y .4 ■^Si?>^ .w^ ^^f. .-*.«' ij^^ .^«t je jsrc "* — ». J. i I. •^^•■'- ^-.^ «^:^^«3^- ^1 ' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, -',f^:^P^ — eijnii../' Cojiiji-i^IjIl^a.- Sliell'— -3«'.".- 12J1_ INITFI) STATES OF AMF.RICA. ^ "^ "^^ h ^ ife /*^< ^4Ar / ^ LUCI LE BY OWEN MEREDITH "IVhv, let tUe itiickcn deer go -u-tvp, The hart iiiigjIU-d play ; For some must 'd-atch while some must sleep Thus runs the -teorld avay." ^ iVITH TIVELVE FACSIMILES OF IVATE%-C0L0% PAmTlOiGS "BV THOMAS McILVAlNE Together with numerous illustrations in black-anil-white by Thomas Mcllvaine and Frank M. Gregory NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS \ */\l "''. Of WAS«'> . / CofAright. iSgj, By Frederick A. Stokes Comfhiny. Portrait or Thomas McIlvainb DEDICATION. (Lo mn ^'atljct. I DEDICATE to you a work, which is submitted to the public with a (hffidence and hesitation propor- tioned to the novelty of the effort it represents. For in this poem I have abandoned those forms of verse with which I had most familiarized my thoughts, and have endeavored to follow a path on which I could discover no footprints before me, either to guide or to warn. There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to prolonged effort ; when, the labor which has become a habit having ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and stand, with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the abrupt and naked result. As regards ni\-- self, in the present instance, the force of all such sensations is increased by the circumstances to which 1 have referred. And in this moment of discouragement and doubt, my heart instinctively turns to you, from whom it has so often sought, from whom it has never failed to receive, support. 1 do not inscribe to you this book because it contains anything that is worthy the beloved and hon- ored name with which f thus seek to associate it : nor yet because I would avail myself of a \ulgar pretext to display in public an affection that is best honored by the silence which it renders sacred. Feelings only such as those with which, in days when there existed for me no critic less gentle than yourself, 1 brought to you my childish manuscripts ; feelings only such as those which have, in later years, associated with your heart all that has moved or occupied my own,— lead me once more to seek from the grasp of that hand which has hitherto been my guide and comfort through the life I assurance owe to you. And as in childhood, when existence had no toil beyond the day's simple lesson, no ambition beyond the neighboring approval of the night, I brought to you the morning's task for the evening's sanction, so now I bring to you this self-appointed task-work of maturer years ; less confident indeed of your ap- proval, but not less confident of your love ; and anxious only to realize your presence between myself and the public, and to mingle with those severer voices, to whose final sentence 1 submit my work, the beloved and gracious accents of your own. OWEN MEREDITH. LUCILE LUCILK. H' walk'd to the window. The morning was chill : The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the hill : The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind : And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his mind. Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing ; And Lord .Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it. To himself more than once (vex'd in soulj sigh'd " Confound it !" IV. What the thoughts were which led to this had inter- jection. Sir. or Madam. I leave to your future detection ; For whatever they were, they were burst in upon. As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin John, CdUSIN JCHX. A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool ! Lord .\lfred Who ; John. The man who has anything better to do ; And vet so far forgets himself, so far degrades His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, \Vhich even a well-brought-up ape were above. To travel about with a woman in love, — Unless she's in love with himself. .Alfred. Are you here then, dear Jack : Indeed I why JoHX. Can't you guess it .' Alfred. Not OHX. Because I ha-'e nothing that 's better to do. 1 had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you. On the whole (I must own), than be bored by my- self. ■ ■ That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf — Your Will-o'-the-wisp — that has led you and me Such a dance through these hills — Alfred. Who, Matilda .' John. Yes ! she. Of course ! who but she could contrive so to keep One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling aslee|> For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four? John. Why, she is — a matter, the more I consider about it, the more it demands An attention it does not deserve : and expands Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline. When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, Is entitled to take in this very small star Already too crowded, as / think, by far You read Malthas and Sadler .' Alfred. Of course. John. To what use, When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse Of one mere human creature's legitimate space In this world ? Mars, Apollo, \'iroruni ! the case Wholly passes my patience. .Alfred. Mv own is worse tried. Yours, Alfred .-' lOHN. .Alfred. What s the matter .■' Alfred. Read this, if you doubt, and decide. John (rcadiiii; the U-th-r). I hear from Digo) re you are there. 1 am tola You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old — " What is this ? Alfred. Read it on to the end, and you'll know, John {eontinues reading). " ]Vhen ii>e parted, your last 'zoords recorded a 7'07i> — What you -...■i/f . . . Hang it ! this smells all over, I swear. Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair You promised a lock of } Alfred. Read on. You'll discein. John (eontinues). " Those tetters / ash you, my /ord, to return." . . . Humph! . . . Letters I . . . the matter is woise than I guess'd ; I have m)- misgivings — Alfred. Well, read out the rest, .And advise. "LORD ALFRED WAS STARTLED. HE WALKED TO THE WINDOW." Pj ill ted by Tboiujs Miilvjiiu\ ^ r" -\-i!>MNl^ "\ COPVniGHT 10Q3 BV KREOEniCK A STOKES COMPANY LUCILE. John. Eh ? . . . Where was I ? . . . {conWiiufs) " Miss Darcy, perchance, Wil! forego one brief page from the summer romance Of her courtship." . . . Egad ! a romance, for my part, I'd forego eveiy page of. and not break my heart 1 Alfred. Continue ! John (reading). " And spare you cue day from your place At her feet." . . . Pray forgive me the passing grimace. I wish you had MY place ! (reads) " / trust you ^eiU feel I desire nothing much. Your friend" . . . Bless me ! " Lucile "? The Comtesse de Xevers ? .Alfred. Yes. John. What will you do ? Alfred. You ask me just what I would rather ask you. John. Alfred. must. .\lfred. Tush, tush ! this is serious. John. You can't go. John. And Matilda ? .-Vlfred. Oh, that You must manage ! John. Must I ? I decline it. though, flat. In an hour the horses will be at the door. And Matilda is now in her habit. Before I have finish'd my breakfast, of course I receive A message for "dear Cousin fohn f" ... I must leave At the jeweller's the bracelet which i'ck broke last night ; I must call for the music. " Dear .•\lfred is right : The black shawl looks best : w /'// I change it } Of course I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows what ; IF/// I see the dog-doctor .'" Hang Beau! I will not. It is. .•\lfred. Yen' well. You must think — ji>HN. What excuse will you make, tho' ,' .A.LFRED. Oh, tell Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits. Jack I . . . the deuce ! Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's use ? Excuses are clothes which, when asked unawares. Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares. You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. John. M\- dear fellow, Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. You joke. Alfred. JllHN. I am serious. Why go to Luchon ? Alfred. Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John. Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire. Before I extinguish forever the fire Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that dawn Of my days where the twilights of life were first drawn By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love : In short, from the dead Past the gravestone to move; Of the vears long departed forever to take One last look, one final farewell ; to awake The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, And once more be, though but for an hour. Jack — a boy ! John. You had better go hang yourself. Alfred. No ! were it but To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut, It were worth the step back. Do you think wc should live With the living so lightly, and learn to survive lO LUCILE. That wild moment in which to the grave and its gloom We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the tomb Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for our sake ? If the dead could return, or the corpses awake ? JciHN. Nonsense ! Alfred. Not wholly. The man who gets up A tiU'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his cup. Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, goes Well contented to bed. and enjoys its repose. But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, And yet starved in the sight of lu.\urious things ; ^ Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind : " Well, . . . no." . . . says Lothario. " I think not. I f^nd, On reviewing my life, which in most things was pleasant. I never neglected, when once it was present. An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, I have naught to regret :" . . . and so, smiling, his soul Took its tiight from this world. Which is best .■■ Alfred. Well. Regret or Remorse, John. Why, Regret. Alfred No ; Remorse, Jack, of course For the one is related, be sure, to the other. Regret is a spiteful old maid : but her brother, Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret ! ' John. Bref ! you mean. then, to go ? Alfred. Bref! I do. John. One word . . . stay ! Are you really in lo\e with Matilda ? .Alfred. What a question I Of course. Love, eh ? l.^-^ John. " The priest nv His bed." Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but half tasted. Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tunc ; who hath wasted One part of life's grand possibilities ; — friend, That man will bear with him, be sure, to t-Ke end, A blighted experience, a rancor within ; You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. John. I see you remember the cvnical story Of that wicked old piece of Experience — a hoary Lothario, whom dying, the jjriest by his bed (Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led. And obser\'ing. with no small amount of surprise, Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) With Mada de N ]]'n-e you reallv in love ame de INevers : Never really. Alfred. A\'hat ; Lucile ? No, by Jove. John. She 's pretty ? Alfred. Decidedly so. At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. As soft, and as sallow as Autumn — with hair Neither black, nor vet brown, but that tinge which the air Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun. I.UCILE. II Eyes — the wistful q-azrllc's ; the fine foot of ;i faiiy ; And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white and airy ; A voice soft and sweet as a tune tliat one knows. Somethin;4 in her tht-re was, set you thinking of those Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that hec- tic and deep Brief twilight in which southt-rn suns fall asleep. Coquette ■ John. Alfred. Not at all. 'T was her one fault. Not she ! I had loved her the better, had she less loved nie. The heart of a man 's like that delicate weed Which rec[uires to be trampled on, boldly indeed. Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. 'T is a simile, trust ine. if not new, exact. J(JHN. W'cjnien change so. Alfred. Of course. John*. And, unless rumor errs, I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers* Was at Baden the rage — held an absolute court Of devoted adorers, and really made sport Of her subjects. Alfred. Indeed ! John. When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it ? Alfred. Pooh ! Pray would you have had her dress always in black, And shut herself up in a convent, dear jack ? Besides, 't was my fault the engagement was broken. JOHX. Most likely. How was it ?. * O Shakespeare ! how couldst ihoii ask ** What 's in a name ?' ^T is the devil 's in it, when a bard has to frame English rhymes for alliance with names that are French : And in the>e rhymes of mine, well 1 know that 1 trench All too far on that license which critics refuse. With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, 'Twixt my Brilish-born verse and my French heroine, Since, however auspiciously wedded they be, There is many a pair that yet cannot agree. Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, Whom necessity, not inclination, unites, j She's i-retty. .A.LFRED. The tale is soon spoken. She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next ? She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd. I was vex'^l that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cr>-. I was contrite, submissive. Shesoften'd. I harden'd. .Jit noon I was banish'd. .-Xt eve I was pardon 'd. She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd 1 talk'd treason. In short, mv dear fellow, 't was time, as yousee. Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'T was she By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. She released me. 1 linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to flv in a rage, mount my horse, .■Vnd declare mvself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the story you know. No, indeed. John. Alfred. Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. You conceive it was awkward .' Even Don Ferdi- nando Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. I think that I acted exceedingly well. Considering the time when this rupture befell. For Paris was charming just then. It deranged All mv plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed— Wrott- for Naples, then vacant— obtain 'd it— and so Join'd my new post at once ; but scarce reach'd it, when lo ! My first news from Paris informs me Lucile Isill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. 12 l.UCILE. I fly back. I find her recover'd. but yet Looking jjale. I am seized with a contrite regret ; John. And she ? Alfred. Reflects, but decUnes. We part, swearing to be Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing ! We each keep our letters ... a portrait ... a ring. . . With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other shall call for them back. John. Alfred. Pra\' go on. My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin To supply the grim deficit found in our da\s. When Love leaves them bankru])t. I preach. .She obeys. She goes out in the world ; takes to dancing once more, — A pleasure she rarely indulged in before. I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 'T is a taste 1 had never before, my dear John) Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho ! now. Jack, You know all. lotiti {afler a pause). You are reallv resolved to go back } Eh, where ? Alfred. John. To that worst of all places — the past. You remember loot's wife ? Alfred. 'T was a promise when last We parted. My honor is pledged to it. Well John. What is it you wish me to do ? Alfred. You must tell Matilda, I meant to have call'd — to leave word- To explain — but the time was so pressing — John. Mv lord. Your lordship's obedient I I really can't do Alfred. You wish then to break off mv marriage } John. No. no ! But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take These letters. Alfred. Not see ? would you have me, then, break A [irDmise mv honor is pledged to } John (humming). And aioav ! said t/n- stranger" . . " ojr. off. Alfred. Oh, good ! oh, vou scoff ! John. At what, mv dear Alfred .' Alfred. At all things ! John. Alfred. Indeed ? Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed : That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you : I sec You have no feeling left in you, even for me ! At honor vou jest ; you are cold as a stone To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none ; You ha\-e lost faith in all things. You carp,- a blight About with vou everywhere. Yes, at the sight Of such callous indifference, who could be calm ? I must leave vou at once. Jack, or else the last balm That is left me in Gilead you '11 turn into gall. Heartless, cold, unconcern 'd . . . John. Have vou done ? Is that all ? Well, [hen, listen to me ! I presume when you made Up vour min ;1 to projiose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains. Ere you finally settled the point. What remains But to stick to your choice ? You want money ; 't is here. A settled position : 't is yours. A career : You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich. Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch To be running away, on the eve of all this. To a woman whom never for once did you miss All these years since you left her? Who knows what may hap ? This letter — to me — is a palpable trap. The woman has changed since you knew her. Per- chance She vet seeks to renew her youth's broken lo- mance. When women begin to feel youth and their beauty Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty LUCILE. 13 To let nothing else slip away unsecured AVhich these, while they lasted, might once have procured. Lucile 's a coquette to the end of her lingers, I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish lingers To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover To the feet he has left ; let intrigue now recover What truth could not keep. 'T were a vengeance, no doubt — A triumph ; — but whv mustj'tw bring it about .' You are risking the substance of all that you schemed To obtain ; and for what ? some mad dream you have dream 'd. Alfred. But there 's nothing to risk. You exaggerate. Jack. You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back. John. Ay, but how .-'... discontented, unsettled, upset. Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret ; Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough To make your betroth'd break off all in a huff. Three days, do you say .' }3ut in three days who knows What may happen ? I tlon't. nor do you, 1 sujjpose. Of all the good things in this good world around us. The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us. And which, for that reason, we least care about, And can best spare our friends, is good counsel, no doubt. But advice, when 'tis sought from a friend (though civility May forbid to avow it), means mere liability In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, Which we deem that a true friend is bound to in- dorse. A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore. Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the more Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment opposed it. And, having the worst of the contest, he closed it With so firm a resolve his bad ground to maintain That, sa^'ly perceiving resistance was vain. And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack Came to terms, and assisted his cousin to pack A slender valise (the one small condescension Which his final remonstrance obtain'dj, whose di- mension E.xcluded large outfits ; and, cursing his stars, he Shook hands with his friend and return 'd to Miss Darcv. Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd. Ere he lock'd up and quitted his chamber, discern'd Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright In what \'irgil has call'd ' Youth's ])urpureal light ' (I like the expression, and can't find a better). He sigh'd as he look'd at her. Did he regret her? In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair. As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air. And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue eyes. With their little impertinent look of sur- prise. And her round youthful figure, and fair neck, below The dark droop- ing feather, as radiant as snow, — I can only declare, that if / had the chance Of passing three days in the exquisite glance Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now petted That fine English mare, I should much have re- gretted Whatever might lose me one little half-hour Of a jjastime so pleasant, when once in my power. For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milkv Way Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare say. Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that dav. VII. But whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred X'argrave now watch'd her ride by, I can only affirm that, in watching her ride. As he turn'd from the 'Window, he certainly sigh'd. ** Discern'd Matilda ride bv.' CANTO II. Letter from Lord Alfred Vargr.wk to THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS. '* BlCORRE, Tuesday. " Your note. Madam, reach'd me to-day, at lii- gorre. And commands (need I add ?) my oliei'.ience. Be- fore 14 LUCILE. The night I shall be at Luchon — where a line, If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine. Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive My respects. " Yours sincerely, "A. \'ARGRAVE. " I leave In an hour." II. In an hour from the time h ■ wrote this, Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss. Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and pursued. In pursuing his course through the blue solitude. The reflections that journey gave rise to. And here (^Hecause, without some .such precaution, I fear You might fail to distinguish them each from the rest Of the world they belong to; whose captives are drest. As our convicts, precisely the same.oneand all. While the coat cut for Peter is pass'd on to Paul) I resolve, one by one. when I pick from the mass The persons I want, as before you thev pass. To label them broadly in plain black and w'hite On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he 's in sight, I first label my hero. III. The age is gone o'er When a man may in all things be all. We have more Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt. Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to ; but out Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when Will a new Leon.^rdo arise on our ken .' He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close In the palm of his hand. There were giants in those Irreclaimable days ; but in these davs of ours, In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more Than the 'live giant's eyesight avail'd to explore ; " Pursuing his course through the blue solitude." And in life's lengthened alphabet what used to be To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. .■\ \'anini is roasted alive for his pains. But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle. Till a More or Lavater step into his place : Then the world turns and makes an admiring gri- mace. Once the men were so great and so few, they ap- pear. Through a distant Olympian atmosphere. Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. Now the men are so many and small, disengage One man from the million to mark him, next mo- ment The crowd swee])S him hurriedly out of your com- ment : .And since we seek vainly (to ])raise in our songs) 'Mid our fellow-s the size which to heroes belongs, We take the whole age for a hero, in want Of a better ; and still, in its favor, descant On the strength and the beauty which, failing to find In any one man, we ascribe to mankind. IV. Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve So little, because of the much they conceive. With inesolute finger he knock'd at each one Of the doonvays of life, and abided in none. His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, And whatever he did he was sure to regret. That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old. Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd gold. To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, .•\ppear'd in one moment both golden and argent. The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one. May hope to achieve it before life be done ; But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes. Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm That crawls on in the dust to the definite term Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, In its limited vision, is happier far Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd by no friendly star, Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows Each will still be as distant where\'er he goes. Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable. Indecisive yet keen, Alfred \'argrave seem'd able To dazzle, but not to illumine mankind. A vigorous, various, versatile mind ; A character wavering, fitful, uncertain. As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain. LUCILE. 15 J \'ague, flitting, but on it for- ever impressing The shape of some sulistance at which you stand guess- ing : When you said. "' All is worthless and weak here," behold ! Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold Great outlines of strenuous "The frost of the truth in the man : world's wintrv wis- When you said, " This is ge- '"""■' nius," the outlines grew wan. And his life, though in all things so gifted and skill'd. Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fultill'd. In the budding of youth, ere wild winds can de- flower The shut leaves of man's life, round the germ of his power Yet folded, his life had been earnest. Alas ! In that life one occasion, one moment, there was When this earnestness might, with the life-sap of youth. Lusty fruitage have borne in his manhood's full ■growth : But it found him too soon, when his nature was still The delicate toy of too pliant a will. The boisterous wind of the world'to resist. Or the frost of the world's wintry wisdom. He miss'd That occasion, too rathe in its advent. Since then. He had made it a law, in his commerce with men. That intensity in him, which only left sore The heart it disturb'd, to repel and ignore. And thus, as some Prince by his subjects deposed. Whose strength he, by seeking to crush it, dis- closed, In resigning the ])ower he lack'd ]3ower to su])i)ort. Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at the court. In his converse this man for self-comfort apjjeal'd To a cynic denial of all he conceal'd In the instincts and feelings belied by his words. Words, however, are things : and the man who accords To his language the license to outrage his soul. Is controU'd by the words he disdains to control. And, therefore, he seem'd in the deeds of each day, The light code proclaim'd on his lips to obey ; And, the slave of each whim, follow'd wilfully aught That perchance fool'd the fancy, or flatter'd the thought. Yet. indeed, deep within him, the spirits of truth, \'ast, vague aspirations, the powers of his youth. Lived and breathed, and made moan — stirr'd them- selves — strove to start Into deeds — though deposed, in that Hades, his heart. Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and hurl'd Under clefts of the hills, which, con\ulsing the world. Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent caverns above. To trouble at times in the light court of Jove All its frixolous gods, with an undefined awe. Of wrong'd rebel powers that own'd not their law. For his sake, I am fain to believe that, if born To some lowlier rank ( from the world's languid scorn Secured by the world's stern resistance), where strife. Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose to life. He possibly might have contrived to attain Not eminence only, but worth. So. again. Had he been of his own house the first-born, each gift Of a mind man\-gifted had gone to u|3lift A great name by a name's greatest uses. But there He stood isolated, opposed, as it were, To life's great realities ; part of no plan ; And if ever a nobler and happier man He might hope to become, that alone could be when With all that is real in life and in men What was real in him should have been recon- ciled ; When each influence now from experience exiled Should have seized on his being, combined with his nature. And forni'd, as by fusion, a new human creature : As when those airy elements viewless to sight (The amalg.mi of which, if our science be right. The germ of this populous planet doth fold) Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold I Where a void seem'd before, there a substance appears. From the fusion of forces whence issued the spheres! But the iiermanent cause why his life f.iil'd and miss'd The full value of life was. — where man should resist i6 LUCILE. The world, which man's crenius is call'd to com- mand, He gave way, less from lack of the power to with- stand, Than from lack of the resolute will to retain Those strongholds of life which the world strives to gain. Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way. With the moral thereof tightly tack'd to it. Say — " Let any man once show the world that he feels Afraid of its bark, and 't will fly at his heels ; Let him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone : But 't will fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone." VIII. The moon of September, now half at the full. Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland the lull Of the quiet blue air. where the many-faced hills W'atch'd, well-)5leased, their fair slaxes, the light, foam-footed rills. Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of their courts. And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports. Lord Alfred (bv •..^ ™— — ■■— I this on his jour- neying far) Was pensively ]5ufhng his Lo- pez cigar. And brokenly h u m m i n g an old opera strain. And thinking, per- ' chance, of those castles in Spain Which that long rocky barrier hid from his sight ; 4.J When suddenly, out of the neighboring night, A . horseman emerged from a fold of the hill. And so startled his steed, that was winding at will Up the thin, dizzy strip of a pathway which led O'er the mountain — the reins on its neck, and its head Hanging lazily forward — that, but for-a hand Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command. Both rider and horse might have been in a trice Hurl'd horribly over the grim precipice. IX. As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided. And the oath, with which nothing can find unpro- vided A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded. Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did "And thinking, perch.ance, of those castles in spain." Now and then) his erectness ; and looking, not ruder Than such inroad would warrant, sur\-ey'd the in- truder. Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glor)- My hero, and finish'd abruptlv this storv. The stranger, a man of his own age or less. Well mounted, and simple though rich in his dress. Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of France. His face, which was pale, gather'd force from the glance Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. With a gest of apologv, touch'd with surprise. He lifted his hat. bow'd and courteouslv made Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as be- tray 'd. At the first word he spoke, the Parisian. XI. I swear I have wander'd about in the world ever)-where ; From many strange mouths have heard many strange tongues ; Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my lungs ; Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own ; In many a language groan'd many a groan ; And have often had reason to curse those wild fellows Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd jealous. Making human audacity stumble and stammer When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar. But the language of languages dearest to me Is that in which once, O ma totite chirie. When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for hours, You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd Jc t' aiiiii:. XII. The Italians have voices like peacocks; the Spanish Smell, 1 fancy, of garlic ; the Swedish and Danish Have something too Runic, too rough and un- shod, in Their accent for mouths not descended from Odin ; German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheez- ing And coughing ; and Russian is nothing but sneez- ing ; But, by Belus and Babel ! I never have heard. And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word Of that delicate idiom of Paris without Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt, ' Do VOU GO TO LlXHON ?" IS LUCILE. By the wild way in which my heart inwardly rtut- ter'd. That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been utter'tl ; And whene'er I hear French spoken as I ap- prove, I feel myself quietly falling in love. XIII. Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased By a something, an accent, a cadence, which pleased His ear with that pledge of good breeding which tells At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark In the horseman a man one might meet after dark Without fear. And thus, not disagreeably impress'd. As it seeni'd, with each other, the two men abreast Rode on slowly a moment. XIV. Stranger. ,-\ smoker. Allow me ! I see, Sir, you are .