Sir Henry Taylor (1800–1886)

Athulf.—Appeared

The princess with that merry child Prince Guy:

He loves me well, and made her stop and sit,

And sate upon her knee, and it so chanced

That in his various chatter he denied

That I could hold his hand within my own

So closely as to hide it: this being tried

Was proved against him; he insisted then

I could not by his royal sister’s hand

Do likewise. Starting at the random word,

And dumb with trepidation, there I stood

Some seconds as bewitched; then I looked up,

And in her face beheld an orient flush

Of half-bewildered pleasure: from which trance

She with an instant ease resumed herself,

And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, held out

Her arrowy hand.

I thought it trembled as it lay in mine,

But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free,

And said that she felt nothing.

Sidroc.—And what felt’st thou?

Athulf.—A sort of swarming, curling, tremulous tumbling,

As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom.

I said I was ashamed.—Sidroc, you smile,

If at my folly, well! But if you smile,

Suspicious of a taint upon my heart,

Wide is your error, and you never loved.