And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

95

A manly form at her side she saw,

And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,

Saying only, "It might have been."

100

Alas for maiden, alas for judge,

For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

105

The saddest are these: “It might have been ! "

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

Ar Paris it was, at the opera there ;And she looked like a queen in a book that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast so bright.

4

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

8

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest

way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned

low,

"Non ti scordar di me"?

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat,
Together, my bride-betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad;Like a queen she leaned on her full white

arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

12

16

20

24

28

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for

years;

Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears.

32

36

40

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees

together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) And her warm white neck in its golden

chain;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmin-flower in her fair young

breast;

(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasminflower!)

44

48

And the one bird singing alone to his nest;
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring;

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

52

56

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over: And I thought . . . "were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" 60

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that
hour,
And of how, after all, old things are best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

64

It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmin in her breast!

68

72

I was here; and she was there;

And the glittering horseshoe curved between!

From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,
(In short from the future back to the past)
There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

76

80

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmin in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips

said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

84

88

92

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome

still;