The Story
of Saville
The regnant rose in a garland twined of sweet yet commoner flowers!
Thank God that the thought of marriage is as far as the thought of death,—
Marriage! where poor little weary Love, drabbled and out of breath,
Bravely struggles ’gainst pitiful odds, ’till his cruel coarse-spirited foes
Break and batter the irised wings and sneer at his dying throes,
And the dance and jest go rioting on, and none of his murdering knows!”
“Ah, well, I would risk it! but whether Saville, for us it could happen so,—
Perish the thought! ’tis a sacrilege,—but never, dear love, shall we know.
I am as a bee untimely crushed ere he unloadeth his sweets,
Dead to accomplishment, effort, and joy, whose heart still cruelly beats,
Ardent, ambitious, and pulsing strong with fiery tropical heats,—
God! how I worship my art divine, my heavenly art, Saville,—
That I were rotting a grain a day, yet able to serve her still!”
