Then rising up with stately grace, she friendlily extended
Her jeweled hand, which Crozat kissed, and silently departed.
But oh! the war of thoughts that in his wounded soul contended,
And oh, the wild, wild hopes that then into existence started!
Did she not say, if he had won a kingly place and power?
And could he not, and would he not? Ah, in that western world,
So boundless and so glorious, should be his daughter's dower:
And kingdoms, crowns, and scepters through his princely visions whirled.
A name on the historic page! oh, would not nations tell it,
That he, a peasant, had arisen to rule with highborn kings?
And will not France take up the theme, and be most proud to swell it,
When he, her regent, to her arms such fair possessions brings?
"It shall be done!" he swore the oath deep in his inmost heart:
"A prince I'll be, o'er such a wide and beautiful domain,
That France shall be but as a speck, a small deciduous part,
Which I, a monarch, can shake off, whene'er I choose to reign."
And then the tears—the slow, great tears which manhood seldom sheds,
Swelled upward from his bursting heart into his burning eyes,
Till all his soul gave way; and as a fire enkindled spreads,
Darted the arrows through his frame of nameless agonies.
This for his daughter—how should he teach her to bear this scorning—
How hide her from its blighting breath, or save her from despair?
How keep that flower, as frail and fair as the wild-rose of morning,
From withering ere his noon of hope, in pity's stifling air?
Oh, how hope deferred destroyeth the eye's brightness! how it stealeth
From the lip its hue of coral, from the cheek its sea-shell pink;
Oh, how hardly with the youthful heart the hand of sorrow dealeth,
And how surely, like a stranded ship, the broken heart will sink!
