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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Xucile. 
 
 ** Mb^, let tbe etrmen Deer go weep, v 
 
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 must sleep : 
 
 Cbus runs tbe worlD awa^." 
 
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 ■WOMAN' AI.ONE ON A SHELF OF THE HILL. — See page 85 
 
Collect icn of " I\Iaste7-pieces ' 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH 
 
 Lucile 
 
 IVith iiiiniaroHs original illnsfrations by 
 
 FRANK M. GREGORY 
 
 
 ' ' i ■ S 189S 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 Frederick A. Stokes Company 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Li 
 
 Copyright^ 1895 
 
 By FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY, 
 
 Prititcd in America. 
 
 U'^L-htL 
 
Xucile. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Letter from the Comtesse de Nevers to Lord 
 
 Alfred Vargrave. 
 " I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told 
 You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, 
 So long since you may have forgotten it now, 
 (When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers 
 
 to grow,) 
 Your last words recorded a pledge — what you will — 
 A promise — the time is now come to fulfil. 
 The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, 
 I desire to receive from your hand. You discern 
 My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. 
 The distance to Luchon is short. I remain 
 A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, per- 
 chance, 
 Will forego one brief page from the summer 
 
 romance 
 Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your 
 
 place 
 At her feet, in the light of her fair English face. 
 I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel 
 I desire nothing much. 
 
 " Your friend always, 
 
 " Lucile." 
 
I AM TOLD YOU ARE GOING TO MAKRY MISS DARCV. 
 
Now in May Fair, of course, — in the fair month of 
 
 May— 
 When life is abundant, and busy, and gay . 
 When the markets of London are noisy about 
 Young ladies, and strawberries, — " only just out: " 
 Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves. 
 And young ladies, on sale for the strawberry leaves: 
 When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd notes 
 Fly about like white butterflies — gay little motes 
 In the sunbeam of Fashion ; and even Blue Books 
 Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as 
 
 rooks ; 
 And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and 
 
 stern, 
 Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn. 
 Those lots which so often decide if our day 
 Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay) 
 Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or 
 
 other 
 Than Cadmus, himself, put together, to bother 
 The heads of Hellenes ; — I say, in the season 
 Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason 
 Why, when quietly munching your dry-toast and 
 
 butter. 
 Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter 
 At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd 
 In a woman's hand writing containing, half guess'd , 
 An odor of violets faint as the Spring, 
 And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring. 
 But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection, 
 When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejec- 
 tion ; 
 Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease. 
 Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, 
 
Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath, 
 A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, 
 A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation. 
 Are all a man finds for his day's occupation. 
 The whole case, believe me, is totally changed, 
 And a letter may alter the plans we arranged 
 Over-night, for the slaughter of Time — a wild beast, 
 
 LORD ALFRED WAS STARTLED. 
 
 Which, though classified yet by no naturalist. 
 Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, 
 j\nd more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the 
 Bear. 
 
III. 
 I marvel less, therefore, that, having- already 
 Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady, 
 Lord Alfred was startled. 
 
 The month is September; 
 Time, morning-; the scene at Bigorre; (pray 
 
 remember 
 These facts, gentle reader, because I intend 
 To fling all the unities by at the end.) 
 He waik'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 the' teasing 
 Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleas- 
 
 ingf : 
 And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it, 
 To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd 
 " Confound it ! " 
 
 What the thoug-hts were which led to this bad 
 
 interjection. 
 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. 
 
 Cousin John. 
 A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool ! 
 Lord Alfred, 
 
 Who? 
 
LUC I LE 
 
 John. 
 
 The man who has anything better to do ; 
 And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades 
 His position as Man, to this worst of all trades. 
 Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, 
 To travel about with a woman in love,— 
 Unless she's in love with himself. 
 
 Indeed ! why 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Are you here then, dear Jack ? 
 
 John. 
 
 Can't you guess it? 
 Alfred. 
 
 Not I. 
 John. 
 Because I have nothing that's better to do. 
 I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you. 
 On the whole (I must own), than be bored by myself. 
 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 asleep 
 For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four? 
 
 Alfred. 
 What's the matter? 
 
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 Eiijhteen, 
 Is entitled to take in this very small star, 
 Already too crowded, as / think, by far. 
 You read Malthus 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, Virorum ! the case 
 Wholly passes my patience. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 My own is worse tried. 
 John. 
 Yours, Alfred ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Read this, if you doubt, and decide. 
 
 John {7-L'ading- ike letter). 
 " F hear f7-oin Bigorre you are there. I am told 
 Yojt are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old — " 
 What is this? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Read it on to the end, and you'll know. 
 
 John {coiitim/es reading^). 
 " IVhen ive parted^your last ivords recorded a voiv — 
 What yo2i will "... 
 
55 LUC I LE . 
 
 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 discern. 
 
 John {continues). 
 *' Those letter's I ask you., my lord^ to return.'''' . . . 
 Humph ! . . . Letters ! . . . the matter is worse 
 
 than I guess'M ; 
 I have my misgivings- 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Well, read out the rest, 
 And advise. 
 
 John. 
 Eh ? . . . Where was I ? , . . 
 {continues^ 
 
 " Miss Darcy, ferchance. 
 Will forego one brief page from the suintiier 
 
 romance 
 Of her courtship.'''' . . . 
 
 Egad ! a romance, for my part, 
 I'd forego every page of, and not break my heart I 
 
 Alfred. 
 Continue ! 
 
 John {reading.) 
 " A nd spare you one day from your place 
 At her feet." . . . 
 
 Pray forgive me the passing grimace. 
 I wish you had .mv place : 
 
 {reads) 
 
 '■ I trust you iv ill feel 
 I desire nothing much Your frieJid.'''' . . . 
 
 Bless me ! " Luc He " ? 
 The Comtesse de Nevers ? 
 
Alfred. 
 
 Yes. 
 John. 
 
 What will you do? 
 
 Al.P'RED. 
 
 You ask me just what I would rather ask you. 
 
 John, 
 You can't go. 
 
 Alfred. 
 I must. 
 
 John. 
 
 And Matilda? 
 Alfred. 
 
 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 tinish'd my breakfast, of course I receive 
 A message for " dear Cousin John .'"... I must 
 
 leave 
 At the jeweller's the bracelet w\i\z\\ you broke last 
 
 night ; 
 I must call for the music. " Dear Alfred is right : 
 The black shawl looks best : ivill 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 ; 
 Will I see the dog-doctor? " Hang Beau ! I will 
 not. 
 
 Alfred. 
 Tush, tush ! this is serious. 
 
John. 
 
 It is, 
 Alfred. 
 
 Very well, 
 You must think — 
 
 John. 
 What excuse will you make, tho' ? 
 Alp"ked. 
 
 Oh, tell 
 Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits, Jack ! . . . 
 
 the deuce I 
 Can you not stretch your genius to tit 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. 
 
 My dear fellow, 
 Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello, 
 
 Alfred. 
 You joke. 
 
 John. 
 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 ; 
 
L U C I L E . T I 
 
 Of the years 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 we 
 
 should live 
 With the living so lightly, and learn to survive 
 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 ? 
 
 John. 
 Nonsense ! 
 
 Alfred. 
 Not wholly. The man who gets up 
 A fill'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 luxurious things ; 
 Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but 
 
 half tasted, 
 Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune ; who 
 
 hath wasted 
 
12 L U C I L E . 
 
 One part of life's grand possibilities ; — friend. 
 That man will bear with him, be sure, to the end, 
 A blighted experience, a rancor within : 
 You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. 
 
 John'. 
 I see you remember the cynical story 
 Of that wicked old piece of Experience — a hoary 
 Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed 
 (Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led. 
 And observing, with no small amount of surprise. 
 Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) 
 Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind : 
 "Well, . . . no," . . . says Lothario, " I think not. 
 
 I find, 
 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 flight from this world. 
 Alfred. 
 
 Well, Regret or Remorse, 
 Which is best ? 
 
 John. 
 Why, Regiet. 
 
 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 
 //as been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang 
 Regret ! 
 
 John. 
 Bref ! you mean, then, to go ? 
 
L I- C I L E . 
 
 ^P -■^. 
 
 
 Alfred, 
 
 v 
 
 ^* • BreJ ! I do. 
 
 
 ' /",•"■* John. 
 
 
 j^ Sl\ One word . . . stay ! 
 
 / , i J 
 
 l' Are you really in love with Matilda ? 
 
 I'r' 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 
 Love, eh ? 
 
 
 What a question ! Of course. 
 
 n 
 
 John. 
 
 
 Wc7'e you really in love 
 
 1 
 
 With Madame de Nevers ? 
 
 she's 
 
 PRETTY ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 What ; Lucile ? No. by Jove 
 
 
 Never reni/y. 
 
 
 Johm 
 
 
 She's pretty ? 
 
14 L U C I L E . 
 
 Alfred, 
 
 Decidedly so. 
 At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. 
 Ac soft, and as sallow as Autumn— with hair 
 Neither black, nor yet 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. 
 Eyes — the wistful gazelle's ; the fine foot of a fairy ; 
 And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white and 
 
 airy ; 
 A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows. 
 Something in her there was, set you thinking of 
 
 those 
 Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that hectic 
 
 and deep 
 Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep. 
 
 John. 
 Coquette ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Not at all. 'T was her one fault. Not she ! 
 I had loved her the better, had she less loved me. 
 The heart of a man's like that delicate weed 
 Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed, 
 Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. 
 'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact. 
 
 John. 
 Women change so. 
 
 Alfred. 
 Of course. 
 John 
 
 And, unless rumor errs, 
 I believe that, la st year, the Comtesse de Nevers* 
 
 * O Shakespeare ! how couldst thou ask " What's in 
 
 a name ? " 
 'T is the devil's in it. when a bard has to frame 
 
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 
 Herengaf^ement, 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. 
 
 John. 
 Most likely. How was it ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 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'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. 
 
 English rhymes for alliance with names that are 
 
 French : 
 And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I 
 
 trench 
 All too far on that license which critics refuse, 
 With just rijiht, to accord to a well-brought-up 
 
 Muse. 
 Yet, iho' faulty the union, in many a line, 
 'Twixt my British-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. 
 
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry. 
 
 I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I har- 
 
 den'd. 
 At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. 
 She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. 
 I swore she taik'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd 
 
 treason. 
 In short, my dear fellow, 't was time, as you see, 
 Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'T was 
 
 she 
 By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. 
 She releas'd me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she 
 
 thought. 
 With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course. 
 The occasion to fiy in a rage, mount my horse, 
 And declare myself uncomprehended. And so 
 We parted. The rest of the story you know. 
 
 John. 
 No, indeed. 
 
 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. Itxieranged 
 All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed 
 Wrote 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 
 Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. 
 I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet 
 Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret ; 
 I ask to renew the ergagement. 
 
John. 
 
 And she ? 
 Alfred. 
 Reflects, but declines. 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. 
 
 Pray go on. 
 Alfred. 
 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 days. 
 When Love leaves them bankrupt. 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 I had never before, my dear John) 
 Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho ! now, Jack, 
 You know all. 
 
 John {after a pause). 
 You are really resolved to go back ? 
 Alfred. 
 Eh, where? 
 
 John. 
 
 To that worst of all places — the past. 
 You remember Lot's wife ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 'T was a promise when last 
 We parted. My honor is pledged to it. 
 
John. 
 
 Well, 
 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. 
 
 My lord 
 Your lordship's obedient ! I really can't do . . . 
 
 Alfred. 
 You wish then to break off my 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 promise my honor is pledged to ? 
 
 John i^kuviming). 
 
 " Off, off. 
 And away! said the stranger'"' . . . 
 Alfred. 
 
 Oh, good ! oh. you scoff ! 
 John. 
 At what, my dear Alfred ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 At ali things ! 
 John. 
 
 Indeed > 
 
Alfred. 
 Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed : 
 That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you: I see 
 You have no feeling left in you, even for me ! 
 At honor you jest ; you are cold as a stone 
 To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have 
 
 none ; 
 You have lost faith in ail things. You carry a 
 
 blight 
 About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight 
 Of such callous indifference, who could be calm ? 
 I must leave you at once. Jack, or else the last 
 
 balm 
 That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall. 
 Heartless, cold, unconcern'd . . . 
 John. 
 Have you done ? Is that all ?' 
 Well, then, listen to me ! I presume when you 
 
 made 
 Up your mind to propose 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 m^iss 
 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. 
 
 Perchance 
 
She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken romance. 
 When women begin to feel youth and their beauty 
 Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty 
 To let nothing else slip away unsecured 
 Which 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 why must yoti 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 hufif. 
 Three days, do you say? But in three days who 
 
 knows 
 What may happen ? I don't, nor do you, I suppose. 
 
 Of all the good things in this good world around us. 
 The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us, 
 
L L' C I L E . 2T 
 
 And which, for that reason, we least care about, 
 And can best spare our friends, is good counsd, no 
 
 doubt. 
 But advice, when 't is 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, tlie 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, sadly 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'd), whose di- 
 mension 
 Excluded large outfits ; and, cursing his stars, he 
 Shook hands with his friend and return'd to Miss 
 Darcy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd. 
 Ere he lock'd up and quitted his chamber, dis- 
 
 cern'd 
 ■Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright 
 In what Virgil has call'd ' Youth's purpurea! 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 surprise. 
 
And her round youthful tigrure, and fair neck, below 
 The dark drooping 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 tine English mare, I should much have re- 
 gretted 
 Whatever might lose me one little half-hour 
 Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my power. 
 For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky 
 
 Way 
 Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare say. 
 Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh 
 With which Alfred Vargrave now watch'd her ride 
 I can only affirm that, in watching her ride, [by. 
 As he turn'd from the window, he certainly sigh'd. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 Letter froi\i Lord Alfred Vargrave to the 
 
 COMTESSE DE NeVERS. 
 
 " Bigorre, Tuesday. 
 " Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, 
 And commands (need I add ?) my obedience. Be- 
 fore 
 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. Vargrave. 
 
 " I leave 
 In an hour." 
 
discekn'u math. da kide by. 
 
II. 
 In an hour trom the Lime he 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 
 (Because, 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, one and 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 they pass. 
 To label them broadly in plain black and white 
 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 Leonardo 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 
 
25 
 
 Irreclaimable days ; but in these days of ours, 
 In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. 
 Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulder sees more 
 Than the 'live giant's eyesight avail'd to explore ; 
 And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be 
 To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. 
 A Vanini 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 sweeps him hurriedly out of your com- 
 ment ; 
 And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) 
 'Mid our fellows 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 irresolute finger he knock'd at each one 
 Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. 
 His course, by each star that would cross it, was 
 set. 
 
26 L U C I L E . 
 
 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, 
 Appear'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 wherever he goes. 
 
 Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable. 
 
 Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave 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 aluminous curtain, 
 
 Vague, flitting, but on it forever impressing 
 
 The shape of some substance at which you stand 
 
 guessing : 
 When you said, "All is worthless and weak here," 
 
 behold ! 
 Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold 
 Great outlines of strenuous truth in the man : 
 
When you said, "This is genius," the outlines 
 
 grew wan. 
 And his life, though in all things so gifted and 
 
 skill'd, 
 Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fulfill'd. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 th3 power he lack'd power to support. 
 Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at the 
 
 court, 
 In his converse this man for self-comfort appeal'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, 
 Vast, 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 
 Lender clefts of the hills, which, convulsing the 
 
 world. 
 Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent 
 
 caverns above, 
 To trouble at times in the light court of Jove 
 All its frivolous 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 many-gifted had gone to uplift 
 
L U C I L E . . 29 
 
 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 reconciled ; 
 
 When each influence now from experience exiled 
 
 Should have seized on his being, combined with 
 his nature, 
 
 And form'd, as by fusion, a new human creature : 
 
 As when those airy elements viewless to sight 
 
 (The amalgam of which, if our science be right, . 
 
 The germ of this populous planet doth fold) 
 
 Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold ! 
 
 Where a void seem'd before, there a substance ap- 
 pears, 
 
 From the fusion of forces whence issued the 
 spheres I 
 
 But the permanent cause why his life fail'd and 
 miss'd 
 
 The full value of life was,— where man should re- 
 sist 
 
 The world, which man's genius 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— 
 
30 
 
 " Let any man once show the world that he feels 
 Afraid of its bark, and 't will fiy at his heels : 
 Let him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone : 
 But 'twill 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 
 Watch'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, 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 (by this on his journeying far) 
 Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar, 
 And brokenly humming an old opera strain. 
 And thinking, perchance, of those castles in Spain 
 Which that long rocky barrier hid from his sight ; 
 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 
 L'^p 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 
 
 Now and then) his erectness ; and looking, not 
 
 ruder 
 Than such inroad would warrant, survey'd the in- 
 truder. 
 Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glory 
 My hero, and finish'd abruptly this story. 
 
 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 apology, touch'd with surprise, 
 He lifted his hat, bow'd and courteously made 
 Some excuse in such weli-cadenced French as be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 At the tirst word he spoke, the Parisian. 
 
 I swear 
 
 I have wander'd about in the world everywhere ; 
 
 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 fel- 
 lows 
 
 Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd 
 jealous. 
 
32 L U C I L E . 
 
 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 via toicte ckerie^ 
 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 
 
 Je faiine. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Italians have voices like peacocks ; the Spanish 
 Smell, I fancy, of garlic ; the Swedish and Danish 
 Have something too Runic, too rough and unshod, 
 
 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, 
 By the wild way in which my heart inwardly flut- 
 
 ter'd. 
 That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been 
 
 ulter'd ; 
 And whene'er I hear French spoken as I approve, 
 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 seem'd. with each other, the two men abreast 
 Rode on slowly a moment. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Strangek. 
 
 I see, Sir, you are 
 A smoker. Allow me ! 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Pray take a cigar. 
 Stranger. 
 
 Many thanks ! . . . Such cigars are a luxury here. 
 Do 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 !) 
 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. 
 
34 
 
 In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows 
 
 That makes all men brothers that use it . . . who 
 knows ? 
 
 That blaze which erewhile from the Botclevart out- 
 broke, 
 
 It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir, — in smoke. 
 
 Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write) 
 
 Have done more in their way human kind to unite, 
 
 Perchance, than ten Prudhons. 
 Stranger. 
 
 Yes. Ah, what a scene \ 
 Alfred. 
 
 Humph ! Nature is here too pretentious. Her 
 mien 
 
 Is too hauijhty. One likes to be coax'd, not com- 
 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 stav at Luchon ? 
 
A day or two only. 
 
 Already ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 The season is done. 
 Alfred. 
 
 Stranger. 
 'Twas 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 slie is seen ; 
 The belle of all Paris last winter ; last spring 
 The belle of all Baden. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 An uncommon thing- 
 Stranger. 
 Sir, an uncommon beauty ! . . . I rather should 
 
 say. 
 An uncommon character. Truly, eacli day 
 One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers. 
 But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. 
 
Alfked. 
 Madame de Nevers ! 
 
 Stkangeu. 
 
 Do you know her ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I know, 
 Or, rather, I knew her — a long time ago. 
 I ahnosL forget. . . . 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 What a wit ! what a grace 
 In her language ! her movements ! what play in lier 
 
 face ! 
 And yet what a sadness she seems tO conceal I 
 
 Alfred. 
 You speak like a lover. 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 I speak as I feel, 
 Rut not like a lover. What interests me so 
 In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know. 
 To give to that interest, whatever 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. But this sadness — iliis 
 
 shade 
 Which you speak of ? . . . it almost would make me 
 
 afraid 
 Your gay countrymen. Sir. less adroit must have 
 
 grown. 
 
I. I) C I L E . 37 
 
 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 use), or fulfil 
 
 This desire (if desire be 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 your 
 
 nation. 
 I presume — and if so, I must beg you, indeed, 
 To excuse the contempt which I . . . 
 Alfred. 
 
 Pray, Sir, proceed 
 With your tale. My compatriot, what was his 
 crime ? 
 
 Stranger. 
 Oh. nothing I 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. 
 
 How ? 
 Straxger. 
 I own I hate Botany. Still, . . . I admit. 
 Although I myself 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, 
 V.'iih a ruthless dissection ; since he, I suppose, 
 Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief 1 e 
 docs. 
 
L U C I L E 
 
 But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots 
 The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots, 
 For a boy's brutal pastime, and only because 
 He knows no distinction 'tvvixt heartsease and 
 
 haws, — 
 One would wish, for the sake of each nursling so 
 
 nipp'd. 
 To catch the young rascal and have him well 
 
 whipp'd .' 
 
 Alfred. 
 Some compatriot of mine, do I then understand, 
 With a cold Northern heart, and a rude English 
 
 hand. 
 Has injured your rosebud of France? 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 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 I gaze on the face of Lucile, 
 With its pensive and passionless languor. I 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 : yon 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 ! „ o „ I see you have finislrd, at last, your 
 
 cigar. 
 Can I offer another ? 
 
Stranger. 
 
 No, thank you. We are 
 Not two miles from Luchon. 
 Alfred. 
 
 You know the road well .> 
 Stranger. 
 I have often been over it. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Here a pause fell 
 On their converse. Still musingly on, side by 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 revery. 
 Almost shouted, descending the mountam, 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 — thequaint 
 
 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, deep-shelter'd with 
 
 screens 
 Of airy acacias and dark evergreens. 
 They could mark the white dresses, and catch the 
 
 light sonafs. 
 
40 L U C 1 L E . 
 
 Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs, 
 Led by Laughter and Love through the cold even- 
 tide 
 Down the dream-haunted valley, or up the hillside. 
 
 At length, at the door of the inn THerisson, 
 
 (Pray 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 French.man 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, 
 Beyond 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 
 Vex'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. 
 
 O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, 
 Blessed hour of our dmners ! 
 
 The land of his birth ; 
 Th; face of his first love ; the bills that he owes ; 
 The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes ; 
 i he 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 may live without poetry, music, and art ; 
 
 We may live with- 
 o u t conscience, 
 and live without 
 heart ; 
 
 We may live with- 
 out friends; we 
 may live without 
 books : 
 
 But civilized man 
 cannot live with- 
 out cooks. 
 
 He may live with- 
 out books, — what 
 is knowledge but 
 grieving ? 
 
 He may live with- 
 out hope, — what 
 is hope but de- 
 
 CIVILIZED MAN CANNOT LIVE ceivinf' 
 
 WITHOUT COOKS. He may" live with- 
 
 out 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 ! I must go to the ball. 
 And shall not be at home till too late for your call; 
 But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One 
 You will find me at home, and will find me alone. 
 Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord. 
 For the honor with which you adhere to your 
 
 word. 
 Yes, I thank you. Lord Alfred ! To-morrow then. 
 
 "L." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I find myself terribly puzzled to tell 
 
 The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung 
 
 down 
 This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own 
 That I think he, himself, could have hardly ex- 
 
 plain'd 
 Those feelings exactly. 
 
 " Yes, yes," as he drain'd 
 The glass down, he mutter'd, " Jack's right, after 
 
 ' all, 
 The coquette ! " 
 
 " Does milord mean to go to theball ? " 
 Ask'd the waiter, who lingered. 
 
 "Perhaps. I don't know. 
 You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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 ! 
 
L L C I L K . 43 
 
 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 and oil. 
 The chances are ten against one, I must own, 
 He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down. 
 And if any reader this fact to dispute is 
 Disposed, I say ..." Allliuu edat cicutis 
 Nocentiiis .' " 
 
 Over the fruit and the wine 
 Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was 
 
 line. 
 Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set. 
 And languidly lighted his small cigarette. 
 The window was open. The warm air without 
 Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were 
 
 about. 
 In the gloom he sat gloomy. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Gay sounds from below 
 Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, 
 And night deepen'd apace; through the dark ave- 
 nues 
 The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes, and by 
 
 twos. 
 The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will, 
 As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill 
 Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er 
 His late travelling companion, now passing before 
 The inn, at the window of which he still sat. 
 In full toilet,— boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, 
 Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove. 
 As he turn'd down the avenue. 
 
 Watching above. 
 
44 
 
 From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he 
 
 walk'd 
 To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now 
 
 talk'd. 
 To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd. 
 By the way hats were lifted, and glances were 
 
 turn'd, 
 That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for 
 
 the ball, 
 Was a person of rank or of fashion ; for all 
 Whom he bowM to in passing, or stopp'd with and 
 
 chatter'd, 
 Walk'd on with a look which implied ..." I feel 
 
 flatter'd ! " 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. 
 
