Distinct in individualities, But like each other even as those who love. Then comes the statelier Eden back to men: Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm : Then springs the crowning race of humankind. May these things be!' They will not.' Sighing she spoke, 'I fear 'Dear, but let us type them now In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest Of equal; seeing either sex alone Is half itself, and in true marriage lies Defect in each, and always thought in thought, Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, The single pure and perfect animal, The two-cell'd heart, beating with one full stroke And again sighing she spoke: 'A dream That once was mine! what woman taught you this?' 'Alone,' I said, from earlier than I know, Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman: he, that doth not, lives A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.' Said Ida, 'so unlike, so all unlike ' But I,' It seems you love to cheat yourself with words: You cannot love me.' 'Nay but thee,' I said, 'From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, Or some mysterious or magnetic touch, Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood: now Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee Indeed I love the new day comes, the light Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults Look up and let thy nature strike on mine Like yonder morning on the blind half-world; Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows; In that fine air I tremble, all the past Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this I scarce believe, and all the rich to come Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, And so thro' those dark gates across the wild Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.' CONCLUSION. HERE closed our compound story, which at first Had only meant to banter little maids With mock-heroics and with parody: But slipt in some strange way, crost with burlesque, From mock to earnest, even into tones Of tragic, and with less and less of jest To such a serious end, that Lilia fixt A showery glance upon her Aunt and said, tell us what we are;' who there began A treatise, growing with it, and might have flow'd In axiom worthier to be grav'n on rock, |