And from that hour I grew--what to the last I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 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 let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline!

(Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.

Pauline. No, touch me not!

I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;

And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not;Let my wrongs make me sacred!

Mel. Do not fear me.

Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired!

Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.

I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder;Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.

A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd--A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace.

To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.

The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love.

And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature!

Ho! my mother! [Enter Widow.

Conduct this lady--(she is not my wife;

She is our guest,--our honor'd guest, my mother)--To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue, Never, beneath my father's honest roof, Ev'n villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now, I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother!

Widow. She is not thy wife!

Mel. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!

Speak not, but go.

[Widow ascends the stairs; PAULINE follows weeping--turns to look back.

Mel. [sinking down]. All angels bless and guard her!