She chose: no more they met: her life was pass'd
In constant round of pomp and proud display.
But when he went, and never more there came
The love-sad eyes to question and entreat,
The voice of music praising noble deeds,
The graceful presence and the golden hair,
She miss'd the boy; but scoff'd at first and said:
"One misses all things, common pets one spurn'd,
Good slaves and bad alike when both are gone,--
A small thing makes the habit of a life!"
But days wore on, and adulation palled.
She knew not what she lack'd, nor that she loath'd
The hollow semblance, the dull mockery,
Which she had gain'd for joy by choosing rank,
And money's worth, instead of peace and love.
Yet ever as the long days grew to months
More heavy hung the time, moved slower by.
And all things troubled her and gave her pain,
And morning, noon, and night the thought would rise,
And grew insistent when she would not hear:
"One loved me! out of all this crowd but one!
And he is gone, and I have driven him forth!"
Then in the silent solitude of night
An old weird story that she once had heard
Tormented her; a story speaking much
Of a rock-island on the Norman coast,
A mountain peak rising from barren sand,
Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns,
And beaten by the winds on ev'ry side,
With wall'd-in town, and castle on the height,
And high above the castle, strangely placed,
A grey cathedral with its summit tipp'd
By a gold figure of St.
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