The Story
of Saville
And over and over he cursed his fate and bitterly marvelled to find
What a wretched contemptible thing is a man, whether death-dumb and resigned,
Ox-like patient, stolidly mute, he draggeth his weariful load,
Or furious snarls at the bloody lash and passion ate writhes at the goad,—
Bah! the unstable frail spirit, more weak than the wing of a dove
To soar and attain the empyreal heights,—strong only to suffer and love!
Love,—to my story of love again, the wonderful story we told
Or heard in the dim sweet cycles afar in the Age of Gold,
When the pendulum pulse in the soft young cheek swings tremulous to and fro
From the pearly pallor of cherry blooms to the rose’s crimson glow,
When a few faint syllables, English-plain, are richer than wisdom’s years,
And one dear voice holds deeper tones than the music of all the spheres.
Scarce could one call it an interview between these shadowy folk,