 He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen 
 
 Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin : 
 
 He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile : 
 
 He had thought about many things : thought a 
 
 great deal 
 Of himself : of his past life, his future, his present : 
 He had thought of the moon, neither full moon 
 
 nor crescent : 
 Of the gay world, so sad ! life, so sweet and so 
 
 sour ! 
 He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and 
 
 power ; 
 Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, 
 
 and 
 A poet's asylum in some distant land : 
 Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no 
 
 doubt. 
 
45 
 
 In particular ; also he had thought much about 
 His digestion, his debts, and his dinner : and last. 
 He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'd 
 If he thought any more of such matters at all : 
 So he rose, and resolved to set out for the ball. 
 
 'K^ 
 
 WITH A LADY THAT LEAN D ON HIS ARM. 
 
 I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet. 
 
 That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, 
 
 Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the 
 
 nonce 
 Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once. 
 I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, 
 Three pairs of pale lavender gloves, one by one. 
 And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, 
 
46 L U C I L E . 
 
 When he reach'd the Casino, although he vvalk'd 
 
 fast, 
 He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, 
 The church clock strike twelve. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The last waltz was just o'er. 
 The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. 
 A crowd block'd the door ; and a buzz and a mutter 
 Went about in the room as a young man, whose face 
 Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, 
 But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and 
 
 warm 
 Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm 
 Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, 
 Left the ballroom. 
 
 The hubbub of comment and praise 
 Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. 
 
 Said a Frenchman beside him, . . . "That lucky 
 
 Luvois 
 Has obtain'd all the gifts of the gods . . . rank 
 
 and wealth. 
 And good looks, and then such inexhaustible 
 
 health ! 
 He that hath shall have more ; and this truth, I 
 
 surmise. 
 Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes 
 Of la charmatite Lticile more distinguish'd than all, 
 He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball." 
 " Is it true," ask'd a lady aggressively fat. 
 Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat 
 By another that look'd like a needle, all steel 
 And tenuity — " Luvois will marry Lucile ? " 
 The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, 
 
As though it were bent upon driving a stitch 
 Through somebody's character. 
 
 " Madam," replied 
 Interposing, a young man who sat by their side 
 And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, 
 " I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that. 
 If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has refused." 
 The fat and thin ladies were highly amused. 
 "Refused: , . . what! a young Duke, not thirty, 
 
 my dear. 
 With at least half a million (what is it ?) a year ! " 
 " That may be," said the third ; " yet I know some 
 
 time since 
 Castelmar was refused, though as rich, and a 
 
 Prince. 
 But Luvois, who was never before in his life 
 In love with a woman who was not a wife, 
 Is now certainly serious." 
 
 Recommenced. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The music once more 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Said Lord Alfred, " This ball is a bore ! " 
 And return'd'to the inn, somewhat worse than be- 
 fore. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley 
 
 above, 
 Through the warm land were wand'ring the spirits 
 
 of love. 
 A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd ; 
 In the blossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd ; 
 The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night. 
 And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in 
 
 light. 
 
48 
 
 Repose, and yet rapture ! that pensive wild nature 
 Impregnate with passion in each breathing feature ! 
 A stone's throw from thence, through the large 
 
 lime-trees peep'd 
 In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'd 
 In the moonbeams. The windows oped down to 
 
 the lawn ; 
 The casements were open : the curtains were 
 
 drawn ; 
 Lights stream'd from the inside ; and with them 
 
 the sound 
 Of music and song. In the garden, around 
 A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set, 
 Half a dozen young men and young women were 
 
 met. 
 Light, laughter, and voices, and music, all stream'd 
 Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the window 
 
 there seem'd 
 For one moment the outline, familiar and fair. 
 Of a white dress, a white neck, and soft dusky hair, 
 Which Lord Alfred remember' i . . . a moment or 
 
 so 
 It hover'd, then pass'd into shadow ; and slow 
 The soft notes, from a tender piano unflung, 
 Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung : — 
 
 "Hear a song that was born in the land of my 
 birth ! 
 The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free. 
 And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 
 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the 
 sea. 
 
 "And this ship is a world. She is freighted with 
 souls, 
 She is freighted with merchandise : proudly she 
 sails 
 
49 
 
 Witli the Labor that stores, and the Will that con- 
 trols 
 The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 
 
 " From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens 
 the rose, 
 
 And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, 
 Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, 
 
 Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear ! 
 
 " Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is 
 heard. 
 Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the 
 sight. 
 O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird ; 
 'T is the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. 
 
 "And that bird, bright and bold as a Poet's desire, 
 
 Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her 
 
 birth. 
 
 There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire. 
 
 And her plumage hath never been sullied by 
 
 earth. 
 
 "And the mariners greet her; there's song on each 
 
 lip, 
 For that bird of good omen, and joy in each eye. 
 And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the 
 
 ship. 
 Together go forth over ocean and sky. 
 
 " Fast, fast fades the land ! far the rose-gardens 
 flee, 
 
 And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown, 
 The ship is alone on a desert of sea, 
 
 And the bird in a desert ot skv is alone. 
 
50 L U C I L E . 
 
 " 111 those reg-ions unknown, o'er that desert of air, 
 Down that desert of waters — tremendous in 
 wrath — 
 The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair. 
 And cleaves, through the waves of the ocean, his 
 path. 
 
 " And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the 
 wave. 
 
 Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales ; 
 And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, 
 
 Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 
 
 "Lo! a wonder, which never before hath been 
 heard, 
 
 For it never before hath been given to sight ; 
 On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird, 
 
 The Paradise Bird, never known to alight I 
 
 "The bird which the mariners biess'd, when each 
 lip 
 Had a song for the omen that gladdenM each 
 eye ; 
 The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship 
 From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the 
 sky. 
 
 " But the mariners heed not the bird any more. 
 They are felling the masts— they are cutting the 
 sails ; 
 Some are working, some weeping, and some wrang. 
 ling o'er 
 Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. 
 
 " Souls of men are on board ; wealth of man in the 
 hold ; 
 And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to liis 
 prey ; 
 
And who lieeds the bird ? ' Save the silk and the 
 gold ! ' 
 And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps 
 away ! 
 
 " Poor Paradise Bird ! on her lone flight once more 
 Back again in the wake of the wind she is 
 driven — 
 
 To be 'whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar, 
 And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven ! 
 
 " And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the 
 gales : 
 From the haven she nears'the rejoicing is heard. 
 All hands-are at work on the ingots, the bales, 
 Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses — the 
 Bird !" 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod ! 
 
 For my road is a rough one : flint, stubble, and 
 clod, 
 
 Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no few, 
 
 And I gallop up-hill, now. 
 
 There 's terror that 's true 
 
 In that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel. 
 
 Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some 
 devil, 
 
 Follow'd ever one mask through the mad masquer- 
 ade, 
 
 Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('t is said). 
 
 He unmask'd, with a kiss, the strange lady, and 
 stood 
 
 Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. 
 
In this Masque of ihe Passions, call'd Life, there 's 
 
 no human 
 Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman. 
 But. when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at 
 
 last 
 Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. 
 For truth is appalling and eltnch, as seen 
 By this world's artificial lamplights, and we screen 
 From our sight the strange vision that troubles our 
 
 life. 
 Alas ! why is Genius forever at strife 
 With the world, which, despite the world's self, it 
 
 ennobles? 
 Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles 
 And offends the effete life it comes to renew ? 
 'T is the terror of truth ! 't is that Genius is true ! 
 
 II. 
 Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) 
 Was a woman of genius : whose genius, indeed, 
 With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that 
 
 life 
 The chance had been hers to escape from this strife 
 In herself ; finding peace in the life of another 
 From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to 
 
 smother. 
 But the chance fell too soon, when the crude rest- 
 less power 
 Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower. 
 Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd ; 
 And that moment, once lost, had been never re- 
 
 call'd, 
 Yet it left her heart sore : and, to shelter her heart 
 From approach, she then sought, in that delicate 
 
 art 
 Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies 
 Of feminine wit, which repel while they please. 
 
53 
 
 A weapon, at once, and a shield, to conceal 
 And defend all that women can earnestly feel. 
 Thus, striving- her instincts to hide and repress, 
 She felt frighten'd at times by her very success : 
 She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the 
 
 stars : 
 Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars 
 If they keep us behind prison-windows : impas- 
 
 sion'd 
 Her heart rose and burst the light cage she had 
 
 fashion'd 
 Out of glittering trifles around it. 
 
 Unknown 
 To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, 
 Embraced the idea of self-immolation. 
 The strong spirit in her, had her life but been 
 
 blended 
 With some man's whose heart had her own com- 
 prehended. 
 All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly 
 
 thrown. 
 For him she had struggled and striven alone ; 
 For him had aspired ; in him had transfused 
 All the gladness and grace of her nature; and used 
 For him only the spells of its delicate power: 
 Like the ministering fairy that brings from her 
 
 bower 
 To some maze all the treasures, whose use the fond 
 
 elf, 
 More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself. 
 But standing apart, as she ever had done. 
 And her genius, which needed a vent, finding none 
 In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's 
 
 power, 
 She unconsciously made it her bulwark and tower, 
 
54 L U C I L E . 
 
 And built in il her refuge, whence lighily she 
 
 hurl'd 
 Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the 
 
 world. 
 And the permanent cause why she now miss'd and 
 
 fail'd 
 That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, 
 Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place 
 Say— the world and the woman opposed face to 
 
 face, 
 Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir. 
 Offended the world, which in turn wounded her. 
 
 As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fit 
 
 To this character, also, its moral: to wit, 
 
 Say — the world is a nettle ; disturb it, it stings : 
 
 Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two 
 
 things. 
 If you would not be stung, it behooves you to set- 
 tle : 
 Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle ; 
 For she could not; nor would she avoid it: she 
 
 tried 
 With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside. 
 And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing 
 To trample the world without feeling its sting. 
 
 One lodges but simply at Luchon ; yet, thanks 
 
 To the season that changes forever the banks 
 
 Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light 
 
 cloud 
 O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud 
 Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring 
 
 down 
 The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town. 
 
55 
 
 And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar. 
 And the blue-bells that^ purple the dapple-gray 
 
 scaur, 
 One sees with each month of the many-faced year 
 A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. 
 The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers 
 Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs, 
 In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road, 
 Yet withdrawn from its noise ; 't was a peaceful 
 
 abode. 
 And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like 
 
 hoods 
 Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resin- 
 ous woods. 
 The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended 
 The steep garden paths, every odor had blended 
 Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes. 
 With the balms floated down from the dark wooded 
 
 slopes : 
 A light breeze at the windows was playing about, 
 And the white curtains floated, now in, and now 
 
 out. 
 The house was all hush'd when he rang at the door, 
 Which was openM to him in a moment, or more, 
 By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shined 
 In the sun like a cocoa-nut polish'd in Ind, 
 'Neath the snowy fottlard which about it was 
 
 wound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. 
 He rcmember'd the nurse of Lucile. The old 
 
 dame. 
 Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when 
 
 he came. 
 With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore. 
 
To pass, unannounced, her young- mistress's door. 
 
 The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee 
 
 When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, 
 
 In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown, 
 
 To pine, a pale flow'ret, in great Paris town. 
 
 She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, 
 
 when she read 
 The letter that told her, her father was dead. 
 An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, 
 Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses 
 Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. 
 He had wander'd the world through, by land and 
 
 by sea, 
 And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, 
 Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill 
 To conciliate P'ortune, and courage to brave 
 Her displeasure. Thrice shipvvreck'd, and cast by 
 
 the wave 
 On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd 
 His command : often baffled, he ever prevail'd, 
 In his combat with fate : to-day flatter'd and fed 
 By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread. 
 The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came 
 Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. 
 He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France ; 
 And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Free- 
 lance, 
 Had wander'd in search of it, over the world, 
 Into India. 
 
 But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd 
 His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile 
 Of a Rajah (whose court he conlroll'd for a while, 
 And whose council he prompted and govern'd by 
 
 stealth) ; 
 Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, 
 Who died giving birth to this daughter, before 
 
He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. 
 His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance 
 Had secured her a home with his sister in France, 
 A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucile 
 Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal 
 The half-Eastern blood, whichappear'd to bequeaih 
 (Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, be- 
 neath 
 That outward repose that conceal'd it in her) 
 A sotnething half wild to her strange character. 
 The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted, 
 At the door of a convent in Pans had parted. 
 But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried. 
 When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been 
 
 married 
 To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died, 
 With no claim on her tears— she had wept as a 
 
 bride. 
 Said Lord Alfred, " Your mistress expects me." 
 
 The crone 
 Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him 
 alone. 
 
 O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace 
 Rested silence and perfume. No sound reach'd the 
 
 place. 
 In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade 
 Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze 
 
 play'd. 
 O'er the smooth wooden floor, polish'd dark as a 
 
 glass. 
 Fragrant white Indian matting allow'd you to pass. 
 In light olive baskets, by window and door. 
 Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the 
 
 floor, 
 
AT -ME POOW OF A CONVENT IN I'AK 
 
I. L' C I L E . 5g 
 
 Rich wild flowers pluck'd by Lucile from the hill, 
 Seem'd the room with their passionate presence to 
 
 fill : 
 Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed ; 
 The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed ; 
 And the frail saponaire, and the tender blue-bell, 
 And the purple valerian,— each child of the fell 
 And the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the source 
 Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his course, 
 Where the chamois and izard, with delicate hoof, 
 Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof. 
 
 Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed, 
 
 That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. Half 
 unclosed 
 
 In the light slept the flowers : all was pure and at 
 rest ; 
 
 All peaceful ; all modest ; all seem'd self-possess'd. 
 
 And aware of the silence. No vestige nor trace 
 
 Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the_ place. 
 
 He stood by the window. A cloud pass'd the sun. 
 
 A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one. 
 
 Just then Lucile entered the room, undiscern'd 
 
 By Lord Alfred, whose face to the window was 
 turn'd 
 
 In a strange revery. 
 
 The time was, when Lucile, 
 
 In beholding that man, could not help but reveal 
 
 The rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out every 
 nerve 
 
 In the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve. 
 
 And now — she gazed at him, calm, smiling, — per- 
 chance 
 
 Indifferent. 
 
Indifferently turning his glance, 
 Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze unaware. 
 O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft dusky 
 
 hair ; 
 A rose-bud half blown in her hand ; in her eyes 
 A half-pensive smile. 
 
 A sharp cry of surprise 
 Escaped from his lips : some unknown agitation. 
 An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation, 
 Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit ; 
 Overtook, and e-ntangled, and paralyzed it. 
 That wit so complacent and docile, that ever 
 Lightly came at the call of the lightest endeavor. 
 Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold. 
 Which, secure of its value, so fluently rolld 
 In free circulation from hand on to hand 
 For the usage of all, at a moment's command ; 
 For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd. 
 And he look'd at Lucile without speaking a word. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the face 
 On whose features he gazed had no more than a 
 
 trace 
 Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years. 
 Yes ! the face he remember'd was faded with tears : 
 Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimm'd the dark 
 
 eyes. 
 And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with 
 
 sighs. 
 And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterie 
 Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be 
 Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress 
 Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress, 
 
L UCI L E . 6l 
 
 In the careless toilet of Lucile. — then too sad 
 To care aught to her changeable beauty to add— 
 Lord Alfred had never admired before ! 
 Alas ! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, 
 Had neglected herself, never heeding, nor thinking 
 (While the blossom and bloom of her beauty w^ere 
 
 shrinking) 
 That sorrow can beautify only the heart — 
 Not the face — of a woman ; and can but impart 
 Its endearment to one that hassuffer'd. In truth 
 Grief hath beauty for grief ; but gay youth loves 
 
 gay youth. 
 
 The woman that now met, unshrinking, his gaze, 
 Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous haze 
 Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the first, 
 Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath 
 
 burst 
 In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile 
 Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal 
 To the homage which none but a churl would with- 
 hold- 
 That caressing and exquisite grace — never bold. 
 Ever present — which just a few women possess. 
 From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by the stress 
 Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn 
 A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. 
 Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhere 
 The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her hair — 
 Once shorn as an offering to passionate love — 
 Now floated or rested redundant above 
 Her airy pure forehead and throat ; gather'd loose 
 Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse 
 Milk-white folds of a cool modest garment reposed. 
 
62 
 
 Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half dis- 
 closed, 
 And her simple attire thus in all things reveal'd 
 The fine art which so artfully all things conceal'd. 
 
 X. 
 
 Lord Alfred, who never conceived that Lucile 
 Could have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted to 
 
 kneel 
 At her feet, and her pardon with passion implore ; 
 But the calm smile that met him sufficed to restore 
 The pride and the bitterness needed to meet 
 The occasion with dignity due and discreet. 
 
 " Madam," — thus he began with a voice reassured — 
 *' You see that your latest command has secured 
 My immediate obedience — presuming I may 
 Consider my freedom restored from this day." — 
 " I had thought," said Lucile, with a smile gay yet 
 
 sad, 
 "That your freedom from me not a fetter has had. 
 Indeed ! ... in my chains have you rested till 
 
 now ? 
 I have not so flattered myself, I avow ! " 
 " For Heaven's sake, Madam," Lord Alfred re- 
 plied, 
 "Do not jest! has the moment no sadness?" he 
 
 sigh'd. 
 " 'T is an ancient tradition," she answered, '" a tale 
 Often told— a position too sure to prevail 
 In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote. 
 When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet re- 
 mote, 
 Wherein of necessity each would recall 
 From the other the poor foolish records of all 
 
L U C I L E , 63 
 
 Those emotions, whose pain, when recorded, 
 
 seem'd bliss, 
 Should we write as we wrote ? But one thinks not 
 
 of this ! 
 At Twenty (who does not at Twenty ?) we write, 
 Believing- eternal the frail vows we plight ; 
 And we smile with a confident pity, above 
 The vulgar results of all poor human love : 
 For we deem, with that vanity common to youth. 
 Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth, 
 Is novel to us — that 't is novel to earth, 
 And will prove the exception, in durance and 
 
 worth, 
 To the great law to which all on earth must incline. 
 The error was noble, the vanity fine ! 
 Shall we blame it because we survive it ? ah, no ; 
 'T was the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not 
 
 so ?" 
 
 XII. 
 
 Lord Alfred was mute. He remember'd her yet 
 A child— the weak sport of each moment's regret, 
 Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life. 
 The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the 
 
 strife 
 And the tumulfof passion ; the tremulous toy 
 Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy. 
 But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant of 
 
 all 
 The illusions of life — lift, unflinching, the pall 
 From the bier of the dead Past— that woman so 
 
 fair. 
 And so young, yet her own self-survivor ; who 
 
 there 
 Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold ! 
 'T was a picture that pain'd his self-love to behold. 
 
64 
 
 He himself knew— none better— the things to be 
 
 said 
 Upon subjects Uke this. Yet he bow'd down his 
 
 head, 
 And as thus, with a trouble he could not command, 
 He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his 
 
 hand, 
 " You know me enough," she continued, " or what 
 I would say is, you yet recollect (do you not, 
 Lord Alfred ?) enough of my nature, to know 
 That the!-e pledges of what was perhaps long ago 
 A foolish affection, I do not recall 
 From those motives of prudence which actuate all 
 Or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, 
 If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need 
 But remind you that ten years these letters have 
 
 rested 
 Unreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach seem'd 
 
 suggested 
 By these words. To m.eet it. Lord Alfred look'd up. 
 (His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup 
 With a look of profound connoisseurship— a smile 
 Of singular interest and care, all this while.) 
 He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of Lucile, 
 To mark if that face by a sign would reveal 
 At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain. 
 He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there in 
 
 vain. 
 " You are generous, Madam," he murmur'd at last. 
 And into his voice a light irony pass'd. 
 He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arranged 
 His forces. But straightway the enemy changed 
 The position. 
 
XIII. 
 
 " Come! " gayly Lucile interposed. 
 With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness dis- 
 closed 
 Some depth in her nature he never had known, 
 While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, 
 " Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain 
 Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in 
 
 vain. 
 From me not a single reproach can you hear. 
 I have sinn'd to myself — to the world— nay, I fear 
 To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, in- 
 deed. 
 Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should 
 
 heed 
 Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, 
 But his interest whose fate her own interest in- 
 spires ; 
 And, rather than seek to allure, for her sake. 
 His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake 
 Of impossible destinies, use all her art 
 That his place in the world And its place in her 
 
 heart. 
 I, alas !— I perceived not this truth till too late ; 
 I tormented your youth, 1 have darken'd your fate. 
 Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake 
 Of its long expiation ! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Lord Alfred, awake, 
 Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In 
 
 that seat 
 Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 
 His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some 
 
 change. 
 
66 
 
 As surprising and all unexpected as strange, 
 
 To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was 
 
 sought. 
 All the world's foolish pride in that moment was 
 
 naught ; 
 He felt all his plausible theories posed ; 
 And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed 
 In the pathos of all he had witnessed, his head 
 Hebow'd,and faint words self-reproachfuUy said, 
 As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'T was a hand 
 White delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. 
 The hand of a woman is often, in youth, 
 Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat grace- 
 less, in truth ; 
 Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm. 
 Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm ? 
 
 The more that he look'd. that he listen'd, the more 
 He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. 
 Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance. 
 This woman who thus had survived the romance 
 That had made him its hero, and breathed him its 
 
 sighs, 
 Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his 
 
 eyeso 
 Together they talk'd of the years since when last 
 They parted, contrasting the present, the past. 
 Vet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lu- 
 
 cile 
 Question'd much, with the interest a sister might 
 
 feel. 
 Of Lord Alfred's new life— of Miss Darcy— her face, 
 Her temper, accomplishments— pausing to trace 
 The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. 
 Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit 
 
L U CI L E. 67 
 
 Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands 
 She had seen, and the books she had read, and the 
 
 hands 
 She had shaken. 
 
 In all that she said there appear'd 
 An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd 
 The temple of reason, with ever a touch 
 Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much 
 As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals 
 
 bear, 
 Through the blooms of a garland the point of a 
 
 spear. 
 But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, 
 To that soul, vv'hose experience had paralyzed bliss 
 A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, 
 A iustice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind. 
 Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint 
 And serene as the halo encircling a saint. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. 
 To each novel sensation spontaneously 
 He abandon'd himself with that ardor so strange 
 Which belongs to a mind grown accustomd to 
 
 change. 
 He sought, with well-practised and delicate art. 
 To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart ; 
 But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever, 
 More adroit than the man, baffled every endeavor. 
 When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord in 
 
 her being. 
 At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever flee- 
 ing 
 As ever he near it advanced, when he thought 
 To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught 
 Of the moral existence, the absolute soul. 
 Light as vapor the phantom escaped his control. 
 
From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard. 
 
 In the passage without a quick footstep there 
 stirr'd. 
 
 At the door knock'd the negress, and thrust in her 
 head, 
 
 "The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd," she said, 
 
 " And insisted "— 
 
 " The Duke ! " cried Lucile (as she spoke 
 
 The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo woke). 
 
 " Say I do not receive till the evening. E.xplain," 
 
 As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, 
 
 " I have business of private importance." 
 
 There came 
 
 O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name, 
 
 An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd 
 
 To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd 
 
 On her face an indefinite look of confusion. 
 
 On his mind instantaneously fiush'd the conclu- 
 sion 
 
 That his presence had caused it. 
 
 He said, with a sneer 
 
 Which he could not repress, " Let not 7iie interfere 
 
 With the claims on your time, lady ! when you are 
 free 
 
 From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see 
 
 And to wait on you later." 
 
 The words were not said 
 
 "Erehe wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read 
 "The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. 
 
 •Inclining her head, as in haughty reply. 
 
 More reproachful perchance than all utter'd rebuke, 
 
 :She said merely, resuming her seat, "Tell the 
 Duke 
 
 He may enter." 
 
 And vex'd with his own words and hers, 
 
69 
 
 TELL THE DUKE HE MAY ENTER. 
 
 Alfred Varsjrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers, 
 Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. Be- 
 fore 
 His shadowwas fled the Duke stood at the door. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, 
 Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. With 
 
 dull tone 
 Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation. 
 Went the bee on his business from station to sta- 
 tion. 
 The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around ; 
 Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to 
 
 sound 
 On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the 
 
 hot 
 Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirred from the 
 
 spot. 
 The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, perplex'd, 
 And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and 
 
 vex'd. 
 He had not yet given the letters. Again 
 He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain 
 Where he was till the Duke went. In short, he 
 
 would stay, 
 Were it only to know when the Duke went away. 
 But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived 
 Approaching towards him, between the thick- 
 leaved 
 And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke. 
 Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for 
 
 some nook 
 Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden 
 
 retreat. 
 They had not yet seen him. The sound of their 
 
 feet 
 And their voices had warn'd him in time. They 
 
 were walking 
 Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was 
 
 talking 
 
71 
 
 With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance 
 That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No 
 chance 
 
 LUCILE AND THE DUKE. 
 