-Vlfrem. Pray take a cigar. Stranger. Many thanks ! . . . Such cigars are a lu.xuiy here. Uo you go to Luchon ? Alfred. Yes ; and you ? Stranger. Yes. I fear. Since our road is the same, that our journey must be Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You see How narrow the path is. I'm tempted to ask Your permission to finish (no difficult task !) The cigar you have given me (really a prize 1) In your company. Alfred. Charm'd, Sir, to find your road lies In the way of my own inclinations ! Indeed The dream of your nation I find in this weed. In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows That makes all men brothers that use it . . . who knows ? That blaze which erewhile from the Bouh'-tiart out- broke, It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir, — in smoke. Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write) Have done mere in their way human kind to unite. Perchance, than ten Prudhons. Stranger. Yes. .Ah, what a scene ! Alfred. Humph I Nature is here too pretentious. Her mien Is too haughty. One likes to be coax'd, not coni- pell'd, ■ To the notice such beauty resents if withheld. She seems to be saying too plainly, " Admire me !" And I answer, " Yes, madam, I do : but you tire me." Stranger. That sunset, just now though . . . Alfred. .A. very old trick ! One would think that the sun by this time must be sick , Of blushing at what, by this time, he must know Too well to be shock'd by — this world. Stranger. Ah, 't is so With us all. 'T is the sinner that best knew the world At twenty, whose lip is. at sixty, most curl'd With disdain of its follies. You stay at Luchon .' A day or two only. Already .Alfred. Stranger. The seasen is done. Alfred. Stranger. 'T was shorter this year than the last. Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances so fast. We are all of us tired. .Alfred. You know the place well } Stranger. I have been there two seasons. Alfred. Pray who is the belle Of the Baths at this moment ? Stranger. The same who has been The belle of all places in which she is seen ; The belle of all Paris last winter ; last spring The belle of all Baden. LUCII.E. 19 Alfred. An uncomniim tiling ! Stranger. Sir, an uncommon beauty! . • • I rather should say, An uncommon character. Truly, each day One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers. But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. .\LFRED. Madame de Nevert Str.\NGER. Do vou know her ? .Alfred. I know. Or, rather, I knew her — a long time ago. 1 almost forget. . . . Stranger. What a wit ! what a grace In her language ! her movements ! what play in her face ! And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal ! Alfred. Yuu speak like a lover. Stranger. I speak as I feel. But not like a lover. What interests me so In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know, To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation. The name we men give to an hour's admiration, A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes, A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs. Alfred. Yes, I quite comprehend. Hut this sadness— this shade Which you speak of ? . . . it almost would make me afraid Your gay countrj'men. Sir. less adroit must have grown, Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own I found in them terrible rivals, — if yet They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret (If regret be the word I should usel, or fulfil This desire (if desire b- the word), which seems still To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted. From all that you say, that the will was not wanted. XV. The stranger replied, not without irritation : "I have heard that an Englishman — one of yur nation. I presume — and if so, I must beg you, in- deed, To excuse the c o n - t e m p t which I . . . Alfred. Pray, Sir. proceed AVith your tale. My c o m p a - -'^^ ■'■'*l triot, what ''4'^.,>:.,.'3-" '''' was his crime? "Throlgh a garden of FLOWEKS." Stranger. Oh, nothing ! His folly was not so sublime As to merit that term. If I blamed him just now. It was not for the sin, but the silliness. Alfred. Stranger. How ? 1 own I hate Botanv. Still, ... I admit, .\lthough I mvself have no passion for it. And do not understand, yet I cannot despise The cold man of science, who walks with his eyes All alert through a garden of flowers, and strips The lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips, With a ruthless dissection ; since he, I suppose. Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he does. But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots. For a boy's brutal iiastime, and only because He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and haws, — One would wish, for the sake nipp'd. To catch the young rascal and h whinn'd I of each nursling so ave him well 20 LUCILE. Alfred. Some compatriot of mine, do 1 then understand. With a cold Northern heart, and a rude Eng^lish hand. Has injured your rosebud of France.^ Stra.\u;er. Sir. I know But little, or nothing. Yet some faces show The last act of a tragedy in their regard : Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not hard To divine, more or less, what the plot may have been, And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene. And whenever 1 gaze on the face of Lucile. With its pensive and passionless languor, f feel That some feeling hath burnt there . . . burnt out. and burnt up Health and hope. .So you feel when you gaze down the cup Of extinguish'd volcanoes : you judge of the fire Once there, by the ravage you see ; — the desire By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. Alfred. Humph ! . . . I see you have rinish'd, at last, your cigar. Can I offer another ? Str.-^xger. Xo. thank you. We are Not two miles from Luchon. Alfred. You know the road well ? Stran(_;er. I have often been over it. XVI. Here a pause fell On their converse. Still musingly on, side bv side, In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride Down the dim mountain pathway. But each, for the rest Of their journey, although they still rode on abreast, Continued to follow in silence the train Of the different feelings that haunted his brain ; And each, as though roused from a deep reveiy, Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths. The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths, With the lamps twinkling through them — the quaint wooden roofs — The little white houses. The clatter of hoofs, .And the music of wandering bands, up the walls Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals Reach'd them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking of whips ; And here and there, faintly, through serpentine slips Of verdant rose-gardens, decp-shelter'd with screens Of airy acacias and dark evergreens. They could mark the white dresses, and catch the light songs. Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs. Led by Laughter and Love through the cold even- 'tide Down the dream-haunted vallev, or up the hillside. At length, at the door of the inn THerlS-Sox, (Prav go there, if ever you go to Luchon !) The two horsemen, well pleased to have reach'd it, alighted And exchanged their last greetings. The Frenchman invited Lord .Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined. He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined In his own rooms that night. With an unquiet eye He watch'd his companion depart; nor knew why, Bevond all accountable reason or measure. He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. " The fellow 's good-looking," he murmur'd at last, " And yet not a coxcomb." Some ghost of the past Ve.x'd him still. " If he love her," he thought, " let him win her." Then he turn'd to the future — and order'd his din- ner. xviu. O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth. Blessed hour of our dinners I The land of his birth ; The face of his first love ; the bills that he owes ; The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes ; The sermon he heard when to church he last went ; The money he borrow'd. the money he spent ; — All of these things a man, I believe, may forget, .And not be the worse for forgetting ; but yet Never, never, oh never ! earth's luckiest sinner Hath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner ! Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach. Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache Or some pain ; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease, .As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. We mav live without poetiy, music, and art ; We mav live without conscience, and live without heart ; WITH A LADY THAT LEAN'D ON HIS ARM, LIKE A QUEEN IN A FABLE OF OLD FAIRY DAYS. Painted bv Tboiius Mcllvjiiie. COPVRIGMT 1693 BY FREDERICK A STOKES COMPANY LUCILE. 21 We may live without friends ; we may live without books ; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. He may live without hooks, — what is knowledge but grievinjj ? He mav live without hope, — what is ho])e but de- ceiving ? He mav live without love. — what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining? XX. Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note From Lucile. " Your .last letter has reach 'd me," she wrote. " This evening, alas 1 I must go to the ball. And shall not be at home till too late for your call ; But to-morrow, at any rate, Stins fault-, at One You will find nie at home, and will find me alone. Meanwhile, let me th,ink you sincerely, milord. For the honor with which vou adhere to your word. Yes, I thank vou. Lord .-Mfred ! To-morrow then. "L." XXI. I find myself terribly puzzled to tell The feelings with which Alfred \'argrave flung down This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own That I think he. himself, could have hardly explain'd Those feelings exactly. " Yes. yes," as he drain'd The glass down, hemutter'd, "Jack 's right, after all. The coquette !" •' Does milord mean to go to the ball ?" Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd, " Perhaps. 1 don't know. You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go." Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs. When season'd by love, which no rancor disturbs. And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life. Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife ! But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone, A man should sit down to a dinner, each one Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil With a horrible mixture of garlic .ind oil. The chances are ten against one, 1 must own, He gets up as ill-temjier'd as when he sat down. And if any reader this fact to dispute is Disposed, I say ..." Allium eilat ctatlts Noienlius .'" Over the fruit and the wine LIndisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine. Lord .Alfred his chair by the window ha\ ^ ^ ' ;;;^^ :^ B^vT^-' ■" — l^rf^' ' '' '/ ,/ , ; '^■■ k - "> -^ 1 .Miil^tti ' Wholly ABSOKitEu in hrr thoughts." A^v^Ne- LUCILE. 33 Ever gayly he sings ! For to him, from of old. The hills have confided their secrets, and told Where the white partridge lies, and the cock o' the woods ; Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes ; Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the lynx on his prey At nightfall descends, when the mountains are gray ; Where the sassafras blooms, and the blue-bell is born. And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn ; Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread ; How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread ; Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie asleep. Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts leap ; And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales Have whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales ; He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leapd with the boys ; Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys An existence untroubled by envy or strife. While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. And so lightlv he sings, and so gayly he rides. For Bernard le Sauteur is the king of ail guides ! V. But Bernard found, that day, neither song nor love- tale, Xor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail To arouse from his deep and profound revery Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be. Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their pace, And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face. The breezy and pure inspirations of morn Breathed about them. The scarp'd ravaged moun- tains, all worn By the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly meander. Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses. And wound through a region of green wildernesses ; The waters went wirbling above and around. The forests hung heap'd in their shadows pro- found. Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon, Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux Thev mark'd ; and far down in the sunshine below. Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue. The white happy homes of the village of Oo, Where the age is yet golden. And high overhead The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. Red granite and quartz, in the alchemic sun. Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal in one ; And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells. And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells ; The large violet burn'd ; the campanula blue ; And .Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd through The red-berried brambles and thick sassafras ; And fragrant with thyme was the delicate grass. And high up, and higher, and highest of all. The secular phantom of snow ! O'er the wall Of a gray sunless glen ga])ing drowsy below-. That aerial spectre, reveal'd in the glow Of the great golden dawn. hovers faint on the eye. And appears to grow in, and grow out of, the sky. And plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight. Only reach'd by the vast rosy ripple of light. And the cool star of eve, the Im- perial Thing, Half unreal, like some mythological king That dominates all in a fable of old. Takes command of a valley as fair to behold As aught in old fables ; and, seen or unseen, Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd 'Mid the clouds bevond which spreads the infinite world Of man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod. Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. VII. Meanwhile, as they journey 'd, that serpentine road. Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly show'd A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. Alfred \'argrave"s heartbeat ; for he saw at a glance The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next look Show'd him." joyouslv ambling beside her, the Duke. The rest of the troop which had thus caught his ken He knew not. nor noticed them (women and men). They were laughing and talking together. Soon after His sudden appearance suspended their laughter. ' A GAV CAVALCADE.* 34 LUCILE. " You here ! . . . I imagined you far on your way To Bigorre !" . . . said Lucile. " What has caused you to stay ?" " I am on my way to Bigorre," he rejjhed. " But, since my way would seem to be yours, let me ride For one moment beside you." And then, with a stoop. At her ear, ..." and forgive me I" IX. By this time the troop Had regather'd its numbers. Lucile was as pale As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way to the vale. The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side. For even one moment, the whole of the ride. Alfred smiled, as he thought, " he is jealous of her !" And the thought of this jealousy added a spur To his firm resolution and effort to please. He talk'd much ; was witty, and quite at his ease. After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and in- creased. The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the ground. There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound. And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like chamois the air. And look'd at each other, and halted, and there Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in fright. All announced the appro.ach of the tempest. Erelong Thick darkness descended the mountains among; And a vivid, vindictive, and ser])entine flash Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash. The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon Broke the thunder. The horses took fright, ever)- one. The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. The guides whoop'd. The band was' obliged to alight ; And, dispersed up the perilous pathwav, walk'd blind To the darkness before from the darkness behind. XI. .And the Storm is abro.id in the mountains ! He hlls The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills With dread voices of power. .-\ roused million or more Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake. And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder de- scends From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends ; He howls as he hounds down his prey ; and his lash Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash. That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn. Like a woman in fear ; then he blows his hoarse horn. And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror, L''p the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error Of mountain and mist. XII. There is war in the skies ! Lo ! the black-wing-^d legions of tempest arise O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming below In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunder- bolt searching Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo ! the lurching And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight Of the things seen in heaven ! XIII. Through the darkness and awe That had gather'd around him. Lord .Alfred now Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the air, A woman alone on a shelf of the hill. With her cheek coldly propped on her hand. — and as still As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above The black lake beneath her. All terror, all love Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd on. For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone In its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snake That encircles a sorceress, charm 'd for her sake And luU'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd .And caressingly twined round the feet and the head ' A WOMAN ALONE ON A SHELF OK THE HILL.* 36 LL'CILE. like the passion that brings Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and cahii As the soul of that solitutle, listing the psalm Of the plangent and laboring tempest roll slow From the caldron of midnight and vapor below. Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the sound Of the liattering thunder's indefinite peal. And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile. XIV. She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, The lightning approach 'd her. In terror, her hand Alfred \"argrave had seized within his ; and he felt The light fingers that coldly and lingeringly dwelt In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. " See ! see ! Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree !" She exclaim'd, . . . on its breath To the being it embraces, destruction and death ! Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you !" " Lucile ! I hear — I see — naught but yourself. I can feel Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vain With the truth that leaps from nie. W'c two meet again 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above To avenge if I lie when 1 swear that I love, — And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, I humble my head and my heart. I entreat Your pardon, Lucile, for the past — I implore For the future your mercy — implore it with more Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the power Which invisibly touches us both in this hour. By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand" — " The rights !" . . . said Lucile, and drew from him her hand. " Yes, the rights ! for what greater to man may be- long Than the. right to repair in the future the wrong To the past? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to re- store, To retrieve, to amend I 1, who injured vour life, Urg'e the right to repair it, Lucile I Be.mv wife. My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth. And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth To my life, its contrition !" XV. He paused, for there came O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead. With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, " And your pledge to another.''" XVI. " Hush, hush !" he exclaim'd. " .My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. 'T were poor honor indeed, to another to give That life of which j-tm keep the heart. Could I live In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie ? Alas, no ! _vi>i/r hand holds my whole destinv. I can never recall what my lips have avow'd ; In your love lies whatever can render me proud. For the great crime of all my e.xistence hath been To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen. And most hallow'd — the duty most sacred and sweet Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. speak ! and restore me the blessing I lost When I lost you — my pearl of all pearls bevond cost ! And restore to your own life its youth, and restore The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore ! Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the world. When our souls their white wings yet exulting un- furi'd ! For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man, The wild star of whose course its pale orbit out- ran. Whom the formless indefinite future of \outh. With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth 1 have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream Which, though follow'd forever, forever doth seem .As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore Of life's untraversed ocean ! 1 know the sole path To repose, which my desolate destiny hath. Is the path by whose course to your feet 1 return. -•\nd who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern ."Xnd so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, The sublimity in you, as he whom at length These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal To his worship .'" XVII. She spoke not ; but Alfred could feel The light hand and arm. that upon him reposed. Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed ; But, under their languid mvsterious fringe, A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosom Heaved, as when in the heart of a rufHed rose- blossom .A. bee is imprisoned and struggles. LUCILE. 37 XVIII. Meanwhile, The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, Ijehokl ! O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, " Sent up the last smile of his power, to baffle thf. storm." Rose and rested : while far up the dim air\' crags. Its artiller)' silenced, its banners in rags. The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar. Had already sent forward one bright, signal star. The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair. From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear. Had escaped ; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with kisses The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses. Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet Had ceased falling around them ; when, splash'd, drench'd, and wet, The Due de Luvois down the rough mountain course Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had thrown ; But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone. And the horse, being breil to the instinct which fills The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills. Had scrambled again to his feet ; and now master And horse bore about them the signs of disaster. As they heavily footed their way through the mist. The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his wrist. Bruised and bleeding. XIX. If ever your feet, like my own, O reader, have traversed these mountains alone. Have you felt your identity shrink and contract At the sound of the distant and dim cataract. In the presence of nature's immensities ? Say, Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray, And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd, Like a huge couchant Tvphon, fold heap'd over fold, Track'd the summits, from which every step that you tread Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bed Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound ? And, laboring onwards, at last through a break In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake ? If you have, this description 1 might have withheld. You remember how strangely your bosom has swell 'd At the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soil Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil ; And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, To have conquer'd a claim to that wonderful sight. XX. Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo I Hail Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow ; For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their wings. And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy springs. What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse ? When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair France, Did the Spirit of 111. in his downthrow a]5palling. Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while falling ? Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster unnamed The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed ? And later, when Power to Beauty was wed, Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed With the fragile valerian and wild columbine ? XXI. But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine; For once gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul. All that secret ! I saw in a vision the whole Vast design of the ages ; what was and shall be I Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mysteiy For one moment. I saw, and I heard ; and my heart Bore witness within me to infinite art, In infinite power proving infinite love ; Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread pageant move — The divine Whence and Whither of life ! But, O daughter Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water is thy secret than mine in my heart. Even so. What I then saw and heard,' the world never shall know. XXII. The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed. The rain had ceased falling, the mountains reposed. 3S LUCILE. " The mystical moon.' The stars had enkindled in luminous courses Their slow-sliding lamps, when, re- mounting their horses. The riders retraversed that mighty serration Of rock-work. Thus left to its own desola- tion, The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last Transient pomp of the pageants of sunset had pass'd. Drew into.its bosom the darkness, and only Admitted within it one image — a lonely And tremulous phan- tom of flickering light That follow'd the mys- tical moon through the night. It was late when o'er Luchon at last they descended. To her chalet, in silence. Lord Alfred attended Lucile. As they parted she whisper'd him low, " You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know All the worth of. believe me. I cannot reply Without time for reflection. Good-night 1 — not good-by." " Alas ! 't is the very- same answer you made To the Due de Luvois but a day since," he said. •' No, Alfred ! the very same, no," she replied. Her voice shook. " If you love me, obey me. Abide My answer, to-morrow." XXIV. Alas. Cousin Jack ! You Cassandra in breeches and boots I turn your back To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory Amongst thine own people. I follow mv stoiT. CANTO V. I. Up ! — forth again, Pegasus ! — " Many 's the slip," Hath the ])roverb well said, " 'twixt the cup and the lip !" How blest should we be, have I often conceived. Had we really achie\ed what we nearly achieved ! We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be. And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. So it will be, so has been, since this world began ! And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man Is the part which he never hath fully plav'd out : For the first and last word in life's volume is — Doubt. The face the most fair to our vision allow'd Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our existence is one Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. Horace I the rustic still rests by the river. But the river flows on, and flows past him forever ! Who can sit down, and say ..." What I will be, I will" ? Who stand up, and affirm ..." What I was. I am still" .= Who is it that must not, if cjuestiou'd, say . . . " What 1 would have remain'd, or become, I am not" ." We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone. Do the Danaids plv, ever vainly, the sieve. Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. Yet there 's none so unhappy, but what he hath been Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween ; And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, But what once, in his life, some minute circum- stance Would have fullv sufficed to secure him the bliss Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have ; But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate. The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. Yet ! there 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip ; But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip. Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wine Spilt, one deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be thine, O being of beauty and bliss ! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone ! My days know thee not ; and my lips name thee never. Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. We have met : we have parted. No more is re- corded In mv annals on earth. This alone was afforded To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, LUCILE. 39 (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells. Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim ped- estals ; At whose feet sit the syll^hs and sea fairies ; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom ) — "The sylphs and sea fairies Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen Of that better world which thou swayest unseen ! My one perfect mistress ! my all things in all ! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call : For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair. And its thoughts are the purest — belov'd, thou art there ! And whatever is noblest in aught that I do. Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. The world gave thee not to me, no ! and the world Cannot take thee away from me now. I have furl'd The wings of my spirit about thy bright head ; At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art more. And in silence I W'orship, in darkness adore. If life be not that which without us we find — Chance, accident, merelv — but rather the mind. And the soul which, within us, suniveth these things. If our real e.\istence have truly its springs Less in that which we do than in that which we feel. Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel ! For then, though I name thee not mistress or wife. Thou art mine— and mine onlv,— O life of my life! And though many 's the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip. Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip. While there 's life on the lip, while there 's warmth in the wine. One deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be thine ! 11. This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose Unconvulsed bv alarm, once confused in the throes Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, And in fierv fusion commix'd earth and sky. Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to go The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. The wind changeth and w^hirleth continually : All the rivers run down and run into the sea : The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd : .All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fiU'd : The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth anon. ,\11 returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. The great laws of life readjust their infraction, And to every emotion appoint a reaction. III. Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, To review the rash step he had taken, and feel What the world would have call'd " his erroneous position." Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recogni- tion : Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt, Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. Ev'n- spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. IV. He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel Little doubt what the answer would be from Lucile. Her eyes, when they parted— her voice, when they met. Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. And vet. Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, where he loved. Through his mind a vague self-accusation there moved. 40 LUCILE. O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he find A thousand just reasons for what he had done : The vision that troubled him would not he gone. In vain did he say to himself, and with truth. " Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth ; And her heart is too young to ha\e deeply involved All its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved. 