Good Novel
but his, that ancestor who gave
Escutcheon to our humble house - a Death's-head and a Grave.
Beneath the pomp of those grim arms I live and may not move;
Nor faith, nor truth, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love!
How could I tell you this? - not then! when all the world was spun
Of morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon.
I could not tell you how disease hid here a hideous germ,
Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm.
And when I broke our plighted troth and would not tell you why,