 Of escape save in instant concealment I Deep- 
 dipp'd 
 
72 L U C I L E . 
 
 In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipped, 
 Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush they 
 
 pass'd, 
 Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last 
 They paused, and sat down on a bench in the 
 
 shade, 
 So close that he could not but hear what they said. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 Duke, I scarcely conceive ... 
 
 Lrvois. 
 Ah, forgive ! . . . I desired 
 So deeply to see you to-day. You retired 
 So early last night from the ball . . . this whole 
 
 week 
 I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied . . . 
 speak, [am 
 
 Speak, Lucile, and forgive me ! . . . I know that I 
 A rash fool— but I love you ! I love you, Madame, 
 More than language can say I Do not deem, O 
 
 Lucile, 
 That the love I no longer have strength to conceal 
 Is a passing caprice ! It is strange to my nature. 
 It has made me, unknown to myself, a new crea- 
 ture. 
 I implore you to sanction and save the new life 
 Which I lay at your feet with this prayer— Be my 
 
 wife ; 
 Stoop, and raise me ! 
 
 Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain 
 The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain 
 With which he had heard this. As though to some 
 wind 
 
73 
 
 The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind 
 
 The two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd. 
 
 The sound half betrayed him. They started. He 
 heard 
 
 The low voice of Lucile ; but so faint was its tone 
 
 That her answer escaped him. 
 
 Luvois hurried on» 
 
 As though in remonstrance with what had been 
 spoken. 
 
 " Nay, I know it. Lucile ! but your heart was not 
 broken 
 
 By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. 
 
 Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be 
 loved. 
 
 You mistake your own feelings. I fear you mis- 
 take 
 
 What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make 
 
 Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your 
 heart 
 
 May have suffer'd of yore, this can only impart 
 
 A pity profound to the love which I feel. 
 
 Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, Lu- 
 cile," 
 
 "You know all, Duke?" she said; "well then, 
 
 know that, in truth, 
 I have learn'd from the rude lesson taught to my 
 
 youth 
 From my own heart to shelter my life ; to mistrust 
 The heart of another. We are what we must, 
 And not what we would be, I know that one hour 
 Assures not another. The will and the power 
 Are diverse." 
 
 " O madam ! " he answer'd, " you fence 
 With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 
 'T is not iny life, Lucile, that I plead for alone : 
 
74 
 
 If your nature I know, 't is no less for your own. 
 That nature will prey on itself; it was made 
 To influence others. Consider," he said, 
 "That genius craves power — what scope for it 
 
 here ? 
 Gifts less noble to 7ne give command of that sphere 
 In which genius is power. Such gifts you despise ? 
 But you do not disdain what such gifts realize ! 
 I ofifer you, Lady, a name not unknown — 
 A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown— 
 All my life at your feet I lay down — at your feet 
 A heart which for you, and you only, can beat." 
 
 Ll'CILE. 
 
 That heart, Duke, that life— I respect both. The 
 
 name 
 And position you offer, and all that you claim 
 In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel 
 To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you — 
 
 Luvois. 
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 I ask you to leave me — 
 
 Luvois. 
 
 Lucile 
 
 You do not reject ? 
 
 Lucile. 
 I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. 
 
 Luvois. 
 You ask me ? — 
 
 Lucile. 
 — The time to reflect. 
 Luvois. 
 
 Say— One word ! 
 May I hope ? 
 
The reply of Lucile was not heard 
 By Lord Alfred ; for just then she rose, and moved 
 
 HER FACE FROM THE GLASS WAS REFLECTED. 
 
 The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was 
 
 ^one. 
 
XX. 
 
 Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And 
 
 when 
 Alfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again. 
 He just saw the white robe of the woman recede 
 As she enterd the house. 
 
 Scarcely conscious indeed 
 Of his steps, he too follovv'd, and enter'd. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He enter'd 
 Unnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd : so concentred 
 And wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd. 
 Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'd 
 The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. 
 Her dark eyes were tixM on the ground. Pale, 
 
 dejected, 
 And lost in profound meditation she seem'd. 
 Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders stream'd 
 The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm 
 And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm 
 Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold 
 And clammy as death, all too cruelly told 
 How far he had been from her thoughts. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 All his cheek 
 Was disturb'd with the effort it cost him to speak. 
 " It was not my fault. I have heard all," he said. 
 "Now the letters — and farewell, Lucile! When 
 
 you wed 
 May — " [snaps 
 
 The sentence broke short, like a weapon that 
 When the weight of a man is upon it. 
 
 " Perhaps," 
 Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the flush 
 
L U C I L E . 77 
 
 Of quick color which up to her brows seem'd to 
 
 rush 
 In reply to those few broken words), " this farewell 
 Is our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can tell ? 
 Let us part without bitterness. Here are your 
 
 letters. 
 Be assured I retain you no more in my fetters ! " — 
 She laughed, as she said this, a little sad laugh, 
 And stretched out her hand with the letters. And 
 
 half 
 Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trust 
 His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he thrust 
 The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh, 
 Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And Lucile was alone. And the men of the world 
 Were gone back to the world. And the world's 
 
 self was furl'd 
 Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand 
 Droop"d, and from it, unloosed from their frail 
 
 silken band, 
 Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, and 
 
 shed 
 At her feet — life's lost blossoms ! Dejected, her 
 
 head 
 On her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely 
 
 stray'd o'er 
 Those strewn records of passionate moments no 
 
 more. 
 From each page to her sight leapt some word that 
 
 belied 
 The composure with which she that day had denied 
 Every claim on her heart to those poor perish'd 
 
 years. 
 They avenged themselves now, and she burst into 
 
 tears. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 Letter from Cousin John to Cousin Alfred. 
 
 " BiGORRE, Thursday. 
 
 " Time up, you rascal ! Come back, or be hangf'd. 
 
 Matilda grows peevish Her mother harangued 
 
 For a whole hour this morning about you. The 
 deuce ! 
 
 What on earth can I say to you ? — nothing's of use. 
 
 And the blame of the whole of your shocking be- 
 havior 
 
 Falls on vu\ sir ! Come back,— do you hear ?— or 1 
 leave your 
 
 Affairs, and abjure you forever. Come back 
 
 To your anxious betroth'd ; and perplex'd 
 
 " Cousin Jack." 
 
 II. 
 Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from John 
 To increase his impatience to fly from Luchon. 
 All the place was now fraught with sensations of 
 
 pain 
 Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape from in 
 
 vain. 
 A wild instinct warn'd him to fly from a place 
 Where he felt that some fatal event, swift of pace. 
 Was approaching his life. In despite his endeavor 
 To think of Matilda, her image forever 
 Was effaced from his fancy by that of Lucile. 
 From the ground which he stood on he felt himself 
 
 reel. 
 
79 
 
 Scared, alarm'd by those feelings to which, on the 
 
 day- 
 Just before, all his heart had so soon given way, 
 When he caught, with a strange sense of fear, for 
 
 assistance 
 At what was, till then, the great fact in existence, 
 T was a phantom he grasp'd. 
 
 III. 
 
 Having sent for his guide. 
 He order'd his horse, and determin'd to ride 
 Back forthwith to Bigorre. 
 
 Then, the guide, who well knew 
 Every haunt of those hills, said the wild lake of Oo 
 Lay a league from Luchon ; and suggested a track 
 By the lake to Bigorre, which, transversing the 
 
 back 
 Ot the mountain, avoided a circuit between 
 Two long valleys ; and thinking, " Perchance 
 
 change of scene 
 May create change of thought," Alfred Vargrave 
 
 agreed. 
 Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full 
 
 speed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His guide rode beside him. 
 
 The king of the guides ! 
 The gallant Bernard ! ever boldly he rides. 
 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 ihrough the cold solitudes ; 
 Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the lynx on his 
 
 prey 
 
8o 
 
 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 leap'd 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 lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides. 
 For Bernard Le Sauteur is the king of all guides ! 
 
 But Bernard found, that day, neither song nor love- 
 tale, 
 Nor 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 
 
L U C I L E . Si 
 
 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 wilder- 
 nesses : 
 The waters went wirbling above and around, 
 The forests hung heap'd in their shadows profound. 
 Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, 
 Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon. 
 Had wasted with tire, and the peaceful Cazeaux 
 They 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 gaping 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 Imperial 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 overall, in the vast and serene 
 Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd 
 'Mid the clouds beyond 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 Vargrave's heart beat ; for he saw at a 
 
 glance 
 The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next 
 
 look 
 Show'd him, joyously 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. 
 
 " 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 replied, 
 
L U C I L E 83 
 
 •' But, since w^ way would seem to he j'ours, let me 
 
 ride 
 For one moment beside you." And then, with a 
 
 stoop, 
 At her ear, . . . " and forgive me ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the 
 east 
 
 Half the day. galher'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 approach of the tempest. 
 
 Erelong 
 
 Thick darkness descended the mountains among ; 
 
84 
 
 And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine 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, every 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 pathway, walk'd 
 
 blind 
 To the darkness before from the darkness behind. 
 
 And the Storm is abroad in the mountains ! 
 
 He fills 
 The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills 
 With dread voices of power. A 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. 
 Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error 
 Of mountain and mist. 
 
L U C I L E . 85 
 
 XII. 
 
 There is war in the skies ! 
 Lo ! the black-winged 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 
 
 saw, 
 Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare 
 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 lull'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd 
 
86 L L C 1 L E . 
 
 And caressingly twined round the feet and the 
 
 head 
 Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calm 
 As the soul of that solitude, 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 battering 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 Vargrave 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 I 
 Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled 
 
 yon tree ! " 
 She exclaim'd, . . . "like the passion that brings 
 
 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 me. We two meet 
 
 again 
 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above 
 To avenge if I lie when I 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 
 
87 
 
 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 restore, 
 To retrieve, to amend ! I, who injured your life. 
 Urge the right to repair it, Lucile ! Be my 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, un- 
 
 shamed. 
 'T were poor honor indeed, to another to give 
 That life of which you keep the heart. Could I 
 
 live 
 In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie > 
 Alas, no ! your hand holds my whole destiny. 
 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 existence hath been 
 
«8 L U C I L E . 
 
 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 beyond 
 
 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 j'et exulting un- 
 
 furl'd ! 
 For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man. 
 The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran. 
 Whom the formless indefinite future of youth, 
 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 afiford, and the dream 
 Which, though foUow'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 ! I know the sole path 
 To repose, which my desolate destiny hath, 
 
 Is the path by whose course to your feet I return. 
 And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, 
 And 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, 
 
L U C I L E . 89 
 
 Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were 
 
 half closed ; 
 But, under their languid mysterious fringe, 
 A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge 
 Of faint inward tire 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 ruffled rose- 
 blossom 
 A bee is imprisoned and struggles. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Meanwhile, 
 The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile 
 Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold ! 
 O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold. 
 Rose and rested : while far up the dim airy crags^ 
 Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags, 
 The rear of the tempest itssullen 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 
 
go 
 
 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 bred 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 roU'd, 
 Like a huge couchant Typhon, 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 tlirough a break 
 In the walls of the world, burst at once on the 
 
 lake? 
 If you have, this description I might have with- 
 held. 
 You remember how strangely your bosom has 
 
 swell'd 
 
At the vision reveal'a. 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 ! 
 
 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 appalling, 
 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 ! 
 Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery 
 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. 
 
 xxn. 
 The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed, 
 The rain had ceased falling, the mountains re- 
 posed. 
 The stars had enkindled in luminous courses 
 Their slow-sliding lamps, when, remounting their 
 
 horses, 
 The riders retraversed that mighty serration 
 Of rock -work. Thus left to its own desolation, 
 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 phantom of flickering light 
 That follow'd the mystical moon through the night. 
 
 XXII I. 
 
 It was late when o'er Luchon at last they de- 
 scended. 
 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 !— 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." 
 
L U C I L E 
 
 93. 
 
 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 my story. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 Up !— forth again, Pegasus i — " Many's the slip," 
 Hath the proverb well said, "■ 'twixt the cup and 
 
 the lip !" 
 How blest should we be, have I often conceived. 
 Had we really achieved 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 play'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 ! 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 question'd say . . . 
 
 "What 
 
 1 would have remain'd, or become, I am not " ? 
 
94 
 
 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 ply, 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 fully 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'll 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 my annals on earth. This alone was afforded 
 To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. 
 
 THE SYLPHS AND SEA FAIRIES. 
 
 But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, 
 (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells. 
 
96 L U C I L E . 
 
 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 pedestals; 
 At whose feet sit the sj-lphs and sea fairies; for 
 
 whom 
 The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires 
 
 bloom) — 
 Thou abidest and reig-nest forever, O Queen 
 Of that better world which thou swayest unseen! 
 My one perfect mistress ! my all things in ail ! 
 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 worship, in darkness adore. 
 If life be not that which without us we find,— 
 Chance, accident, merely — but rather the mind. 
 And the soul which, within us, surviveth these 
 
 things, 
 If our real existence 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, thoug-h I name thee not mistress or wife. 
 Thou art mine— and mine only,— O life of my life ! 
 And though many's the slip 'tvvixt 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'll pledge, and that health shall 
 be thine ! 
 
 II. 
 This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose 
 Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throes 
 Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, 
 And in fiery fusion commi.x'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 whirleth 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 fill'd : 
 The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun 
 Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeih anon. 
 All 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 
 
 posit 10 /I."' 
 Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recog- 
 nition ; 
 Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out 
 On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, 
 no doubt. 
 
90 L U C 1 L E . 
 
 Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. 
 Ev'ry 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 yet, 
 Though, exulting, he deem "d himself loved, where 
 
 he loved, [moved. 
 
 Through his mind a vague self-accusation there 
 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 be 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 have 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. I 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 ! " 
 
L U C I L E . 99 
 
 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 my 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. 
 
 I believed, and with honest conviction believed, 
 
 In my love for Matilda. I never conceived 
 
 That another could shake it. I deem'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 1 she shall learn the whole truth. She 
 
 shall know 
 What I knew not myself but a few days ago. 
 The world will console her — her pride will sup 
 
 port — 
 Her youth will renew its emotions. In short. 
 There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss 
 When once we have parted. 'T is best as it is ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas ! 
 He yet felt unconvinced that V was best as it was. 
 Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise 
 That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 
 So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind. 
 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 tiiat he knew, 
 Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from 
 
 view, 
 Remain'd lofty and lonely in her. 
 
 , 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 ! 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, 
 From which he forever escaped to the thought 
 Doubt could reach not. . . " I love her, and all 
 
 else is naught ! " 
 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 
 
 bare 
 A desolate tree in a wide wintry 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 x\lfred 
 
 Vargrave. 
 "No, Alfred! 
 
 If over the present, when last 
 We 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 1 
 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, Alfred, let me own, too, 
 I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. 
 
 " True, 
 That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, 
 I alone 1 But oh, deem not it was with the thought 
 Or your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. 
 No! believe me, it was with the firm and unshaken 
 Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be 
 Without peril to you, although haply to me 
 The salvation of all my existence. 
 
 " I own. 
 When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly 
 
 made known 
 To the world your engagement, my heart and my 
 
 mind 
 Suf=fer'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 Being I loved is no more. 
 What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone 
 Void of life, is the young 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 change 
 Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange. 
 See, indeed, that the Being I 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 re- 
 gret. 
 Take the lot fate accords to my choice.' 
 
 '■ So we met. 
 But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd : 
 The danger, alas, to yourself ! I have err'd. 
 But happy for both that this error hath been 
 Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen ! 
 We meet, Alfred Vargrave, 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 ; my future is fix"d now. 
 
 " Return. 
 O return to the young living love ! Whence, alas ! 
 
I03 
 
 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 memory all that your voice 
 Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed 
 To my fancy with beauty and worth your be- 
 trothed ! 
 In the fair morning light, in the orient dew 
 Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to re- 
 new 
 All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, 
 The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest 
 
 youth ? 
 Yes! j>o!f will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 
 I foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this 
 Proves me worthy your friendship. And so — let it 
 
 prove 
 That I cannot— I 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 ? 
 But think ! if the world was too much in your 
 
 heart. 
 And too little in mine, when we parted ten years 
 Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and 
 tears !) 
 
304 L U C I L E . 
 
 Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which 
 
 then 
 Placed our ratures 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 you that are 
 
 right. 
 Best, then, all as it is ! 
 
 " Deem these words life's Good-night 
 To the hope of a moment : no more I If there tell 
 Any tear on this page, 't was a friend's. 
 
 " So farewell 
 To the past — and to you, Alfred 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 fiery 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. 
 
'05. 
 
 H; 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 ot stone, 'mid the wild weed and. 
 
 thistle. 
 And read over again that perplexing epistle. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In re-reading that letter, there rolTd from his. 
 
 mind 
 The raw mist of resentment which tirst made him. 
 
 blind 
 To the pathos breath'd through it. Tears rose in 
 
 his eyes, 
 And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seem'd. 
 
 to rise. 
 The truth which he saw not the tirst 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 
 Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a matclt 
 
io6 
 
 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 fly 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 implore 
 That great blessing on life you alone can confer," 
 'T were dishonor in him, 't would be insult to her. 
 Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee 
 He follow'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 oe Luvois. 
 
 XII. 
 
 With aggressive ironical tones, and a look 
 Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke 
 Addressed 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 
 
L U C I L E . 107 
 
 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 Alfred the Frenchman was bent 
 Upon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 't was 
 
 meant 
 From hint to provoke it by sneers such as these. 
 A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize 
 The position. He felt that he could not e.Kpose 
 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 tight wuh 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, fi.\'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 
 
io3 L r C I LE . 
 
 Or her suitor's. I love ihe 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, — I cannot believe 
 That you love, as I love, her ; nor can I conceive 
 You, indeed, have the right so to love her. 
 
 Milord^ 
 I will not thus tamely 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 yet turn aside 
 The quarrel from which he feit bound to abstain. 
 And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain 
 To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst ! ) 
 Had not been aceepted. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Accepted ! say first 
 Are 3'ou free to have (pffer'd ? " 
 
 Lord Alfred was mute» 
 
log 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Ah, you dare not reply ! " cried the Duke. 
 
 " Why dispute, 
 Why palter with me ? You are silent ! and why ? 
 Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 
 'T was from vanity, wanton and cruel withal. 
 And the wish an ascendency lost to recall, [milord, 
 That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, 
 Ycu be really sincere, I ask only one word. 
 Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, 
 I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, 
 And there caii 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." 
 
 xviir. 
 As diviners may see 
 Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, 
 He foresaw in a moment each evil result 
 Of the quarrel now imminent. 
 
 There, face to face, 
 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race. 
 With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky 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, invisible bridge 
 Dividing the Past from the Future, so small 
 That, if one should pass over, the other must fall. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof. 
 Urged with speed, sharply smote ; and from under 
 the roof 
 
no I L L- C I L E . 
 
 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, con- 
 fined 
 By the long boots ; the woolen 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 rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the 
 
 bank, 
 And, approaching the Duke, raised his woolen 
 
 capote, 
 Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. 
 
 The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, 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 read. 
 
 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 sur- 
 prise 
 
 Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, 
 
 And said gayly, " A pressing request from Lucile ! 
 
L r C I L E . Ill 
 
 You are quite right, Lord Alfred ! fair rivals at 
 
 worst, 
 Our relative place may 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 ! '' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and en- 
 raged. 
 But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged 
 By aught that could sanction resentment. He said 
 Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and 
 read . . . 
 
 The Comtesse de Nevers to the Due de Luvois. 
 
 " Saint Sa\'iour. 
 " Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me 
 
 stay 
 Till I see see you again. With no moment's delay 
 I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel 
 Or profess, to come to me directly. 
 
 " Lucile." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Your letter ! " He then had been writing to her ! 
 Coldly shrugging his shoulders. 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 words to the messenger. ..." Say your 
 
 despatch 
 Will be answer'd ere nightfall ; " then glanced at 
 
 his watch. 
 And turn'd back to the Baths. 
 
112 L UC I LE . 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Alfred Vargrave 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 ; 
 ^'' Doubt is over; my future is Jix\i iio%v.'^ they 
 
 said, [wed 
 
 " yl/j/ course is decided.'" Her course? what! to 
 With this insolent rival I 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 and strange rendez- 
 vous 
 How imprudent ! To some unfrequented lone inn 
 And so late (for the night was about to begin)— 
 She, companionless there ! — 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 Due de Luvois 
 Who waved his hand to him, and sped 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 
 Back toward Luchon : he walk'd on, but knew not 
 in what 
 
Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed, 
 He was walking ; but still he walk'd on without 
 heed. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The day had been sullen ; but, towards his decline, 
 The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine. 
 Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back. 
 The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black. 
 The spring that yet oozed through the moss-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 reach'd the 
 
 forlorn 
 Autumn 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, and 
 
 pass'd 
 Into darkness. The wrathful, red Occident cast 
 One glare of vindictive inquiry behind, 
 As the last light of day from the high wood de- 
 clined. 
 And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam, 
 And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream 
 Fell faintly. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 O Nature, how fair is thy face. 
 And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy 
 grace ! 
 
Thou false mistress of man ! 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, 
 But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor di- 
 
 vinest. 
 While he wooes, thou art wanton ; thou lettest him 
 
 love thee ; 
 But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot 
 
 move thee ; 
 And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost 
 
 thou ? 
 All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow ' 
 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 
 
 long, 
 And who now on thy bosom lie dead ? and their 
 
 deeds 
 And their days are forgotten' O hast thou no 
 
 weeds 
 And 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 eltrich, 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 surprise. 
 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. 
 
 But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her 
 cheek : 
 
 And how sweet must that voice be, if once she 
 would speak 1 
 
 He looks and he loves her ; but knows he (not he !> 
 
 The clew to unravel this old mystery ? 
 
 And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on 
 the wall. 
 
IIO L L' C 1 L E . 
 
 The mute men in armor around him, and all 
 The weird figures frown, as though striving to say, 
 -Halt! invade not the Fast, reckless child of To- 
 day.' 
 A nd give not, O niadinan ! the Jieart in thy breast 
 To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess' d 
 By an Age not thine own ! ' 
 
 " But unconscious is he, 
 And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see 
 Aught but one form before him ! 
 
 " 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 fairy-tale of the heart. 
 It is told in all lands, in a different tongue ; 
 Told with tears by the old, heard wnth smiles by 
 
 the young. 
 And the tale to each heart unto which it is known 
 Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. 
 
 Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part 
 
 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 quarry, 
 Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry 
 Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles: 
 But trifier he was not. When rose-leaves it rifies, 
 No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind 
 Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. 
 
L U C I L E. 117 
 
 Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been 
 Men of pleasure : but men's pleasant vices, which, 
 seen fmood, 
 
 Floating faint, in the sunshine of Alfred's soft 
 Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued 
 With impetuous passion, seemed semi-Satanic. 
 Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles ; in 
 
 pania 
 You watch them whirl'd down by 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. 
 Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod, 
 Where his whims were his guides, and his will w^as 
 
 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 
 W^hich penury locks, in each vice of an age 
 All 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 
 
 appear,^ 
 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 may be suddenly seen, 
 Darkening over the sands, where it startles and 
 
 scares 
 Some traveller stray'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 he rode 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 
 Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. 
 
 Oh how 
 He envied the wings of each wnld bird, as now 
 He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent 
 Of the mountain I Behind him a murmur was sent 
 From the torrent — before him a sound from the 
 
 tracts 
 Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cata- 
 racts. 
 And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd mo- 
 mently 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 ^seas 
 
 Were in sound and m motion, and mutter'd like 
 In Elfiand. 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 1 
 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, [limb 
 Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the 
 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. 
 
In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair uncon- 
 fined 
 
 Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the 
 wind 
 
 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 . . . 
 
 " / know 
 Why now you re/use me ; V is {is it not so ?) 
 For the man who has trifled before, wantonly , 
 A nd 710W trifles a^ain with the heart you deny 
 To myself. But he shall not ! By man's last wild 
 
 law, 
 I will seize on the right (the right. Due de Luvois !) 
 
L UC I L E. 121 
 
 To avenge for yon, woman, the past, and to give 
 To the future its freedom. The man shall not 
 
 live 
 'To make yo!c as wretched as you have made me! 
 
 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'd 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 dishonor 
 In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her. 
 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 that I hoped, to extinguish hope 
 
 quite. 
 
122 LUCILE. 
 
 But you should from the first have done this, for I 
 feel 
 
 That you knew from the first that I loved you." 
 
 Lucile 
 
 This sudden reproach seem'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'er her 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 dififused into deluge, and dies. 
 