'T were a false sense of honor in me to suppress The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. And what reason have I to presume this poor life Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, And without what alone might endear it to her. Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer. Its withdrawal can wrong her ? It is not as though I were bound to some poor village maiden, 1 know. Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth. Or to whose simple fortunes my own could give worth. Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss Aught that I could procure her. 'T is best as it is !" *' Like the dead leaf in av- tumn, that, falling, leaves NAKED AND BARE A DESOLATE J-.-fty \, :-- ^£f TREE." ''''\^ra| " ^^ The world will console her — her pride .^ ' > i!" will support — ' \V- Her vouth will renew its emotions. In X ' short, ft There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss When once we have parted. 'T is best as it is ! In vain did he say to himself, " When I came To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame Or reproach myself for. in the thoughts of mv heart. I could not foresee that its pulses would start Into such strange emotion on seeing once more A woman I left with indifference before. *' And in FIERY FUSION commix'd earth and sky." I belfeved, and with honest conviction believed, In my love for Matilda. I never conceived That another could shake it. I deeni'd I had done With the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully on To the soberer manhood, the worthier life. Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my wife. Poor child ! she shall learn the whole truth,' She shall know What I knew not mvself but a few davs ago. VI. But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas ! He yet felt unconvinced that '/ terns best as it was. Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise That infantine face of Matilda, with eves So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kinci, That they harrow'd his heart and distracted his mind. VII. And then, when he turned from these thoughts to Lucile. Though his heart rose enraptured, he could not but feel A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind. Which he saw and revered in her, something un- known And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised. In himself ; but he did not feel sure that he knew. Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from view, Remain'd lofty and lonelv in /u-r. Then, her life. So untamed, and so free ! would she yield as a wife. Independence, long claimed as a woman ? Her name. So link'd by the world with that spurious fame Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert. In some measure, alas 1 to her own loss and hurt In the serious thoughts of a man ! . . . This re- flection O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection, LUCILE. 41 From which he forever escaped to the thought Doubt could reach not. ..." I love her. and all else is naught I" VI 11. His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal Of the letter which reach'd him at last from Lucile. At the sight of the very first word that he read. That letter dropp'd down from his hand like the dead Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and hare A desolate tree in a wide wintr)' air. He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, Bewilder'd. incredulous. Angry surprise And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. Anon He pick'd up the page, and read rapidly on. IX. The Comtesse de Nevers to Lord Alfred Vargr.we. "No, Alfred! If over the present, when last AVe two met. rose the glamour and mist of the past. It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are plain. And those two paths divide us. " That hand which again Mine one moment has clasp"d as the hand of a brother. That hand and your honor are pledged to another! Forgive, Alfred Vargrave. forgive me. if yet For that moment (now past!) I have made you forget What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance ! Not less. In now owning this fault, -A.lfred. let me own, too. I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. "True, That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, 1 alone ! But oh, deem not it was with the thought Or your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. No I believe me, it was with the firm and un- shaken Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be Without peril loytiu, although haply to me The salvation of all iiiy existence. " I own. When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly made known To the world your engagement, my heart and my mind Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find That so much of the life of my life, half unknown To myself, had been silently settled on one Upon whom but to think it would soon be a crime. Then I said to myself, • From the thraldom which time Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of escape. That image which Fancy seems ever to shape From the solitude left round the ruins of yore. Is a phantom. The lieing 1 loved is no more. What 1 hear in the silence, and see in the lone \'ou\ of life, is the voung hero born of my own Perish'd youth : and his image, serene and sublime. In my heart rests unconscious of change and of time. Could I see it but once more, as time and as ch;nige Have made it, a thing unf.imiliar and strange. See, indeed, that the Being 1 loved in my youth Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth. The hard pupil of life and the world : then, oh, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be again Reconciled to the world ; and. released from regret. Take the lot fate accords to my choice. ' " So we met. But the danger 1 did not foresee has occurr'd : The danger, alas, to yourself ! 1 ha\e err'd. But happy for both that this error hath been Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen ! We meet. Alfred X'argrave, no more. I, indeed, .Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read. My course is decided ; my path I discern : Doubt is over; ni\' future is fix'd now. " Return. return to the young living love ! Whence, alas ! If, one moment, you wander'd. think only it was More deeply to bury the past love. '• And. oh ! Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I. where I go On my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoice To treasure in memor\' all that your voice Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed To mv fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed ! In the fair morning light, in the orient dew Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth. The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth ? Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 1 foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this Proves me worthy your friendship. .And so — let it prove That I cannot — 1 do not — respond to your love. Yes, indeed ! be convinced that I could not (no, no. Never, never!) have render'd you happy. And so. Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have plighted. You would have endured, when the first brief, excited Emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse Of honor, but also (to render it worse) Disappointed affection. " Yes. Alfred ; you start ? lUit think ! if the world was too much in vmir heart. ' Read ovek again that perplexing epistle." LUCILE. 43 And too little in mine, when we parted ten years Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears !) Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which then Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again, As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. In that self-independence which is to my life Its necessity now, as it once was its pride. Had our course through the world been henceforth side by side, I should have revolted forever, and shock'd Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those Social creeds which you live by. " Oh ! do not suppose That I blame you. Perhaps it is )ou that are right. Best, then, all as it is ! " Deem these words life's Good-night To the hope of a moment : no more ! if there fell Any tear on this page, 't was a friend's. " So farewell To the past — and to you, .\lfred Vargrave. "LUCILE." X. So ended that letter. The room seem'd to reel Round and round in the mist that was scorching his eyes With a fien* dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, Half choked him ; each word he had read, as it smote Down some hope, rose and grasp'd like a hand at his throat. To stifle and strangle him. Gasping already For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady. He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both oppress'd And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast. And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'd The long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at last Reach'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a wood : It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown. Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat down On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle, And read over again that perplexing epistle. XI. In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mind The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind To the ])athos breath'd through it. Tears rose in his eyes. And a hope sweet and strange in his he.irt seem'd to rise. The truth which he saw not the first time he read That letter, he now saw — that each word betray'd The love which the writer had sought to conceal. His love was received not, he could not but feel. For one reason alone, — that his love was not free. True ! free yet he was not : but could he not be Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell. And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to tell The truth to Matilda, and she were the first To release him : he had but to wait at the worst. Matilda's relations would probably snatch Anv pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match In which they had yielded, alone at the whim Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him. She herself, careless child ! was her love for him aught Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought She last gave to her doll ? was she able to feel Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile ? He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh ! then. He had but to tly to Lucile, and again Claim the love which his heart would be free to command. But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand. Or even to seek, or to see her, before He could say, " I am free ! free, Lucile, to im- plore That great blessing on life you alone can con- fer," 'T were dishonor in him, 't would be insult to her. Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee He foUow'd so fondly his own revery. That he felt not the angry regard of a man Fix'd upon him ; he saw not a face stern and wan Turn'd towards him ; he heard not a footstep that pass'd And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at last A hoarse voice aroused him. He look'd up and saw. On the bare heath before him, the Due de Luvois. XII. With aggressive ironical tones, and a look Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion To ■■ the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do- better. He fancied, however, to fold up a letter The writing of which was too well known, in fact. His remark as he pass'd to have failed to attract." XIII. It was obvious to Alfretl the Frenchman was bent L'pon i)icking a quarrel! and doubtless 't was meant 44 LUCILE. From him to provoke it by sneers such as these. A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize The position. He felt that he could not expose His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the ban Of the world, if he now were to fight with this man. And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard face. He was pain'd with the change there he could not but trace. And he almost felt pity. He therefore put by Each remark from the Duke with some careless reply. And coldly, but courteously, waving away The ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display. Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside. XIV. Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one stride In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his eyes. And said . . . " Hold, Lord Alfred ! Away with disguise ! I will own that I sought you a moment ago. To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so Upon my excuse. I prefer to be frank. I admit not a rival in fortune or rank To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the right To believe, that she would have been mine. To her sight You return, and the woman is suddenly changed. You step in between us : her heart is estranged. You ! who now are betrothed to another, I know : You ! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years ago Was coupled by ties which you broke ; you ! the man I reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began : You ! that left her so lightly, — 1 cannot believe That vou love, as I love, her ; nor can I conceive You, indeed, have the right so to love her. Milord, I will not thus tamelv concede, at your word. What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine ! I shall yet persevere : I shall yet be, in fine, A rival you dare not despise. It is plain That to settle this contest there can but remain One way — need I say what it is ?" XV. Not unmoved With regretful respect for the earnestness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied In words which he trusted might vet turn aside " Bent upon picking a QUARREL." The quarrel from which he felt bound to ab- stain. And, with stately urban- ity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst !) Had not been accepted. XVI. " Accepted ! say first Are vou free to have of- fer'd?" Lord Alfred was mute. " Ah, you dare not re- ply !" cried the Duke, " Why dispute. Why palter with You are silent ! why ? Because, in your me ? and science, you cannot deny 'T was from vanity, wan- ton and cruel withal. And the wish an ascend- ency lost to recall, That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, You be really sincere, I ask only one word. Sav at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, I will ask vour forgiveness with all truth of heart, And there cait be no quarrel between us. Say on !" Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. " You have not the right, sir," he said, " and still less The power, to make terms and conditions with me. I refuse to reply." As diviners may see Fates thev cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imminent. "THE GAY COUNTESS, ONCE MORE TO HER OLD FRIEND, THE WORLD HAD RE-OPEND HER DOOR." Pjiiitcd l\r Tl/onus Mii/vj/iw. (Page 68.) / <\- ^f I / A ( ' / •I |l- // \ I COPYRIGHT I iJi*l BY FREOCHICM A.&TOKtS COMPANY LUCILE. 45 There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race. With, for witness, the stern Autumn Skv overhead. And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead. Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge Of that perilous, narrow, invisil)le bridge DivicMng the l^ast from the Future, so small That, if one should pass over, the other must fall. THI'. Cd.MTKSSE UE NEVKKS id IHE Uuc DE Luvois. "Saint Saviour. " Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stav Till I see you again. Witli no moment's delay I entreat, 1 conjure you, by all that you feel Or profess, to come to me directly. " LuciLE." On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof. Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roof Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged On the heath where they stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman. A guide he appear'd, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash With the short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind The short jacket ; the loose canvas trouser, confined By the long boots ; the woollen capote ; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leap'd the ri\ulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank. And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. x:i. The two stood astonish 'd. The I^uke, with a gest Of apology, turn'd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore The page open, and xead. Ere a moment was o'er His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes. And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel. And said gayly, " .\ pressing request from Lucile I You are quite right. Lord .Vlfred ! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place inay perchance be reversed. You are not accepted — nor free to propose '. I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows .^ I had warn'd you. milord, I should still persevere. This letter — but stay ! you can read it — look here !" X.\l. It was now .Mfred's turji to feel roused anil en- raged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could s.inction resentment. He said Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter. ,nid read . . . " Your letter I" He then liad been writing to her! Coldly shrugging his shouldi-rs. Lord .Alfred said. •' -Sir, Do not let me detain you !" The Duke smiled and bow'd ; Placed the note in his bosom ; address'd, half aloud, A few u-ords to the messenger. ..." Say your despatch \\ill be answer'd ere nightfall ;" then glanced a'.. his watch. And turn'd back to the Baths. X.XIII. Alfred \'argrave stood still. Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him. And read over her words ; rising tears made them dim ; " Doiibl is cn'cr ; myfiitii>i:isfi.x'dno7i\" they said, '•My course is decided." Her course? what! to wed With this insolent rival ! With that thought there shot Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. But not Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuse Those strange words to the Duke. She was free to refuse Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true : Even then, though, this eager ajid strange rendez- vous How- imprudent ! To some unfrequented lone inn, .And so late (for the night was about to begin) — She, companionless there I — had she bidden that man .' A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran Through his heart. XXIV. At that moment he look'd up, and saw, Riding fast through the forest, 'the I3uc de Luvois, Who waved his hand to him, and s|)ed out of sight. The day was descending. He felt 't would be night Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. XXV. He walk'd on. but not Hack towaril Luchon : he walk'd on. but knew not in what "Waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight.' I.UCILE. 47 Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed. He was walking ; but still he walk'd on without heed. The day had been sullen ; but, towards his decline, The sun sent a stream of wild lijrht up the pine. Darkly denting- the red light reveal'd at its back. The old ruin'd abbey rose rootless and black. The spring that yet oozed through the nioss-paven floor Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore. The sight of that refuge where, back to its God How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest That now prey'd on his own ! .XXVII. By the thoughts in his breast With varying impulse divided and torn. He traversed the scant heath, and re.ach'd the forlorn .•\utumn woodland, in which but a short while ago He had seen the Duke rapidly enter ; and so He too enter'd. The light waned around him, ami pass'd Into darkness. The wnithful, red Occident cast One glare of vindictive inquiry behind. As the last light of day from the high wood declined. And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam. And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream Fell faintly. .KXVIII. O Nature, how fair is thv face. And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy grace ! Thou false mistress of m.m ! thou dost sport with him lightly In his hours of ease and enjoyment ; and brightly Dost thou smile to his smile ; to his joys thou in- clinest. Hut his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor di- vinest. While he wooes, thou art wanton ; thou Icttest him love thee ; But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot mo\-e thee ; And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost thou ? All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow I And thou laughest and toyest with any new-comer. Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer ! Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart under That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder ! For all those — the young, and the fair, and the strong. Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and Ion'', .\nd who now on thy bosom lie dead .' and their deeds .\nd their days are forgotten ! O hast thou no weeds .\nd not one year of mourning, — one out of the many That deck thy new bridals forever, — nor any Regrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new, O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to '. If the sea and the night wind knew aught of these things. They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. CANTO VI. I. "The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase. And ellrich, and eerie, and strange is the place! The castle betokens a date long gone by. He crosses the courtyard with curious eye : He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set ; And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and less Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress. Strange portraits regard him with looks of suri)rise, Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes ; Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall : The spell of a wizard is over it all. In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleep- ing The sleep which for centuries she has been keeping. If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now cover ; If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore Some grief which the world cares to hear of no more. Hut how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her cheek ! And how sweet must that voice be, if once she would speak ! He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he I) The clew to unravel this old myster)' ? .\nd he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall. The mute men in armor around him, and all The weird figures frown, as though striving to say, ■ //ti// ! i>n>aiie not //u- Pas/, reckless child of To- day ! .Ind gi-'c not, O madman .' the heart in thy breast To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess' d Py an Age not thine mun ! ' " But unconscious is he, .\w\ he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see Aught but one form before him I 48 LUCILE. " Rash, wild words are o'er ; And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore ! And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream. Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart." And this is an old fain'-tale of the heart. It is told in all lands, in a different tongue ; Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young. And the tale to each heart unto which it is known Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. II. Eugene de Luvois was a man who. in p.irt From strong physical health, and that vigor of heart Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance. From a generous vanity native to France, With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quariT, Pursued it. too hotly impatient to tarry Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles : But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles. No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. Both Eugfene ^ de L u V o i s and Lor d Alfred had been Men of pleas- u r e : but men's pleas- a n t vices, which, seen Floating faint, in the sun- shine of Al- fred's soft mood, Seem'd amia- ble foibles, by L u \' o i s pursued With impetu- ous passion, seemed se- mi-Satanic. Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles ; in " The castle betokens , GONE BY," DATE LONG panic You watch them whirl'd down bv the torrent. In truth. To the sacred political creed of his youth The century which he was born to denied All realization. Its generous pride To degenerate protest on all things was sunk ; Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk. "The nUARRELLlM CROWS CLANG'D ABU\t' HIM." Down the path of a life that led no- where he trod, Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god, And his pastime his purpose. From boyhood possess'd Of inherited wealth, he had learn'd to invest Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cage Which penury locks, in each vice of an age AH the virtues of which, by the creed he revered. Were to him illegitimate. Thus, he appear'd To the world what the world chose to have him a])pear. — The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages ! Still 'T was this vigor of nature, and tension of will. That found for the first time — perhaps for the last — In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past, Force, and faith, in the Future. And so, in his mind. To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd The terror of missing his life's destination, Which in her had its mystical representation. III. And truly, the thought of it. scaring him, pass'd O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast. As a shade from the wing of some great bird ob- scene In a wide silent land maybe suddenly seen. Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller strav'd in the waste unawares. So that thought more than once darken 'd over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. Fast and furious herode through the thickets which rose Up the shaggy hillside : and the quarrelling crows Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there LUCILE. 49 A SMALL MOUNTAIN INN." Shepherd fires faint 1 y gleam'd from the V alleys. Oh. how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now H e urged the steed over the dizzy ascent Of the moun- tain ! Behind him a murmur was sent From the tor- re n t — before him a sound from the tracts Of the wood- lands that waved o'er the wild cataracts. And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black woods. And the Powers of the night through the vast soli- tudes Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas In Elfland. The road through the forest was hol- low'd. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were foUow'd Fast, fast by the Erl King ! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, Broke the broad moon above the voluminous Rock-chaos — the Hecate of that Tartarus ! With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar Craggy promontory', o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight. Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reach'd it. " My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creaking pine rafter He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunn'd him, his head seem'd to reel, For a door closed — Luvois was alone with Lucile. IV. In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the wincr From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire From a brass lamp before her — a faint hectic fire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever : They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, Those dark eyes — so dark and so deep ! " You relent ? And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent .'" There his voice sank, borne down by a strong in- ward strife. Lucile. Your letter ! yes, Duke. For it threatens man's life- Woman's honor. Luvois. The last, madam, not ! Lucile. Both. I glance At your own words : blush, son of the knighthood of France, As I read them ! You .say in this letter . . . " / ktimo Why nmu you refuse me : '/ /'s {is it not so ?) For the man lulio has trifled before, -wantonly. And noia trifles again witli the heart you deny To mvself. But he shall not ' By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right. Due de Luvois !) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shall not live To make you as wretched as you have made me I" Luvois. Well, madam, in those words what word do you see That threatens the honor of woman ? Lucile. -See ! . . . what. What word, do you ask.' Every word! would you not. Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soil'd and dishonor'tl by more than mere shame If the woman that bore it had first been the cause Of the crime which in these words is menaced ? You pause ! Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dis- honor In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, so LUCILE. Can shudder, and say, •' In that smile is a grave" ? No ! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have In the contest you menace. That contest but draws Every right into ruin. By all human laws Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities Of man's social honor ! The Duke droop'd his eyes. '• I obey you," he said, " but let woman beware How she' plays fast and loose thus with human de- spair, And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, When you saw th.it 1 Imped, to extinguish hope quite. But you should from the first have done this, for I feel That you knew from the first that 1 loved you." Lucile This sutiden reproach seeni'd to startle. She raised A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed On them silent awhile. His own looks were down- cast. Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd, Pity crept, and perchance o'erher conscience a tear, Falling softly, awoke it. However severe. Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her ? Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character. Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd. Too self-conscious to lose all in love ? Had she deem'd That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world. So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride .' Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life? There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river Which through continents pushes its pathway for- ever To fling its fond heart in the sea ; if it lose This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use. It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. The other, the strength of the sea ; which supplies Its deep life from mysteriiilis sources, and draws The river's life into its own life, by laws Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this : The river is lost, if the ocean it miss ; If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore ; Its sources are infinite ; still to the shore, *' The other, the strength of the sea." With no diminution of pride, it will say, " I am here ; I, the sea , stand aside, and make way !" Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she. Had she taken that love for the love of the sea ? .\t that thought, from her aspect whatever had been Stern or haughtv departed ; and, humbled in mien. She approached'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as though To herself more than him, " Was 1 wrong ? is it so ? Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem I may claim on o».i' ground — I at least am sincere. Vou' say that to me from the first it was clear That you loved me. But what if this knowledge were known .•\t a moment in life when I felt most alone, .•\nd least able to be so ? a moment, in fact, When I strove from one haunting regret to retract And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes ? would you still So bitterlv blame me. Eug&ne de Luvois, If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw For a moment the promise of this, in the plighted Affection of one who, in nature, united So much that from others affection might claim. If only affection were free? Do you blame The hope of that moment ? I deem'd my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will. To uplift' it once more to my hope. Do you still Blame me. Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain From hope ? alas ! I too then hoped I" LuvoiS. Oh, again. Yet again, say that thrice blessed word I say, Lucile. That vou then deign'd to hope — ' Shk SHRANK HACK. 52 LUCILE. LUCILE. Yes ! to hope I could feel, And could give to you, that without which, all else given Were Ijut to deceive, and to injure you even : — A heart free from thoughts of another. Say. then, Do you blame that one hope .' LUVOIS. O Lucile ! " Say again," She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, "Do you blame me that, w'hen I at last had to own To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er. And forever, I said to you then, ' Hope no more .' I myself hoped no more!" With but ill-suppress'd wrath The Duke answer'd ..." What, then ! he recrosses your path. This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own which he wrong'd, years ago !" Lucile faintly, brokenlv murmur'd ..." No ! no ! 'T is not that — but alas ! — but 1 cannot conceal That 1 have not forgotten the past — but I feel That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part, — In return for what . . . ah, Duke, what is it ? . . . a heart Which is only a ruin !" With words warm and wild, " Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried ; " though ruin'd it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me !" He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answer'd, " No !" An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise And to break into flame, as though fired bv the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, " Am I right ? You reject //w / accept him!" " I have not done so." She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed. " Not yet — no ! But can you with accents as firm promise me That you will not accept him ?" " Accept .' Is he free ? Free to offer.'" she said. " You evade me, Lucile," He replied ; " ah, you will not avow what you feel ! He might make himself free ? Oh, you blush — turn away ! