powers.

"I forgive you," spoke the duchess; "I forgive you, noble Crozat,
Knowing the feelings which a parent entertaineth for his child,
And commend them; and doubt not but your motives have been those that
In a court of the affections would be legal;" here she smiled.
"And as I have bred Lorenzia up, and loved her as a daughter,
So I still do think the child my own to cherish and to love;
And for beauty and for sweetness have I truly ever thought her
Incomparable, though less like earth than like saints above.

"But, friend Crozat, with our race is blent no blood except the highest;
Every branch, for age on age, has been nobly sprung and grafted,
Never losing aught of royalty, but ever keeping nighest
To the throne, and to the scepter, which indeed our uncles wafted.