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She said: but at the happy word, “he lives,' My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my wounds. So those two foes above my fallen life, With brow to brow like night and evening mixt Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole A little nearer, till the babe that by us, Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, Uncared for, spied its mother and began A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal Brook'd not, but clamouring out “Mine — mine—not

yours,

It is not yours, but mine: give me the child,’
Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry:
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouthed,
And turn'd each face her way: wan was her cheek
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn,
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye,

And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half

The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst
The laces toward her babe; but she nor cared
Nor knew it, clamouring on, till Ida heard,
Look’d up, and rising slowly from me, stood
Erect and silent, striking with her glance
The mother, me, the child; but Cyril, who lay
Bruised, where he fell, not far off, much in pain,
Trail'd himself up on one knee: then he drew
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look’d
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seem’d,
Or self-involved; but when she learnt his face,
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew
Tall as a figure lengthened on the sand

When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said:

‘O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness That with your long locks play the Lion's mane ! But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible

And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks,

We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will.
What would you more ? give her the child! remain
Orb’d in your isolation: he is dead,
Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be :
Win you the hearts of women; and beware
Lest, where you seek the common love of these,
The common hate with the revolving wheel
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire,
And tread you out for over: but howsoe'er
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms
To hold your own, deny not her’s to her,
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved
The breast that fed or the arm that dandled you,
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer,
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it,
Yourself, in hands so lately clasp'd with yours,
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault

The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill,

Give me it, and I will give it her.’

He said: At first her eye with slow dilation roll’d Dry flame, she listening; after sank and sank, And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt Full on the child; she took it: s Pretty bud Lily of the vale! half open'd bell of the woods ! Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world Of traitorous friend and broken system made No purple in the distance, mystery, Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell; These men are hard upon us as of old, We two must part: and yet how fain was I To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think I might be something to thee, when I felt Thy waxen warmth about my milkless breast In the dead prime: but may thy mother prove As true to thee as false, false, false to me ! And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it

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“All good go with thee! take it, Sir," and so
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands,
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang
To embrace it, with an eye that swum in thanks,
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot,
And hugg’d and never hugg'd it close enough,
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it,
And hid her bosom with it; after that

Put on more calm, and added suppliantly:

‘We two were friends: I go to mine own land For ever : find some other: as for me I scarce am fit for your great plans: yet speak to me,

Say one soft word, and let me part forgiven.’

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. Then Arac, ‘Soul and life you blame the man; You wrong yourselves — the woman is so hard Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me !

I am your brother; I advise you well:

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