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say ! While you deign to reply to one question from me I may hope not, you tell me : but tell me, may he ? What! silent.' I alter my question. If quite Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then .'" " He might," She said softly. Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, As he heard them, in one maddening moment re- least All that 's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush And extinguish in man all th.at 's good. In the rush Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste And darken and devastate intellect, chased From its realm human reason. The wild animal In the bosom of man was set free. And of all Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rush'd upon him ; fierce jealousy, swell'd By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd To invohe all things else in the anguish within it, And on others inflict its own pangs ! At that miimte What pass'd through his mind, who shall say.' who may tell The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell Can illumine alone .' He stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely ! That silence ! no sound Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near ! It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather ; Deep midnight in him ! They two, — lone and to- gether. Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. The abvss of his own black despair seem'd to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, And, uttering words he dared never recall. Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all The brew'd storm-cloud within him : its fi.ishes scorch'd blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of a reckless emotion beyond his control ; A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd And seeth'd in his heart. He had thrown, and had miss'd His last stake. VII.. For, transfigured, she rose from the place Where he rested o'erawed : a saint's scorn on her face ; Such a dread %'aclc rclro was written in light I.UCILE. 53 On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, Have sunk back abash d to perdition. I know If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had look'd so, She had needed no dagger next morning. She rose And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone. And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. There she paused ; and, as though from immeasur- able, Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd — " Farewell ! We, alas ! have mistaken each other. Once more Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Due de Luvois, adieu !" From the heart-breaking gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room. He felt she was gone — gone forever I No word, The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, Could have pierced to his heart with such keen ac- cusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation. In which he remain'd. " O return ; I repent !" He exclaim'd ; but no sound through the stillness was sent. Save the roar of the water, in answer to him. And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night hymn : An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer. " Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar Of the waters replied, " Nevermore ! nevermore !" He walk'd to the window. The spray on his brow Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below ; The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound Of the torrent. The mountains gloom 'd sullenly round. A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung. Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink Of the stars on the. veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of water ; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting Sharp horn of the gravgnat. Before he relinquish'd His unconscious employment, that light was e.\- tinguish'd. Wheels, at last, from the inn door aroused him. He r.m Down the stairs ; reached the door — just to see her depart. Down the mountain the carriage was speeding. Down the mcuntain the car- riage WAS SPEEDING." His heart Pealed the knell of its last hope. Herush'd on ; but whither He knew not — on, into the dark cloudy weather — The midnight — the mountains — on, over the shelf Of the precipice — on, still — away from himself ! Till, e.xhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss At the mouth of the forest. A glimmer- ing cross Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sank Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank Weeds and grasses ; his face hid amongst them. He knew That the night had divided his whole life in two. Behind him a Past that was over forever : Before him a Future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one. Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done ? Whither now should he turn ? Turn again, as be- fore. To his old easy, careless existence of yore He could not. He felt that for better or worse A change had pass'd o'er him ; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread. What clew there to cling by ? He clung by a name To a dynasty fallen forever. He came Of an old princely house, true through change to the race And the sword of Saint Louis — a faiih 't were dis- grace To relinquish, and folly to live for ! Nor less Was his ancient religion (once ])otent to bless Or to ban ; and the cro/.ier his ancestors kneel'd To adore, when thev fought for the Cross, in hard field With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, tradition ; A mere faded badge of a social position ; 54 LUCILE. A thing to retain and say notliing about. Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt. Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of his )()uth Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his nianliood. in 'truth ! And beyond them, what region of refuge ? what field For employment, this civilized age, did it yield. In th.at civili/ed land ? or to thought ? or to action ? Blind deliriums, bewikler'd and endless distraction ! " A GLIMMERING CKuSS OF GKAV bluNE." Not even a desert, not even the cell Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell The wild tlevil-instincts which now, unreprest. Ran riot through that ruin'il world in his breast. XI. So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight Of a heaven scaled and lost ; in the wide arms of night O'er the howling abysses of nothingness ! There As he lay. Nature's deep voice was teaching him prayer ; But what had he to pray to ? The winds in the woods. The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes. Were in commune all round with the invisible Power That walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour. But their language he had not yet learn'd — in de- spite Of the much he had learn'd — or forgotten it quite. With its once native accents. Alas ! what had he To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony Of thanksgiving .' . , . A fier\' finger was still Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. His will, Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild At its work of destruction within him. The child Of an inlidel age, he had been his own god. His own devil. He sat on the damp mountain sod. And stared sullenly up at the dark sky. The clouds Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds Of misshapen, incongruous potents. A green Streak of dreary', cold, luminous ether, between The base of their black barricades, and the ridge Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some bridge. Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrowit By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands Dismantled and rent ; and reveal'd, through a loop In the breach'd dark, theblemish'd and half-broken hoop Of the moon, which soon silently sank ; and anon The whole supernatural pageant was gone. The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, Darken 'd round him. One object alone — that gray cross — Glimmer'd faint on the tiark. Oazing up, he de- scried Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd wide. As though to embrace him. He turn'd from the sight. Set his face to the d,arkness, and tied. XII. When the light Of the dawn gr.iyly flicker'cl and glared on the spent Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sent To the need of some grief when its need is the sorest. He was sullenly riding across the dark forest Toward Luchon. Thus riding, with eyes of defiance Set against the voung day, as disclaiming alliance With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived Faintly, suddenly, fieetingly, through the dam]i- leaxed Autumn branches th.it put forth gaunt arms on his way. The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray \\'ith the gray glare of morning. Eugene de Luvois, With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw That phantom-like face, could at once recognize. By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim. With a stern sad inquir)- fix'd keenly on him. "MATILDA IS FAIR, MATILDA IS YOUNG-SEE HER NOW, SITTING THERE." Pjiiitcd by Tbonijs Mclh\iiiic. (Page 7S.) r-'^-^^sii^ ^t f.!^**,' ■^r^ ^'^ Xv COPYRIGHT ia©3 QY FREDERrCK A STOMtS COMPANY LUCILE. 3:) And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own ; A lie born of that lying darkness now grown Over all in his nature ! He answer'd that gaze With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys More intensely than words what a man means, con- vey 'd Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which said, " / kaiif triuiiipli 'd. The quest ijii vour eves 7uoitld iiiiply Comes loo jate, Alfred Wirgrave .'" .\nd so he rode bv. And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight. Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite. XIII, And it bit, and it rankled. XIV. Lord .Alfred, scarce knowing. Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going. By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one — The torture of doubt — had stray'd moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that evening in which With tlie Duke he had parted ; stray'd on, through rich Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night. Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight. Toward Saint Saviour ; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery round him avail to recall To his senses their normal perceptions, until. As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world. Then he lifted nis eyes, and saw round him un- furl'd, In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees. And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same track The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back To Luchon ; not yet then the Duke had return'd \ He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern 'd Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. He knew that the night was approaching to day. He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The mom "The long rockv line of the wild pvrenees." Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn, Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. 'T was then that the two men exchanged look for look. XV. And the Duke's rankled in him. XVI. He rush'd on. He tore His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, .And inquired for tlie Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes. The Countess was gone. .And the Duke ? The man stared •A sleepy inquirw With accents that scared The man's dull sense awake, " He, the stranger," he cried, '■ Who had been there that night !" The man grinn'd and replied With a vacant intelligence, " He, oh av, ay ! He went after the lady." Xo further replv Could he give. .Alfred Vargrave demanded no more. Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door. " What ! the Duke then the night in that lone inn had pass'd ? In that lone inn— with her !" Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which re- main 'd On his mind with its terrible smile, thus exjiiaiu'd.' The day was half turn'd to the evening, before He re-enter'd Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. In the midst of a light crowd of b.ibblers, his look. By their voices attracted, dibtinguished the Duke, Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright. 56 LUCILE. With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. Right Through the throng Alfred \'argrave, with swift soinbre stride. Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside, And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, " O, how right have you been ! There can never be — no, Never — any more contest between us ! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends !" Having utter'd that word, He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train Of his young imitators. Lord Alfred stood still. Rooted, stunn'd to the spot. He felt weary and ill. Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul With a dull, stilling anguish he could not control. Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd. The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud Some comment upon his gay humor that day ? He never was gayer : what makes him so ga\ ? 'T is, no doubt, say the tlatterers, flattering in tune. Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn Has at last found a Mars — who, of course, shall be naineless. The vestal that yields to Mars only is blameless ! Hark ! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs All his heart into tumult .' . . . Lucile de Nevers With the Duke's coupled g.ivlv, in some laughing, light. Free allusion ? Not so as might give him the right To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet To a trite and irreverent compliment set. Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there roll Back again, back again, on its smooth downward . course O'er his nature, w-ith gather'd momentum and force. The world. XIX. " No !" he mutter'd, " she cannot have sinn'd ! True ! women there are (self-named women of mind !) Who love rather liberty — liberty, yes ! To choose and to leave — than the legalized stress Of the lovingest marriage. But she — is she so .' I will not believe it. Lucile .' Oh no, no ! Not Lucile ! " But the world ? and, ah, what would it say } O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day ! The gossip's light question ! the slanderous jest ! She is right ! no, we could not be happy. 'T is best As it is. I will write to her — write, O my heart ! And accept her farewell. Our farewell ! must we part — Part thus, then — forever, Lucile } Is it so .' Yes ! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know. 'T was a dream ! we must waken !" XX. With head bow'd, as though By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. Drawn apart From the gate, in the court-yard, and ready to start. Postboys mounted, portmanteaus pack'd up and made fast, A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. He order'd his horse to be ready anon : Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on. And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room. It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloom Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light. On the mantel-piece ; there a large card caught his sight— A large card, a stout card, well printed and plain, Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. It gave a respectable look to the slab That it lay on. The name was — Sir Ridley MacNais. Full familiar to him was the name that he saw. For 't was that of his own future uncle-in-law, Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known As wearing the longest philacteried gown Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of ; A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of This world and the next ; having largely invested Not onlv where treasure is never molested Bv thieves, moth, or rust ; but on this earthly ball Where interest was high, and security small. Of mankind there was never a theory yet Not by some individual instance upset : And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception ditl Ridley present. Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. r/^iiy^"^- **A LARGE CARD CAUGHT HIS SIGHT.' 58 LUCII.E. The leader ot every religious society, Christian knowledge he labor'd ihrcmgh life tn promote Willi |H-rsoiial profit, and knew how to (|uote lloth the Stocks and the Scriptiu'e, with eipial ad- vantage To himself and admiring friends, in this C.mt-Age. xxr. Whilst over this card Alfred vacantlv l)r(H)ded, A waiter his head through the doorway ])rotruded ; " Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to s])eak." Alfred \'argrave could feel there were tears on his cheek ; He hrush'd them away with a gesture of pride. He glanced at the glass ; when his own face he eyed, He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his hea 1. He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said, "Sir Ridley may enter." In three minutes more That benign apparition ai)pear'd at the door. Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release. In company there with his sister and niece. Found himself now at Luchon — distributing tracts. Sowing seed by the way. and collecting new facts For F.\eter Hall ; he was starting that night For Uigorre : he had heard, to his cordial delight. That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting out For the same destination : impatient, tlo doubt ! Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriage" Through his s[)eech trickled softlv, like honev : his carriage Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the weather : If his young friend agreed, why not travel together ? With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown Of per]ilexity. during this speech, up and down Alfred Vargrave was striding ; but, after a pause And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd — "My dear Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here — Half an hour at the most — to conclude an affair Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot), Before I accept your kind ulfrr." " Why not ?" Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. .\lfrcd \',irgrave, before Sir Ridley observed it. h.nd pass'd through the door. A few moments later, with footsteps revealing Intense agitation of uncontroH'd feeling. He was rapidly pacing the garden below. What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know. Hut before one half-hour into darkness had fled, In the court-yard he stood with Sir Ridley. His tread Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face lictray'd there the least agit.ition. " The place "The two travelleks sieit'd into the cauiciage.'' You so kindly have offer'd." he said, " I accept;" And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'd Smiling into the carriage. .And thus, out of sight. They drove down the dark road, and into the night. XXII. .Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who. so far As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, " We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us." Thou.gh of wisdom like theirs there is no sm.dl sup- ply with us. Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men Began to converse, somewhat drowsily, when .Vlfred suddenly thought — " Here 's a man of ripe .At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage. Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise, Supi)ose I with caution reveal to his eyes Some few of the reasons which make me believe That I neither am happy nor wise ? 't would relieve LUCILE. 59 And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and douljl." For which purpose a feeler he softly pm out. It was snapp'd U)) at once. " What is truth ?" jesting Pilate Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futilitv. Had he address'd it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man Could more |)romptly have answer'd the sceptical Koman Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk! Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk. And forthwith on the iiavement he'll sketch you the scheme Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his theme ! Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he ! He 'U prove you the whole plan in plain ABC Here 's your sun — call him a ; b's the moon ; it is clear How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place. (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face !) Their science in pl.iin .\ n C to accord To your |)oint-blank iiK|uiry, my friends ! not a word Will you get for vour jjains from their sad li|)s. ' Alas ! Not a dro]) from the bottle that 's quite full will pass. 'T is the half-em|)ty vessel that freest emits The water that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capa- bility Of itnparting to others a truth with facility Is proportioned forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness. The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate More freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms, And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms ; But if every street charity shook an investment. Or each beggar to clothe w^e must strip off a vest- ment, •The length of the process would limit the act ; And therefore the truth that 's summ'd up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed. As for Alfred, indeed. On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know. That the two men thus talking continued to go Onward somehow, together— on into the night— The midnight — in which they escaiK- from our sight. XXIII. And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy sjjacc Il.ingthe blessing of d.arkness, had drawn out of sight. To solace unseen hemisi^heres, the soft night ; And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on. Lost in light, shook the dawn with, a song from the sun. And the world l.iugh'd. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now- stopp'd, at Bigorre. And more fair than the llowers, more fresh than the dew. With her white morning robe flitting joyously through The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed. Matilda sprang to him, at once, w-ith a face Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, And radiant confidence, childlike delight. That his whole heart u|)braided itself at that sight. And he murmur'd, or sigh'd. " O, how could I have stray'cl From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, The thought of another ?" " Look u]), my sweet flower I" He whispcr'd her softly, " my heart unto thee Is return 'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee I" " And will wander no more ?" laugh'd Matilda. " Xo more." He repeated. And, low to himself, " Yes, 't is o'er ! My course, too, is decided, Lucile ! Was I blind To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind Could satisfy simply a jdain English heart. Or sympathize with it ?" And here the first part Of this drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd (Jn the actors within it— the Heart, and the World. Woo'd and wooer have plav'd with the riddle of life.— Have they solved it? Appear! answer, Husband and Wife ! Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Xevers, Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers. ' Matilda sprang to him. LUCILE. 6i The Comtesse de Nevers to a Friend in India. " Once more, O my friend, to your arms antl your heart, And the places of old . . . never, never to part ! Once more to the palm, and the fountain ! Once more To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore ! From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set ; From the children that cry for the birth, and be- hold. There is no strength to bear them — old Time is so old! From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth Sapp'd and mined by the fever ihey bear from their birth ; From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd. Born too late, w'hen the strength of the world hath been bow'd ; Back, —back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the beauty of times that are faded forever ! To the palms ! to the tombs ! to the still Sacred River ! Where I too, the child of a day that is done. First leapt into life, and look'd up at the sun. Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come ! Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright .'' Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old. When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold ? Do you yet recollect me, mv friend } Do vou still Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones up-heap'd, where we reck- lessly trod O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruined god } How he frown 'd while around him we carelessly play'd ! That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd. Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast From some vague supernatural grief in the past. For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he frown 'd. To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found. In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss. Alas! you may haply remember me vet The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget. To THE STILL SA- CKED River." I come — a sad woman, defrauded of rest : I bear to you only a laboring breast : My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world. The do\-e from my bosom hatli flown far away : It is flown, and returns not, though many a day Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming. Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. I know not what Ararat rises for me Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea : I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills. Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills : Hut a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast Wakes and whispers me on — to the East ! to the East ! Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind ? Alas ! who shall number the drops of the rain .' Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again ? Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent ? Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent } To a voice who shall render an image .' or who From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew.' I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life. Wherefore lingers the flame ? Rest is sweet after strife. I would sleep for a while. I am weary. •• My friend, I had meant in these lines to regather, and send To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 't is vain ! Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again ; Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er. Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore LUCILE. ' Hark ! the sigh ok the wind, and the sound of i hk wave.'' Wlience too far I have waiulcr'd. " How many lout; years Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears. While I wrote to you, s])lash'cl out a girl's prema- ture j\loans of pain at what women in silence en- dure ! To your eyes, friend of mine, and to \mneyes alone, That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown ■Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know, Many years since, — how many ! " A few months ago I seem'd reading it backward, that page ! Why explain Whence or how.' The old dream of my life rose again. The old superstition I the idol of old ! It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould Is not to the forest more lost tban to me That emotion. I l)ury it here by the sea Which will beai- me anon far away from the shore Of a land which my footsteps shall visit no more. And a heart's reqiciescai I write on that grave. Hark ! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave, Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home ! I come, O you whispering voices, I come ! My friend, ask me nothing. " Receive me alone Asa Santon receives to his dwelling of stone In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring; It maybe an angel that, weary of \ying. Hath ]iauscd in his flight from some city of doom. Or oidy a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom. This only I know : that in Europe at least Lives the craft or the power that must master our East. Wherefore sirive where the gods must themselves yield at last ? I'.oth thev and their altars pass by with the Past. The gods of the household Time thrusts from the shelf ; And I seem as unreal and weird to myself As those idols of old. " Other times, other men. Other men, other passions ! " So be it ! yet again I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, And the light of those lands where the great sun is born ! Spread your arms, O my friend ! on your breast let me feel The repos"" which hath lied from my own. " Your LL'CILE." PART II. CANTO I. Hail, Muse! Rut each Muse bv this lime has, I know, Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own bow All too long ; so I leave unassaulted the portal Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal. Hail, Murray! — not Lindley, — but Murray and Son. Hail, omniscient, lieneficent, great Two-in-()ne! In Albemarle Street may thy temple long stand! Long enlighten'd and led by thine erudite hand. May each novice in science nomadic unravel .Statistical mazes of modernized travel ! May each inn-keeping knave long thy judgments revere, And the postboys of Europe regard thee with fear; While thev feel, in the silence of Ijaffled e.vtortion, That knowledge is power ! Long, long, like that portion LUCII.E. 63 Of the national soil which the Greek exile took In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to thy wit Not to pay through his nose just for following it ! May'st thou long, O instructor ! preside o'er his way, And teach him alike what to praise and to pay ! Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once again 1 invoke, lest, unskill'd, I should wander in vain. To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse ; For 1 sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. Yes ! thy spirit descends ujjon mine, O John Mur- ray ! And 1 start— with thy book — for the Baths in a hurry. II. " At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine, And from thence the road, winding by Ehrenbreit- stein, Passes over the frontier of Nassau. (" N. B. No custom-house here since the Zollverein." See Murray, paragraph 30.) " The route, at each turn, Here the lover of nature allows to discern. In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale ; The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail In the foliage observable here ; and, moreover, The soil is carbonic. The road, under cover Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that hems Round this beautiful spot, tirings the traveller to — '■ E.MS. A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every day. At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you pay Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur Is attach'd to the ])lace ; but most travellers jjrefer (Including, indeed, many persons of notel To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep green banks of which Two rows of while jjicturesque houses enrich ; And between the high road and the river is laid Out a sort of a garden, call'd ' The Promenade.' Female visitors here, who may make up their mind To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day long. Troops of donkeys — sure-footed — proverbially strong ;" And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes. Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. 'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these springs In the month when the merle on the ma])le-bough sings. Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths I5y a similar sickness, there came to the baths Four sufferers — each stricken deep through the heart. Or the head, by the selfsame invisible dart Of the arrow that Hieth unheard in the noon. From the sickness that walketh unseen in the moon. Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each Infects with his own sores the next within reach. First of these were a young English husband and wife. Grown wear\' ere half through the journey of life. () Nature, sav where, thou gray mother of earth. Is the strength of thy youth .' that thy womb brings to birth Only old men to-day ! On the winds, as of old, Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold ; Thy forests are green as of yore ; and thine oceans Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions : But man — thy last birth and thy best — is no more Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight of yore. With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the eves. The firm foot on the earth, the high lu-art in the skies ; But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth. Born too late or too early. The lady, in truth. Was young, fair, and gentle ; and never was given To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold Tresses brighter than those which her soft hand unroU'd From lier noble and innocent brow, when she rose, .