“Look on my girdle--on this thread of gold--
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer.
And, but there is a spell on't, would not bind,
Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe.
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive chain,
Such as might bind the champion of the Jews,
Even when his looks were longest--it hath dwindled,
Hath minish'd in its substance and its strength,
As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel.
When this frail thread gives way. I to the elements
Resign the principles of life they lent me.
Ask me no more of this!--the stars forbid it.”
“Then canst thou read the stars,” answered the youth; “and mayest tell
me the fate of my passion, if thou canst not aid it?”