. . .Well pleased from his cold eyes to move apart, And in her humble fortunes dwell secure. Indeed, what was she?—a poor soldier's girl, Merely a tenant's daughter. Times were changed, And life's bright web had sadder colors in 't: That most sweet gentle lady—rest her soul!— Shrunk to an epitaph beside her lord's, And six lines shorter, which was all a shame; Gaunt Richard heir; that other at earth's end, (The younger son that was her sweetheart once,) Fighting the Spaniards, getting slain perchance; And all dear old-time uses quite forgot. Slowly, unnoted, like the creeping rust That spreads insidious, had estrangement come, Until at last, one knew not how it fell, And little cared, if sober truth were said, She and the father no more climbed the hill To Twelfth Night festival or May-day dance, Nor commerce had with any at The Towers. Yet in a formless, mist. . . Read More