-\n Aurora, at dawn, froin her balmy repose, .And into the mirror the bloom and the blush Of her beauty broke, glowing ; like light in a gush From the sunrise in summer. Love, roaming, shall meet But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet — Eyes brighter — brows whiter — a figure more fair — Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair — Than thine, Lady Alfred ! And here I aver (May those that have seen thee declare if I err) That not all the oysters in Britain contain A pearl pure as thou art. Let some one explain, — Who may know more than I of the intimate life Of the ])earl with the oyster, — why yet in his wife, In despite of her beauty — and most when he felt His soul to the sense of her loveliness melt- Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: in- deed. The more that he miss'd it the greater the need ; Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly spare All the charms that he found for the one charm not there. 64 LUCILE. IV. For the blessings Life lends us. it strictly demands The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. And the value of all things exists, not indeed In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's need. Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and youth, Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet in truth Unfulfill'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth (In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), ■V" ''«. *''T IS THE s.A.ME LITTLE CrpID." Had remain'd, while the beauty and youth, unre- deem'd From a vague disappointment at all things, but ^ seem'd Day by day to reproach him in silence for all That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to recall. No career had he foUow'd. no object obtain'd In the world by those worldly advantages gain'd From nuptials beyond which once seem'd to appear Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. All that glitter'd and gleam'd through the moon- light of youth With a glor)' so fair, now that manhood in truth Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy gold Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and mould ! Fair}- gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy- Bride ? Lived there yet fair)--lands in the face at his side ? Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast watch'd Some pale and impalpable vapor, detach'd From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all The chill'd splendor reluctantly waned in the deep Of its own native heaven ? Even so seem'd to creep O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil Of a sadness unconscious. The lady grew pale As silent her lord grew : and both, as they eyed Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly sigh'd. Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give ? True, we know what life is — but, alas ! do we live ? The grammar of life we have gotten by heart. But life's self we have made a dead language — an art. Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 't was spoken When the silence of passion the first time was broken ! Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt : But the last man, at best, was but learned about What the first, without learning, enjoy d. What art thou To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now .' A science. What wert thou to him that from ocean First beheld thee appear ? A surprise, — an emo- ■ tion ! When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in the heart, When it thrills as it fills every animate part. Where lurks it ? how works it ? . . . we scarcely detect it. But life goes: the heart dies : haste, O leech, and dissect it ! This accursed sesthetical, ethical age Hath so finger'd life's hornbook, so blurr'd every page. That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story With its fables of faery, its legends of glor,-. Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new To the children that read it insipidly through. We know too much of Love ere we love. We can trace Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face When we see it at last. 'T is the same little Cupid, With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost stupid. We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our shelves. And copied a hundred times over, ourselves. And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, Still, that horrible sense of the deja conmc! LUCILE. 65 VI. Perchance 't was the fault of the hfethat they led ; Perchance 't was the fault of the novels they read ; Perchance 't was a fault in themselves ; I am bound not To say : this I know — that these two creatures found not In each other some sign they expected to find Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind ; And, missing it, each felt a right to complain Of a sadness which each found no word to exjilain. Whatever it was, the world noticed not it In the light-hearted beauty, the light-hearted wit. Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 't is the case, Each must speak to the crown with a mask on his face. Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went. She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase content .' Yes. While to its voice, for a moment, she listen'd. The young cheek still bloom'd, and the soft eyes still glisten'd ; And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid things That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which proved Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot 'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that was not : And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd, (As they turn'd to each other, each tfush'd from the crowd,) And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd more dear Than the praises of others had grown to her ear, She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret : " Yes ! ... he loves me," she sigh'd ; " this is love, then — and yet — .'" Ah. that _)'(•/.' fatal word ! 't is the moral of all Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since the Fall! It stands at the end of each sentence we learn ; It flits in the vista of all we discern ; It leads us, forever and ever, away To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 'T was this same little fatal and mystical word That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah ; Drooping pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara! VIII. At the same time, pursued by a spell much the same. To these waters two other worn pilgrims there came ; One a man, one a woman : just now. at the latter, -As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her And judge for himself, I will not even glance. Of the self-crown 'd young kings of the Fashion in France, Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight. Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so bright, Who so hailed in the salon, so marked in the Bois, Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois .' Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees In that town of all towns, where Debauchery sees On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere graven, — In Paris I mean, — where the streets are all paven By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging the way From Hell to this planet, — who, haughty and gay. The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois "? Yes ! he march'd through the great masquerade, loud of tongue. Bold of brow : but the motley he mask'd in, it hung So loose, trail'd so wide, and appear'd to impede So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed. That a keen eye might guess it was made — not for him. But some brawler more stalwart of stature and limb. That it irk'd him, in truth, you at times could divine, For when low was the music, and spilt was the wine. He would clutch at the garment, as though it op- press'd .And stifled some impulse that choked in his breast. What ! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous ease ! Was he, too, a prev to a mortal disease ? My friend, hear a parable : ponder it well : For a moral there is in the tale that 1 tell. One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and .Arnal, My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; Ever)' time that he laugh'd I observed that he sigh'd. As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd that he sat 111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. " Sir." he said, " if what vexes me here \ou would know. Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours ago, I walk'd into the Fran(;ais, to look at Rachel. (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle!) — Well, I ask'd for a box : they were occupied all : For a seat in the balcony : all taken ! a stall : 66 LUCILE. Taken too : the whole house was as full as could be- Not a hole for a rat ! I had just time to see The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend In a box out of reach at the opposite end : Then the crowd push'd me out. What was left me to do ? I tried for the tragedy . . . que vonlez-voiis ? Every place for the tragedy book'd ! . . . inon ami. The farce was close by : ... at the farce me void ! The piece is a new one : and Grassot plays well : There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel : And Hyacinth's nose is superb ! . . . yet I meant My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have spent. Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours ! Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers." I once met the Due de Luvois for a moment ; And 1 mark'd, when his features I tix'd in my com- ment. O'er those features the same vague disquietude stray I had seen on the face of my' friend at the play ; And I thought that he too, very probably, spent His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. O source of the holiest joys we inherit, O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit ! Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert sand. Grown impatient too soon for the long promised land. XII. It th " The lamps were beginning to gleam.'' He turns fronr the worship of thee, as thou art. An exjiressless and imageless truth in the heart. And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf And the gold of the Godless, to make to him- self A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee. And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the knee. The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods : Like the proi^hets of Baal, our bosoms with rods We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till thev bleed. But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to our need. The land is athirst, and cries out ! . . . 't is in vain ; The great blessing of Heaven descends not in rain. amps were beginning to nden-trees, folded each in his which looks like a temple . . . was night ; and gleam Through the long 1 dream. From that building and is The temple of — Health ? Nay, but enter ! I wis That never the rosy-hued deity knew "One votary out of that sallow-cheek'd crew Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians ; Jews — Hamburgers, chiefly ; — pure patriots — Sua- bians ; — " Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, And the dwellers in Pontus" . . . My muse will not weary More lines with the list of them . . . cur fre- nniere ? What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum ? Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come ? Oh, what is the name of the god at whose fane Every nation is mix'd in so motley a train } What weird Kabala lies on those tables outspread ? To what oracle turns with attention each head ? What holds these pale worshippers each so devout. And what are those hierophants busied about? xin. Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro. And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and No : Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance. And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of Chance. Through the wide-open doors of the distant saloon Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune ; And an indistinct music forever is roll'd. That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold. From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze. Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass. And the weird words pursue it — Rouge, Impair, el Passe .' Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber Of some witch when she seeks, through a night- mare, to grab at The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sab- bat. XIV. The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion Chance. The idler from Ensrland, the idler from France of LUCILE. 67 Shook hands, each, of course, wiih much cordial pleasure : An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treas- ure, And they both were too well-bred in aught to be- tray One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd away. 'T was a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings; — the men who" had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt. Is why, on the night I am speaking about. My Lord .-Alfred sat down by himself at roulette. Without one suspicion his bosom to fret. Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end. Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began With a few modest thalers — away they all ran — The reserve foUow'd fast in the rear. .As his purse Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it : 'T is an old law in physics — A'utura abhorret X'acuwn — and my lord, as he watch'd his last crown Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have deck'd On that day of all d.iys when an empire was wreck'd On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witnessed the last Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast ! Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why. Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye Had long been intently regarding him there, — That some gaze was upon him too searching to bear. He rose and look'd up. Was it fact .' Was it fable ? Was it dream ? Was it waking ? Across the green table. That face, with its features so fatally known — Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely his own — What was it.' Some ghost from its grave come again .' Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain .' Or was it herself — with those deep eyes of hers. And that face unforgotten .' — Lucile de Nevers ! Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem. Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream ! 'Xeath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hush'd. That pale cheek forever by passion untlush'd. There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. The brief noon of beauty was passing away, .And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. And now, as all round her the dim evening stole, With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved For the want of that tender assurance received From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye. Which should say, or should look, " Fear thou naught — / am by !" And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd ex- istence, Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance : A strange sort of faint-footed fear, — like a mouse That comes out, when 't is dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, .And the forms on the arras are all that move there. In Rome, — in the Forum, — there open'd one night A gulf. -AH the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods : then the oracle said : — " Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff. But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seeni'd likely enough To be ruin 'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : " O Quirites I to this Heaven's question is come ; What to Rome is most precious ? The manhood of Rome." He plunged, and the gulf closed. The tale is not new ; But the moral applies many ways, and is true. How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy 'd ? 'T is a warm human life that must fill up the void. Thorough many a heart runs the rent in the fable, But who to discover a Curtius is able ? XVII. Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the source Of the sunrise ; where, fair in their fabulous course. Run the rivers of Eden : an exile again. To the cities of Europe — the scenes, and the men. And the life, and the ways, she had left ; still op- press'd With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable breast. The same, to the same things ! The world, she had (juitted Wi;h a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon flitted 68 LUCILE. Through the salons and clubs, to the great satis- faction Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once more To her old friend, the World, had re-open'd her door ; The World came, and shook hands, and was pleased and amused With what the World then went away and abused. From the woman's fair fame it in naught could detract : 'T was the woman's free genius it vex'd and at- tack'd With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell beyond The world's limit, to feel that the world could re- spond To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in naught. 'T was no longer this earth's idle inmates she sought : The wit of the woman sufficed to engage In the woman's gay court the first men of the age. Some had genius ; and all, wealth of mind to confer On the world : but that wealth was not lavish 'd for her. For the genius of man, though so human indeed. When call'd out to man's help by some great hu- man need. The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler uses. Genius touches the world at but one point alone Of that spacious circumference, never cjuite known To the world : all the infinite number of lines That radiate thither a mere point combines. But one only, — some central affection apart From the reach of the world, in which Genius is Heart, And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind. And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken. When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever men ; Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurl'tl Worlds new-fashion'd for man, as mere men of the world. And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light. And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet. As though stretch'd out, the shade of some other to meet. The woman felt homeless and childless : in scorn She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children unborn ; And when from these sombre reflections away She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay For her presence within it, she knew herself friend- less ; That her path led from peace, and that path ap- pear'd endless : That even her beauty had been but a snare, And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair. M'ith a face all transfigured and flush "d by surprise Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep search- ing eyes She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said. Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray 'd. She seem'd to smile through him, at something beyond : When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to respond To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied. Not so he. At the sight of that face back again To his mind came the ghost of a long-stifled pain, A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild And relentful regret like a motherless child Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, To the heart which resisted its entrance. Lucile And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd By the crowd unobser\-ed. Not unnoticed, however. By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never Seen her husband's new friend. She had follow'd by chance. Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, had turn'd On Lucile and Lord Alfred ; and, scared, she dis- cern'd On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquir\' of hers He replied not, but murmur'd, " Lucile de Nevers Once again then .' so be it !" In the mind of that man. At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. XIX. " So !" he thought, " they meet thus : and reweave the old charm ! And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm. And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me ! Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be •THIS POOR flower; she said, 'SEEMS IT NOT OUT OF PLACE IN THIS HOT, LAMPLIT AIR, WITH ITS FRESH, FRAGILE GRACE?'" Pj/iili'd by Thouijs MiilvjiJie. W' r Th«»v ■5 ^ .^■ 'i.W^ ¥ ,l!"- ^'' Liicile. what w.vs left me," he said. '• When niv life was tlefrauded of you. but to take That life, as 't was left, and endeavor to make Unoliserved by another, the void which remain'd Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd, I have striven. One word of unkindness has never l\iss'd mv lips to Matilda. Her least wish has e\er Received my submission. .\nd if, of a truth, I have fail'd to renew what 1 felt in my youth, I at least have been loyal to what 1 do feel. Respect, iluty, honor, affection, Lucile, I speak not of love now, nor love's long' regret : 1 would not offend you, nor dare I forget The ties that are round me. But may there not be A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me ? Mav we not be vet friends — friends the dearest ?" •■ Alas !'■ She re|)lied, " for one moment, perchance, did it pass Through my own heart, tli.it dre.im which forever hath lirought To those who indulge it in iimocent thought .So fatal and evil a waking ! But no. For in lives such as ours are. the Uream-tree would grow On the borders of Hades ; beyond it. what lies? The wheel of Ixion. alas ! and the cries Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us. Are the days when with innocence we could dis- cuss l)R-ams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life ! Oh trust me, the best friend you h.ive is your wife. And 1 — in that jiure child's pure virtue. 1 bow To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow Not one blush when 1 first took her hand. With no blush Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. " Hush ' hush ! 1, would say wh.it 1 wish'd to have said when \iiu came. Do not think that years leave us and lind us the same ! The woman you knew long ago. long ago. Is no more. You vourself have within you. I know. The germ of a joy in the years yet to be. Whereby the i)ast years will bear fruit. As for me, I go my ow'ii way,— onward, upward ! •• O yet. Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret, When it came, as it beautified hope ere it Hed, — The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead. But it is not corrupted. I too have at last Lived to learn that love is not — (such love as is past. Such love as youth dreams of at least) — the sole |)art Of life, which is able to fill ii|i the heart ; Even that of a woman. " Between you and me Hea\ en fixes a gulf, over which you must see That our guardian angels can bear us no more. We each of us stand on an oijjiosite shore. Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn, By an instinct men never attain, to discern Fach other's true natures. Matilda is fair. Matilda is voung — see her now. sitting there ! — How tenderly fashion'd — (oh, is she not ? say,) To lo\'e and be loved !" He turn'd sharply away — '• Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair; Cii all that you tell me pray deem me aw.ire ; But Matilda 's a statue, ALatilda 's a child ; Matilda loves not — " Lucile quietly smiled .\s she answered him : — " Yesterday, all that you .say Might be true ; it is false, wholly false, though, to-day." LUCILE. 79 " How ? — what mean you ?" " 1 mean that to-day," she replied, " The statue with hfe has become vivitied : I mean that the child to a woman has grown : And that woman is jealous." " What ! she ?" with a tone Of ironical wonder, he answer'd — " what, she ! She jealous ! — Matilda ! — of whom, pray ? — not me !" "My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too. That so lately this passion within her hath grown. For who shail declare, if for months she had known What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear ?" " Explain ! explain, madam !" he cried in surprise ; And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. " How blind are you men I" she replied. " Can you doubt That a woman, young, fair, and neglected — " " Speak out !" He gasp'd with emotion. " Lucile ! you mean — what .' Do you doubt her fidelity?" " Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. What 1 wish to explain Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain From touching a subject so fragile. However, Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor To invade for one moment your innermost life. Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife. Are dear to me, — most dear ! And I am con- vinced That vou rashly are risking that honor." He winced, And turn'd pale, as she spoke. She had aim'd at his heart. And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start. That her aim had not miss'd. "Stay, Lucile!" he exclaim'd. " What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed To alarm me ? Matilda .' — my wife ? — do you know.'" — " I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. But I know not how far your continued neglect Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear. Like the indistinct golden and vaporous Heece Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece From the glances of men, would disperse and de- part At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart, — For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure ; And the heart left too long to its ravage, in time May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime." •' Such thoughts could have never," he falter'd, " I know, Reach'd the heart of Matilda." ■' Matilda ? oh no ! But reflect ! when such thoughts do not come of themselves To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves That seek lonely places, — there rarely is wanting Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting To conjure them to her." " O lady, beware ! At this moment, around me I search everywhere For a clew to your words " — " You mistake them," she said, Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made. ■■ I w^as putting a mere hypothetical case." With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. "Woe to him, . . ."he exclaim'd . . . "woe to him that shall feel Such a hope ! for 1 swear, if he did but reveal One glimpse, — it should be the last hope of his life !" The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'dthe strife She had roused in his heart. " You forget," she began, " That you menace yourself. You yourself are the man That is guilty. Alas ! must it ever be so ? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go. And fight our own shadows forever ? O think ! The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink. You ask woman, the weaker one. still to endure ; You bid her be true to the laws you abjure ; To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder. With the force that has fail'd you ; and that too, when under The assumption of rights which to her you refuse. The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse ! Where the contract exists, it involves obligation To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. You unloose, in asserting your own liberty. A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. Then. O Alfred ! be juster at heart ; and thank Heaven That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it !" VI. In the silence which follow'd the last word she said. In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, 8o LUCILE. Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to im- part A new germ of motion and life to that heart Of which he himself had so recently spoken As dead to emotion — exhausted, or broken ! New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. In the husband indifferent no more to the wife She already, as she had foreseen, could discover That Matilda had gain'd, at her hands, a new lover. So after some moments of silence, whose spell Thev both felt, she e.\tended her hand to him. . . . VII. VIII. ■Well.'" " Lucile," he replied, as that soft quiet hand In his own he clasp'd warmlv. " I both under- stand And obey you." " Thank Heaven !" she murmur'd. •■ O yet, One word, I beseech you ! I cannot forget," He exclaim 'd, "we are parting for life. Vou have shown My pathway to me : but say, what is your own ?" The calmness with which until then she had spoken In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken. She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly. " Nay, I know not," she murmur'd, " I follow the way Heaven leads me ; I cannot foresee to what end. I know only that far, far away it must tend From all places in which we have met, or might meet. Far away ! — onward — upward !" A smile strange and sweet As the incense that rises from some sacred cup And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up Her whole face, with those words, " Wheresoever it be, May all gentlest angels attend you !" sigh'd he, " And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are !" And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd. IX. From afar That kiss was, alas ! by Matilda beheld With far other emotions : her young bosom swell'd, And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd. The Duke Adroitly attracted towards it her look By a faint but significant smile. X. Much ill-construed, Renown 'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, strew'd With arguments page upon page to teach folks That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them. That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them ! CANTO III. When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a king. Through the wilds of creation — the very first thing That his naked intelligence taught him to feel Was the shame of himself ; and the wish to con- ceal Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave. To the furbelovv'd flounce and the broad crinoline Of my lady . . . you all know of course whom I mean . . . This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast ; And that drama of passions as old as the hills. Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, Is only reveal'd now and then to our eyes In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize. II. In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, 'Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough trembled. And the deep-bosom'd lilac, emparadising The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing. The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only, A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom ; Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom. Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories. Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian stories. But at length the long twilight more deeply grew shaded, And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded, And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough. Through the shadowy garden were slumbering now. The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk. Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. And, as each little s|)rightly and garrulous leaf Woke up with an evident sense of relief. They all seem'd to be saying , . . " Once more we're alone. And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are gone !" SHE ENTERED THAT ARBOR OF LILACS." Pjinted bv Tboiius Mcllvjinc. .*?; 'v> - ^ ''■'':. t ;* is ^;' i.- ^ r^ / A COPVRIOHT ,693 BY FREDEBICK A STOKES COMPANY LUCILE. 91 We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track Has been through the same meadows in childhood : in youth Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, There is none that can know me as you do ; and none To whom I more wish to believe myself known. Speak the truth ; you are not wont to mince it, I know. Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite Of vanity, folly, and pride. Jack, which might Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true As your own, I have never turn'd round and m iss ' d YOU From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt B y m y o w n blind and heedless self- will brought about. Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake Of those old recollections o f boyhood that make In your heart yet some clinging and CPi'ing appeal From a judg- m e n t more harsh, which I cannot but feel Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago? Or is it . . . (I would I could deem it were so !) That, not all overlaid by a listless e.xterior. Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem ; from my innermost na- ture Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature ? Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire For truth ? Some one spark of the soul's native tire Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust Which life hath heap'd o'er it ? Some one fact to trust And to hope in ? Or by you alone am I deem'd The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd To my own self .'" ' Struck the t\vel\e strokes of -midnight.'* JOHX. No, Alfred ! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long. Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong ! " Doyou think," here.sumed . . ." what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it .'" JOHX. Alfred. No! Thank you, cousin ! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trast to me. VIII. John. I do. But 't is late. If she sleeps, you '11 not wake her? Alfred. No, no ! it will wait (Poor infant !) