Chapter LXXI

Her mien had chang’d; and yet she ask’d again,
“But how with Grace? I thought”—
“Alas,” I said,
“With your dear spirit thron’d above my love,
What were I but a traitor, wedding Grace?
This heart was yours, your dwelling-place alone.
Nay, now I do not come to give it you:
It only opens to an owner old.
How sacredly I guarded it for you!—
A holy place, though there, above the shrine,
The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude?
Some reason was there; surely some there was.
We war with Providence, who war with life.
We seek to mould our own existence out;
But life, best made, is mainly for us made.
Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven,
Grates by to smooth some edge of character,
And model manhood into better shape.
Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine,
You living image of all hope, would God,
Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!”