 The other, the strength of the sea ; which supplies 
 
L L- C I L E . 123 
 
 Its deep life from mysterious 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. 
 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 ? 
 
 \\ 
 At that thoug^ht, from her aspect whatever had been 
 Stern or haughty departed ; and, humbled in mien. 
 She approach'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as 
 
 though 
 To herself more than him, "Was I 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 one ground — I at least am sincere. 
 You say that to me from the first it was clear 
 That you loved me. But what if this knowledge 
 
 were known 
 At a moment in life when I felt most alone, 
 And 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 bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois. 
 If I hoped to see all this, ordeem'd that I saw 
 
124 
 
 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 ! "' 
 
 Lrvois. 
 
 Oh, again. 
 Yet aga*in, say that thrice blessed word! say 
 
 Lucile, 
 That you then deign'd to hope— 
 
 LtCILE. 
 
 Yes ! to hope I could feel. 
 And could give to you, that without which, all else 
 
 given 
 Were but to deceive, and to injure you even . — 
 A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then. 
 Do you blame that one hope ? 
 
 Lfvois. 
 
 O Lucile ! 
 
 Say again. 
 She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, 
 " Do you blame me that, when 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 I " 
 
 With but ill-suppress'd wrath 
 The Duke answer'd . . . "What, then! he 
 recrosses your path 
 
[25 
 
 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, brokenly murmur'd . . . "No! no! 
 'T is not that— but alas ! — but I cannot conceal 
 That I 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 ! " 
 Heapproach'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 by the 
 
 light 
 Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, '' Am I 
 
 right ? 
 You reject vie ! accept Iiiin ! " 
 
 " 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! 
 
126 
 
 While you deign to reply to one question from me? 
 J 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, mig^ht he hope 
 then ? " 
 
 " He might," 
 She said softly. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 that'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 involve all things else in the anguish within it, 
 And on others inflict its own pangs ! 
 
 At that minute 
 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 
 
127 
 
 Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near! 
 It was midnight all round on the weird silent 
 
 weather ; [gether, 
 
 Deep midnight in him ! They two,— lone and to- 
 Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! 
 The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. 
 The abyss 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 flashes 
 
 scorch'd blind 
 His own senses. His spirit wasdriven on the wind 
 Of a reckless emotion beyond his control ; 
 A torrent seem'd loosen'd wifhin him. His soul 
 Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd 
 And seeth'd in his heart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He had thrown, and had miss'd 
 His last stake. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For, transfigured, she rose from the place 
 Where he rested o'erawed : a saint's scorn on her 
 
 face ; 
 Such a dread vede retro was written in light 
 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 nighfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is 
 
 gone, 
 
128 
 
 And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. 
 There she paused ; and, as though from immeas- 
 urable, 
 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 ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 No word, 
 The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, 
 Could have pierced to his heart with such keen ac- 
 cusation J 
 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. 
 
[29 
 
 O'er the dim balustrade all bevvilder'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 gray gnat. Before he relin- 
 
 quish'd 
 His unconscious employment, that light was ex- 
 
 tinguish'd. 
 Wheels, at last, from the inn door aroused him. He 
 
 ran 
 Down the stairs ; reached the door — just to see her 
 
 depart. 
 Down the mountain the carriage was speeding. 
 
 X. 
 
 His heart 
 Pealed the knell of its last hope. He rush'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, exhausted, he sank mid the dead leaves and 
 
 moss 
 At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering 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 ? 
 
130 
 
 Whiiher 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 faith 't were dis- 
 grace 
 To relinquish, and folly to live for ! Nor less 
 Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless . 
 Or to ban ; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'd 
 To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in 
 
 hard field 
 Wiih the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, 
 
 tradition ; 
 A mere faded badge of a social position ; 
 A thing to retain and say nothing about. 
 Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from 
 
 doubt. 
 Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of 
 
 his youth 
 Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in 
 
 truth ! 
 And beyond them, what region of refuge? what 
 
 field 
 For employment, this civilized age, did it yield. 
 
I, U C I L E . 131 
 
 In that civilized land ? or to thought ? or to action ? 
 Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distraction ? 
 Not even a desert, not even the cell 
 Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell 
 The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest, 
 Ran riot through that ruin'd 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 [hour. 
 
 That walk'd the dim world by Himself at that 
 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 fiery 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 infidel 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 
 
132 LU C I LE. 
 
 Of misshapen, incong-ruous 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 overthrown 
 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, the blemish'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 — [scried 
 
 Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he de- 
 Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd 
 
 wide. 
 As though to embrace him. 
 
 He turn'd from the siglu. 
 Set his face to the darkness, and fled. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When the light 
 Of the dawn grayly flicker'd 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 young day, as disclaiming alliance 
 With aught that the day brings to man, he per- 
 ceived 
 
Faintly, suddenly, fleelingly, through the damp- 
 leaved 
 Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on his 
 
 way, 
 The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray 
 With 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 inquiry fix'd keenly on him. 
 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, 
 " / have triumpli d. The question your eyes %vould 
 
 imply. 
 Conies too late, Alfred I'argrave J " 
 
 And so he rode by, 
 And rode on, and rodegayly, 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, 
 
34 
 
 Down the highway deserted, that evening- in which 
 With the Duke he had patted; 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, tlie 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 his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'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 morn 
 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 the Countess. The man rubb'd 
 
 his eyes. 
 The Countess was gone. And the Duke ? 
 
 The man stared 
 A sleepy inquiry. 
 
 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 ay, ay ! 
 He went after the lady." 
 
 No further reply 
 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 explain'd ? 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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 babblers, his look, 
 
By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke, 
 Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, 
 With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. 
 
 Right 
 Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift 
 
 sombre stride, [aside. 
 
 Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd. stepp'd 
 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, stifling 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 gay ? 
 'T is, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune, 
 Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn 
 Has at last found a Mars — who, of course, shall be 
 
 nameless. 
 The vestal that yields to Mars otily is blameless ! 
 Hark ! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs 
 All his heart into tumult ? . . . Lucile de Nevers 
 With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, 
 
 light. 
 
137 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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, with 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 
 
13« 
 
 From the prate, 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 MacNab. 
 
 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 
 
139 
 
 This world and the next ; having largely invested 
 
 Not only where treasure is never molested 
 
 By 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 did Ridley present. 
 Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. 
 The leader of every religious society, 
 Christian knowledge he labor'd through life to 
 
 promote 
 With personal profit, and knew how to quote 
 Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal ad- 
 vantage 
 To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, 
 A waiter his head through the doorway protruded ; 
 " Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak." 
 Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his 
 
 cheek ; 
 He brush'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 head. 
 He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said 
 " Sir Ridley may enter." 
 
 In three minutes more 
 That benign apparition appear'd at the door. 
 Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares 
 Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs 
 
140 
 
 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 Exeter Hall ; he was starting that night 
 For Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight. 
 That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting 
 
 out 
 For the same destination : impatient, no doubt ! 
 Here some commonplace compliments as to " the 
 
 marriage" 
 Through his speech trickled softly, like honey ; 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 perplexity, 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 offer." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfi'ed Vargrave, 
 
 before 
 Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door. 
 A few moments later, with footsteps revealing 
 Intense agitation of uncontroU'd feeling, 
 He was rapidly pacing the garden below. 
 
141 
 
 What pass'd through his mind then is more than I 
 
 know. 
 But 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 
 Betray'd there the least agitation. " The place 
 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," 
 Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small 
 
 supply with us. 
 Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two 
 
 men 
 Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when 
 Alfred suddenly thought — "Here's a man of ripe 
 
 age. 
 At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage. 
 Who looks happy, and therefore who must have 
 
 been wise. 
 Suppose 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 
 And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and 
 
 doubt." 
 For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. 
 It was snapp'd up at once. 
 
142 LUCILE. 
 
 "What is truth ? " jesting Pilate 
 Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a 
 
 smile at 
 Its utter futility. Had he address'd it 
 To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it 
 Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man 
 Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical 
 
 Roman 
 Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk ! 
 Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, 
 And forthwith on the pavement 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'll prove you the whole plan in plain a b c. 
 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 plain a e c to accord 
 To your point-blank inquiry, my friends ! not a 
 
 word 
 Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. 
 
 Alas I 
 Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will 
 
 pass. 
 'T is the half-empty vessel that freest emits 
 The vv^ater that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; 
 Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capa- 
 bility 
 Of imparting to others a truth with facility 
 Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness 
 To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, 
 
143 
 
 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 we 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 escape from our 
 sight. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And meanwhile a world had been changed in its 
 place. 
 
 And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy 
 space 
 
 Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of 
 sight. 
 
 To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night ; 
 
 And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, 
 
 And the fair morn to all things new sanction ex- 
 tended. 
 
 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 laugh'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 flowers, 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, with a face 
 Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such 
 
 grace. 
 And radiant confidence, childlike delight. 
 That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight. 
 And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, " O, how could I have 
 
 stray'd 
 From this sweet child, or suifer'd in aught to in- 
 vade 
 Her young claim on my life, though it were for an 
 
 hour. 
 The thought of another ? " 
 
 "• Look up, my sweet flower ! " 
 He whisper'd her softly, " my heart unto thee 
 Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee ! " 
 "And will wander no more? " laugh'd Matilda. 
 
 " No 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 plain English heart. 
 Or sympathize with it? " 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And here the first part 
 
L U C 1 L E . 145 
 
 Of this drama is over. The curtain falls f url'd 
 On the actors within it — the Heart, and the World, 
 Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of 
 
 life,— 
 Have they solved it ? 
 
 Appear ! answer, Husband and Wife. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, 
 Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers. 
 
 The Comtesse de Nevers to a Friend in India. 
 " Once more, O my friend, to your arms and 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 yours ! 
 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 they bear from their 
 
 birth ; 
 From the men of small stature, mere parts of a 
 
 crowd. 
 Born too late, when 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 ! 
 
146 L U C I L E . 
 
 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 gathered the moonbeams for 
 
 gold ? 
 Do you yet recollect me, my friend ? Do you 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 yet 
 The free child, whose glad childhood myself I for- 
 get. 
 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. 
 
147 
 
 The dove from my bosom hath flown far away : 
 It is flown, and returns not, though many a day 
 Have 1 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 : 
 But 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. 
 
148 L U C I L E . 
 
 Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore 
 Whence too far I have wander'd. 
 
 " How many long years 
 Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching 
 
 tears, 
 While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's prema- 
 ture 
 Moans of pain at what women in silence endure ! 
 To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes 
 
 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 ! the idol of old ! 
 It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould 
 Is not to the forest more lost than to me 
 That emotion. I bury it here by the sea 
 Which will bear me anon far away from the shore 
 Of a land which my footsteps shall visit no more. 
 And a heart's requiescat 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 
 As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone 
 In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring : 
 It may be an angel that, weary of wing, 
 
149 
 
 Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom, 
 Or only 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 strive where the gods must themselves 
 
 yield at last ? 
 Both they 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 I 
 
 " 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 repose which hath fled from my own. 
 
 "■ Your LuciLE." 
 
PART II. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Hail, Muse i But each Muse by this time 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, beneficent, great Two-in-One ! 
 In Albermarle 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 they feel, in the silence of baffled extortion. 
 That knowledge is power ! Long, long, like that 
 
 portion 
 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 
 I invoke, lest, unskill'd, I should wander in vain. 
 
L U C I L E . 151 
 
 To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse 
 Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse ; 
 For I sing- of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems 
 Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. 
 Yes ! thy spirit descends upon mine. O John Mur- 
 ray ! 
 And I start— with thy book— for the Baths in a 
 hurry. 
 
 11. 
 " 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, brings the traveller to— 
 
 "EMS. 
 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 place ; but most travellers prefer 
 (Including, indeed, many persons of note) 
 To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. 
 Throug*]! the town runs the Lahn, the steep green 
 
 banks of which 
 Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich ; 
 And between the high road and river is laid 
 
152 
 
 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 
 
 fk 
 
 t r. 
 
 call'd 'the I'ROMENADE.' 
 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these 
 
 springs 
 In the month when the merle on the maple-bough 
 
 sings, 
 Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths 
 By 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 flieth 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 weary ere half through the journey of life. 
 O Nature, say 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 eyes. 
 The firm foot on the earth, the high heart 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 
 
^54 
 
 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 her noble and innocent brow, when she rose, 
 An Aurora, at dawn, from 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 pearl 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. 
 
 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, 
 
LUCILE. 155 
 
 Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet 
 
 in truth 
 UnfulfiU'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth 
 (In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-nealth), 
 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 follow'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 glory so fair, now that manhood in truth 
 Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy 
 
 gold [mould ! 
 
 Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and 
 
 v. 
 Fairy gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy 
 
 Bride ? 
 Lived there yet fairy-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. 
 
156 
 
 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 i 
 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 ! [doubt : 
 
 Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no 
 But the last man, at best, was but learned about 
 What the first, without learning, enjoyd. 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 emotion ! 
 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 aesthetical, 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 glory, 
 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 
 
»57 
 
 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, 
 Stiil, that horrible sense of the deja coiimi ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Perchance 't was the fault of the life that 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 explain. 
 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, [face. 
 
 Each must speak to the crown with a mask on his 
 Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went. 
 She was flattered. Can flattery purchase content? 
 Ves. While to its voice, for a moment, she listen'd. 
 The young cheek still bloom'd, and the soft eyes 
 
 sLill 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 flush'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 — .' " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah, thdii yd .' 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Of the self-crown'd young kings of the Fashion in 
 France 
 
L U C I L E . 159 
 
 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 Eugfene 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 guessit 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 What! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous 
 
 ease ! 
 Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease ? 
 My friend, hear a parable : ponder it well : 
 For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. 
 One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, 
 
l6o L U C I L E . 
 
 And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and Arnal, 
 My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; 
 Every 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 you would 
 
 know. 
 Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours 
 
 ago, 
 I walk'd into the Francais, 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 • 
 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-vo2is ? 
 Every place for the tragedy book'd ! . . . 711011 ami. 
 The farce was close by : . . . at the farce meiioici .' 
 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 h^ve 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 I mark'd, when his features I tix'd in my com- 
 ment, 
 
LUCILE. l6l 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A 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. 
 He turns from the worship of thee, as thou art. 
 An expressless and imageless truth in the heart, 
 And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf 
 And the gold of the Godless, to make to himself 
 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 prophets of Baal, our bosoms with rods 
 We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till they 
 
 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 It was night ; and the lamps were beginning to 
 
 gleam 
 Through the long linden-trees, folded each in his 
 
 dream. 
 From that building which looks like a temple . . . 
 
 and is 
 
l62 L U C I L E . 
 
 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— Hamburghers chiefly ;— pure patriots,— Sua- 
 
 bians ; — 
 " Cappadociansand Elamites, Cretesand Arabians. 
 And the dwellers in Pontus" , . . My muse will 
 
 not weary \niuere ? 
 
 More lines with the list of them . . . cur fre- 
 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 ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 roU'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 — Roug-e, Ivipair^ et 
 
 Passe ! 
 Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams 
 
 as encumber 
 
i63 
 
 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 Sa-b- 
 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 of Chance. 
 The idler from England, the idler from France 
 Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial 
 
 pleasure : 
 An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure, 
 And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray 
 One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd 
 
 away. 
 'T was a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, 
 These friends exchange greeting;— 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began 
 With a few modest thalers — away they all ran — 
 The reserve follow'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^«^/<rrt abhorret 
 yacuutn- a.nd my lord, as he watch'd his last crown 
 
i64 
 
 L UC I L E . 
 
 OTi'J>- 
 
 WITH HIS I'LEASANT FKENCH 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Tumble into the bank, turn'd avva)- 
 j with a frown 
 
 ) Which the brows of Napoleon himself 
 
 \ might have deck'd 
 
 I On that day of all days when an em- 
 
 pire was wreck'd 
 On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd 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 ? Wa.s it waking ? Across the green 
 table, 
 
i65 
 
 That face, vviih 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 ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem. 
 Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream ! 
 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so 
 
 hush'd, 
 That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, 
 There yavvn'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 exist- 
 ence, 
 Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and 
 
 distance : 
 A strange sort of iaint-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. 
 
l66 L U C I L E . 
 
 In Rome, — in the Forum, — there open'd one night 
 A gulf. All 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 stufif, 
 But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd likely 
 
 enough 
 To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could 
 
 choke. 
 Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : 
 " O Quirites ! 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 till up the void. 
 Through many a heart runs the rent in the fable ; 
 But who to discover a Curtius is able ? 
 
 X\II. 
 
 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. [quitted 
 
 The same, to the sam; things ! The world, she had 
 
LUCI LE. 
 
 167 
 
 With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon 
 
 flitted 
 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 be- 
 yond 
 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. 
 
1 68 
 
 Genius touches the world at but one point alone 
 Of that spacious circumference, never quite 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'd 
 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 un- 
 born ; 
 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 With a face all transfigured and flush'd by surprise 
 Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep search- 
 ing eyes 
 
i69 
 
 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 be- 
 yond : 
 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 unobserved. Not unnoticed, however. 
 By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never 
 Seen her husband's new friend. 
 
 She had followed by chance, 
 Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance 
 Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meet- 
 ing, 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 inquiry 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 
 
[70 
 
 (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 
 Loved by one— her own rival — more fair and more 
 
 young? " 
 The serpent rose in him ; a serpent which, stung, 
 Sought to sting. 
 
 Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye 
 Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by. 
 In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile 
 Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts 
 
 touch'd. Meanwhile 
 The muse of this story, convinced that they need 
 
 her, 
 To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Duke, with that sort of aggressive false praise 
 Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise 
 From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before 
 He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er 
 The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly 
 With the man he is minded to hang by and by). 
 Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect 
 In the face of Matilda the growing effect 
 Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon 
 
 that slays 
 Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. 
 
Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen : and now 
 Each was silent, preoccupied, thoughtful. 
 
 You know- 
 There are moments when silence, proiong'd and 
 
 unbroken, 
 More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. 
 It is when the heart has an instinct of what 
 In the heart of another is passing. And that 
 In the heart of Matilda, what was it ? Whence 
 
 came 
 To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame ? 
 What weighed down her head ? 
 
 All your eye could discover 
 Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover 
 That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. 
 She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. 
 The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell 
 Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. 
 She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose 
 
 blossom 
 Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her 
 
 bosom. 
 " This poor flower," she said, " seems it not out of 
 
 place 
 In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh fragile grace?" 
 She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile 
 The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the 
 
 while, 
 And continued on his sid j the silence. He knew 
 This would force his companion their talk to renew 
 At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined 
 The significant pause with new trouble of mind. 
 She lifted one moment her head ; but her look 
 Encountered the ardent regard of the Duke, 
 And dropp'd back on her floweret abash'd. Then, 
 
 still seeking 
 
(72 
 
 The assurance she fancied she show'd him by- 
 speaking, 
 She conceived herself safe in adopting again 
 The theme she should most have avoided just then. 
 
 xxi. 
 " Duke," she said, . . . and she felt as she spoke, 
 
 her cheek burn'd, 
 " You know, then, this . . . lady ? " 
 
 " Too well ! " he rcturn'd. 
 Matilda. 
 True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now. 
 
 Luvois. 
 With emotion ? 
 
 Matilda. 
 Yes, yes ! you described her, I know. 
 As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd. 
 
 Luvois. 
 
 Alas ! 
 You mistook me completely! You, madam, sur- 
 pass 
 This lady as moonlight does lamplight ; as youth 
 Surpasses its best imitations ; as truth 
 The fairest of falsehoods surpasses; as nature 
 Surpasses art's masterpiece ; ay, as the creature 
 Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses 
 All the charms got by heart at the world's looking- 
 glasses ! 
 
 " Yet you said," — she continued with some trepida- 
 tion, 
 " That you quite comprehended "... a slight 
 
 hesitation 
 Shook the sentence, ..." a passion so strong 
 as " . . . 
 
 Lrvois. 
 True, true ! 
 But not in a man that had once look'd at you. 
 
'73 
 
 Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or . . . 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " 
 She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. 
 " Between man and woman these things differ so ! 
 It may be'that the world pardons . . . (how should 
 
 I know?) 
 In you what it visits on us ; or 't is true. 
 It maybe, that we women are better than you." 
 
 Luvois. 
 Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mis- 
 take. 
 The world, in its judgment, some difference may 
 
 make 
 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects 
 Its social enactments ; but not as affects 
 The one sentiment which, it were easy to prove. 
 Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. 
 
 Matilda. 
 That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. 
 Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear 
 I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress 
 Or account for the feelings which sway it. 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! 
 That is too true, indeed ! " . . . the Duke sigh'd. 
 
 And again 
 For one moment in silence continued the twain. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed 
 All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded : 
 "And yet! . . . what avails, then, to woman the 
 
 gift 
 Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift. 
 Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair. 
 One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less 
 
 fair 
 
'74 
 
 Are exposed, when they love ? " 
 
 With a quick change of tone, 
 As though by resentment impell'd, he went on :— 
 " The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took 
 From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that 
 
 look 
 So excited, so keen, on the face you must know 
 Throughout all its expressions,— that rapturous 
 
 glow — 
 Those eloquent features — significant eyes — 
 Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no sur- 
 prise," 
 (He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door, 
 Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) ..." be- 
 fore, 
 Have you ever once seen what jusl now you may 
 
 view 
 In that face so familiar ? . . . no, lady, 't is new. 
 Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, 
 Are you loved ? " 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He look'd at her — paused — felt if thus far 
 The ground held yet. The ardor with which he 
 
 had spoken. 
 This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken. 
 Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, 
 As though some indefinite danger were near. 
 With composure, however, at once she replied :— 
 " 'T is three years since the day when I first was a 
 
 bride. 
 And my husband I never had cause to suspect ; 
 Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. 
 Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — 
 See, or fancy — some moment's oblivion of me, 
 I trust that I too should forget it, — for you 
 Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." 
 
175 
 
 The hue 
 
 On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the 
 
 Duke . 
 She had uttered this vague and half-frighten'd re- 
 buke. 
 Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word 
 Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be 
 
 heard. 
 There was silence again. ^ 
 
 A gr€at step had been made 
 By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. 
 There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that 
 
 night. 
 Had listen'd,— long listen'd— no doubt, in despite 
 Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard. 
 And her heart by that voice had been troubled and 
 
 stirr'd. 
 And so, having suffer'd in silence his eye 
 To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh: 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade 
 By disclosing my own ? The position," he said, 
 *' In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse 
 The frankness and force of the words which I use. 
 You say that your heart is your husband's : you say 
 That you love him. You think so, of course, lady 
 
 . . . nay. 
 Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. 
 Rut, trust me, no true love there can be without 
 Its dread penalty — jealousy. 
 
 " Well, do not start ! 
 Until now— either thanks to a singular art 
 Of supreme self-control, you have held them all 
 
 down 
 Unreveal'd in your heart, — or you never have 
 
 known 
 
176 
 
 Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs 
 
 Which deep passion engenders ; that anguish 
 
 which hangs 
 On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred. 
 But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed 
 Of a blissful security thus hath reposed 
 Undisturb'd with mild eyelids on happiness closed. 
 Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, 
 And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust. 
 To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, 
 For how long I know not, continue to see 
 A woman whose place rivals yours in the life 
 And the heart which not only your title of wife. 
 But also (forgive me !) your beauty alone, 
 Should have made wholly yours ? — You, who gave 
 
 all your own ! 
 Reflect ! — 't is the peace of existence you stake 
 On the turn of a die. And for whose — for his sake ? 
 While you witness this woman, the false point of 
 
 view 
 From which she must now be regarded by you 
 Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, 
 The charms I admit she possesses. To me 
 They are trivial indeed ; yet to your eyes, I fear 
 And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. 
 Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess 
 How more lovely by far is the grace you possess. 
 You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of 
 
 art, 
 You will take for the natural charm of the heart ; 
 Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, 
 Will too soon in that fatal comparison be 
 To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense 
 Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best elo- 
 quence. 
 O then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart 
 
The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart ! 
 While you see her, yourself you no longer will 
 
 see,— 
 You will hear her, and hear not yourself,— you will 
 
 be 
 Unhappy ; unhappy, because you will deem 
 Your own power less great than her power will 
 
 seem. 
 And I shall not be by your side, day by day, 
 In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 
 ' You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair 
 Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can 
 
 wear 1 ' " 
 
 XXV. 
 