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of to- morrow. He open'd the door, and pass'd out. Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone. IX. His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door. He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried : The door open'd : he enter'd the room undescried. X. No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night. The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling ; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure. And not purer some angel Grief car\es o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom. 92 LUCILE. She had put off her dress ; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise ; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair ; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. As the light that, from water reflected, forever Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river. So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him. Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim. Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. That sight Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he silently slid. And knelt down beside her — and pray'd at her side. XI. Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her ; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet. As a young fawn uncouches. Shy with fear, from the fern where some hunter ap- proaches. She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on hef brow press'd one kiss long and warm. Then her fear changed in impulse ; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She fear'd, if their clasp were relax'd, he would go : Her smooth naked shoulders, uncared for. convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort within it Lived anfl died with each tender tumultuous minute. " O Alfred, O Alfred ! forgive me," she cried — " Forgive me !" " Forgive you, my poor child !" he sigh'd ; " But I never have blamed you for aught that I know. And I have not one thought that reproaches you now." From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so He forced her down softly beside him. Below The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, " When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, That he is but a child in the midst of his strength. But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown ? From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore, Although in his pride he might perish, before He could plead for the one, or the other avow 'Mid his intimate friends .^ Wife of mine, tell me now. Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour. The sole friend that can have the right or the power To be at his side, is the woman that shares His fate, if he falter ; the woman that bears The name dear for he7- sake, and hallows the life She has mingled her own with, — rin short, that man's wife ?" " Yes," murmur'd Matilda, " O yes !" " Then," he cried, " This chamber in which we two sit, side by side (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her). Is now a confessional — you, my confessor!" " I ?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head. " Yes ! but first answer one other question," he said : " When a woman once feels that she is not alone ; That the heart of another is warm'd by her own ; That another feels with her whatever she feel, .•\nd halves her existence in woe or in weal ; That a man for her sake will, so long as he lives, Live to put forth his strength which the thought of her gives_ ; Live to shield her from want, and to share with her sorrow ; Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow ; Will that woman feel less than another, O say. The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away ? Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come. That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home ?" She turn'd, like a soft rainy heaven, on him Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, ten- der, and dim. " That woman," she murmur'd, " indeed were thrice blest !" " Then courage, true wife of my heart I" to his breast As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried. " For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wide To ^■our heart, can be never closed to it again. And this room is for both an asylum ! For when I pass'd through that door, at the door I left there A calamity, sudden, and heavy to bear. One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, We must face it henceforth : but it enters not here, For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone A heart which calamity leaves all your own !" She started ..." Calamity, Alfred ! to you ?" '■ To both, my poor child, but 't will bring with it too The courage, I trust, to subdue it." ■■ O speak ! Speak !" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and weak. LUCILE. 93 " O yet for a moment," he said, " hear me on ! Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer flies, That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies While the skies smile, and heed not each other ; at last, When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky over- cast, Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings ? So indeed the morn found us, — poor frivolous things ! Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set. And thi night brings its darkness around us. Oh, yet, Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours ? Yes ; you, too, have wept ! " While the world was yet ours. While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us. And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us. We stray 'd from each other, too far, it may be. Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate ! But, Matilda, an angel was near us, 'meanwhile. Watching o'er us, to warn, and to rescue ! " That smile Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you e)'ed With resentment, an angel's they were at your side And at mine ; nor perchance is the day all so far, When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are, May murmur the name of that woman now gone From our sight evermore. " Here, this evening, alone, I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart Unto yours, — from this clasp be it never to part ! Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, But a prize richer far than that fortune has won It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 'T is the heart of my wife !" With suffused h.ippy eyes She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart. And tenderly closing them round him, his heart Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom ; and there Droop'd her head on his shoulder ; and sobb'd. Not despair. Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss. Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was Of all save the sense of her ow-n love ! Anon, However, his words rush'd back to her. " All gone. The fortune you brought me I" And eyes that were dim With soft tears she upraised : but those tears were for him. ' While the skies SMILE." " Gone ! my husband ?" she said. " tell me all ! see ! I need. To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed. Fuller sense of affliction." " Poor innocent child I " He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled, As he told her the tale he had heard— something more The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore. '• Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand for you ; And with these, mv Matilda, what may I not do? You know not, I knew not myself till this hour, Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power." " And I too," she murmur'd, " I too am no more The mere infant at heart you have known me be- fore. I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life. O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel ! For I — love you. my husband !" As though to conceal Less from him, than herself, what that motion ex- press'd, She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast. " O lovely as woman, belovdd as wife ! Evening star of my heart, light forever my life ! If from eves fix'd loo long on this base earth thus faf You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star. 94 LUCILE. Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given To lead me to life's late achievement ; my own. My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one !" XII. How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight. That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night ! How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth. As she clung to his side full of trust, and of truth ! How lovely to him, as he tenderly press'd Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd The glittering tresses which now shaken loose Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them ! Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blos- soms. And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies — the wary, gray strategist Time, With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd — Grief and Crime, Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded ; matur- ing. For his great war with man, new surprises ; securing All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe To his last narrow refuge — the grave. O Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart 'Twixt these two silent souls ! There 's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast. XIV. Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least ! No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breath'd their bridals abroad ; and no cresset, up- hung. Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. He open'd the casement ; he led her with him, Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard Aloof the invisible, rapturous bird, W'ith her wild note bewildering the woodlands : they saw Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale ; o'er the dark-sapphire sphere The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace ; from unknown Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown Intermittingly ; then the moon dropp'cl from their sight. Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light Which no longer they needed to read on the face Of each other's life's last revelation. The place Slept sumptuous round them ; and Nature, that never Sleeps, but waking reposes, with jxitient endeavor Sweetly though Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, com- pletely Confiding in that yet untrodden existence Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resist- ance And struggle ; to-night, Love his hallow'd device Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice. CANTO V. When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night ; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning ; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her. II. From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. The air. With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand. Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave : No sound, save the voice of the long river wave, ¥ * He leu hek with him to the tbrr\ 96 LUCILE. Antl the crickets that shig all the night ! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud thatcurl'd on the hill. Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir. And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. Ah, pale woman ! what, with that heart-broken look. Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-break- ing book .' Have the wild rains of heaven a father ? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew.' Orion, Arcturus. who pilots them both.' What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth .' Had the darkness a dwelling, — save there, in those eyes ,■■ And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies .' Ay, question, and listen ! What answer? The sound Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound. And the crickets that sing all the night. There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers. Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms, — stinging creatures, that crawl. Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings, — Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last ; When she traverses nature and space, till she stands In the Chamber of Fate ; where, through tremulous hands. Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff un- curl'd, . And those three blind old women sit spinning the world. The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star Was-slipping from sight in the pale void afar ; The spirits of change, and of awe, with faint breath. Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. The spirits of awe and of change were around. And about, and upon her. A dull muffled sound. And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise. And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her : those eyes seem'd to burn. And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade Of a creature by fancy from solitude made. And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness. " At last, then — at last, and alone, — I and thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met ? " Hush ! I know Not for me was the tryst. Never mind ! it is mine ; And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine. They remove not, until we have s])oken. My hour Is come; and it holds thee and me in its power. As the darkness holds both the horizons. "T is well ! The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell Of her first lover's \'o ws 1 i s t e n ' ( I . hush'd with de- light. When soft stars were brightly up- hangingtheniglii Never listen'd, I swear, more un questioningly. Than thy fate hath coni|ieird thee to listen to me !" To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream. She appear'd with a start to awaken. The stream. When he ceased, took the niglit with its moaning again. Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. " Continue," she an- swer'd, " I listen to hear. " For a moment he did not reply. Through the drear And dim light between them, she saw that his face Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace. With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride Of a panther, in circles around her. first wide. Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. ■' Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face.' Is the sight so repugnant ? ha, well ! Canst thou trace One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll. With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul .'" In his face there was something so wrathful and wild. ' One greem STAR." k ^'%»^ LUCILE. 97 That the sight of it scared her. He saw it, and sinilrd. And then turn'd him from her, renewing again That short restless stride ; as though searching in vain For the point of some purpose within liini. " Lucile, You shudder to hiok in my face : do you feel No reproach when you look in your own heart ?" " No, Uuke, In my conscience I do not deserve vour rebuke : Not yours !" she replied. " \o," he mutter'd again, " f.entle justice ! you first bid Life hope not, and then To Despair you say ' Act not ! ' " ' Let the dead sler 1- IN 1 E\CE. ^- Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me l He watch'd her awhile Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine ! With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, divine ! Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies l\Iv soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep : Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long And if tears I mistrust, 't is that thou too canst set. weep ! And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet Well ! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly In the love of a man, what more change need it loom'd make Round about her. She spoke not. At length he In the steps of his .soul through the course love resumed. began, " Wretched creatures we are ! I and thou— one and Than all other mistakes in the life of a man ? all! Only able to injure each other, and fall Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare For the souls that we boast of ! weak insects we are ! O heaven ! and what has become of them ? all Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall : That glorious faith in inherited things : That sense in the soul of the length of her wings ; Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night-wind sounds human. Bewailing those once nightly visitants ! Woman, Woman, what hast thou done with my youth ? All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains Give again. And the hills with each summer their verdure re- Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . new. in vain !" Wouldst thou be as they are ? do thou then as they " Duke !" she falter'd. do, " Yes, yes !" he went on, " I was not Let the dead sleep in ])eace. Would the living Always thus ! what I once was, I have not forgot." divine Where they slumber.^ Let only new flowers be And I said to myself, ' I am young yet : too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys ; What is broken ? one only of youth's pleasant toys ! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go. For one passion survived .' No ! the roses will blow- As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing. Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from -Spring ! Hast thou loved, O my heart ? to thy love \et. remains VI. As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail ; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. " Woe to him, in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken aj^l scorch ! But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee the sign ! ' " Vain ! all vain ! . . . For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel it was but the old song I heard. Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd. In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, ,uid the lan'fuors of heaven. 98 LUCILE. I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the tracks of old tears ! It was with me the nighl long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking. The burthen of the bitterness in me ! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, ' No good thing shalt thou see. For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, ' Lo, my father ! ' and said To the worm, ' Lo, my sister ! ' The dust to the dust. And one end to the wicked shall be with the just !" He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night. And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity replied to his own. " .^nd say you, and deem vou, that 1 wreck'd vour life? Alas ! Due de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own. Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse .' Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse. For I then should have wrong'd you !" " Wrong'd ! ah, is it so .•■ You could never have loved me ?" "Duke!" " Never ? oh no 1" (He broke into a fierce, angn' laugh, as he said) " Yet, lady, you knew that 1 loved you : you led My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour. All the pale, cruel, beautiful, ]iassionless power Shut up in that cold face of yours ! was this well ? But enough ! not on you would I vent the wild hell Which has grown in my heart. Oh that man, first and last He tramples in triumph my life ! he has cast His shadow 'twixt me and the sun ... let it pass ! My hate yet may find him !" - She niurmur'd, " .^las ! These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. Enough, Due de Luvois ! farewell. I shall try To forget every word I have heard, every sight That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night Which must witness our final farewell. May you. Duke, Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had ! Adieu !" '■ Stay, Lucile, stay !" . . . he groaned, ..." I am mad, Brutalized, blind with pain ! I know not what I said. I meant it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head) " Forgive me ! I — have I so wrong'd you, Lucile .' I . . . have I . . . forgive me, forgive me !" " I feel Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, " far. Far too sad for resentment." " Yet stand as you are One moment," he murmur'd. " I think, could I gaze Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart Thus, Lucile ! stay one moment. I know why you shrink. Why you shudder ; I read in your face what you think. Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will. Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought. There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to ' feel—" " Could I help you," she murmur'd, " but what can I say That your life will respond to .'" "My life ?" he sigh'd. " Nay, My life hath brought forth only evil, and there The wild wind hath planted the wild weed : yet ere You' exclaim, ' Fling the weed to the flames,' think again Why the field is so barren. With all other men First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. For a man, at least most men, m.av love on through life : Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife With labor, and therefore, with love, for a man. If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan Of man's life includes love in all objects ! But I ? All such loves from my life through its whole des- tiny Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas 1 Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass ! It perish 'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition? Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. Fame ? But fame in itself presupposes some great Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois To defend usurpation ? Books, then? Science, Art? LUCILE. 99 But, alas ! I was fashion'd for action : my heart, Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly com- press 'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics : life's stress Needs scope, not contraction ! what rests ? to wear out At some darl< northern court an existence, no doubt, In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause As hopeless as is my own life ! By the laws Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, 1 am what I am !" VIII. For a while she was mute. Then she answer'd, " We are our own fates, i >ur own deeds Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds. But men's actions. And, Due de Luvois. 1 might say That all life attests, that ' the will makes the way. ' Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth. Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth Our upholding, because the white lily no more Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore? Yet be that as it may be ; I cannot perchance Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugene De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose i:i pain. Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul That the great master hand which sweeps over the whole Of this dee]) harp of life, if at moments it stretch To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetch Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart. Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart. Whose faculties, flaccid it may be. if less Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express Just the one note the great final harmony needs. And what best proves there 's life in a heart ? — that it bleeds ! Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain. Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! Cease the sin with the sorrow ! See morning begin ! Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin. There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light. Let hate and despondency die with the night !" He was nioN'ed by her words. As some poor wretch confined In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mind Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again. Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known strain, Which brings back his boyhood upon it. until The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill With music and memory, and, as it w'ere. The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware Of the mockery round it. and shrinks from each thing It once sought,— the poor idiot who pass'd for a king, Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now con- fess'd A madman more painfully mad than the rest,— _ So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore The forces of thought : he recaptured the whole Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul Reflected on his : he appear'd to awake From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake : His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him : He fell his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim. But he niurmur'd . . . ■' Lucile, not for me that sun's light Which reveals — not restores — the wild havoc of night. There are some creatures born for the night, not t'.ie day. Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray. .A.nd the owl's moodv mind in his own hollow tower Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower. Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eves Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize Enough desolation." " The pride that claims here On earth to itself (howsoever severe To itself it may be) God's dread office and right Of punishing s'in, is a sin in heaven's sight, .Vnd against heaven's service. ■' Eugfene de Luvois, Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law. Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all His own doomsman." Her words seem'd to fall With the weight of tears in them. He look'd up, and saw That sad serene countenance, mournful as law And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him : and heard In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird. X. ■' Vulgar natures alone suffer v.iinly. " Eug&ne," She continued, " in life we have met once again. .\nd once more life parts us. Von day-spring for me Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me yet The belief that it is not in v.iin we have met . 100 LUCILE. I plead for the future. A new horoscope I would cast : will you read it ? 1 ph.-ad for a hope ; I plead for a memory ; yours, yours alone, To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, Be the memory mine. " Once of yore, when for man Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began, Men, aroused to the knowledge of evil, lied far From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war With the Pagan, the cave in the deseit, and sought Not repose, but employment in action or thought, Life's strong earnest, in all things ! oh think not of me, But yourself ! for I plead for your own destiny : I plead for your life, with its duties undone. With its claims unappeased, and its trophies un- won ; ■*K.^ ■■?■ ,y' ** A CLEAK, CHILLV CHIME KROM A CH UKCH-TL'RRET BROKE." And in ])]eading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead For all that you miss, and for all that you need." XI. Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke, A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret broke ; And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell. On his ear, where he kneel'd, sc5ftlv, soothinclv fell. ' ^ All within him was wild and confused, as within A chamber deserted in some roadside inn. Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night. To quaff and carouse ; in each socket each light Is extinct ; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wall With wild ribald ballads : serenely o'er all. For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faint Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint. Seen through some broken frame, appears noting meanwhile The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn Oped behind her ; and pure as the pure light of dawn She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyes From their sight to be melting away in the skies That expanded around her. XII. There pass'd through his head That woman was dead ago — loved and lost ! dead to A fancy — a vision. He had loved Ion: him. Dead to all the life left him ; but there, in the dim Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit ; 't was hers ; And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers : " O soul to its sources departing away ! Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power. One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour I name not my heart, and 1 speak not to thine. -Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine. Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart de- nies, . Mope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon skies. This wild night is passing away while I speak : Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break ! Something weakens within me, and warms to the beam. Is it hope that awakens ? or do I but dream ? I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark Of a new light within me to solace the dark Unto which I return ; or perchance it may be The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. I know not. Thou goest thy way : I my own : For good or for evil, I know not. Alone This I know ; we are parting. I wish'd to say more, But no matter ! 't will pass. All between us is o'er. Forget the wild words of to-night. 'T was the pain For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again. 1 was unjust : forgive me. Spare now to reprove Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not love. That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done. Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. I was madden'd, delirious ! I saw you return To him — not to me ; and I felt my heart burn With a fierce thirst for vengeance — and thus . . . let it pass ! LUCILE. lOI Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas ! Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 'T is to meet nevermore. Is it not so.' Who knows. Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies ? Or what altars of his in the desert may rise .' well ! Thus then we Is it not so, Lucile ? \Vt part Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart !" XIII. And again clearer far than the chime of the bell. That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. " Our two paths must part us, Eugene ; for my own Seems no more through that world in which hence- forth alone You must work out (as now I believe that you will) The hope which vou speak of. That work I shall still (If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away. Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I say. That the great moral combat between human life And each human soul must be single. The strife None can share, though by all its results may be known. When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. I say not. indeed, we shall meet nevermore. For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street. Or in solitude even, but never again Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eug&ne. For we know not the way we are going, nor yet Where our two ways may meet, or mav cross. Life hath set No landmarks before us. But this, this alone. I will promise : whatever your path, or my own. If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war. You falter and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see That my presence could rescue, support you. or guide, In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, To warn, if you will, or incite, or control : And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul !" All alone He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night. Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise ! It rose In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose. The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold. in the Orient ! And breathless, r XIV. The voice ceased. He uplifted his eyes. Realms of rose, and bold. While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one. The bright herald an- gel stood stern in the sun 1 Thrice holy Eosph er- os ! Light's reign be- gan In the heav- en, on the earth, in the heart of the man. The dawn on the moun- tains I the d a w n every- where I Light ! si- lence I the fresh inno- vations of air ! O earth, and O ether ! A butterfly breeze Floated u p , flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-ri]ipled stream. L'p the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream. Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope. The spirits of morning were whis[>ering, " Hope !" XV. He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood 'O'er the SH.^Rp-RIPPLED sii>lam. I02 LUCILE. Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold Of his own youth, — its ardors — its promise of fame — Its ancestral ambition ; and France by the name Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light. That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native ! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it ! Around " Domes of emi*ikv." The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone ; And he — as the body may yearn for the soul. So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole Heart arose to regain it. " And is it too late.-'" No ! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain The pure source of spirit, there /s no Too l.