PRELUDE.
He could not close his weary eyesBecause she chid him, ere she slept;He left his bed at morning rise,And through the streets uneasy swept,Waiting till slumber's truce should cease,And she might give the sign of peace. Shall she be proud? oh no— It is not she, but Love That moves the great heart so.
She gave it, and he bent his head,The head that bears the massy curls,And pressed the lips, so lustrous red,The full lips, set with stainless pearls,With fervour on the thin, weak hand,That holds nor prowess, wealth, nor land. Shall she be proud? oh no— Not by her word, but Love's, The pulse-beats come and go.