 This appeal, both by looks and by language, in- 
 creased 
 The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. 
 Still she spoke with what calmness she could — 
 
 " Sir, the while 
 I thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, 
 '' For your fervor in painting my fancied distress : 
 Allow me the right some surprise to express 
 At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me 
 The possible depth of my own misery." 
 "That zeal would not startle you, madam," he 
 
 said, 
 '■' Could you read in my heart, as myself I have 
 
 read. 
 The peculiar interest which causes that zeal—" 
 
 Matilda her terror no more could conceal. 
 "Duke," she answer'd in accents short, cold, and 
 
 severe, 
 As she rose from her seat, " I continue to hear ; 
 But permit me to say, I no more understand." 
 " Forgive ! " with a nervous appeal of the hand, 
 
178 
 
 And a well-feign'd confusion of voice and of look, 
 " Forgive, oh, forgive me ! " at once cried the 
 
 Duke. 
 " I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave 
 I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve) 
 For one moment to speak of myself, — for I think 
 That you wrong me — " 
 
 His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink ; 
 And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, 
 Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me," 
 He continued, " a sorrow which draws me to side 
 With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he 
 
 cried, 
 " At so strange an avowal. 
 
 " I seek at a ball. 
 For instance, — the beauty admired by all ? 
 No ! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits 
 Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by 
 
 the wits. 
 All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect, 
 Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my 
 
 respect. 
 No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, 
 I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong ; 
 But I seek to console, where I can. 'T is apart 
 Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart." 
 These trite words, from the tone which he gave 
 
 them, received 
 An appearance of truth, which might well be be- 
 lieved 
 By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. 
 
 And so 
 
L U CI LE . 179 
 
 He continued . . . " O lady ! alas, could you know 
 What injustice and wrong in this world I have 
 
 seen ! 
 How many a woman, believed to have been 
 Without a regret, I have known turn aside 
 To burst into heartbroken tears undescribed ! 
 On how many a lip have I witness'd the smile 
 Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart 
 
 the while ! " 
 Said Matilda, "Your life, it would seem, then, 
 
 must be 
 One long act of devotion." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said he ; 
 " But at least that devotion small merit can boast. 
 For one day may yet come, — if 07ie day at the 
 
 most, — 
 When, perceiving at last all the difference— how 
 
 great ! — 
 'Twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart that 
 
 can wait, 
 'Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain. 
 Some v/omrn, that else might have pass'd in disdain 
 Or indifiference by me, — in passing that day 
 Might pause with a word or a smile to repay 
 This devotion, — and then "... 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 To Matilda's relief 
 At that moment her husband approach'd. 
 
 With some grief 
 I must own that her welcome, perchance, was ex- 
 
 press'd 
 The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast 
 Of a conscience disturb'd, and her smile not less 
 
 warm, 
 Thou.Th she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on h-'; 
 
 arm. 
 
i8o 
 
 The Duke turn'd and adjusted his collar. 
 
 Thought he 
 " Good ! the gods fight my battle to-night. I fore- 
 see 
 That the family doctor's the part I must play. 
 Very well ! but the patients my visits shall pay." 
 Lord Alfred presented LuciJe to his wife ; 
 And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife 
 Of emotions which made her voiceshake, murmur'd 
 low [bow 
 
 Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a 
 Which betoken'd a distant defiance, replied 
 To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried 
 Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace 
 Of that kindncvss which seeks to win kindness, her 
 
 place 
 She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance, 
 Or resolved not to notice, the half-f righten'd glance 
 That follow'd that movement. 
 
 The Duke to his feet 
 Arose ; and, in silence, relinquish'd his seat, 
 One must own that the moment was awkward for 
 
 all; 
 But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall 
 Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, 
 And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, to 
 
 melt ; 
 Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four 
 Thro' the crowd saunter'd, smiling. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Approaching the door, 
 Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen behind, 
 By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd 
 With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal 
 Whirh appear'd to imply, without words, " Let us 
 
 By ^el 
 
That the friendship between us in years that are 
 
 fled, 
 Has survived one mad moment forg-otten," she said, 
 " You remain, Duke, at Ems?" 
 
 He turn'd on her a look 
 Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; 
 And then, with a more than significant glance 
 At Matilda, maliciously answer'd, "Perchance 
 I have here an attraction. And you ? " he return'd 
 Lucile's eyes had follow'd his own, and discern'd 
 The boast they implied. 
 
 He repeated, " And you ? '" 
 And, still watching Matilda, she answer'd, " I too." 
 And he thought, as with that word she left him, she 
 
 sigh'd. 
 The next moment her place she resumed by the side 
 Of Matilda ; and soon they shook hands at the gate 
 Of the selfsame hotel. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 One depress'd, one elate, 
 The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the glooms 
 Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the Rooms. 
 His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, 
 At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from the 
 
 door. 
 Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, experto 
 {Me niiseruut quoties .') crede Roberto. 
 In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. 
 
 At last 
 The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously 
 pass'd. 
 
 Luvois. 
 Once more ! yet once more I 
 Alfred. 
 
 What? 
 
l82 L U C I L E . 
 
 Luvois. 
 
 We meet her, once more, 
 The woman for whom we two madmen of yore 
 (Laugh, vioH cher Alfred^ laugh !) were about to 
 
 destroy 
 Each other ! 
 
 Alfred. 
 It is not with laughter that I 
 Raise the ghost of that once troubled time. Say ! 
 
 can you 
 Recall it with coolness and quietude now ? 
 
 Luvois. 
 Now ? yes ! I r7Ton cher, am a true Parisien : 
 Now the red revolution, the tocsin, and then 
 The dance and the play. I am now at the play. 
 
 Alfred. 
 At the play, are you now ? Then perchance I now 
 
 may 
 Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until 
 Such a moment I waited . . . 
 Luvois. 
 
 Oh ! ask what you will. 
 Franc jeti ! on the table my cards I spread out. 
 Ask! 
 
 Alfred. 
 Duke, you were call'd to a meeting (no doubt 
 You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night 
 When you went ; and before you returned it was 
 
 light. 
 We met : you accosted me then with a brow 
 Bright with triumph : your words (you remember 
 
 them now ?) 
 Were, " Let us be friends 1" 
 Luvois. 
 
 Well? 
 
L U C I L E . 183 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 How then, after that 
 
 Can you and she meet as acquaintances ? 
 
 Luvois. 
 
 What ! 
 
 Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, 
 
 Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of 
 
 hers ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 In our converse to-night we avoided the past. 
 But the question I ask should be answer'd at last: 
 By you, if you will ; if you will not, by her. 
 
 Luvois. 
 Indeed ? but that question, milord, can it stir 
 Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more. 
 Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand 
 To my wife .') to present her. I did so. Her hand 
 Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe 
 Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so. 
 To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. 
 Answer, Due de Luvois ! Did Lucile then reject 
 The proffer you made of your hand and your name ? 
 Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim 
 ■ Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because 
 My title to do so is clear by the laws 
 That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign 
 That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, 
 For which, if your own virgin sister were by. 
 From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, 
 
 and I 
 And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Duke 
 Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look 
 Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said, 
 
And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts 
 through his head : [again 
 
 " Leave Ems ! would that suit me ? no ! that were 
 To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, 
 She herself will . . . et puis^ il a raison : on est 
 Gentilhonnne avant tout ! " He replied therefore. 
 
 " Nay ! 
 Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, 
 In those days, I was mad ; and in some mad reply 
 I threatened the life of the rival to whom 
 That rejection was due, I was led to presume. 
 She fear'd for his life ; and the letter which then 
 She wrote me, I show'd you ; we met : and again 
 My hand was refused, and my love was denied. 
 And the glance you mistook was the vizard which 
 
 Pride 
 Lends to Humiliation. 
 
 " And so," half in jest. 
 He went on, " in this best world, 't is all for the 
 best ; [one 
 
 You are wedded (bless'd Englishman !), wedded to 
 Whose past can be call'd into question by none : 
 And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to feel 
 I am lord of myself, and the Mode : and Lucile 
 Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair 
 As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there ! 
 A Dian in marble that scorns any troth 
 With the little love-gods, whom I thank for us both, 
 While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart, 
 That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. 
 Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave ! " 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The Duke, with a smile, 
 Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, 
 
 meanwhile, 
 They had reach'd. 
 
i85 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown 
 Heart and mind !)in the darkness bewilder'd, alone: 
 " And so," to himself did he mutter, " and so 
 'T was to rescue my life, gentle spirit ! and, oh. 
 For this did I doubt her? ... a light word— a 
 
 look — 
 The mistake of a moment ! . . . for this I forsook — 
 For this? Pardon, pardon, Lucile ! O Lucile ! " 
 Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal, 
 Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his 
 
 brain, 
 As he stray'd down the darkness. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Re-entering again 
 The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turn'd to roulette, 
 And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, 
 
 and yet 
 He still smiled : night deepen'd : he play'd his last 
 
 number : 
 Went home : and soon slept: and still smiled in his 
 
 slumber. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 In his desolate Maxims. La Rochefaucauld wrote, 
 " In the grief or mischance of a friend you may 
 
 note. 
 There is something which always gives pleasure." 
 
 Alas ! 
 That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. 
 La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down — 
 " No misfortune, but what some one turns to his 
 
 own 
 Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it 
 There ever is somebody ready to profit: 
 No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all 
 Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall 
 
l86 LUC I L E . 
 
 Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." 
 Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld ! 
 
 Fool ! one man's wit 
 All men's selfishness how should it fathom ? 
 
 O sage, 
 Dost thou satirize Nature ? 
 
 She laughs at thy page. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 Cousin John to Cousin Alfred. 
 
 " London, i8 — 
 " My dear Alfred, 
 
 Your last letters put me in pain. 
 This contempt of existence, this listless disdain 
 Of your own life, — its joys and its duties, -the deuce 
 Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse I 
 I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your 
 
 leg, 
 And compel you to stump through the world on a 
 
 peg- 
 I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity !), 
 To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. 
 I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread 
 Of another — (what is it that Dante has said ?) 
 And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, 
 I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd 
 On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause 
 For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws ! 
 This pressure against all the purpose of life. 
 This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife, 
 Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth. 
 The richness and strength of the new wine of j^outh. 
 But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with 
 
 time, 
 Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavor sublime 
 
i87 
 
 It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, 
 
 Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste 
 
 The better, I take it. And this vice of snarling. 
 
 Self-love's little lapdog, the overfed darling 
 
 Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears. 
 
 To my thinking, at least, in a man of your years, 
 
 At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do, 
 
 And every incentive for doing it too, — 
 
 With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing 
 
 For prayer, and of joys more than most men for 
 
 blessing ; 
 With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse, — 
 Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse ! 
 I wish I could get you at least to agree 
 To take life as it is, and consider with me, 
 If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers ; 
 It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. 
 Do you think none have known but yourself all 
 
 the pain 
 Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain ? 
 And all the wide distance fate fi.xes, no doubt, 
 'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's 
 
 without ? 
 What one of us tinds the world just as he likes? 
 Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or 
 
 strikes 
 Without missing the thing that he strikes at the 
 
 first? 
 Or walks without stumbling ? Or quenches his 
 
 thirst 
 Atone draught ? Bah! I tell you ! I, bachelor 
 
 John, 
 Have had griefs of my own. But what then ? I 
 
 push on 
 All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain 
 Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. 
 
£ilf 
 
 Mi 
 
 Xx- 
 
 \ 
 
 WITH A PRETTY YOUNG WIFE, 
 
L U C I L E . 189 
 
 God means every man to be happy, be sure. 
 
 He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. 
 
 Our duty down here is to do, not to know. 
 
 Live as thoug-h life were earnest, and life will be so. 
 
 Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, 
 
 come : 
 It will wait to deliver its message ; and some 
 Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed 
 A man does, but the way that he does it, should 
 
 plead 
 For the man's compensation in doing it. 
 
 " Here, 
 My next neighbor's a man with twelve thousand a 
 
 year. 
 Who deems that life has not a pastime more 
 
 pleasant 
 Than to follow a fo.x, or to slaughter a pheasant. 
 Yet this fellow goes through a contested election. 
 Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection. 
 All the day through upon a committee, and late 
 To the last, every night, through the dreary debate. 
 As though he were getting each speaker by heart. 
 Though amongst them he never presumes to take 
 
 part. 
 One asks himself why, without murmur or question. 
 He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion, 
 For a labor of which the result seems so small. 
 'The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. 
 He has just sense enough to be fully aware 
 That he never can hope to be Premier, or share 
 The renown of a Tully ;— or even to hold 
 A subordinate office. He is not so bold 
 As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear 
 With patience his modest opinions to hear. 
 ' But he wants something ! ' 
 
 " What ! with twelve thousand a year ? 
 
igo L U C 1 L E . 
 
 What could Government give him would be half so 
 
 dear 
 To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun 
 Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run ? 
 ' No ; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain ; 
 The man would be more than his neighbors, t is 
 
 plain ; 
 And the drudgery drearily gone through in town 
 Is more than repaid by provincial renown. 
 Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose. 
 Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance ; 
 
 the goose. 
 If the Fashion to him open one of its doors. 
 As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors.' 
 Wrong again ! if you think so. 
 
 " For, priiufy : my friend 
 Is the head of a family known from one end 
 Of his shire to the other, as the oldest ; and there- 
 fore 
 He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care for 
 A peerage? no truly ! Secondo : he rarely 
 Or never goes out : dines at Bellamy's sparely. 
 And abhors what you call the gay world. 
 
 " Then, I ask. 
 What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed 
 
 task 
 .As the life of this man, — but the sense of its duty? 
 And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty 
 Have never inspired in my soul that intense. 
 Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense 
 Of lieart-felt admiration I feel for this man. 
 As I see him beside me ; — there, wearing the wan 
 T-ondon daylight away, on his humdrum committee 
 So unconscious of all that awakens my pity. 
 And wonder— and worship, I might say. 
 
 *■ To me 
 
igi 
 
 There seems something nobler than genius to be 
 In that dull patient labor no genius relieves, 
 That absence of all joy which yet never grieves ; 
 The humility of it ! the grandeur withal ! 
 The sublimity of it ! And yet, should you call 
 The man's own very slow apprehension to this. 
 He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is ! 
 His work is the duty to which he was born ; 
 He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn : 
 And this man is no uncommon type (I thank 
 
 Heaven !) 
 Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even 
 The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 't is the 
 
 reason 
 That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason 
 And tyranny elsewhere. 
 
 " I wander away 
 Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say. 
 You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the 
 
 soul 
 Is immortal ; and put this in rhyme, on the whole, 
 Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart 
 Is a mystery doubtless. You trace it in art .— 
 The Greek Psyche,— that's beauty— the perfect 
 
 ideal. 
 But then comes the imperfect, perceptible real. 
 With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale 
 Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. 
 You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too, 
 Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. 
 Geology opens the mind. So you know 
 Something also of strata and fossils ; these show 
 The bases of cosmical structure: some mention 
 Of the nebulous theory demands your attention ; 
 And so on. 
 
 " In short, it is clear the interior 
 
iq2 
 
 O'. your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior 
 
 In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire, 
 
 To that of my poor parliamentary squire ; 
 
 But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat 
 
 Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete. 
 
 You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at ? 
 
 My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. 
 
 An old illustration's as good as a new, 
 
 Provided the old illustration be true. 
 
 We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly. 
 
 Though we marvel to see them ascending so high ; 
 
 Things slight in themselves, — long tail'd toys, and 
 
 no more : 
 What is it that makes the kite steadily soar 
 Through the realms where the cloud and the whirl- 
 wind have birth 
 But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth ? 
 I remember the lessons of childhood, you see. 
 And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's 
 
 knee. 
 In truth. 1 suspect little else do we learn 
 From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we 
 
 turn. 
 Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace. 
 What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood. 
 
 " Your case 
 Is exactly in point. 
 
 " Fly your kite, if you please,. 
 Out of sight : let it go where it will, on the breeze ; 
 But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, 
 Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. 
 No man is the absolute lord of his life. 
 You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear 
 
 wife. 
 If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire. 
 With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire 
 
For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair, 
 Some dull winter evening to solace and share 
 With the love which the world its good children 
 
 allows 
 To shake hands with, — in short, a legitimate spouse, 
 This thought has consoled me : ' At least I have 
 
 given 
 For my own good behavior no hostage in heaven.' 
 You have, though. Forget it not ! faith, if you do, 
 1 would rather break stones on the road than be 
 
 you. 
 If any man wilfully injured, or led 
 That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head, 
 Even though you yourself were the sinner ! 
 
 " And this 
 Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss ! ) 
 To the matter I meant to have mentioned at once. 
 Rut these thoughts put it out of my head for the 
 
 nonce. 
 Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams. 
 Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs. 
 The wolf best received by the flock he devours 
 Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. 
 At least, this has long been my settled conviction. 
 And I almost would venture at once the prediction 
 That before very long — but no matter ! I trust 
 For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. 
 But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on 
 The score of such men as, with both God and Mam- 
 mon, 
 Seem so shrewdly familiar. 
 
 "■ Neglect not this warning. 
 There were rumors afloat in the City this morning 
 Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows ? 
 
 would he fleece 
 At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece ? 
 
1Q4 LUCILE. 
 
 For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune 
 Your attention too early. If all your wife's for- 
 tune 
 Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, 
 Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up 
 
 winner, 
 I say, lose no time ! gel it out of the grab 
 Of her trustee and uncle, Sir Ridley MacNab. 
 I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, 
 And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. 
 A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. 
 J'erl>2uii sap. I admit nothing yet justifies 
 My mistrust ; but I have in my own mind a notion 
 That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of de- 
 votion, 
 Have long been the only ostensible capital 
 On which he does business. If so, time must sap 
 
 it all. 
 Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait. 
 Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. 
 I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect ; 
 I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. 
 My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. 
 I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell 
 Worth your hearing. We think that the Govern- 
 ment here 
 Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a peer. 
 You will see by the Times. There are symptoms 
 
 which show 
 That the ministers now are preparing to go. 
 And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes. 
 It is evident that they are clearing the dishes. 
 And cramming their pockets with bonbons. Your 
 
 news 
 Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, 
 Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, 
 
195 
 
 You have met with that hot-headed Freachman ? I 
 
 know 
 That the man is a sad iimiivais snjet. Take care 
 Of Matilda. I wish 1 could join you both there ; 
 But, before I am free, you are sure to be gone. 
 Good-by, my dear fellow. Yours, anxiously, 
 
 '' John." 
 II. 
 This is just the advice I myself would have given 
 To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which. 
 
 Heaven 
 Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed 
 In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. 
 A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at 
 That time to these homilies. Primunt doncntat 
 Quern Dezis vult perdere. Alfred in fact 
 Was behaving just then in a way to distract 
 Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd 
 
 have thought 
 The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have 
 
 caught, ^ 
 
 The more did his aspect grow listless to hers, 
 And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. 
 And Matilda, the less she found love in the look 
 Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the 
 
 Duke, 
 With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, 
 
 heart from heart. 
 Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. 
 More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the 
 
 table; 
 Played high ; and lost more than to lose he was able. 
 He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse,— 
 And here I must mention, what made matters 
 
 worse 
 Thiit Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel 
 
igf) LUCILE. 
 
 Witli the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell 
 That they all saw too much of each other. The 
 
 weather 
 Was so fine that it brought them each day all to- 
 gether 
 In the garden, to listen, of course, to the band. 
 The house was a sort of phalanstery ; and 
 Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover 
 A mutual passion for music. Moreover 
 The Duke was an excellent tenor : could sing 
 ^' Ange si pure'' in a way to bring down on the 
 
 wing 
 All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord 
 Would also at times, when he was not too bored. 
 Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill -. 
 With some little things of his own, showing skill. 
 For which reason, as well as for some others too. 
 Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendezvous. 
 Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless co- 
 quette ! ) 
 All the mischief she could not but mark? 
 
 Patience yet ! 
 
 III. 
 In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the sun, 
 I5y laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, 
 Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when 
 
 the heat 
 Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. 
 And here, with some friends of their own little 
 
 world, 
 In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd 
 From the feet of the lindens, and crept through the 
 
 grass. 
 Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass. 
 The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring. 
 Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there and sing 
 
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee 
 Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there 
 
 was tea 
 (A luxury due to Matilda\ and ice, 
 Fruit and coffee. ''n'Eo-Trepe, jrai/ra (^e'peis ! 
 Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided 
 O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided. 
 With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a 
 thick head, [wicked, 
 
 .And an old Russian Countess both witty and 
 And two Austrian Colonels,— that Alfred, who yet 
 Was lounging alone w^ith his last cigarette, 
 S uv Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 
 'Neith the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, 
 .\nd joining her, cried, " Thank the good stars, we 
 
 meet ! 
 I have so much to say to you ! " 
 
 "Yes? . . ." with her sweet 
 Serene voice, she replied to him . . . "Yes? and I 
 
 too 
 Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you " 
 She was paler just then than her wont was. The 
 
 sound 
 Of her voice had within it a sadness profound. 
 " You are ill ? " he e.xclaim'd. 
 
 " No ! " she hurriedly said. 
 " No, no! " 
 
 " You alarm me ! " 
 
 She droop'd down her head. 
 '• If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to 
 
 divine 
 The purpose of what has been passing in mine. 
 My farewell can scarcely alarm you." 
 Alfred. 
 
 Lucile ! 
 Your farewell ! you go ! 
 
198 L U C I I, E . 
 
 LUCILE. 
 
 Yes, Lord Alfred. 
 Alfred. 
 
 Reveal 
 The cause of this sudden unkindness. 
 
 LlCILE. 
 
 Unkind ? 
 Alfred. 
 Yes ! what else is this parting ? 
 
 LlCILE. 
 
 No, no ! are you blind ? 
 Look into your own heart and home. Can you see 
 No reason for this, save unkindness in me ? 
 Look into the eyes of your wife — those true eyes 
 Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise 
 The sweet soul shining through them. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Lucile ! (first and last 
 Be the word, if you will !) let me speak of the past. 
 I know now, alas ! though I know it too late, 
 What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate. 
 Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet ! let it be ! 
 I say but what is due to yourself— due to me. 
 And must say it." 
 
 He rush'd incoherently on. 
 Describing how, lately, the truth he had known. 
 To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her 
 
 before. 
 All the complicate coil wound about him of yore. 
 All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was 
 
 fled, 
 " And then, O Lucile, what was left me," he said, 
 " When my life was defrauded of you, but to take 
 That life, as 't was left, and endeavor to make 
 
1 99 
 
 Unobserved 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 
 Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever 
 Received my submission. And if, of a truth, 
 I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth, 
 I at least have been loyal to what I do feel, 
 Respect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, 
 I speak not of love now, nor love's long regret : 
 I would not offend you, nor dare I forget 
 The ties that are round me. But may there not be 
 A friendship yet hallo w'd between you and me ? 
 May we not be yet friends— friends the dearest? " 
 
 "Alas!" 
 She replied, "for one moment, perchance, did it 
 
 pass 
 Through my own heart, that dream which forever 
 
 hath brought 
 To those who indulge it in innocent thought 
 So fatal and evil a waking I But no. 
 For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-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 
 Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams 
 
 of my life ! 
 Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. 
 And I — in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow 
 To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow 
 Not one blush when I first took her hand. With 
 
 no blush 
 Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. 
 
 " Husii ! husli ! 
 
200 L U C I L E . 
 
 I would say what I wish'd to have said when you 
 
 came. 
 Do not think that years leave us and tind us the 
 
 same ! 
 The woman you knew long ago, long ago. 
 Is no more. You yourself have within you, I 
 
 know, 
 The germ of a joy in the years yet to be. 
 Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me, 
 I go my own way, — onward, upward ! 
 
 "O yet. 
 Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret. 
 When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled, — 
 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, [part 
 
 Such love as youth dreams of at least)— the sole 
 Of life, which is able to fill up the heart ; 
 Even that of a woman. 
 
 " Between you and me 
 Heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see 
 That our guardian angels can bear us no more. 
 We each of us stand on an opposite shore. 
 Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn. 
 By an instinct men never attain, to discern 
 Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, 
 Matilda is young— see her now, sitting ihere ! — 
 How tenderly fashion'd— (oh, is she not ? say,) 
 To love and be loved ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 He turn'd sharply away— 
 " Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair ; 
 Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware ; 
 But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child ; 
 Matilda loves not — " 
 
L U C 1 L E . 20I 
 
 Lucile quietly smiled 
 As she answered him :-" Yesterday, all that you 
 
 say 
 Might be true ; it is false, wholly false, though, to- 
 day." 
 " How ?— what mean you ? " 
 
 " I mean that to-day," she replied, 
 
 - The statue with life has become vivified : 
 
 I mean that the child to a woman has grown : 
 And that woman is jealous." 
 
 "What! she?" with atone 
 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 shall declare, if for months she had 
 known 
 
 What for days she has known all loo keenly, I fear. 
 