\TE. As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate In the fountain arises, the spirit in him Arose to that image. The image waned dim Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt As it melted, in day's broad e.x])ansion, he felt With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense — awed, amazed — .'Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed. CANTO VI. Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend. By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. He leaps with a wail into being ; and lo ! His own mother, tierce Nature herself, is his foe. Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head : 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes : her solitudes spread To daunt him : her forces dispute his command : Her snows fall to freeze him : her suns burn to brand ; Her seas yawn to engulf him ; her nicks rise to crush : And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush On their startled invader. In lone Malabar, Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and far, 'Mid the cruel of eve and the stealthv of claw (Striped and spotted destroyers ll he sees, pale with awe. On the menacing edge of a fiery sky Grim Uoorga, blue-limb'd and red-handed, go by. And the first thing he worships is Terror. Anon, Still impell'd by necessity hungrily on. He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance. And the last cr)' of fear wakes the first of defiance. From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul : Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll ! On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides high on The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion : And man, conquering Terror, is worshipp'd by man. A camp has this world been since first it btgan ! From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian ; at peace, A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece ; But, warring his way through a world's destinies, Lo from Delhi, from Bagdad, from Cordova, rise Domes of empir\-, dower'd with science and art, Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart ! New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. But those. Forthwith they are peopled for man by new foes ! The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her own. And bold must the man be that braves the Vn- known ! Not a truth has to art or to science been given. But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd and striven ; And many have striven, and many have fail'd. And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd. But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted his place .•\nd dominion, behold ! he is brought face to face With a new foe — himself ! LUCILE. 103 Xor may man on his shield Ever rest, for his foe is forever afield. Danger ever at hand, till the armed Archangel Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final evangel. Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cymbals of pleasure, Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial the measure ! Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time, Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublime In the light of the aureole over her head. Hears, and heeds not the wountl in her heart fresh and red Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold The shrill clanging curtains of war ! And behold A vision ! The anti(|ue Heraclean seats ; Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in his lair. A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire, Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, niash'd to one gory mire ! There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, While those two famish'd ogres — the Siege, the Defence, Face to face, through a vapor frore, dismal, and dun, Glare, scenting the breath of each other. The one Double-bodied, two-headed — by separate ways Winding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each day's Sullen toil adding size to, — concentrated, solid. Indefatigable — the brass-fronted, embodied, And audible aiTof gone sombrely forth To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north I In the dawn of a moody October, a pale Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail r'j;*^- "iiiE LONG Black Sea billow that once bore those fleets.' And the long Black Sea billow that once bore those fleets. Which said to the winds, " Be ye, too, Genoese !" And the red angr\- sands of the chafed Chersonese ; And the two foes of man. War and Winter, allied Round the Armies of England and France, side by side Enduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast I) Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the East, Since that sunrise, which rose through the calm lin- den stems O'er Lucile and Eugene in the garden at Ems, Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun. This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone. And the fates that I 3ing of have flow'd with the fates Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the gates Of that doom'd and heroical city, in which (Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the ditch!) At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear. Over city and camp ; like the garment of death Which (is form'd byi the face it conceals. 'T was the breath War, vet drowsily yawning, began to suspire ; Wherethrough, here and there, tlash'd an eye of red fire. And closed, froni some rampart beginning to bellow Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the \ellow And sulphurous twilight : till day reel'd and rock'd. And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'd With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous ]ilain Flared with fitful combustion : where fitfully fell Afar off the fatal, disgorged siliarpciielh-. And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom \\'ith wings of swift fiame round that City of Doom. VI. So the day — so the night ! So by night, so by day, \\'ith stern patient pathos, while time wears away. I04 LUCILE. In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it wails, In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails Shot and shell — link by link, out of hardship and pain, Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain Of those terrible siege-lines ! Xo change to that toil Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil, Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd, And Death's daily obolus due. whether claini'd By man or by nature. VII. Time passes. The dumb, Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen No- vember is come. .■\nd its snows have been bathed in the blood of the brave : And many a young heart has glutted the graxe : A n d on Inker- nian yet the wild bramble is gory, \nd those bleak heights hence- forth shall be famous in story. vill. - — — 'j The moon, swathed in storm, has long set : through the ramp " Thk sentinel's slow SILLEN TKAl\ir.'" No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, The distant exidosion, the wild sleety wind. That seems searching for something it never can find. The midnight is turning : the lamp is nigh s|)ent : And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . In this place. However, my Muse is compell'd to retr.ice Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holidav nature. Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel summoneil forth b\- a blow. And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate. Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their " possessions." Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach Of the law, died abroad. Cousin John, heart and hand. Purse and i)erson, henceforth (^honest man !) took his stand By Matilda and .Alfred ; guest, guardian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, \\M\ his large lively love. Alfred A'argrave mean- while Faced the world's frown, consoled bv his wife's faithful smile. Late in life, he began life in earnest ; and still. With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, Through long, and laborious, and difficult davs, OLit of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Work'd his way through the world ; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims from man). After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, 'S'ears impassion'd, yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of current opinion The reflex of powers in himself — that dominion Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth. May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won Working only for home, love, and duty. One son Matilda had borne him ; but scarce had the boy. With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced Down the glad dawn of manhootl at life, when it chanced That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloom Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell : No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, Captious .April engenders ; but deep as his own Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. When first a wild war-note through Englantl was sent. LUCILE. 105 He transferrin!; without either tolcen or word. To'friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war. Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death inlhe star - , . 1 r 11 Whence others sought glor>-. Thus, tighting, he fe 1 On the red field of Inkerman ; found, who can tell By what miracle, breathing, though shatter d, and borne , , , ,, , To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn, . , , 1 Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side. He lay. dark. IX, But a wound deeper far, undcscried. In the young he.art was rankling ; for there, of a truth, , In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive yoiith, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death. Lay ensheath'd : and that love, ever fretting its The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through. There are loves in man's life for which time can renew All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, Which cling to one faith, and die with it ; nor move. Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. ° ' Whence or how Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now, X. Oh is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain. To and fro, up and down. But it is not the wind That is lifting it now : and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision. A pale woman enters. As wan as the lamp's waning light, which con- centres Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer. The sufferer sees that still form floating on. And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside, all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds : the hot blood- stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting tpiietude steals Through the rack'd wear>- frame ; and. throughout it, he feels " On the red field ()k Inkukman." The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood ( )f rough 'serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him. And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him. It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigd keeping! A soft voice says ..." Sleep !" ., . , . And he sleeps : he is sleeping. XI, He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : Still that pale woman moves not. A minist ring Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheer- ing The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly , , . , , t Sigh'd ..." Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit !" A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence . . . " The Soeur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Auo-ht further, voung soldier. The son of thy sire, For" the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. . . Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 1 is more brave To live, than to die. Sleep !" , , . He sleeps : he is sleeping. Xll. He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping io6 LUCILE. ' Like some sunnv kount-i The skies with chill splendor. And there, never rlitting, Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning Slowly, feebly within hini. The night-lamp, yet burning. Made ghastly the glimmering da\'break. He said, " If thou be of the living, and not of the dead. Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing Of that bahny voice ; if it may be, revealing Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou .'" " <) son Of Matilda and .Alfred, it matters not ! One \Vho is not of the living nor yet of the dead : To thee, and to others, alive yet" . . . she said . . . " So long as there liveth the poor gift in me Of this ministration ; to them, and to thee. Dead in all things beside. .\ French Nun, whose vocation Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. Wherever man suiters, or woman may soothe, There her land ! there her kindred !" She bent down to smooth The hot pillow ; and added ..." Yet more than another Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, I knew them — I know them." '■ Oh call it be .-' you ! My dearest dear father ! my mother ! you knew. You know them ?" She bow'd, half averting, her head In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, " Do they know I am thus ?" " Hush !" . . . she smiled, as she drew From her bosom two letters : and — can it be true ? That beloved and familiar writing ! He burst Into tears ..." My poor mother — my father! the worst Will have reach'd them !" " No, no !" she exxlaim'd with a smile, " They know you are living ; they know that mean- while I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not !" ' But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fever'd brow of the buy weeping wildly is press'd. Thereat last, the young heart sobs itself into rest : And he hears, as i-t were between smiling and weeping. The calm voice say ..." Sleep !" And he sleeps : he is sleeping. XIII. And day foUow'd day. And, as wave follows wave. With the tide, day by dav, life, reissuing, drave Through that young hardv frame novel currents of health. Yet some strange obstruction, which life's self by stealth Seem'd to cherish impeded life's progress. And still A feebleness, less of the frame than the will. Clung about the sick man : hid and harbor'd within The sad hollow eyes : pinch'd the cheek pale and thin -. .\nd clothed the wan fingers with languor. .And there, Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care. Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien. And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine ! XIV. .-\ strange woman truly! not young; yet her face. Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the whole Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, the soul Seem'd to fill with its own Hght, like some sunny fountain Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, .And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. So that, watching that face, you would scarce pause to guess The years which its calm careworn lines might ex- press. Feeling only what suffering with these nuist have past To have perfected there so much sweetness at last. XV. Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out His brief thriftv fires, and the wind was about. The nun, watchful still bv the boy, on his own LUCILK. 107 Laid a firm quiet hand, and tlie dee]) tender tone Of her voice moved the silence. Slie said ..." I have heal'd These wounds of the body. Wliy hast thou con- ceal'd. Young- soldier, that yet open wound in the heart ? Wilt thou trust no hand near it.'" He winced, with a start. As of one that is suddenlv touclied on the spot P'roni which every nerve derives suffering. " What } Lies my heart, then, so bare ?" he nioan'd bitterly. " Nay," With compassionate accents she hasten'd to say, " Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, voung man. So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, To grieve for both — save from both haply ! The dial Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. Life's sorrows still fluctuate : tiod's love does not. And His lo\e is unchanged, when it changes our lot. Looking up to this li.ght, which is common to all, .And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall In time's silent circle, so various for each, Is it nothing to know that they never can reach ■So far, but what light lies beyond them forever? Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor To trace the shade creeping across the young life Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strife With the shadow of death, 't is with this faith alone. "The NUN, WATCHFUL STILL BV THE BOV. Her features, yet know them not ? " Oh, was it spoken, ' Go ye forlh. Iical the sick, lift the lirw, bind the broken .' ' Of the body alone.' Is our mission, then, done, When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone ? Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold ? Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers, tliat we hold To fulfil it, of Heaven ! For Heaven doth still To us. Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart. Trust to me !" (His two feeble hands in her own She drew gently.) " Trust to me !" (she said, with soft tone) : " I am not so dead in remembrance to all I have died to in this world, but what I recall That, in tracing the shade. I shall find out the sun. Trust to me!" She paused : he was weeping. Small need Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed. Had those gentle accents to win from his pale And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old. And in words few as mav be shall straightw.iv be told. XVI, A few vears ago, ere the fair form of Peace Was driven from Europe, a young girl — the niece Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile ISy the wild northern .seas, came to dwell for a while With a ladv allied to her race — an old dame Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name. In the Faubourg Saint Germain. I'pon that fair child. io8 LUCILIi. From cliildliood, nor father nor mother had smiled. One imcle their place in her life had supplied, And their ])laee in lier heart : she had grown at his side. And under his rnof-tree, and in his regard. From ehildliMod to girlhood. This fair orphan ward Seem'd the sole human creature that li\ed in the heart Of that steri\ rigid man. or whose smile eould im- |.art One ray of resjionse to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, look'd down witli a love That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its cliill Loftv stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. Grass grew in the court-\ard ; the chambers were bare In that .ancient mansion ; when first the stern tread Of its owner awakenVl their echoes long dead : Bringing with him this infant tthe child of a brother). Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had jilaced on Ids bosom. 'T was said — right or wrong — That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long. To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burnVl The light of wiUl orgies. Be that false or true. Slow aiul sad was the footstep which now wanderVl through Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate. Men now saw appear Kverv morn at the mass that tirni sorrowful face. Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case Tears harden'd to crystal. Vet harsh if he were. His severitv seem'd to be trebly severe In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least. Was benignant to others. The poor parish priest, Who lived on liis largess, his piety praised. The peasant W'as fed, and the chapel was raised. And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to stand A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan Of his life, that love fail'd to pass o\-er. That child Alone ilid not fear him. nor shrink from him ; smiled To his frown, and dispell'd it. The sweet sportive elf Seem'd the tvpe of some joy lost, and miss'd. in himself. Ever welcome he sutTer'd her glad face to glide In on hours when to others his door was denied : And manv a time with a mute moody look He wouM watch her at prattle and play, like a brook Whose babble disturlis not the quietest spot. But soothes us because we need answer it not. But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before A change came among them. A letter, which bore Sutlden consecpience with it, one morning was placed In the hands of the lord of the chAteau. He paced To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone. Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he re- turn'd With a tall ancient d.ime. from whose lips the child learn'd That they were of the same race and n.ime, \\"ith a face ,Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race He confided the orphan, and left them alone In the old lonely house. In a few days l was known, To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on To the banner that bears the white lilies of France, Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance Of restoring their own, had renounced the watch- word .\nd the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate !) By legitimate parents. .\nd meanwhile, elate And in no wise distiubed by what Paris might say. The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away : — " To the life of inaction farewell ! After all. Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall. But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure. In whatever makes death noble, life strong and pure. Freedom ! action ! . . . the desert to breathe in — the lance Of the Arab to follow ! 1 go I I'/a)n<- .'" Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as years fied, 'Twixt the child anil the soldier. The two women led Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child grew Into girlhood ; and. like a sunbeam, sliding through Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl. And as fierfect : a noble and innocent girl. With eighteen sweet summers dissolvetl in the light t">f her lovelv and lovable eyes, soft and bright ! Then her guanlian wrote to the dame, ..." Let Constance CiO with vou to Paris. I trust that in France 1 may be ere the close of the year. I confide 3\Iy life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side. The world which we live in." To Paris then came "AS PURE AS A PEARL, AND AS PERFECT: A NOBLE AND INNOCENT GIRL" Pdinttd bv Tbonijs \hih\iiiie. ns" *^i ;S«^ ^ /: COPYRIGHT 1893 BY FREDERICK A.STOKES COMPANY LUCILE. 109 Constance to abide with that old stately dame In that old stalely Faubour>^. 'rhe young Englishman Thus met her. 'T was there their acquaintance began, There it closed. That old miracle — Love-at-lirst- sight— Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden Nor check'd. the young soldier was graciously bid- den An habitual guest to the house by the dame. His own candid graces, the world-honor'd name Of his father (in him not dishonor'd) were both Fair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath, The old lady observed, was return 'd by Constance. And as the child's uncle his absence from France Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratula- tion) Wrote to him a lengthen'd and movmg narration Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer : His father's fair fame ; the boy's deference to her ; His love for Constance, — unaffected, sincere; And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear Limpid eyes ; then the pleasure with which she awaited Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. At length from that cousin an answer there caine. Brief, stern ; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame. " Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day You receive this. Until my return she may stay At her convent awhile. If my niece w'ishes ever To behold me again, understand, she will never Wed that man. " You have broken faith with me. Farewell !" Xo appeal from that sentence. It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover : The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life, where invisible hands seem'd to trace O'er the threshold, these words ..." Hope no more !" Cnreturn'd Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd That weakness which suffers a woman to lie At tlie roots of man's lift, like a canker, and dry And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there Lay the bitterer part of the pain ! Could he dare To forget he was loved .' that he grieved not alone ? Recording a love that drew sorrow upon The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak. Beat him down, and destroy'd him .■' News reach'd him indeed. Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Constance (a was- one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been kno\vn, A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day. And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. It was then he sought death. XVII. Tluis the tale ends. 'T was told' With such broken, passionate words, as unfold In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each. pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty Haws, .'^T NEEDS NOT TO TELL THE TEARS OF CONSTANCE." The rain shook the canvas, unheeded ; aloof. And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent- roof -At intervals wirbled. And when all was said. The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head. And fell into a feverish slumber. Long while Sat the Soeur Seraphine. in deep thought. The still smile That was wont, angel-wise, to inhal)it her face And make it like heaven, was fled from its place In her eves, on her lips ; and a deep sadness there Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, .\s low to herself she sigh'd . . . ■' Hath it, Eugene, Been so long, then, the struggle.' . . , and yet, all in vain I I lO l.UCII.E. Nay, not all in vain ! Shall the world gain a man, And yt-t Heaven lose a soul ? Have 1 done all I can ? Soul to soul, did lie say ? .Soul to soul, be it so ! And then — sinil of mine, whilluT ? whitlier.'" xvni. Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. " Mw, at least, 1 have fail'd not" . . . she nuised ..." this is well !" She drew from lier Imsoiii two letters. In one, \ mother's h eart . wild with alarm for her son, I'.reathed bitterly forth its despairing;' a|)peal. ■' Tlie (iledge of a love owed to thee, O I.ucile I The hope of a home saved by thee — of .1 heart Which hath never since then (tlirice endear'd as thou art II Ceaseil to bless thee, to pra\- for thee, save ! . . . save my son ! And if not" . . . the letter went broken- Iv on. ThK KAIN SHOUK I Mti t./\.\VA».' 11 en hel 'Then follow'd, from Alfred, a feN\' lilotted heart-broken ]iages. He mournfulh drew, With ]iathos, the picture of that earnest vouth. So unlike his own : how in beauty and truth He had nurtured tliat nature, so simple anil brave ! And how he had striven his son's vouth to save From the errors so sadly redeem 'd in his own. And so deeply rejiented : how thus, in that son. In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seeni'd To be bless'd by a jiledge that the past was re- deem'd. And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak Of the boy's battled love ; in which fate seem'd to break Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain. And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back again The hopes of the future. Tride forbade : and the relent Kxperience rejected . . . To sue for consent hope his old foe might ■ Mv life for the bov's !" (He e.xelaim'd) ; " for I die with my son, if he dies ! Lucile ! Heaven bless you for all you have done ! Sa\e him, sa\e him. I.ucile ! save my son ! sa\e my son !" " .\y !" niurmur'd the Sa-ur Seraphine ..." heart to heart ! There, at least, 1 liave fail'd nut ! I'ultiU'd is mv part ? .Vccomplish'd my mission.' One ait crowns the whole. Ho 1 linger.' Nay, be it so, thru! . . . Soul to soul !" .She knelt down, and pr.iy'il. Still the l)o\' slum- ber'd on. D.iwn brcke. The pale lum from the bedside was gone. XX. Meanw bile, 'mid his aiiles-de-camp, busih bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-oriler'd tent There sits a French Cieneral — bronzed by the sun And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee Had strangely and rapiilly risen to be The idol, the darling, the dream and the star Of the \ounger French chivalr\ : daring in war, .Vnd warv in council. He enter'd. indeed. Late in life (and discariling liis Hourbonite creed) The .Army of France ; anil had risen, in part From a singular aptitude proved for the art Of that wild ilesert warfare of ambush, surprise. And .stratagem, which to the French camp supplies Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; I'arth', too, from a name and position which France Was proud to put forward ; but mainly, in fact. From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, In frequent emergencies startlingly shown. To the rank which he now held, — intrepidly won With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, From tierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. XXI. All within, and without, th.it warm tent .seems to bear Smiling token of provident order and care. All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands In groups rountl the music of mirth-breathing bands. In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro. The messengers come, and the messengers go, I'pon missions of mercv, or errands of toil : To report liow the sapper contends with tlie soil In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring In the hos]ntal tent : and, combining, comparing. Constructing, within moves the brain of one man. Moving all. He is bending his brow o'er some plan For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. The oflicer standing beside him is fain To refer to the angel solicitous cares LUCILE. Ill Of the Sisters of Charity : one he declares To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace : He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place Where suffering is seen, silent, active — the Soeur . . . Soeur . . . how do they call her ? " Ay. truly, of her I have heard much," the General, musing, replies ; '• And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean . . . Ay, how do they call her ? ... the Soeur — Sera- phine. (Is it not so?) I rarely forget names once heard." . "Yes ; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." " On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. 1 fancy I trace. In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace Of an angel : I mean an acute human mind. Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, And, if possible, let her come to me. \Ve shall, 1 think, aid each other." " Out, moil General ; I believe she has lately obtain'd the i)ermission To tend some sick man in the Second Division Of our .Ally : they say a relation." " Ay, so ? A relation .•'" " 'T is said so." " The name do vmi know ?" " .\on, inoii General." While they spoke yet, there went A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. " A Sister of Charity craves, in a case Of urgent and serious importance, the grace Of brief private speech with the General there. Will the General speak with her ?" " Bid her declare Her mission." " .She will not. She craves to be seen And be heard." " Well, iier name then .' ' " The Soeur Seraphine." " Clear the tent. She may enter." XXII. The tent has been clear'd. The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, A sable long silver'd : and press'd down his brow On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, now Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary. As a curtain let fall by a hand that 's grown weary, Into puckers and folds. From his liiis, unrepress'd. Steals th' impatient quick sigh, which reveals in man's breast A conflict conceal'd, an experience .it strife With itself, — the vex'd heart's passing protest on life. He turn'd to his papers. He he.ird the li.ght tread Of a faint foot behind him : and, lifting his head. Said, '■ Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known To the hearts of our soldiers ; nor less to my own. I have much wish'd to see you; I owe )ou some thanks : In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks MURMI'K'u the StF.L'R SKKAfHlNH . HEART." HEART TO 1 record tlu-ni. Sit ! Now then, your mission.'" The nun Paused silent. The General eyed her anon More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd . . . •' Strange ! strange ! Any face should so strongly remind me of her .' Fool ! again the delirium, the dream ! does it stir ? Does it move as of old .' Psha ! 112 LUCILE. ' Like doves to a penthouse." " Sit. Sister ! I wait Your answer, mv time halts hut hurriedly. State The cause why you seek me .'" " The cause ? ay, the cause !" She vag'uely repeated. Then, after a pause, — As one who. awaked unawares, would put back The sleep that forever returns in the track Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the less Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress. Like doves to a penthouse. — a movement she made. Less toward him than away from herself ; droop'd her head And folded her hands on her bosom : long, spare. Fatigued, mournful hands ! Not a stream of stray hair Escaped the pale bands ; scarce more pale than the face Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case. She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague awe O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast. " Eugene de Luvois. The cause which recalls me again to your side. Is a promise that rests unfulliU'd," she reiilied. " I come to fulfil it." He sjirang from the place Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face ; And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the sound Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light Unawares), crept towards her ; one heav\- hand laid On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal Against doubt ; stagger'd backward, and mur- mur'd ..." llucile ! Thus we meet then ? . . . here ! . . . thus ?" " Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, As I pledged )ou my word that we should meet again. Dead, . . .' she murniur'd. " long dead ! all that lived in our lives — Thine and mine — saving that which ev'n life's self survives. The soul ! 