The passion cools, to be renewed,

And finds each day some fancy fresh.

An old man's heart disdains to burn

With such obedient, lightsome ease,

The victim of a moment s whim:

But dulled and dimmed with thoughtful years,

The fire of passion tempered flames;

The heart is proof against its force,

And slow to burn; but once 'tis stirred,

The love born late can ne'er grow cold,

And only dies with parting breath.

It is no deer that seeks a refuge sure,

Alarmed by eagle's heavy flight;

It is a bride her chamber roams,

And, trembling, waits her parents' word.

All filled with angry discontent,

The mother comes, as one distraught,

Seizes her hand, and sharply cries:

"Now, shame befall the godless wretch!

Can such things be? No, whilst we live,

He ne'er shall wreak his foul desire!

Well fit to play the father, or

The friend to god-child young and pure,

The senseless fool, in dotage years,

Forsooth would ape the husband's part!"

Naught spake Marie. But o'er her face

A creeping pallor slowly flushed;

And cold and stiff, like lifeless corpse,

Prone on the floor the maiden fell.

She woke to life, and then once more

Her eyes were closed, nor did she speak

One single word. With busy care,

They seek to ease and cheer her soul,