 That knowledge perchance might have cost you 
 more dear? " 
 
 "E.xplain! explain, madam !" he' cried in sur- 
 prise ; 
 
 And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. 
 
 "How blind are you men!" 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 I wish to explain 
 
202 L U C I L E . 
 
 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 convinced 
 That you 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 fleece 
 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 ! 
 
L U C I L E , 203 
 
 But reflect ! when such thoug^hts do not come of 
 themselves 
 
 To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves 
 
 That seek lonely places,— there rarely is want- 
 ing 
 
 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 was 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 I 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'd the 
 
 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. 
 
204 L U C I L E . 
 
 The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse ! 
 Where the contract exists, it involves obligation 
 To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. 
 Vou 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 
 Vou have cause to reproach your own self, could 
 you see it ! " 
 
 \i. 
 In the silence which follow'd the last word she said, 
 In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his 
 
 head, 
 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 I 
 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 
 They both felt, she extended her hand to him . . . 
 
 VII, 
 
 "Well.>" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Lucile," he replied, as that soft quiet hand 
 
 In his own he clasp'd warmly,"! both under 
 
 stand 
 And obey you." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " she murmur'd. 
 
L U C I L E . 205 
 
 " O yet, 
 One word, I beseech you ! I cannot forget," 
 He exclaim'd, " we are parting for life. You 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 signiticant smile. 
 
 X. 
 
 Much lU-construed, 
 Rcnown'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one 
 strew'd 
 
2o6 
 
 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 therr, 
 That our senses should make us so oft wish lo 
 doubt them ! 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 Whkn tirst 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 conceal 
 Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve 
 In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave, 
 To the furbelow'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. 
 
 n. 
 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, 
 
L U C I L E . 207 
 
 Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian 
 
 stories. 
 But at lengtli tiie 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 sprightly 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 ! " 
 
 III. 
 Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air. 
 Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there, 
 Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look'd 
 
 down 
 O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was 
 
 their own, 
 When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, 
 And enter'd the garden, unseen, unattended. 
 Her forehead was aching and parch'd, and her 
 
 breast 
 By a vague ine.xpressible sadness oppress'd : 
 A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how. 
 And she scarcely knew why . . . (save, indeed, 
 
 that just now 
 The house, out of which with a gasp she had fled 
 Half-stifled, seem'd ready to sink on her head) . . 
 Out into the night air, the silence, the bright 
 Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night! 
 Her husband that day had look'd once in her face. 
 And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace, 
 
2o8 
 
 And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection 
 With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. 
 He, of late so indifferent and listless I . . . at last 
 Was he startled and awed by the change which had 
 
 pass'd 
 O'er the once radiant face of his young wife ? 
 
 Whence came 
 That long look of solicitous fondness ? . . . the 
 
 same 
 Look and language of quiet affection— the look 
 And the language, alas ! which so often she took 
 For pure love in the simple repose of its purity — 
 Her own heart thus luU'd to a fatal security ! 
 Ha ! would he deceive her again by this kindness ? 
 Had she been, then, O fool ! in her innocent blind- 
 ness 
 The sport of transparent illusion ? ah folly ! 
 And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy. 
 She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone 
 Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own, 
 For true love, nothing else, after all, did it prove 
 But a friendship profanely familiar ? 
 
 " And love ? . . . 
 What was love, then? . . . not calm, not secure^ 
 
 scarcely kind ! 
 But in one, all intensest emotions combined : 
 Life and death : pain and rapture." 
 
 Thus wandering astray, 
 Led by doubt, through the darkness she wander'd 
 
 away. 
 All silently crossing, recrossing the night, 
 With faint, meteoric, miraculous light, 
 The swift-shooting stars through the infinite 
 
 burn'd. 
 And into the infinite ever return'd. 
 And silently o'er the obscure and unknown 
 
In the heart of Matilda tliere darted and shone 
 Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to 
 
 expire, 
 Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She enter'd that arbor of lilacs, in which 
 
 The dark air with odors hung heavy and rich, 
 
 Like a soul that grows faint with desire. 
 
 'T was the place 
 In which she so lately had sat, face to face 
 With her husband,— and her, the pale stranger 
 
 detested, 
 Whose presence her heart like a plague had in- 
 fested. 
 The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted . 
 Through the darkness there rose on the heart 
 
 which it daunted 
 Each dr§ary detail of that desolate day, 
 So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away 
 The acacias were muttering, like mischievous elves, 
 The whole story over again to' themselves, 
 Each word, — and each word was a wound ! By 
 
 degrees 
 Her memory mingled its voice with the trees. 
 
 v. 
 Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused by 
 
 the root 
 Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its 
 
 fruit, 
 To the heart of Matilda the trees seem'd to hiss 
 Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, 
 
 which is 
 The right of reprisals. 
 
 An image uncertain, 
 And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on thccurtam 
 Of the darkness around her. It came, and it went ; 
 
210 L UCI L E . 
 
 Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent : 
 It pass'd and repass'd her : it went and it came 
 Forever returning ; forever the same ; 
 And forever more clearly defined ; till her eyes 
 In that outline obscure could at last recognize 
 The man to whose image, the more and the more 
 That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep 
 
 of yore, 
 From her husband detach'd itself slowly, with 
 
 pain, 
 Her thoughts had return'd, and return 'd to, again. 
 As though by some secret indefinite law, — 
 The vigilant Frenchman— Eugene de Luvois! 
 
 VI. 
 
 A light sound behind her. She trembled. By 
 
 some 
 Night-witchcraft her vision a fact had become, 
 On a sudden she felt, without turning to view. 
 That a man was approaching behind her. She 
 
 knew 
 By the fluttering piilse which she could not 
 
 restrain, 
 And the quick-beating heart, that this man was 
 
 Eugene. 
 Her first instinct was flight ; but she felt her slight 
 
 foot 
 As heavy as though to the soil it had root. 
 And the Duke's voice retain'd her, like fear in a 
 
 dream. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Ah, lady ! in life there are meetings which seem 
 Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too ? 
 Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you ? 
 Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn, 
 By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn 
 To revisit the memories left in the place 
 
Wliere so lately this evening I look'd in your face. 
 
 And I find, — you, yourself — my own dream ! 
 
 " Can there be 
 
 In this world one thought common to you and to 
 me ? 
 
 If so, . . . I, who deem'd but a moment ago 
 
 My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe. 
 
 Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to be- 
 lieve — 
 
 — Ah, but o>ie word, but one from your lips to 
 receive " . . . . 
 
 Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, " I 
 
 sought. 
 Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought. 
 Which I needed." . . . 
 
 " Lives solitude only for one ? 
 Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone ) 
 Ah, cannot two share it ? What needs it for this ? — 
 The same thought in both hearts, — be it sorrow or 
 
 bliss ; 
 If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady — you, 
 Are you not yet alone, — even though we be two ? " 
 
 " For that," . . . said Matilda, . . . " needs were, 
 
 you should read 
 What I have in my heart "... 
 
 " Think you, lady, indeed, 
 You are yet of that age when a woman conceals 
 In her heart so completely whatever she feels 
 From the heart of the man whom it interests to 
 know [so. 
 
 And find out what that feeling may be ? Ah, not 
 Lady Alfred ! Forgive me that in it I look. 
 But I read in your heart as I read in a book." 
 "Well, Duke ! and what read you within it? un- 
 less 
 
It be. of a truth, a profound weariness, 
 And some sadness ? " 
 
 " No doubt. To all facts there are laws. 
 The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause." 
 
 viu. 
 Matilda shrank back ; for she suddenly found 
 That a linger was press'd on the yet bleeding 
 
 wound 
 She, herself, had but that day perceived in her 
 
 breast. 
 
 " You are sad," . . . said the Duke (and that 
 
 finger yet press'd 
 With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)— 
 " You are sad. Lady Alfred, because the first need 
 Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be 
 Beloved, and to love. You are sad : for you see 
 That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you 
 
 were : 
 You are sad : for that knowledge hath left you 
 
 aware 
 That you have not yet loved, though you thought 
 
 that you had. 
 Yes, yes I . . . you are sad — because knowledge 
 
 is sad i " 
 
 He could not have read more profoundly her 
 
 heart. 
 " What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start, 
 " Such strange power > " . 
 
 " To read in your thoughts ? " he exclaim'd, 
 " O lady, — a love, deep, profound — be it blamed 
 Or rejected,— a love, true, intense— such, at least. 
 As you, and you only, could wake in my breast ! " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! . . . I beseech you . . . for pity ! " 
 
 she gasp'd, [clasp'd 
 
 Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had 
 
LUCILE. 2t3 
 
 In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot. 
 
 "For pity?" ... he echoed, "for pity! and 
 what 
 
 Is the pity you owe him ? his pity for you ! 
 
 He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew I 
 
 The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair. 
 
 And matchless ! (whose happiness did he not swear 
 
 To cherish through life ?) he neglects her— for 
 whom ? 
 
 For a fairer than she ? No ! the rose in the bloom 
 
 Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can pre- 
 vail 
 
 To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightin- 
 gale, 
 
 Is not fairer ; for even in the pure world of flowers 
 
 Her symbol is not, and this poor world of ours 
 
 Has no second Matilda ! For whom ? Let that 
 pass ! 
 
 'T is not I, 't is not you, that can name her, alas ! 
 
 And / dare not question or judge her. But why, 
 
 Why cherish the cause of your own misery ? 
 
 Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you ? 
 
 Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks 
 through ? 
 
 And why, since you have but to stretch forth your 
 hand, 
 
 The love which you need and deserve to command, 
 
 Why shrink ? Why repel it ? " 
 
 " O hush, sir ! O hush : " 
 
 Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were 
 one blush. 
 
 "Ce9.se, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life ! 
 
 Is not Alfred your friend ? and am I not his wife ? " 
 
 IX. 
 
 "And have I not, lady," he answer'd, . . . "re- 
 spected 
 
214 
 
 His riglits as a friend, till himself he neglected 
 Yo7cr rights as a wife ? Do you think 't is alone 
 For three days I have loved you ? My love may 
 
 have grown, 
 1 admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes. 
 In watching their tears, and in sounding your 
 
 sighs. 
 But, O lady ! I loved you before I believed 
 That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever 
 
 grieved. 
 Then I deem'd you were happy— I deem'd you 
 
 possess'd 
 All the love you deserved, — and I hid in my breast 
 My own love, till this hour — when I could not but 
 
 feel 
 Your grief gave me the right my own grief to re- 
 veal ! 
 I knew, years ago, of the singular power 
 Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till 
 
 the hour 
 In which he reveal'd it himself, did I,— say ! — 
 By a word, or a look, such a secret betray ? 
 No ! no 1 do me justice. I never have spoken 
 Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had 
 
 broken 
 Which bound you7- heart to him. And now — now, 
 
 that his love 
 For another hath left your own heart free to rove. 
 What is it,— even now.— that I kneel to implore 
 
 you ? 
 Only this, Lady Alfred I ... to let me adore you 
 Unblamed : to have confidence in me : to spend 
 On me not one thought, save to think me your 
 
 friend. 
 Let me speak to you,— ah, let me speak to you 
 
 still! 
 
215 
 
 Hush to silence my words in your heart, if you will. 
 I ask no response : I ask only your leave 
 To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you 
 grieve ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 "Leave me, leave me!" . . . she gasp'd, with a 
 
 voice thick and low 
 From emotion. "For pity's sake, Duke, let me 
 
 go ! 
 .1 feel that to blame we should both of us be. 
 Did I linger." 
 
 "To blame? yes, no doubt ! " . . . answer'd he, 
 "If the love of your husband, in bringing you 
 
 peace, 
 Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your re- 
 lease 
 By the hand of another. One moment ! but one ! 
 Who knows when, alas ! I may see you alone 
 As to-night I have seen you ? or when we may 
 
 meet 
 As to-night we have met ? when, entranced at 
 
 your feet, 
 As in thisblessc 1 hour, I may ever avow 
 The thoughts which are pining for utterance 
 
 now ? " 
 "Duke! Duke!" . . . she e.xclaim'd . . . "for 
 
 Heaven's sake let me go ! 
 It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know. 
 We must not be seen here together. The night 
 Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright ! 
 It is time to return to my lord." 
 
 " To your lord ? " 
 He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word, 
 "To your lord ? do you think he awaits you, in 
 
 truth ? 
 Is l;e an.xiously missing your presence, forsooth ? 
 
2l6 
 
 Return to your lord ! . . . his restraint to renew? 
 And hinder the glances which are not for you ? 
 No, no ! . . . at this moment his looks seek the 
 
 face 
 Of another ! another is there in your place ! 
 Another consoles him ! another receives 
 The soft speech which from silence your absence 
 
 relieves ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 " You mistake, sir ! " . . . responded a voice, calm, 
 severe, [here." 
 
 And sad, ..." You mistake, sir ! that other is 
 Eugene and Matilda both started. 
 
 " Lucile ! " 
 With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel 
 From the place where she Scood, cried Matilda. 
 
 "Ho, oh! 
 What ! eves-dropping, madam ? " . . . the Duke 
 
 cried. ..." And so 
 You were listening ? " 
 
 " Say, rather," she said, " that I heard. 
 Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word, — 
 Heard — and therefore reply." 
 
 " Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, 
 With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke. 
 Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled, . . . 
 
 " you know 
 That your place is not here.'''' 
 
 " Duke," she answer'd him slow 
 " My place is wherever my duty is clear ; 
 And therefore my place, at this moment, is here, 
 
 lady, this morning my place was beside 
 
 Your husband, because (as she said this shesigh'd) 
 
 1 felt that from folly fast growing to crime — 
 
 The crime of self-blindness — Heaven yet spared me 
 time 
 
L U C I L E . 217 
 
 To save for the love of an innocent wife 
 All that such love deserved in the heart and the life 
 Of the man to whose heart and whose life you alone 
 Can with safety confide the pure trust of your own." 
 
 She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her 
 Her soft quiet hand. . . , 
 
 " 'T is, O lady, the honor 
 Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite 
 (.)t his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night- 
 Save for both of you, lady ! for yours I revere ; 
 Due de Luvois, what say you ?— my place is not 
 here ? " 
 
 XII. 
 
 And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, 
 Wound one arm round her waist unresisted, and 
 
 sought 
 Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. 
 The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not. 
 But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lucile 
 Her tender and delicate burden could feel 
 Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt 
 
 down. 
 Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her 
 
 own 
 The poor bosom beating against her. 
 
 The moon. 
 Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of 
 
 June, 
 Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale. 
 And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one 
 
 pale, 
 Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star 
 Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car. 
 Thus to each of those women revetiling the face 
 Of ihe other. Each bore on her features the trace 
 Of a vivid emotion, A deep inward shame 
 
2l8 
 
 The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame. 
 With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile 
 Trembled visibly yet ; for she could not but feel 
 That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, 
 And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light. 
 " In the name of your husband, dear lady," she 
 
 said ; 
 " In the name of your mother, take heart ! Lift 
 
 your head, 
 For those blushes are noble. Alas ! do not trust 
 To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, 
 That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's. 
 Take heart ! and take refuge and strength in your 
 
 life's 
 Pure silence, — there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, 
 
 and wait ! '' 
 " Saved, Lucile !" sobb'd Matilda, "but saved to 
 
 what fate ? 
 Tears, prayers, yes ! not hopes.'" 
 
 "■ Hush ! " the sweet voice replied. 
 " Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side 
 Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And 
 
 return 
 For the love you can give, with the love that you 
 
 yearn [now ? 
 
 To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both 
 Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how 
 Love is nourished by love. Well ! henceforth you 
 
 will prove 
 Your heart worthy of love, — since it knows how to 
 
 love."' 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " What gives you such power over me. that I feel 
 Thus drawn to obey you ? What are you, Lucile ? "' 
 Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face 
 Of Lucile. 
 
219 
 
 There pass'd suddenly through it the trace 
 Of deep sadness ; and o'er that fair forehead came 
 
 down 
 A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. 
 " The pupil of sorrow, perchance "... she replied. 
 "Of sorrow? " Matilda exclaimM . . . " O contide 
 To my heart your affliction. In all you made known 
 I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my 
 
 own ! " 
 
 " And I some consolation, no doubt ; for the tears 
 Of another have not flow'd for me many years." 
 
 It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand 
 Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her ; and 
 Thus together they enter'd the house. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'T was the room 
 Of Matilda. 
 
 The languid and delicate gloom 
 Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft 
 From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. 
 The casement oped into the garden. The pale 
 Cool moonlight _^stream'd through it. One lone 
 
 nightingale 
 .Sung aloof in the laurels. 
 
 And here, side by side, 
 Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried. 
 Save by guardian angels. 
 
 As, when, sparkling yet 
 From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, 
 
 leaves wet 
 The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines 
 To some pale lily near it. the fair vision shines 
 As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful 
 
 speech. 
 Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each 
 
Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, 
 So united, yet diverse, the two women there 
 LookM, indeed, like two flowers upon one droop- 
 ing stem, 
 In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. 
 All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who 
 
 knows? 
 All that heart gain'd from heart? 
 
 Leave the lily, the rose 
 Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For 
 
 who 
 To the heart of the flowVet can follow the dew ? 
 A night full of stars ! O'er the silence, unseen, 
 The footsteps of sentinel angels, between 
 The dark land and deep sky were moving. You 
 
 heard 
 Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watch- 
 word 
 Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell 
 From earth's heart, which it eased ..." All is 
 well ! all is well ! " 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 The Poets pour wine ; and, when 't is new, all 
 
 decry it. 
 But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. 
 And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not 
 
 Massic, 
 Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. 
 And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not t)adly. 
 My earlier verses, sighs, " Commonplace sadly ! " 
 As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly, 
 But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly 
 In despite of their languishing looks, on my word. 
 
That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. 
 Yes ! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard 
 Better far than Longinus himself can reward 
 The appeal to her feelings of which she approves ; 
 And the critics I most care to please are the Loves. 
 
 Alas, friend ! what boots it, a stone at his head 
 And a brass on his breast, — when a man is once 
 dead t 
 
 ONCE LET IT BE OLD, EVERY TRIFLER MUST 
 TRY IT. 
 
 Ay ! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon 
 
 were then 
 Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models 
 
 for men. 
 The reformer's?— a creed by posterity learnt 
 A century after its author is burnt ! 
 The poet's?— a laurel that hides the bald brow 
 It hath blighted ' The painter's ?— ask Raphael now 
 
Which Madonna's authentic ' The statesman's?— 
 
 a name 
 For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim ! 
 The soldier's?— three lines on the cold Abbey pave- 
 ment ! 
 Were this all the life of the wise and the brave 
 
 meant, 
 All it ends in, thrice better, Nesera, it were 
 Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair. 
 Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade 
 And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead. 
 Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long 
 
 thought, 
 A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for 
 naught [deed. 
 
 Save the name of John Milton! For all men, in- 
 Who in some choice edition may graciously read. 
 With fair illustration, and erudite note. 
 The song which the poet in bitterness wrote, 
 Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this — 
 The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss 
 The grief of the man : Tasso's song— not his mad- 
 ness ! 
 Dante's dreams— not his waking to exile and sad- 
 ness ! 
 Milton's music— but not Milton's blindness ! 
 
 Yet rise, 
 My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes 
 Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth ! 
 Say— the life, in the living it, savors of worth : 
 That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim : 
 That the fact has a value apart from the fame : 
 That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays 
 Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious dayr, : 
 And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writ- 
 ings were lost. 
 
223 
 
 And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed 
 Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt 
 In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt 
 All that Hamlet hath utter'd, and haply where, pure 
 On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moan'd 
 
 with the Moor ! 
 
 11. 
 When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return'd 
 He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd 
 As though half out of humor to find itself there' 
 Forced to light for no purpose a room that was 
 
 bare. 
 He sat down by the window alone. Never yet 
 Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget 
 Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new 
 
 moon ! 
 The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon, 
 Wide open to heaven ; and the stars on the stream 
 Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the 
 
 dream 
 Of a lover ; and all things were glad and at rest 
 Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. 
 Heendeavor'd to think — an unwonted employment 
 Which appear'd to afford him no sort of enjoyment. 
 
 III. 
 " Withdraw into yourself. But, if peace you seek 
 
 there for. 
 Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare for," 
 Wrote the tutor of Nero ; who wrote, be it said, 
 Better far than he acted — but peace to the dead ! 
 He bled for his pupil : what more could he do ? 
 But Lord Alfred, when into himself he withdrew. 
 Found all there in disorder. For more than an 
 
 hour 
 He sat with his head droop'd Hive some stubborn 
 
 flower 
 
224 L U C I L E . 
 
 Beaten down by the rush of the rain — with such 
 
 force 
 Did the thick, pushing thoughts hold upon him the 
 
 course 
 Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim, 
 From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for 
 
 him. 
 At one moment he rose — rose and open'd the door, 
 And wistfully look'd down the dark corridor 
 Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sigli 
 Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly 
 Back again to his place in a sort of submission 
 To doubt, and return'd to his former position — 
 That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the 
 
 face. 
 And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space. 
 The dream, which till then had been lulling his life. 
 As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought ; and 
 
 his wife 
 And hishome for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, 
 Forgotten ; but now o'er the troubled abysses 
 Of the spirit within him, seolian, forth leapt 
 To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept 
 All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had 
 
 been 
 Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not. 
 Till he started, as though he was suddenly shot. 
 To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, 
 Which was making some noise in the passage with- 
 out. 
 A sound English voice, with a round English ac- 
 cent. 
 Which the scared German echoes resentfully back 
 sent ; 
 
The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver 
 Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver ; 
 Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot 
 Which reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot : 
 And the door was flung- suddenly open, and on 
 The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John 
 Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or 
 Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major 
 On some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless bestow 
 With a warmth for which only starvation and snow 
 Could render one grateful. As soon as he could, 
 Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food 
 Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces. 
 Then the two men sat down and scann'd each 
 
 other's faces ; 
 And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken 
 With unwonted emotion. The hand that had 
 
 shaken 
 His own trembled somewhat. In truth he descried , 
 At a glance, something wrong, 
 v. 
 " What's the matter ? " he cried. 
 " What have you to tell me ? " 
 
 John. 
 
 What ! have you not heard ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Heard what ? 
 
 John. 
 
 This sad business — 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I ? no, not a word, 
 John. 
 You received my last letter ? 
 Alfred. 
 
 I think so. If not. 
 What then ? 
 
226 I. r C I L E . 
 
 John. 
 
 You have acted upon it ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 On what ? 
 John. 
 The advice that I gave j'ou — 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Advice ? — let me see ! 
 You always are giving advice, Jack, to me. 
 About Parliament, was it? 
 John. 
 
 Hang Parliament ! no, 
 The Bank, the Bank, Alfred 1 
 
 Alfkei). 
 
 What Bank ? 
 John. 
 
 Heavens ! I know 
 You are careless ; — but surely you have not for- 
 gotten. — 
 Or neglected ... I warn'd you the whole thing 
 
 was rotten. 
 You have drawn those deposits at least ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 No, I meant 
 To have written to-day ; but the note shall be sent 
 To-morrow, however. 
 
 John. 
 
 To-morrow ? too late ! 
 Too late ! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Mercy save us ! you don't mean to say . . . 
 John. 
 
 Yes, I do. 
 
227 
 
 Alfred. 
 What ! Sir Ridley ? . . . 
 
 JoHNT. 
 
 Smash'd, brol<en, blown up, bolted loo. 
 
 Alfkkd. 
 But his own niece ? ... In heaven's name, 
 Jack . . . 
 
 John. 
 
 Oh, I told you 
 Tlie old hypocritical scoundrel would . . . 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Surely can't mean we are ruin'd ? 
 John. 
 
 Hold ! you 
 
 Sit down 
 
 A fortnight ago a report about town 
 
 Made me most apprehensive, Alas, and alas ! 
 
 I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now let 
 
 that pass. 
 A run on the Bank about live days ago 
 Contirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though. 
 I drove down to the City at once : found the door 
 Of the Bank clos'd : the Bank had stopp'd pay- 
 ment at four. 
 Ne.xt morning the failure was known to be fraud : 
 Warrant out for MacNab ; but MacNab was 
 
 abroad : 
 Gone— we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to get 
 Information : have learn'd nothing certain as yet- 
 Not even the way that old Ridley was gone : 
 Or with those securities what he had done : 
 Or whether they had been already call'd out: 
 If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. 
 Twenty families ruin'd, they say : what was left,— 
 
22S L U C I L E . 
 
 Unable to find any clew to the cleft 
 
 The old fox ran to earth in, — but join you as fast 
 
 As I could, my dear Alfred ? * 
 
 VI. 
 