'T is my soul seeks thine own. What may reach From my life to thy life (so wide each from each !) Save the soul to the soul .' To thy soul I would speak. May I do so .■'" , He said (work'd and white was his cheek As he raised it), " Speak to me !" Deep, tender, serene. And sad was the gaze which the So£;ur Seraphine Held on him. She spoke. XXIII. As soine minstrel mav fling, Preluding the music yet mute in each string. A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole. Seeking which note most fitly may first move the soul ; And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, Move pathetic in numbers remote ; — even so The voice which was moving the heart of that man Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began. Far awav in the pathos remote of the past ; Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone Una,ccomplish'd from life. He was mute. She went on. And still further down the dim past did she lead Each vielding remembrance, far. far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, Anrl the vallevs of bovhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land ! 'T is the heart of a boy, \\'ith its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy ! The unproved desire — the unaim'd aspiration — The deep conscious life that forestalls consumma- tion ; With ever a flitting delight — one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse. The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree ! Let ages expand The glorious creature ! The ages lie shut (Safe, see I) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf b\ leaf, layer on laver. Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air. So the palm in the palm-seed ! so, slowly — so, wrought LUCILE. "3 Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thoujjht, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. Ah. but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene ! While the leaf 's in the hud, while the stem 's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough. Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest. And take byath the bird and the breeze to its breast. Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed .' Save the man in the boy .' in the thought save the deed ? Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can ! Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man Face out fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. He was dumb. She went one step further. ^Vr Lo ! manhood is come. And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree. And the whirlwind conies after. Now prove we, and see : What shade from t'.ie leaf .-' what support from the branch ? Spreads the leaf broad and fair .' holds the bough strong and stanch .' *' A LIGHT BIkD BENDS THE BRANCH." From the past to the present, though late, I appeal ; To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile !" XXVII. Lucile ! . . . the old name — the old self ! silenced long : Heard once more ! felt once more ! As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature — surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintlv, and far, .Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star. Calling to her forlornly ; and (sadd'ning the psalms - Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms 1) There, he saw hmiself— dark, as he stood on that -phe name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth night, Sigh'd above some lone grave in the lantl of her The last when they met and thev parted : a sight birth ■ For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice I go that one word . . . Lucile ! . . . stirr'd the An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice ; Soeur Seraphine It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. Y^r a liioment. Anon' she resumed her serene Then he said And concentrated calm. (Never looKing at her, never hftmg his head, .. Let the Nun. then, retrace As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd The life of the Soldier !" . . . she said, with a face Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a That glow'd, gladd'ning her words. world, .. -j-Q the Present I come : 'T was a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!" Leave the Past '" There her voice rose, and seem'd ;is when some Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise Of the hero whose brows she is crowning with bays. Step by step did she follow his path from the place Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace (Familiar with all) his, the soldier's e.xistence. tie moodily murmur'd, " and who cares to Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance ; scari Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours : The heart's |)erish'd world, if the world gains a And the same sentinels that ascend the same man ? • towers XXVI. She went on, " So be it ! Perish Babel, arise Babylon ! From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last. And to build up the future Heav'n sh.atlers the past." " Av, 114 LUCILE. Her voice reach'd his heart. And sank lower. She spoke of herself : how, apart And unseen, — far .away, — she had watcli'd.year by year. With how many a blessing, how man\- a tear. .And how many a prayer, e\'er\- stage in the strife : Gucss'd the thought in the deed : traced the love in the life : Bless'd the man in the man's work ! " Tliy work ... oh not mine ! Thine. Lucile !" ... he e.xclaim'd . . . "all the worth of it thine If worth there be in it !" Her answer convey'd His reward, and her own : joy that cannot be said Alone b\- the voice . . . eyes — face — spoke silently All the woman, one grateful emotion I And she A poor Sister of Charity ! hers a life spent In one silent effort for others ! . . . She bent Her divine face above him, and tiU'd up his heart With the look that glow'd from it. Then slow, with soft art, Fix'd her aim. and moved to it. " The Paradise palms." And report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife. Waged alike to the limits of each human life. She went on to speak of the lone moody lord. Shut up in his lone moody halls : ever\- word Held the weight of a tear : she recorded the good He had patiently wrought through a whole neigh- - borhood ; And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor. By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door. There she paused : and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hue Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, Yet working love's work ; reading backwards life's pages For penance ; and stubbornly, many a time. Both missing the moral, and marring the rhvme. Then she spoke of the soldier ! . . . the man's work and fame. The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim ! , Life's inward approval ! He, the soldier humane, He, the hero ; whose heart hid in glory the pain Of a youth disappointed ; whose life had made known The value of man's life ! . . . that youth over- thrown .And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth In another,' his own life of strenuous truth Accomplish 'd in act. had it taught him no care For the life of another .' ... oh no ! ever\'where In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face With some noble token, some generous trace Of his active humanity . . . '■ Well," he replied, ■■ If it be so ?" ■■ I come from the solemn bedside Of a man that is dying," she said. " While we speak, .\ life is in jeopardy." " Quick then ! you seek Aid or medicine, or what .'" " 'T is not needed," she said. " Medicirit .' yes, for the mind ! 'T is a heart that needs aid ! You, Eugene de Luvois. you (and you only) can Save the life of this man. Will you save it ?" " What man .' How .' . . . where ? . . . can you ask ?" She went rapidlv on LUCILE. 115 To her object in brief vivid words . . . The younj; son Of Matilda and Alfred — the boy lying there Half a mile from that tent door — the father's de- spair, The mother's deep anjjuish — the ])ride of the boy In the father — the father's one hope and one joy In the son : — the son now — wounded. d\mg ! She told Of the father's stern struggle with life ; the boy's bold, Pure, and beautiful nature : the fair life before him If that life were but spared . . . yet a word might restore him ! The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene ! Its pathos: the girl's love for him ; how, half slain In his tent she had found him : won from him the tale ; Sought to nurse back his life ; found lur efforts still fail ; Beaten back bv a love that was stronger than life ; Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife Wherein England and Fr.ince in their best blood, at last. Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the past. And shall nations be nobler than men ? Are not great Men the models of nations? For what is a state But the niany's confused imitation of one ? Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance An innocent life, — here, when England and France Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore. And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent gore .■' She went on to tell how the boy had clung still To life, for the sake of life's uses, until From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, stricken down By the news that the heart of Constkncc, like his own. Was breaking beneath , , . But there " Hold ! " he exclaim'd. Interrupting, " forbear !" . . . his whole face was inflamed With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke. Had been gathering silent — at last the storm l)roke In grief or in wrath. . . . " T is to him, then, " he cried, . . . Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, " That I owe these late greetings — for him you are here — For his sake you seek me — for him, it is clear. You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again Of this long-forgotten existence I" " Eugene !" " Ha ! fool that I was !" , . , he went on, , . . " and just now, While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow Almost boyish again, almost sure of o/ie friend I Yet this was the meaning of all — this the end ! Be it so ! There' s a sort of slow justice (admit !) In this — that the word that man's linger hath writ In lire on my heart. I return him at last. Let him learn that word — Never !" " Ah, still to the past Must the present be vassal ?" she said. " In the hour We last parted I urged you to put forth the power Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. Yours, the promise to strive: mine, — to watch o'er the strife. I foresaw you would conquer ; you /itnv conquer'd much. Much, indeed, that is noble ! I hail it as such. And am here to record and applaud it. I saw Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois. One peril — one point where I fear'd vou would fail To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail. — Himself; and I promised that, if I should see Mv champion once falter, or bend the brave knee. That moment would bring me again to his side. That moment is come ! for that peril was pride. And you falter. I plead for yourself, and one other, For that gentle child without father or mother. To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, For your own nobler nature — and plead for Con- stance !" At the sound of that name he averted his head. " Constance ! . , . Ay, she enter'd my lone life" (he said) ■■ When its sun was long set; and hung over its night Her own starry childhood. I have but that light. In the midst of much darkness ! Who names me but she With titles of love ? and what rests there for me In the silence of age save the voice of that child .' The child of my own better life, undetiled ! My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts !" " Say," Said the Soeur Seraphine — " are you able to lay Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man And swear that, whatever may happen, you can Feel assured for the life you thus cherish .'" '• How so ?" He look'd up, " If the lioy should die thus ? " " Yes, I know What your look would imply . . . this sleek stran- ger forsooth ! Because on his cheek w'as the red rose of youth The heart of my niece must break for it !" She cried, " Nay, but hear me yet further I" With slow heavy stride. Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, He was muttering low to himself as he went. ir6 LUCILE. " Ay, these young things He safe in our heart just so long As their wings are in growing ; and when these are strong They break it, and farewell ! the bird flies !" . . . The nun Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, " The sun Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus ! oh, yet Let this day upon one final victor)' set. And complete a life's conquest !" He said, " Understand ! If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose hand My heart hath been robb'd. she is lost to my life I Can her home be my home ? Can I claim in the wife Of that man's son the child of my age ? At her side Shall he stand on my hearth ? Shall I sue to the bride Of . . . enough ! " Ah, and you immemorial halls Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet falls On my fancy, and fuses hope, memorj-, past. Present, — all, in one silence ! old trees to the blast Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days. Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the wind Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far years Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with tears ! Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone Rouse your echoes .''" " O think not," she said, " of the son Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only think Of this young human creature, that cries from the brink Of a gra\'e to your merc\- ! " Recall your own words (Words my memory mournfully ever records !) How with love may be wreck'd a whole life ! then. Eugene, Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once again At this young soldier sinking from life here — dragg'd down By the weight of the love in his heart : no renown, No fame comforts him .' nations shout not above The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love Which life has rejected ! W'lW you stand apart.' You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart ! You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won. By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth. Such as lies at your door now : who have but, in truth. To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word. And by that word you rescue a life !" He was stirr'd. Still he sought to put from him the cup ; bow'd his face On his hand ; and anon, as though wishing to chase With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside. He sprang U|), brush'd past her, and bitterly cried, " No ! — Constance wed a Vargrave ! — I cannot con- sent !" Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. The low tent, In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the height From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light Of their deep silent sadness upon him. No wonder He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under The compulsion of that grave regard ! For between The Due de Luvois and the Soeur Seraphine At that moment there rose all the height of one soul O'er another ; she look'd down on him from the whole Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days, There were long months and years in that heart- searching gaze ; And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrill'd through And transfi.x'd him. " Eugene de Luvois, but for you, I might have been now — not this wandering nun. But a mother, a wife — pleading, not for the son Of another, but blessing some child of my own. His, — the man's that I once loved ! . . . Hush ! that which is done I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That 's best Which God sends. 'T was His will : it is mine. And the rest Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads In your heart — He that judges of all thoughts and deeds. With eyes, mine forestall not ! This only I say : You have not the right (read it, you, as you may !) To say . . . ' I am the wrong'd.' "... " Have 1 wrong'd thee? — wrong'd tln-e !" He falter'd. " Lucile. ah, Lucile !" " Nay, not me," .She murmur'd, " but man ! The lone nun standing here Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the sphere Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she^ Thedead woman. Lucile, she whose grave is in me, Demands from her grave reparation to man. Reparation to God. Heed. O heed, while you can This voice from the grave !" " Hush !" he moan'd, " I obey THEN UP ROSE THE SCEUR SERAPHINE. PaiiitcLl by Tboiius Mcilvjiiic. -V % \ 1 LUCILE. 117 The Soeur Seraph ine. There, Lucile ! let this pay Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on : I follow you, Soeur Seraphine ! ... To the son Of Lord Alfred Vargrave . . . and then," . . . As he spoke He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd, Of the city beneath them . . . " Then, there, underground, And valete et plaudit e, soon as may be ! XXXT. Between those sick eyes and the sun A shadow fell thwart. XXXII. 'T is the pale nun once more ! But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door ? How oft had he watch'd through the glor\- and gloom Let the old tree go down to the earth— the old tree. Of the battle, with long, longing looks that dim W ith the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young shoot .' A Vargrave ! . . . this pays all . . . Lead on ! . . . In the seed Save the forest ! . . . " I follow . . . forth, forth ! where vou lead." plume Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd » To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd I How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about The dreams it still scared ! through what fond fear and doubt ■■ The day was declining.' XXX. The day was declining ; a day sick and damp. In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly camp Of the English. Alone in his dim. spectral tent (Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting, Cross'd the silence between him and death, which seem'd near. — " Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd ! else, how bear This intense and intolerable solitude. With its eye on my heart and its hand on niv blood .' Pulse by pulse ! Day goes down : yet she comes not again. Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain. Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange ! and scarcely feel sad. Oh, to think of Constance thus, and not to go mad ! But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his own Dull doings . . ." Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero ! (What 's like A boy's love for some famous man }) . . . Oh, to strike A wild path through the battle, down striking per- chance Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, And so fall in his glorious regard ! . . . Oft, how oft Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft The dim battle that jjluine dance and dart — never seen So near till this moment ! how eager to glean Ever)- stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise Of his hero — each tale of old venturous days In the desert ! And now . . . could he speak out his heart Face to face with that man ere he died I XXXIII. With a start The sick soldier sprang uji : the blood sprang up in him. ii8 LUCILE. To his throat, and o'erthrew him : he reerd back : a dim Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within. Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun) Point to him and nuirmur, " Behold !" Then that plume Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fad- off in the gloom Which momently put out the world. XXXIV. To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . " Ah !" . . . he sigh'd, If I knew any means . . . but I know none! . . . I swear. If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for mv grief (could that be !) To include it ! Not too late, however, for me To entreat : is it too late for you to forgive ? The Dcke. You wrong — my forgiveness — explain. The Bov. Could I live ! Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter ! . . . Yes. Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence. 'Persistent and wild as int winu amj int kain.' " The smooth brow, the fair A'argrave face ! and those eyes. All the mother's ! The old things again ! '■ Do not rise. You suffer, young man ?" The Boy. Sir, I die The Dl-ke. Not so young ! The Bov. So young ? yes ! and yet I have tangled ai'nong The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein , . . but it will not. Yes. Duke, young — so >oung ! And I knew you not ? yet I have done vou a wrong Irreparable ! . . . late.'too late to repair. Ah ! you could not surmise That a hoy's beating heart, burning thoughts, long- ing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not !) While the battle was flowing between us : nor what Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went With the wind and the rain, round and round vour blind tent. Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain. Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain ! Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent ! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which s.iid . . . "Off! he is there !" I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low- Other footsteps (not those !i must soon bear to the grave. But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. Duke, I swear. LUCILE. ng As I lie here (Death's angel too close not to hear !l, That I meant not this wrong' to you. Due dc Luvois, I loved your niece — loved ? why, I hn'e her ! I saw, And, seeing, how could I but love her ? I seem'd Born to love her. Alas, were that all ! Had I dreani'd Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend ... Oh why, wliilst there was room In life left for w'arning, had no one the heart To warn me ? Had any one whisper'd ..." De- part !" To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse ! Had any one hinted ..." Beware of the curse Which is coming !" There was not a \oice raised to tell. Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell. And then . . . then the blow fell on both! This is wh\' I implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you. Heaven knows How unwittingly ! Thic Duke. .W\ ! . . . and, young soldier, suppose That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon .' — Of yourself. The Bov. The Duke. The Bov. Of whom ? Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb No boyish resentment ; not one lonely thought That honors you not. In all this there is naught 'T is for me to forgive. Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. And have I- not hoarded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life } Nay, all these. Were they so many lying and false witnesses. Does there rest not om voice, which was never untrue .' I believe in Consiknce. Duke, as she does in you ! In this great world around us, wherever we turn. Some grief irremetliable we discern ; And yet — there sits God, calm in Heaven above ! Do we trust one whit less in His justice or love? I judge not. The Duke. Enough ! Hear at last, then, the truth. Your father and I — foes we were in our youth. It matters not why. Yet thus much understand : The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his hand. I was not of those whom the buffets of fate Tame and teach : and my heart buried slain love in hate. If your own frank young heart, vet unconscious of all Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to sail, And unable to guess even aught that the furrow Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, 'T will at least comprehend how intense was the strife Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby I seek in the son of my youth's enemy The friend of my age. Let the present release Here acquitted the past I In the name of my niece. Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give. Are you great enough, bov, to forgive me, — and ■ live? Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy : As when some stormy moon, in .i long cloud con- tined. Struggles outward through shadows, the varying wind Alternates, and liursts, self-surprised, from her prison, .So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb ; A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him. With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank On the breast of the nun, who stood near. " Yes, boy ! thank This gu.irdian angel." the Duke said. " I — you. We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live ! be true To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake ! " " Yes, Duke : I will live. I must live — live to make My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, " For joy does not kill !" Back again the faint head Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw And leave them a moment together. He eyed Them both with a wistful regard ; turn'd, and sigh'd. And lifted the tent-door, and jjass'd from the tent. I20 LUCILE. Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occident From its liot seetliing levels a great glare struck up On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise. Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and ting'd with strange dyes, Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird shapes As of snakes, salamander^, efts, lizards, storks. apes. Chimeras, and hydras : whilst — ever the same — In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his flame, And changed by his in- fluence!) c h angeless, as when, Ere he lit down to death gen- erations of men, O'er that crude and ungain- ly creation, which there With wild shapes this cloud-world seem 'd to mimic in air. The eye of Heaven's all -judg- ing; wit- iii-ss, he - shone. And shall shine on the ages we reach not — the *' Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day." XXXVI. Nature posted her parable thus in the skies. And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors arise And fall, pass and change, group themselves and revolve Round the great central life, which is Love : these dissolve And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there terror ; And the phantasmagoria of infinite error. And endless complexity, lasts but a while ; Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile Of God, on the soul, in the deep heart of Heaven Lives changeless, unchanged ; and our morning and even Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. XXXVII. While he yet Watch'J the skies, with this thought in his heart ; while he set Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and wind, And embraced the new life which that hour had reveal'd, — Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and con- ceal'd ; Lucile left the tent and stood by him. Her tread Aroused him ; and, turning towards her, he said : " O Sceur Seraphine, are you happy.'" " Eugene, What is happier than to have hoped not in vain ?" She answer'd, — " And you ?" " Yes." " You do not repent }" "No." ■■ Thank Heaven !" she murmur'd. He musinglv bent His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart Where he stood, sigh'd,as though to his innermost heart, " O blessed are they, amongst whom I was not. Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot. Predicts a pure evening ; who, sunlike, in light Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set . bright !" But she in response, " Mark yon ship far away. Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day. With all its hush'd thunders shut up ! Would you know A thought which came to me a few days ago. Whilst watching those ships .' . . . When the great Ship of Life Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strife Of earth's angry element, — masts broken short. Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten — drives safe into port. When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand. Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand ; When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar. The mariner turns to his rest evermore ; What will then be the answer the helmsman must give? Will it be . . . ' Lo our log-book I Thus once did we li\-e In the zones of the South ; thus we traversed the seas Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides ; Thence foUow'd the west wind ; here, eastward we turn'd ; The stars fail'd us there ; just here land we dis- cern'd LUCILE. 121 On our lee ; there the storm overtook us at last ; That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast ; There the mermen came round us, and there we saw bask A siren? ' The Captain of Port will he ask Any one of such questions ? I cannot think so ! But ..." What is the last Bill of Health you can show ? ' Not — How fared the soul through the trials she pass'd ? But — What is the state of that soul at the last ?" " May it be so !" he sigh'd. " There ! llie sun drops, behold !" And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip Of a long reef of cloud ; and o'er sullen ravines And ridges the raw damps were hanging white screens Of melancholy mist. " Nunc diinHtis !" she said> "O God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days Returning, admit space for prayer and for praise. In both these confirm us ! " The helmsman, Eugene, Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. Again We two part : each to work out Heav'n's will : you, trust. In the world's ample witness ; and I, as I must. In secret and silence : you, love, fame, await ; Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at.one gate When all 's over. The ways they are many and wide, And seldom are two ways the same. Side by side May we stand at the same little door when all 's done ! The ways they are many, the end it is one. He that knocketh shall'enter : who asks shall ob- tain : And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eu- gene !" She turn'd to depart. '■ Whither? whither?" he said. She stretch'd forth her hand where, already out- spread On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw The French camp-fires kindling. " O Due de Luvois, See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart Made as one man's by one hope ! That hope 't is your part To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse : Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse. 1 go to my work : you to yours." XXXVIII. Whilst she spoke, On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun. '■ Our chasseurs are at it !" he mutter'd. She turn'd. Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. He faintly discern 'd Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists : by and by The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more. XXXIX. Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish 'd, is o'er. The mission of genius on earth ! To uplift. Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift. The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. The mission of genius : to watch, and to wait, To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. The mission of woman on earth ! to give birth To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. The mission of woman : permitted to bruise The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse. Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse, The blessing which mitigates all : born to nurse. And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile. A power hid in pathos : a fire veil'd in cloud : Yet still burning outward : a branch which, though bow'd By the bird in its pas.sage, springs upward again : Through all symbols I search for her sweetness — in vain ! Judge her love by her life, For our life is but love In act. Pure was hers : and the dear God above, Who knows what His creatures have need of for life. And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shore Of the great sea which hushes it U]) evermore With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course. But what some land is gladden 'd. No star ever rose And set, without intluence somewhere. Who knows 122 LUCILE. What earth needs from earth's lowest creature ? No Ufe Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the Face that niaUes glorious their own. Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow. Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make wear>'. The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary .' Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo ; He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. XLI. The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog ; The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chain'd dog. The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without. War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt ; All within, light, warmth, calm ! In the twilight, longwhile Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile Linger'd. looking, and listening, lone by the tent. 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