A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell--how maidens sprung from kings
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,
And every muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy--of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty! Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes
Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not;
But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee?

Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate!

Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee--such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name--appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour--when passion, turn'd to wrath,
Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm
It turn'd and stung thee!

Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting.
What was the slight of a poor powerless girl
To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf!--a slave!

Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! Despair is free!
I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles
The anguish--the remorse: No, let it pass!
And