The Story
of Saville
But no!—’tis the dream of a dastard, a dolt,—’twere a children’s folly, a sin—
Yet what right doing of all our lives, what sacrifice ever shall win
Reward so regal? And yet, the end! If I held you once as a wife,
God! what a thing were I to sink content to the old blank life!
But it is not I who shall blench at the risk,—the madness, the crime, if you will,—
Yours is the right to rebuke or accede,—Will you marry me then, Saville?”
Sobbing she answered, “Dear heart! the wrong, if any there be, is mine,—
I should have vision for both of us; but I am the night-shade’s vine,
Purple and scarlet with poison, throttling whatever I twine,—
These are hysterical ravings! Forget them! My spirit hath passed
Through a long purgatorial penance, but now soareth lark-like at last,
And I cannot be sorry this moment, dear heart, e’en for your lampless eyes,—
I am glad they must fail to discern in my own the exquisite rapture that lies
