Chapter XIX

My mien must have reveal’d it. Like a lake,
Whose fogs unfold, when comes a genial sun,
Her moods unfolded to my sympathy;
And, brightly imaged in her nature’s depths,
I seem’d, at every turn, to face my own.

So new to me such views were, that I felt
As thrill’d as feels the savage maid, when first
She finds her own face in a stranger’s glass,
Then spell-bound lingers, learning of herself.
So wrapt, my wonder hung, all wistfully,
About that spirit bright. What meant it all?
I could not then believe,—I scout it yet,—
That mortals can afford to slight the souls
Reflecting theirs, who make them mind themselves
And prize the good they own, and dread the ill.

You smile, friend: yes; and often so would I.
My head would oft, made jealous of my heart,
Deny that reason ruled my impulses.
And oft my heart, to bear such weight of joy,
Would faint from too much feeling. I would ask
Could I be sane yet find my life so sweet?—
At least I would be sure; so like a friend
Who finds a long-lost friend amid a crowd,
And stares, and holds him at arm’s length, a time,
Ere clasping him with courage to his breast
That wellnigh bursts the while, I held her off,
This long-sought soul that mine had found a friend;
And did not dare to trust her as I would.