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SCORN'D, to be scorn’d by one that I scorn,
a matter to make me fret ?
That a calamity hard to be borne ?
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ;
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands.
Who shall call me ungentle, unfair,
I long'd so heartily then and there
Gorgonised me from head to foot
With a stony British stare.
Why sits he here in his father's chair ?
That old man never comes to his place :
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ?
For only once, in the village street,
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face,
old wolf and a lean.
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat;
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit,
She might by a true descent be untrue ;
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet :
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due
However she came to be so allied.
And fair without, faithful within,
Maud to him is nothing akin :
Some peculiar mystic grace
Made her only the child of her mother, And heap'd the whole inherited sin
On that huge scapegoat of the race,
All, all upon the brother.
Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!
Has not his sister smiled on me?
Set in the heart of the carven gloom,
Lights with herself, when alone
She sits by her music and books,
There were but a step to be made.
The fancy flatter'd my mind,