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THE RING
Father. Miriam, on that dayTwo lovers parted by no scurrilous tale—Mere want of gold—and still for twenty yearsBound by the golden cord of their first love—Had ask'd us to their marriage, and to shareTheir marriage-banquet. Muriel, paler thenThan ever you were in your cradle, moan'd,'I am fitter for my bed, or for my grave,I cannot go, go you.' And then she rose,She clung to me with such a hard embrace,So lingeringly long, that half-amazedI parted from her, and I went alone.And when the bridegroom murmur'd, 'With this ring,'I felt for what I could not find, the key,The guardian of her relics, of her ring.
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