Until he marvelled at the soul in mice
Which took the cheese and left the snare? The same
Dear soft heart always! ’twas for this I grieved
Howe’s letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard
Of illness,—not the issue . . not the extent:
My life long sick with tossings up and down;
The sudden revulsion in the blazing house,—
The strain and struggle both of body and soul,
Which left fire running in my veins, for blood:
Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the falling beam,
Which nicked me on the forehead as I passed
The gallery door with a burden. Say heaven’s bolt,
Not William Erle’s; not Marian’s father’s; tramp
And poacher, whom I found for what he was,
And, eager for her sake to rescue him,
Forth swept from the open highway of the world,
Road-dust and all,—till, like a woodland boar
Most naturally unwilling to be tamed,
He notched me with his tooth. But not a word
To Marian! and I do not think, besides,
He turned the tilting of the beam my way,—
And if he laughed, as many swear, poor wretch,
Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep.
We’ll hope his next laugh may be merrier,
In a better cause.’
⁠‘Blind, Romney?’
⁠‘Ah, my friend,
You’ll learn to say it in a cheerful voice.
I, too, at first desponded. To be blind,