 He stopp'd here, aghast 
 At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face 
 Had grown livid ; and glassy his eyes tix'd on 
 
 space. 
 "Courage, courage!" . . . said John, . . . "bear 
 
 the blow like a man ! '' 
 And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. 
 
 There ran 
 Through that hand a quick tremor. " I bear it." 
 
 he said, 
 "But Matilda? the blow is to her!" And his 
 
 head 
 Seem'd forced down, as he said it. 
 John. 
 
 Matilda? Pooh, pooh ! 
 I half think I know the girl better than you. 
 She has courage enough— and to spare. She cares 
 
 less 
 Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress. 
 
 Alfred. 
 The fault has been mine. 
 
 John. 
 
 Be it yours to repair it . 
 If you did not avert, you may help her to bear it. 
 
 Alfred. 
 I might have averted. 
 
 * These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse. 
 Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by 
 
 horse ; 
 Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire. 
 Or Time was calcined by electrical tire : 
 Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic. 
 Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic. 
 
L U C I L E . 229 
 
 John. 
 
 Perhaps so. But now 
 There is clearly no use in considering how, 
 Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is 
 
 here. 
 Broken shins are not mended by crying — that's 
 
 clear ! 
 One has but to rub them, and get up again, 
 And push on— and not think too much of the pain, 
 And at least it is much that you see that to her 
 You owe too much to think of yourself. You must 
 
 stir 
 And arouse yourself, Alfred, for her sake. Who 
 
 knows ? 
 Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I 
 
 suppose 
 We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least. 
 
 " O Jack, I have been a brute idiot ! a beast ! 
 A fool ! I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd ! 
 I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind ! 
 And now, in a flash, I see all things ! " 
 
 As though 
 To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low 
 On his hands; and the great tears in silence rollM 
 
 on. 
 And fell momently, heavily, one after one. 
 John felt no desire to find instant relief 
 For the trouble he witness'd. 
 
 He guess'd, in the grief 
 Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission 
 Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition : 
 Some oblivion perchance which could plead less 
 
 excuse 
 To the heart of a man re-aroused to ihe use 
 Of the conscience God gav; him, than simply and 
 
 merely 
 
230 
 
 The neglect for which now he was paying so 
 
 dearly. 
 So he rose without speaking, and paced up and 
 
 down 
 The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own 
 Cordial heart for Matilda. 
 
 Thus, silently lost 
 In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and recross'd 
 The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung 
 O'er the table ; his fingers entwisted among 
 The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: 
 
 and there, 
 That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, 
 The sobs of a man ! Yet so far in his own 
 Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had 
 
 grown 
 Unconscious of Alfred. 
 
 And so for a space 
 There was silence between them. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At last, with sad face 
 He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile 
 A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, 
 Approach'd him, —stood o'er him,— and suddenly 
 
 laid 
 One hand on his shoulder — 
 
 '■ Where is she? " he said. 
 Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears 
 And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears 
 In some fpreign language to hear himself greeted. 
 Unable to answer. 
 
 '■ Where is she ? " repeated 
 His cousin. 
 
 He motion'd his hand to the door ; 
 " There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no 
 more. 
 
And appeared to relapse to his own cogitations, 
 Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications 
 So again there was silence. 
 
 A timeiMece at last 
 Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. 
 
 Roused by them, he cast 
 A half-look to the dial ; then quietly threw 
 His arm rountl the neck of his cousin, and drew 
 The hands down from his face. 
 
 " It is time she should know 
 What has happen'd," he said, . . ."let us go to 
 
 her now." 
 Alfred started at once to his feet. 
 
 Drawn and wan 
 Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was 
 
 — a man. 
 Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, tiil'd 
 
 through 
 With a manly resolve. 
 
 If that axiom be true 
 Of the " Sum quia cogito^'' I must opine 
 That " id sum quodcogito " .-—that which, in fine, 
 A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of 
 
 thought 
 And feeling, the man is himself. 
 
 He had fought 
 With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow 
 The survivor of much which that strife had laid 
 
 low. 
 At his feet, as he rose a' the name of his wife, 
 Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life 
 Which, though yet unfultiU'd. seem'd till then, in 
 
 that name. 
 To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of 
 
 fame 
 And of power fell shatter'd before him ; and only 
 
There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely 
 In all save the love he could give her. The lord 
 Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record 
 That his first thought, and last, at that moment 
 
 was not 
 Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, 
 But the love that was left to it ; not of the pelf 
 He had cared for, yet squander'd ; and not of him- 
 self, 
 But of her •, as he murmur'd, 
 
 " One moment, dear Jack ! 
 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. 
 Spe;ak 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 miss'd 
 
 YOU 
 From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt 
 By my own blind and heedless self-will brought 
 
 about. 
 Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake 
 Of those old recollections of boyhood that make 
 In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal 
 From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but 
 
 feel 
 
233 
 
 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 exterior, 
 Your heart has divined in me something superior 
 To that which I seem ; from my innermost nature 
 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 fire 
 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 ? " 
 
 John. 
 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 ! 
 
 " Do you think," he resumed . . . "what I feel 
 
 while I speak 
 Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak 
 As these weak tears would seem to betoken it ? " 
 
 John. 
 
 No! 
 Alfred. 
 Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now i 
 
 will go 
 Alone, Jack. Trust to me. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 John. 
 
 I do. But 't is late. 
 If she sleeps, you'll not wake her ? 
 
234 L U C I L E . 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 No, no ! it will wait 
 (Poor infant !) too surely, this mission ot sorrow ; 
 If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of to-mor- 
 row. 
 Heopen'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 opened : 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 
 IMatilda 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 carves o'er the 
 
 tomb 
 
I, U C I L E . 
 
 235 
 
 Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that 
 gloom. 
 
 She had put off her dress ; and she look'd to his 
 eyes 
 
 Like a youny soul escaped from its earthly dis- 
 guise ; 
 
 MATILDA WAS KNEELING. 
 
 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. 
 
236 L U C I L E . 
 
 Through the tlioughts it suffused with a sense soft 
 
 and dim, 
 Reproducing itself in the broken and bright 
 Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. 
 
 That sight 
 Bovv'd his heart, bovv'd his knee. Knowing scarce 
 
 what he did, 
 To her side through the chamber he silently slid. 
 And knelt down beside her — an.l 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 check with a gush 
 
 Where the tears sparkled yet. 
 
 As 3 young fawn uncouches, 
 
 Shy with fear, from the fern where some hunter 
 approaches, 
 
 She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling h.is 
 arm 
 
 Round her waist, on her 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 em- 
 brace 
 
 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, con- 
 vulsed 
 
 By sob after sob, while her bosom^ yet pulsed 
 
 In its pressure on his, as the effort within it 
 
 Lived and died with each tender tumultuous min- 
 ute. 
 
 " O Alfred, O Alfred ! forgive me," she cried — 
 
L U C I L E . 237 
 
 " 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 her sake, and hallows the life 
 She has mingled her own with, — in 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). 
 
238 
 
 Is now a confessional— jt'^w, 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, 
 And 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 ! " 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 your 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. 
 
239 
 
 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 'twill bring with it 
 
 too 
 The courage, I trust, to subdue it." 
 
 " O speak ! 
 Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and 
 
 weak. 
 " 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 sum- 
 mer flies, [skies 
 That sport in the sunbeam, and .play through the 
 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 the 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 Htray'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 ! 
 
J40 
 
 But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, 
 Watching o'er us, to warn, and to rescue I 
 
 " That smile 
 Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you 
 
 eyed 
 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 happy 
 
 eyes 
 She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide 
 
 apart. 
 And tenderly closing them round him. his heart 
 ClaspM 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 own love ! Anon, 
 However, his words rush'd back to her. " All 
 
 gone, 
 Tlie fortune you brought me ! " 
 
 And eyes that were dim 
 With soft tears she upraised : but those tears were 
 
 for hiw. 
 
LUCILE, 241 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 He kissM 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, my 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, beloved as wife ! 
 Evening star of my heart, light forever my life ! 
 If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus 
 
 far [star. 
 
 You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian 
 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 ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 O Muse, 
 Interpose not one pulse ol thine own beating heart 
 'Twixt these two silent souls ! There's a joy be- 
 yond 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 festal hour, save what soft light vv'as 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 tlie 
 dim 
 
 Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They 
 heard 
 
 Aloof the invisible, rapturous bird. 
 
 With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: 
 they saw 
 
 Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw 
 
L U CI LE . 243 
 
 His long- ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with 
 
 cheer 
 From the throat of the vale ; o'er the dark-sap- 
 phire 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 freshened odors around them were 
 
 blown 
 Inlermittingly ; then the moon dropp'd 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 patient endeavor 
 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, layencamp'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. 
 
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, re- 
 sistance 
 And struggle ; to-night. Love his hallow'd device 
 Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 
 
L UC I LE 
 
 245 
 
 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, 
 And the crickets that sing all the night ! 
 
 She stood still, 
 Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'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. 
 
246 
 
 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 tremu- 
 lous hands, 
 lium the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff un- 
 
 curl'd, 
 And those three blind old women sit spinning the 
 
 world. 
 
 in. 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " At last, then— at last, and alone,— I and thou, 
 Lucile de Nevers, have we met ? 
 
 " Hush I 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 spoken. My hour 
 Is come ; and it holds thee and me in its power. 
 
L U C I L E . 247 
 
 As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'T is 
 
 well ! 
 The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell 
 Of her first lover's vows listen'd. hush'd with de- 
 light, 
 When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, 
 Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, 
 Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to 1 isten 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 night with its moaning 
 
 again, 
 Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. 
 " Continue," she answer'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, 
 That the sight of it scared her. 
 
 He saw it, and smiled, 
 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 him. 
 
 " Lucile, 
 
248 L U C I L E . 
 
 You shudder to look in my face : do you feel 
 No reproach when you look in your own heart ? " 
 
 •' No, Duke, 
 In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke ; 
 Not yours ! " she replied. 
 
 "' No," he multer'd again. 
 "• Gentle justice ! you first bid Life hope not, and 
 
 then 
 To Despair you say ' Act not ! ' " 
 
 He watch'd her awhile 
 With a chill sort of restlessand suffering smile. 
 They stood by the wall of the garden The skies. 
 Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague proph- 
 ecies 
 Of the dawn yet far distant. Tiie moon had long 
 
 set, 
 And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet 
 With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly 
 
 loom'd 
 Round about her. She spoke not. At length he 
 
 resumed. 
 " Wretched creatures we are ! I and thou — one and 
 
 all! 
 Only able to injure each other, and fall 
 Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we pre- 
 pare 
 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 ? 
 Give again, 
 
L U C I L E . 249 
 
 Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . 
 
 in vain ! " 
 "• Duke ! " she falter'd. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " he went on, " I vv^as not 
 Always thus ! what I once was, I have not forgot.'' 
 
 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 and scorch! 
 But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee 
 Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me ! 
 Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine ! 
 Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so 
 
 divine ! 
 My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep : 
 And if tears I mistrust, 't is that thou too canst 
 
 weep ! 
 Well ! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake 
 In the love of a man, what more change need it 
 
 make 
 In the steps of his soul through the course love be- 
 
 Ran, 
 Than all other mistakes in the life of a man ? 
 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 ! [mains 
 
 Hast thou loved, O my heart ? to thy love yet re- 
 
250 
 
 All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains 
 
 And the hills with each summer their verdure re- 
 new. 
 
 Wouldst thou be as they are ? do thou then as they 
 do 
 
 Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living 
 divine 
 
 Where they slumber ? Let only new flowers be 
 the sign ! ' 
 
 " Vain 1 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, and the languors of heaven, 
 I could trace nothing more, nothing more through 
 
 the spheres. 
 But the sound of old sobs, and the tracks of old 
 
 tears I 
 It was with me the night long in dreaming or wak- 
 ing. 
 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 ! " 
 
 vii. 
 He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night, 
 
LUC ILE . 251 
 
 And moans itself mute. Throuj^^h the indistinct 
 
 light 
 A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone 
 Of ineffable pity replied to his own. 
 " And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd 
 
 your 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 1 ah, is it so ? 
 You could never have loved me ? " 
 
 " Duke!" 
 " Never? oh no ! " 
 (He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said) 
 " Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you : you led 
 My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, 
 All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless 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 murmur'd, " Alas I 
 These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. 
 Enough, Due de Luvois I farewell. I shall try 
 To forget every word I have heard, every sight 
 That has grieved and appalTd me in this wretched 
 
 night 
 Which must witness our final farewell. May you, 
 
 Duke, 
 Never know greater cause your own heart to re- 
 buke 
 
252 L U C I L E . 
 
 Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had ! 
 Adieu 1 " 
 " 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'do " Nay, 
 My life hath brought forth only evil, and there 
 The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet 
 
 ere 
 
I. U C I L E . 253 
 
 Vou exclaim, ' Flingf 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, may 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 ! 
 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? 
 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 dark northern court an existence, no 
 
 doubt. 
 In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause 
 As hopeless as is my own life ! By the laws 
 
254 L U C I L E . 
 
 Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, 
 I am what I am ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For a wliile she was mute. 
 Then she answer'd, '* We are our own fates. Our 
 
 own deeds 
 Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for 
 
 men's creeds, 
 But men's actions. And, Due de Luvois, I 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 [pain, 
 
 De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in 
 Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul 
 That the great master hand which sweeps over the 
 
 whole 
 Of this deep 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 ex- 
 press 
 Just the one note the great final harmony needs. 
 And what best proves there's life in a heart ? — that 
 
 it bleeds I 
 Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain. 
 Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! 
 Cease the sin vvjih the sorrow ! See morning be- 
 
LU CI L E. 
 
 255 
 
 Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin. 
 Tliere is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon 
 
 light, 
 Let hate and despondency die with the night ! " 
 
 He was moved 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 were. 
 The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware 
 Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each 
 
 thing [king, 
 
 It once sought, — the poor idiot who pass'd for a 
 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 felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim. 
 But he murmur'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 
 
 the day. 
 
256 
 
 Broken-hearted the nijjhtingale hides in the spray, 
 And the owl's moody mind inhisowi hollow tower 
 Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my 
 
 dower. 
 Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by 
 
 which eyes 
 Grown familar with ruins may yet recognize 
 Enough desolation." 
 
 IX'. 
 
 "The pride that claims here 
 On earth to itself (howsoever severe 
 To itself it may be) God's dread office and right 
 Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, 
 And against heaven's service. 
 
 " Eugene 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 ViTords 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 vainly. 
 
 "Eugene," 
 She continued, " in life we have met once again 
 And once more life parts us. Yon 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 vain we have met ! 
 I plead for the future. A new horoscope 
 I would cast : will you read it ? I plead for a hope: 
 I plead for a memory ; yours, yours alone, 
 
L U C I L E . ■2^1 
 
 To restore or to spare. Let the hopj be your own, 
 Be the memory mine. 
 
 " Once of yore, when for man 
 Faith yet lived, ere this age of the slu.g£?ard began, 
 Men, aroused to the knowlege of evil, fled far 
 From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war 
 With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and sought 
 Not repose, but employment in act'on or thought. 
 Life's strong earnest, in all things 1 oh think not of 
 
 me. 
 Rut yourself ! for 1 plead for your own destiny • 
 I plead for your life, with its duties undone. 
 With its claims unappeased. and its trophies unwon; 
 And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment. I plead 
 For all that you miss, and lor 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, softly, soothingly 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 
 
258 
 
 L U C I L E . 
 
 Oped behind her ; and pure as the pure light of 
 
 dawn 
 She stood, bathed in morning-, and seem'd tu his 
 
 eyes 
 From their sight to be melting away in the skies 
 That expanded around her. 
 
 •*#r^. 
 
 THEKE PASS'd THROUGH HIS HEAD A FANCY— A VISION. 
 XII. 
 
 There pass'd through his head 
 A fancy— a vision. That woman was dead 
 
He had loved long ago — loved and lost ! dead to hira 
 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 lieart, and I speak not to thine. 
 Answer, soul of Luciie, to this dark soul of mine. 
 Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart de- 
 nies, [skies, 
 Hope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon 
 This wild night is passing away while I speak: 
 Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning -to break ! 
 Something wakens 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 Ion? years hoarded up, that rush'd from me 
 
 again. 
 I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove 
 Other words, other deeds. It v.as madness, not 
 
 love. 
 That you thwarted this niyht. 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 ! 
 
26o 
 
 Long- thoughts these, and so brief the momenis, 
 
 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 ? 
 Is it not so, Lucile? Well, well I Thus then we 
 
 part 
 Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from 
 
 heart ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And again clearer far than the chime of a 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 you 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. 
 
 Eugene. 
 For we know not the way we are going, nor yet 
 Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. 
 
 Life hath set 
 No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, 
 
26t 
 
 I will promise : vvliatever your path, or my own, 
 If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance 
 That the Dragon prevail, and with clef i shield, and 
 
 lance 
 Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the 
 
 \\ar, 
 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 i ontrol ; 
 And again, onceagain, weshall meet, soul to soul ! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The voice ceased. 
 
 He uplifted his eyes. 
 
 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, 
 Realms of rose, in the Orient ! And breathless, 
 
 and bold, 
 While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by 
 
 one, 
 The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun ! 
 Thrice holy Eospheros '. Light's reign began 
 In ihe heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. 
 The dawn on the mountains ! the dawn every- 
 where I 
 Light I silence ! the fresh innovations of air ! 
 O earth, and O ether ! A butterfly breeze 
 Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on 
 
 the trees. 
 Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp- 
 rippled stream, 
 
262 
 
 Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, 
 Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope. 
 The spirits of morning were whispering, " Hope! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood 
 But a moment before, and where now roll'd the 
 
 flood 
 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 [he 
 
 Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein 
 Had once dwelt, a native' 
 
 There, rooted and bound 
 To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it ! Around 
 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 is no Too late. 
 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 expansion, he felt 
 With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense- 
 awed, amazed — 
 Something soar and ascend in his soul as he gazed. 
 
I. U.CILE. 263 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 Man is born on a battlefield. Round him, to rend 
 Or resist, tlie 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, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. 
 Her whirlwinds are i^oused into wrath o'er his head: 
 'Neath his leet 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 rocks 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 eye and the stealthy of claw 
 (Striped and spotted destroyers !) he sees, pale with 
 
 awe, 
 On the menacing edge of a fiery sky 
 Grim Doorga, 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 cry 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 began ! 
 
264 
 
 From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian ; at 
 
 peace, 
 A mere wandering- shepherd that follows the fleece ; 
 But. warrins his way through a world's destinies, 
 Lo from Delhi, from Bagdad, from Cordova, rise 
 Domes of empir^-, doiver'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 peop'e 1 for man by new foes I 
 The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her 
 
 own. 
 And bold must the man be that braves the Un- 
 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 
 And dominion, behold ! he is brought face to face 
 With a new foe— himself ! 
 
 Nor 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, 
 
L U C I L E . 265 
 
 Hears, and heeds not the wound in her heart fresh 
 
 and red 
 Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold 
 The shrill clanging curtains of war I 
 
 And behold 
 A vision ! 
 
 The antique Heraclean seats ; 
 And the long Black Sea billow that once bore 
 
 those fleets, 
 Which said to the winds, " Be ye, too, Genoese ! " 
 And the red angry 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 a' reast !) 
 Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the 
 
 East. 
 
 ni. 
 Since that sunrise, which rose through the calm 
 
 linden 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 sing of have fluw'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. 
 Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in 
 
 his lair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire, 
 Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to one 
 
 gory mire I 
 There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, 
 
266 
 
 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 avro? gone sombrely forth 
 To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north I 
 
 V. 
 
 In the dawn of a moody October, a pale 
 Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail 
 Over city and camp ; like the garment of death 
 Which (is form'd by) the face it conceals. 
 
 'T was the breath 
 War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire ; 
 Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of 
 
 red fire. 
 And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellow 
 Hoarse challenge ; replied to anon, through the 
 
 yellow 
 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 plain 
 Flared with fitful combustion ; where fitfully fell 
 Afar off the fatal, disgorged scha^-peuelle^ 
 And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom 
 With wings of swift flame round that City of 
 
 Doom. 
 
 vr. 
 So the day— so the night ! So by night, so by day, 
 With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, 
 
L U C I L E . 267 
 
 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 ! 
 
 No 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 claim'd 
 By man or by nature. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Time passes. The dumb. 
 Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come 
 And its snows have been bathed in the blood of the 
 
 brave : 
 And many a young heart has glutted the grave : 
 And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, 
 And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous 
 
 in story. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The moon, swathed in storm, has long set : throir;h 
 
 the camp 
 No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp. 
 The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind. 
 That seems searching for something it never can 
 
 find. 
 The midnight is turning : the lamp is nigh spent : 
 And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent 
 Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . 
 
 In this placo. 
 However, my Muse iscompell'd to retrace 
 Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. 
 The shock which had suddenly shatter 'd at last 
 
268 L U C I L E . 
 
 Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday 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 summoned forth by 
 
 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 tiieir possessions. 
 
 Sir Ridley, forgiven 
 By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven 
 By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek 
 
 speech 
 The hypocrite brough: his own soul, safe from 
 
 reach 
 Of the law, died abroad. 
 
 Cousin John, heart and hand. 
 Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took 
 
 his stand 
 By Matilda an 1 Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend 
 Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end. 
 With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave mean- 
 while 
 Faced the worl i's frown, consoled by 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 days, 
 Out 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). 
 
L U C I L E . 269 
 
 After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, 
 Years 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 darlingof young- soldier comrades, just glanced 
 Down the glad dawn of manhood 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 England was 
 
 sent. 
 He, transferring without either token 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 in 
 
 the star [fell 
 
 Whence others sought glory. Thus, fighting, he 
 On the red field of Inkerman ; found, who can tell 
 By what miracle, breathin.y, though shatter'd, and 
 
 borne 
 To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and 
 
 torn. 
 Where for long days and nights, with the wound 
 
 in his side, 
 He lay, dark, 
 
270 
 
 IX. 
 
 But a wound deeper far, undescried. 
 In the young- heart was rankling ; for there, of a 
 
 truth. 
 In the first earnest faith of a pure pensiv-^e youth, 
 A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, 
 Lay ensheath'd : and that love, ever fretting its 
 
 sheath, 
 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 dim- 
 mer 
 
 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. Shestands 
 
LUC I L E. 271 
 
 By his bedsiue, all silent. She lays her white 
 
 hands 
 On the brow of the boy. A li£,^ht finjjer is pressing- 
 Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood- 
 
 stain'd dressing 
 Slips from them. A comforting qui^^ude steals 
 Through the rack'd weary frame ; and, throughout 
 
 it, he feels 
 The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. 
 Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a 
 
 gray hood 
 Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent 
 
 o'er him, 
 And thrill through and through him. The sweet 
 
 form before him, 
 II is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping ! 
 A s.oft 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 
 
 care 
 Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering 
 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 
 Sigh'd ..." Say what thou art, blessed dream of 
 
 a saintly 
 And minist'ring spirit ! " 
 
 A whisper serene 
 Slid, softer than silence ..." The Soeur Sera- 
 
 phine, 
 A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
 Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire. 
 For the sake of th^-t sire, I reclaim from the grave. 
 
Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'T is 
 
 more brave 
 To live, than to die. Sleep ! " 
 
 He sleeps : he is sleeping. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He vkraken'd again, when the dawn was just steep- 
 ing 
 
 The skies with chill splendor. And there, never 
 flitting. 
 
 Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
 
 As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd return- 
 ing 
 
 Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet 
 burning 
 
 Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 
 
 He said, 
 
 " If thou be of the living, and not of the dead. 
 
 Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
 
 Of that balmy voice j if it may be, revealing 
 
 Thy mission of mercy I whence art thou ? " 
 
 " O son 
 
 Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
 
 Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 
 
 To thee, and to others, alive yet "... she 
 said . . . 
 
 " So long as there Hveth the poor gift in me 
 
 Of this ministration ; to them, and to thee. 
 
 Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose 
 vocation 
 
 Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
 
 Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe. 
 
 There her land 1 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 can it be ? you ! 
 
 My dearest dear father ! my mother ! you knew, 
 
L U C I L E . 273 
 
 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 'he 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 tliem I '' 
 
 " No, no ! " she exclaim'd with a smile, 
 " They know you are living : they know that 
 
 meanwhile 
 I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep 
 
 not ! " 
 But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot 
 Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly ispress'd. 
 There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest . 
 And he hears, as it were between smiling and 
 
 weeping, 
 The calm voice say ..." Sleep ! " 
 
 And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And day follow'd day. And, as wave follows 
 
 wave. 
 With the tide, day by day, life, reissuing, drave 
 Through that young hardy 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 : 
 And clothed the wan fingers with languor. 
 
