thrusts me forthUpon a shoreless sea of untried passion,From whence is no return.

Wal. By Siegfried’s sword,My words are true, and I came here to say them,To thee, my son in all but blood.Mass, I’m no gossip. Why? What ails the boy?

Lewis. Loves me! Henceforth let no man, peering downThrough the dim glittering mine of future years,Say to himself ‘Too much! this cannot be!’To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon:Before the hourly miracle of lifeBlindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were not.I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered,And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted,And priceless flowers, o’er which I trod unheeding,Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then!She who to me was as a nightingaleThat sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered,To passing angels melancholy music—Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars,Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shiningDown from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy—She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knightSeemed all too gross—who might have been a saintAnd companied with angels—thus to pluckThe spotless rose of her own maidenhoodTo give it unto me!

Wal. You love her then?

Lewis. Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold,And each particular tree a band of jewels,And from its womb the Niebelungen hoardWith elfin wardens called me, ‘Leave thy loveAnd be our Master’—I would turn away—And know no wealth but her.

Wal. Shall I say this to her?I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed,But now, between her friends and persecutors,My life’s a burden.

Lewis. Persecutors! Who?Alas! I guess it—I had known my motherToo light for that fair saint,—but who else dare winkWhen she is by? My knights?

Wal. To a man, my Lord.

Lewis. Here’s chivalry! Well, that’s soon brought to bar.The quarrel’s mine; my lance shall clear that stain.

Wal. Quarrel with your knights? Cut your own chair-legs off!They do but sail with the stream. Her passion, Sir,Broke shell and ran out twittering before yours did,And unrequited love is mortal sinWith this chaste world. My boy, my boy, I tell you,The fault lies nearer home.

Lewis. I have played the coward—And in the sloth of false humility,Cast by the pearl I dared not to deserve.How laggard I must seem to her, though she love me;Playing with hawks and hounds, while she sits weeping!’Tis not too late.

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