274 
 
 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 ! 
 
 LIk'E SOME SUNNY FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A 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 
 
L U C I L E. 275 
 
 Quiet cheek, youLh's lost bloom left transparent, 
 the soul 
 
 Seein'd to fill with its own light, like some sunny- 
 fountain 
 
 Everlastingly fed from far of£ in the mountain 
 
 That pbuis, in a garden deserted, iis 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 must have 
 past 
 
 To have perfected there so much sweetness at last. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out 
 His brief thrifty fires, and the wind was about, 
 The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own 
 Laid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender tone 
 Of her voice moved the silence. 
 
 She said . . . " I have hcal'd 
 These wounds of the body. Why 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 suddenly touched on the spot 
 From which every nerve derives suffering. 
 
 ''What? 
 Lies my heart, then, so bare ? " he moan'd bitterly. 
 
 "Nay," 
 With compassionate accents she hasten'd to say, 
 '• Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, 
 
 young man. 
 So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan 
 Her features, yet know them not? 
 
 "Oh, was it spoken, 
 ' Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the 
 broken .' ' 
 
276 
 
 L r C I I, E. 
 
 THE NUN, WATCHFUL STILL BV THE BOV. 
 
 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, that 
 
 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 
 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: God's love does not. 
 And His love is unchanged, w^hen it changes our lot. 
 Looking up to this light, 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, 
 "J hat, 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 may be shall straightway be 
 
 told. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A few years 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 
 By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while 
 With a lady allied to her race— an old dame 
 Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name. 
 In the Faubourg Saint Germain. 
 
 Upon that fair child. 
 From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. 
 One uncle their place in her life had supplied. 
 And their place in her heart : she had grown at his 
 
 side. 
 And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, 
 From childhood to girlhood. 
 
 This fair orphan ward 
 Scem'd the sole human creature that lived in the 
 
 heart 
 
278 
 
 L UC 1 LE , 
 
 Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could im- 
 part 
 One ray of response to the eyes which, above 
 Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love 
 That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill 
 
 THE FAIR ORl'HAN WARD. 
 
 Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill 
 Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. 
 Grass grew in the courtyard ; the chambers were 
 
 bare 
 In that ancient mansion ; when first the stern tread 
 Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead : 
 Bringing with him this infant (the child of a 
 
 brother), 
 
2 79 
 
 Whom, dying, tlie hands of a desolate mother 
 Had placed on his bosom. 'T was said— right or 
 
 wrong — 
 That, in the lone mansion, left tenanlless long. 
 To which, as a stranger, its lord now rcturn'd, 
 In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had 
 
 burn'd 
 The light of wi'd orgies. Be that false or true. 
 S'ovv and sad was the footstep which now wander'd 
 
 through 
 Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe 
 Was the life of their inmate. 
 
 Men now saw appear 
 Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, 
 Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case 
 Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, 
 His severity 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 his largess, his piety praised. 
 The peasant was 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 over. 
 
 That child 
 Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him ; smiled 
 To his frown, and dispelled it. 
 
 The sweet sportive elf 
 Seem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, in 
 
 himself. 
 Ever welcome he suffer'd her glad face to glide 
 In on hours when to others his door was denied : 
 And many a time with a mute moody look 
 He would watch her at prattle and play, like a 
 
 brook 
 Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot, 
 But soothes us because we need answer it not. 
 
28o L U C I I, E . 
 
 But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before 
 A change came among them. A letter, which bore 
 Sudden consequence 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 dame, from whose lips the 
 
 child learn'd 
 That they were of the same race and name. With 
 
 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 't 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 
 And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword 
 For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate !) 
 By legitimate parents. 
 
 And meanwhile, elate 
 And in no wise disturbed 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 ! I go ! l^ive la France f " 
 
 Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as 
 years fled, 
 
LI' C I L E . 281 
 
 'Twixt the child and 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 perfect : a noble and innocent girl. 
 With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the 
 
 light 
 Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright ! 
 Then her guardian wrote to the dame, ..." Let 
 
 Constance 
 Go with you to Paris. I trust that in France 
 I may be ere the close of the year. I conrtde 
 My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your 
 
 side. 
 The world which we live in." 
 
 To Paris then came 
 Constance to abide with that old stately dame 
 In that old stately Faubourg. 
 
 The young Englishman 
 Thus met her. 'T was there their acquaintance 
 
 began. 
 There it closed. That old miracle — Love-at-first- 
 
 sight— 
 Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright 
 Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden 
 Norcheck'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 returned by Constance. 
 And as the child's uncle his absence from France 
 Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratuki- 
 
 tion) 
 
Wrote to liim a lengthen'd and moving 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 
 
 IT NEEDS NOT TO TELL THE TEARS OF CONSTANCE. 
 
 Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. 
 
 At length from that cousin an answer there came, 
 
 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 wishes ever 
 To behold me again, understand, she will never 
 Wed that man 
 
 " You have broken faith with me. Farewell ! " 
 
LUCILE. 283 
 
 No appeal from that sentence. 
 
 It needs not to tell 
 The tears of Constance, nor the gviei of her lover : 
 The dreapi 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 ! " 
 
 Unreturn'd 
 Had his love been, the strong- manful heart would 
 
 have spurn'd 
 That weakness which suffers a woman to lie 
 At the roots of man's life, 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 (it was 
 
 one 
 To whom, uhen at Paris, the boy had been known, 
 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. 
 
 Thus the tale ends. 'T was told 
 With such broken, passionate words, as unfold 
 In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each 
 pause 
 
284 
 
 Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, 
 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 inhabit her face 
 And make it like heaven, was fled from its place 
 In her eyes, on her lips ; and a deep sadness there 
 Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, 
 As low to herself she sigh'd . . . 
 
 " Hath it, Eugene, 
 Been so long, then, the struggle? . . . and yet, all 
 
 in vain ! 
 Nay, not all in vain ! Shall the world gain a man. 
 And yet Heaven lose a soul ? Have I done all I 
 
 can? 
 Soul to soul, did he say ? Soul to soul, be it so ! 
 And then— soul of mine, whither ? whither? " 
 
 XVI 1 1. 
 
 Large, slow, 
 Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. 
 '* }[c7-L\ at least, I have fail'd not" . . . she mused 
 
 ..." this is well ! " 
 She drew from her bosom two letters. 
 
 In one, 
 A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her s<^n. 
 Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. 
 " The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile ! 
 The hope of a home saved by thee— of a heart 
 Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as 
 
 thou art !) 
 Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save ! . , . . 
 
 save my son 1 
 
285 
 
 And if not "... the letter went brokenly on, 
 " Heaven help us ! " 
 
 Then follow'd. from Alfred, a few 
 Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, 
 With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth. 
 So unlike his own : how in beauty and truth 
 He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave I 
 And how he had striven his son's youth to save 
 From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own. 
 And so deeply repented : how thus, in that son. 
 In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had 
 
 seem'd 
 To be bless'd by a pledge that the past was re- 
 deem'd. 
 And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak 
 Of the boy's baffled 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. To sue for consent 
 Pride forbade : and the hope his old foe might relent 
 Experience rejected . . . " My life for the boy's ! " 
 (He exclaimed) ; " for I die with my son, if he dies I 
 Luoile ! Heaven bless you for all you have done ! 
 Save him, save him, Lucile ! save my son ! save 
 my son ! " 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Ay ! " murmur'd the Sceur Seraphine . . . "heart 
 
 to heart ! [part ? 
 
 There, at least, I have fail'd not ! Fulhll'd is my 
 Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the 
 
 whole. 
 Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then ! . . . Soul to 
 
 soul ! " 
 She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd 
 
 on. 
 Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was 
 
 gone, 
 
ay! " MURMUR'd THE StKlK SERAl'HINE . . . " HEAl' 
 TO HEART ! " 
 
287 
 
 XX. 
 
 Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent 
 
 O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent 
 
 There sits :: French General — 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 rapidly risen to be 
 
 The idol, the darling, the dream and the star 
 
 Of the younger French chivalry : daring in war. 
 
 And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, 
 
 Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonile creed) 
 
 The army of France ; and had risen, in part 
 
 From a singular attitude proved for the art 
 
 Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise. 
 
 And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies 
 
 Its subtlest intelligence ; partly from chance ; 
 
 Partly, 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 fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 All within, and without, that warm tent seems to 
 
 bear 
 Smiling token of provident order and care. 
 All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands 
 In groups round 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, 
 Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil. 
 To report how the sapper contends with the soil 
 In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring 
 In the hospital 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 officer standing beside him is fain 
 
 To refer to the angel solicitous cares 
 
 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 Sceur . . 
 Sceur . . . 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 Sceur — 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. I 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. We shall, 
 I think, aid each other." 
 
 " Oui, mon General : 
 I believe she has lately obtain'd the permission 
 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 you know ? " 
 '"' Non, mon 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 bpef private speech with the General there 
 
 1 
 
LUCILE. 289 
 
 Will the General speak with her ? " 
 
 " Bid her declare 
 Her mission. " 
 
 " She will not. She craves to be seen 
 And be heard." 
 
 " Well, her 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 lips, unrepress'd. 
 Steals th' impatient quick sigh, which reveals in 
 
 man's breast 
 A conflict conceal'd, an experience at strife 
 With itself, — the vex'd heart's passing protest on 
 
 life. 
 He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light 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 you some 
 
 thanks: 
 In the name of all those you have saved to our 
 
 ranks 
 I record them. Sit ! Now then, your mission ? " 
 
 The nun 
 Paused silent. The General eyed her anon 
 More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A 
 
 change 
 DarkenM 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 ? 
 
290 L U C I L E . 
 
 Does it move as of old ? Psha 
 
 n 
 
 " Sit, Sister ! I wait 
 Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State 
 The cause why you seek me ? " 
 
 " The cause ? ay, the cause ! " 
 She vaguely 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 unfulfiird," she replied. 
 " I come to fulfil it." 
 
 He sprang 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" [laid 
 
 Unawares), crept towards her ; one heavy hand 
 
agi 
 
 Oil her shoulder in silence ; bent o'er her his head 
 Search'd her face with a lon^ look of troubled ap- 
 peal 
 Ac-ainst doubt: stagger'd backward, and mur- 
 
 mur'd ..." Lucile i 
 Thus we rheet then? . . . here! . . . thus ? " 
 
 " Soul to soul, ay, Eugene 
 As I pledged you my word that we should meet 
 
 again. 
 Dead, . . ." she murmur'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 
 Ashe raised it). " Speak to me ! " 
 
 Deep, tender, serene, 
 And sad was the gaze which the ScEur Seraphine 
 Held on him. She spoke. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As some minstrel may 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 away 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 
 
Unaccomplish'd from life. 
 
 He was mute. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She went on. 
 And still further down the dim past did she lead 
 Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 
 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope. 
 And the valleys of boyhood , the fresh-fiower'd slope 
 Of life's dawning land ! 
 
 'T is the heart of a boy, 
 With 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 !) in the seed, at time's signal to put 
 Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on 
 
 layer, 
 Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in 
 
 blue air. 
 So the palm in the palm-seed ! so, slowly— so, 
 
 wrought 
 Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought 
 by thought, [boy. 
 
 Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the 
 Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy ! 
 Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance in- 
 tervene ! 
 While the leaf's in the bud, 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 
 
 I 
 
To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest. 
 And take both 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. 
 
 XX\". 
 
 Lo ! manhood is come. 
 And love, the wild song-bird, hath tiown to the tree, 
 And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, 
 
 and see : 
 What shade from the leaf? what support from the 
 
 branch ? 
 Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough 
 
 strong and stanch ? 
 There, he saw himself-dark, as he stood on that 
 
 night. 
 The last when they met and they parted : a sight 
 For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice ! 
 An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; 
 It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. 
 
 Then he said 
 (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, 
 As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd 
 Those fragments), " It was not a love,' t was a world, 
 'T was a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile I " 
 
 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 heaven shatters the 
 
 past." 
 "Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to 
 
 scan 
 
294 
 
 L U C I L E. 
 
 The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a 
 
 man ? 
 From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; 
 To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!'' 
 
 -t&^ -J^^-' 
 
 THE PARADISE PALMS. 
 
 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 
 
L II C I L E . 295 
 
 By death to a new name and nature — surprised 
 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, 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 I) 
 The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth 
 Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her 
 
 birth ;— 
 So that one word . . . Lucile ! . . . stirr'd the 
 
 Soeur Seraphine, 
 For a moment. Anon she resumed her serene 
 And concentrated calm. 
 
 " Let the Nun, tlien, retrace 
 The life of the Soldier ! " . . . she said, with a face 
 That glow'd, gladdening her words. 
 
 " To the Pre- ent I come : 
 Leave the Past I 
 
 There her voice rose, and seem'd as 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 existence. 
 Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance ; 
 Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours: 
 And thesamesentinels that ascend the same towers 
 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 : every 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. [in the hue 
 
 There she paused : and her accents seem'd dipp'd 
 
296 L I' C I L E . 
 
 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 rhyme. 
 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 ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Her voice reach'd his heart, 
 And sank lower. She spoke of herself : how, apart 
 And unseen, — far away,— she had watch'd, year 
 
 by year, 
 With how many a blessing, how many a tear. 
 And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife : 
 Guess'd the thought in the deed : traced the love 
 
 in the life : 
 BL-Ks'd the man in the man's work ! 
 
 " Thy work ... oh not mine ! 
 Thine, Luciie ! " ... he exclaim'd . . . "all the 
 
 worth of it thine 
 If worth there be in it I " 
 
 Her answer convey'd 
 His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said 
 Alone by the voice . , . eyes — face— spoke silently 
 All the woman, one grateful emotion ! 
 
 And she 
 A poor Sister of Charity ! hers a life spent 
 In one silent effort of others ! . . . 
 
 She bent 
 Her divine face above him, and filTd up his heart 
 With the look that glow'd from it. 
 
 Then slow, with soft art, 
 Fix'd her aim, and moved to it. 
 
 A 
 
XXIX, 
 
 He, the soldier humane, 
 He, the hero ; whose heart hid in glory the pain 
 Of a youth disappointed ; whose life had made 
 • known [thrown 
 
 The value of man's life! . . . that youth over- 
 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 
 F'or the life of another ? ... oh no ! everywhere 
 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, 
 A life is in jeopardy." 
 
 " Quick then ! you seek 
 Aid or medicine, or what ? " 
 
 " 'T is not needed," she said. 
 " Medicine ? yes, for the mind ! ' T is a licart 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 rapidly on 
 To her object in brief vivid words . . . The young 
 
 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 anguish — the pride of the boy 
 In the father— the father's one hope and one joy 
 In the son :— the son now— wounded, dying! 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 I 
 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 her efforts 
 
 still fail ; 
 Beaten back by a love that was stronger than life ; 
 Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife 
 Wherein England and France 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 many'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 Constance, 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, 
 
299 
 
 Had been gathering silent— at last the storm broke 
 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 ! " 
 
 " 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 one friend ! 
 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 finger hath writ 
 In fire on my heart, I return him at last. 
 Let him learn that word— Never ! " 
 
 " Ah, still to tliepast 
 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. [much, 
 
 I foresaw you would conquer; you /me^£? conquer'd 
 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 you would fail 
 To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail,— 
 Himself : and I promised that, if I should see 
 My 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. 
 
300 
 
 p-or 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. 
 "ConstJince! . . . Ay, she enter'd my lone life" 
 (he said; 
 
 HITNG OVER ITS NI 
 
 HKK OWN STARRY CHILDHt 
 
 " 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 rhe voice of that child ? 
 The child of my own better life, undefiled 1 
 
30I 
 
 My creature, carved out of ray heart of hearts! " 
 
 "■' Say," 
 Said the Soeur Seraphine— " are you able to lay 
 Your hand as a knig-ht 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 boy should die thus? " 
 
 " Yes, I know 
 What your look would imply . . . this sleek stran- 
 ger forsooth ! 
 Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth 
 The heart of my niece must break for it ! " 
 
 She cried, 
 " Nay, but hear me yet further ! " 
 
 With slow heavy stride, 
 Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, 
 He was muttering low to himself as he went. 
 " Ay, these young things lie 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 victory 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 ! 
 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 
 
302 L U C I L E . 
 
 On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, 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 grave to your mercy ! 
 
 " 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 hivi ! nations shout not above 
 The lone grave down to which he is bearing the 
 
 love 
 Which life has rejected ! Will yoii stand apart ? 
 You, with such a love's memory deep m your 
 
 heart ! [on 
 
 You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led 
 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, 
 
LIT C I L E . 503 
 
 To Stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word. 
 
 And by that word you rescue a life ! " 
 
 He was stirr'd. 
 
 Still he sou<(ht 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 up, 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 dvvarf'd by the 
 height 
 
 From which those imperial eyespour'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 be- 
 tween 
 
 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 transfix'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 [best 
 
 I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's 
 
304 
 
 L U C I I, E . 
 
 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 wrong'd.' " 
 
 "Have I wrong'd thee? — wrong'd tkee.'^^ 
 He falter'd, " Lucile, ah, Lucile I " 
 
 "■ 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. 
 The dead 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 
 The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile! let this pay 
 Every debt that is due to the 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 vah'ie et plaudite, soon as may be ! 
 Let the old tree go down to the earth — the old tree. 
 With the worm at its heart ! Lay the axe to the 
 
 root 
 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 you lead." 
 
 The day was declinin,? ; 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 flit- 
 ting, 
 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 my 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 . . ." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 glory and 
 
 gloom 
 
3o6 L U C I L E . 
 
 Of the battle, with long, long-ing looks that din) 
 plume 
 
 Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, 
 stoop'd 
 
 To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd! 
 
 How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about 
 
 The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear 
 and doubt 
 
 Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero 1 (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 plume dance and dart— never 
 seen 
 
 So near till this moment! how eager to glean 
 
 Every 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 ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 With a start 
 The sick soldier sprang up : the blood sprang up in 
 
 him, 
 To his throat, and o'erthrew him : he reel'd 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 [sun 
 
 (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the 
 
 I 
 
L U C I L E. 307 
 
 Point lo him and murmur, " Beliold ! " Then ihat 
 
 plume 
 Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade 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, [those eyes, 
 
 "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and 
 
 All the mother's ! The old things again ! 
 
 " Do not rise 
 You suffer, young man ? " 
 
 The Boy. 
 
 Sir, I die. 
 
 The Duke. 
 
 Not so young ! 
 The Bov. 
 So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among 
 The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine 
 Other lives than my own. Could my death but 
 untwine [young— so young ! 
 
 The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, 
 And I knew you not ? yet I have done you a wrong 
 Irreparable ! . . . late, too late to repair, 
 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 my grief (could that be) 
 To include it ! Not too late, however, for me 
 To entreat : is it too late for you to forgive ? 
 
 The Duke. 
 You wrong— my forgiveness— explain. 
 
 The Boy. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ah ! you could not surmise 
 
3oS 
 
 That a boy'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 your 
 
 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 [is there I " 
 
 Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . •' Off ! he 
 I know not what merciful mystery now 
 Brings you here, whence the man whom you see 
 lying low [grave. 
 
 Other footstepf (.not those !) must soon bear to the 
 But death is at hand, and the few words I have 
 Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. 
 
 Duke, I swear, 
 As I lie here (Death's angel too close not to hear !) 
 That I meant not this wrong to you. Due de 
 
 Luvois, 
 I loved your niece — loved ! why, I love her ! I saw, 
 And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd 
 Born to love her. Alas, were that all ! Had I 
 
 dream'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 [was room 
 
 Into which I descend ... Oh why, whilst there 
 In life left for warning, 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 tlu'n 
 
 to nurse ! 
 Had any one hi led . . . " Beware of the curse 
 Which is comin;^ ! " There was not a voice raised 
 to tell, 
 
 I 
 
LU C I L E . 309 
 
 Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell 
 And then .... then the blow fell on both ! This 
 
 is why 
 I implore you to pardon that great injury 
 Wroug-ht on her, and, through her, wrought on you. 
 
 Heaven knows 
 How unwittingly ! 
 
 The Duke. 
 Ah! . . . and, young soldier, suppose 
 That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon ? — 
 
 The Bo v. 
 
 Of whom ? 
 
 The Duke. 
 Of yourself. 
 
 The Boy. 
 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, a 1 eloquent fact, 
 To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. 
 And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, [these, 
 A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all 
 Were they so many lying and false witnesses. 
 Does there rest not one voice, which was never 
 
 untrue? 
 I believe in Constance, Duke, as she do3s in you ! 
 In this great world around us, wherever we turn. 
 Some grief irremediable 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 
 
3TO I. UC I L E. 
 
 Tame and leach : and my heart buried slain love 
 
 in hate. 
 If your own frank young heart, yet unconscious of 
 
 all [gall, 
 
 Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to 
 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 ! In the name of my 
 
 niece. 
 Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, 
 Are you great enough, boy, 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 a long cloud con- 
 fined, [wind 
 Struggles outward through shadows, the varying 
 Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her 
 prison, [risen 
 So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had 
 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 guardian angel," the Duke said. " I — you. 
 We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live ! be 
 true [sake ! " 
 
 To your young life's fair promise, and live for her 
 " Yes, Duke : I will live. I vtiist live — live to 
 
 make 
 My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, 
 
 i 
 
•• For joy does not kill ! " 
 
 Back again the fault 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 pass'd from the tent. 
 
 XXKV. 
 
 Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occident 
 From its hot seething 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, [shapes 
 
 Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird 
 As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, apes. 
 Chimeras, and hydras: whilst-ever the same- 
 In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his 
 
 flame, , t^^^^"' 
 
 And changed by his influence!) changeless, as 
 Ere he lit down to death generations of men. 
 O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which there 
 With wild shapes this cloud-world seem d to mimic 
 
 The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone 
 And shall shine on the ages we reach noi-the sun . 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Nauire posted her parable thus in the skies, 
 And the man's heiirt bore witness. Life s vapors 
 
 [revolve 
 
 arise •- , 
 
 And fall, pass and change, group themselves and 
 Round the great central hfe, which is Love : these 
 
 dissolve t^^^"*- • 
 
 And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there 
 And the phantasmagoria of infinite error. 
 And endless complexity, lasts but a while ; 
 Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile 
 
312 L U C I L E. 
 
 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. 
 
 While he yet 
 Watch'd 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,— [ceaPd ; 
 
 Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and con- 
 Lucile left the tent and stood by him. 
 
 Her tread 
 Aroused him ; and, turning towards her, he said : 
 " O Soeur 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." [bent 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " she murmur'd. He musingly 
 His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart 
 Wh^re 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. 
 
LUCII, E. 313 
 
 Whilst watching those ships ? . . . When the great 
 
 Ship of Lite 
 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. [give? 
 
 What will then be the answer the helmsman must 
 Will it be . . . ' Lo our log-book ! Thus once did 
 
 we live [seas 
 
 In the zones of the South ; thus we traversed the 
 Of the Ori.'nt ; there dwelt with the Hesperides, 
 Thence fo'lowed the west wind ; here eastward we 
 
 turn'd ; [cern'd 
 
 The stars failed us there ; just here land we dis- 
 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 ? ' [pass'd ? 
 
 Not— How fared the soul through the trials she 
 But— What is the state of that soul at the last ? " 
 
 "May it be so!" he sigh'd. "There! the sun 
 
 drops, behold ! " [gold 
 
 And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and 
 
 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 diiniitis ! " 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. Prayalvvays. Again 
 We tw^o part : each to work out Heaven'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 aiid 
 
 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 is one. [tain : 
 He that knocketh shall enter : who asks shall ob- 
 And who seeketh, he tindeth. Remember, 
 
 Eugene!'' 
 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-tires 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 throu,;^h 
 
 sickness to nurse. 
 I go to my work : you to yours." 
 
 XXX VII I. 
 
 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. 
 
L UC I I. E. 315 
 
 " Our chasseurs are at it ! " he mutler'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, 
 
 XL. 
 
 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 passage, 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 [be given 
 
 Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may 
 
31^ 
 
 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 up evermore 
 With its little wild wailing. No stream from its 
 
 source 
 Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, 
 But what some land is gladdened . No star ever rose 
 And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows 
 What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? 
 
 No life 
 Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife 
 And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. 
 The spirits of jusL men made perfect on high, 
 The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne 
 And gaze into the Face that makes glorious their 
 
 own, [sorrow. 
 
 Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest 
 Honest work for the day, honest hope for the mor- 
 row. 
 Are these worth nothing more than the hand they 
 
 make weary. 
 The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave 
 
 dreary? [Spirit 
 
 Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of the 
 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 with- 
 out, [doubt; 
 War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and 
 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. 
 At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went. 
 
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