EX LIBRI5 oo ALICE AND LEONARD BLOOMFIELD POEMS BY OWEN MEREDITH [ROBERT LORD LYTTON]. LUCILE, THE APPLE OF LIFE, THE WANDERER, CLYTEMNESTRA, ETC., ETC. WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. BOSTON: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. -Utorraioe prrstf, CambrtDgf. 1882. SRtl URL CONTENTS. PAG* LUCILE 9 THE APPLE OP LIFE 150 THE WANDERER. DEDICATION. To J. P 157 PROLOGUE. PART 1 158 "II 163 " III 164 BOOK I. IN ITALY. THE MAGIC LAND . 168 DESIRE 168 FATALITY 169 A VISION 170 EKOS 171 INDIAN LOVE-SONG 171 MORNING AND MEETING 172 THE CLOUD 173 ROOT AND LEAF 173 WABNINGS 173 A FANCY 174 ONCE 175 SINCE 176 A LOVE-LETTER 177 CONDEMNED ONES 180 THE STORM 180 THE VAMPYRE 182 CHANGE 183 A CHAIN TO WEAR 184 SILENCE 184 NEWS 185 COUNT RINALDO RINALDI 185 THE LAST MESSAGE 187 VENICE 187 ON THE SEA 188 BOOK II. IN FRANCE. "PRENSUS IN JEajto" ' 189 A L'ENTRESOL 190 TERRA INCOGNITA 191 A REMEMBRANCE 192 MADAME LA MARQUISE 103 vi CONTENTS. THE WANDERER (c.mtinucd). THE NOVEL 194 Aux ITALIKNS 194 PROGRESS 196 THE PORTRAIT 197 ASTARTB 198 AT HOME DURING THE BALL 199 AT HOME AFTER THE BALL 200 Ao CAFE * * * 201 THE CHESS-BOARD 200 SONG 206 THE LAST REMONSTRANCE 206 SORCERY. To 208 ADIEU, MIONONNE, MA BELLE 208 To MIGNONNE J09 COMPENSATION 210 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETER RONSARD : "VOICI LE BOIS QUE MA SAINCTE ANGELETTZ" 210 "CACHE POUR CETTE NCICT" 211 "PAGE SCY MOY" 211 "LES ESPICES SONT A CERES " 211 "MA DOUCE JOUVENCE" 211 BOOK III. IN ENGLAND. THE ALOE . . 212 "MEDIO DE FONTE LEPORUM" 213 THE DEATH OF KING HACON 213 "CARPE DIEM" 214 THE FOUNT OF TRUTH 214 MIDGES 216 THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH 217 MATRIMONIAL COUNSELS 218 SEE-SAW 218 BABYLONIA 219 BOOK IV. IN SWITZERLAND. THE HEART AND NATURE 222 A QUIET MOMENT 223 VXSIJE 224 BOOK V. IN HOLLAND. AUTUMN 225 LEAFLESS HOURS . 226 ON MY TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR 225 JACQUELINE 226 MACROMICROS 229 MYSTERY 230 THE CANTICLE OF LOVE 233 THE PEDLER 234 A GHOST STORY 235 SMALL PEOPLE 235 METEMPSYCHOSES . To THE QUEEN OP SERPENTS 236 BLUEBEARD 230 FATIMA 230 GOING BACK AGAIN 236 THE CASTLE or KINO MACBETH .... 237 CONTENTS. vii THE WANDERER (continued). DEATH-IN-LIFE 237 KINO LIMOS 237 THE FUGITIVE 238 THE SHORE 238 THE NORTH SEA 239 A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT: PART I. THE FISHI.I;.MAN'S DAUGHTER . 240 " II. THE LEGEND OF LORD ROSENCRANTZ ..".... 241 " III. DAYBREAK 243 " IV. BREAKFAST 244 A DREAM 245 KING SOLOMON 245 CORDELIA 246 "YE SEEK JESUS OF NAZARETH WHICH WAS CRUCIFIED" 247 To CORDELIA 249 A LETTER TO CORDELIA 250 FAILURE 250 MlSANTHROPOS 251 BOOK VI. PALINGENESIS. A PRAYER 253 EUTHANASIA 253 THE SOUL'S SCIENCE 257 A PSALM OF CONFESSION 257 REQUIESCAT 261 EPILOGUE. PART 1 261 "II 263 " III 266 TANNHAUSER. TANNHAUSER ; OR, THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS ... .... 272 CLYTEMNESTRA. CLYTEMNESTRA 300 GOOD-NlGHT IN THE PORCH 340 THE EARL'S RETURN 344 A SOUL'S Loss 356 THE ARTIST 358 THE WIFE'S TRAGEDY 361 MINOR POEMS. THE PARTING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE 369 A SUNSET FANCY 374 ASSOCIATIONS 374 MEETING AGAIN 375 ARISTOCRACY 375 THE MERMAIDEN 375 AT HER CASEMENT 375 A FAREWELL 376 AN EVENING IN TUSCANY 376 SONG 377 SEASIDE SONGS. 1 378 II 378 THE SUMMER-TIME THAT WAS 379 ELAYKE LE BLANC 379 To . 383 viii CONTENTS. Ml NOB POEMS (coutlnufJ). QUEEN GUENEVERE 883 THK NEGLECTED HKAHT 384 ,\ i IT A RANGES 884 HOW THE SONO WAS MADE 384 RETROSPECTIONS 885 THY VOICE ACROSS MY SPIRIT FALLS 885 THE RUINED PALACE us.') A VISION OF VIRGINS LEOLINK 387 SPRING AND WINTER KING HERMANDIAZ 389 SONG 889 THE SWALLOW 389 CONTRABAND 390 EVENING 390 ADON 891 ' THE PROPHET 391 WEALTH 391 WANT 391 A BIRD AT SUNSET 391 IN TRAVEL 392 CHANGES 392 JUDICIUM PARIDIS 393 NIGHT . 396 SONG 397 FORBEARANCE 397 HELIOS HYPERIONIDES 397 ELISABETTA SIRANI 397 LAST WORDS 400 LUOILE. gtbtra&m, TO MY FATHER. I DEDICATE to you a work, which is submitted to the public with a diffidence and hesitation proportioned to the novelty of the effort it represents. For in this poem I have abandoned those forms of verse with which I had most familiarized my thoughts, and have endeavored to follow a path on which I could discover no footprints before me, either to guide or to warn. There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to prolonged effort ; when, the labor which has become a habit having ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and stand, with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the abrupt and naked result. As regards myself, in the present instance, the force of all such sensations is increased by the circumstances to which I have referred. And in this moment of discouragement and doubt my heart instinctively turns to you, from whom it has so often sought, from whom it has never failed to receive, support. I do not inscribe to you this book because it contains anything that is worthy of tl.e beloved and honored name with which I thus seek to associate it : nor yet, because I would avail myself of a vulgar pretext to display in public an affection that is best honored by the silence which it renders sacred. Feelings only such as those with which, in days when there existed for me no critic less gentle than yourself, I brought to you my childish manuscripts, feelings only such as those which have, in later years, associated with your heart all that lias moved or occupied my own, lead me once more to seek assurance from the grasp of that hand which has hitherto been my guide and comfort through the life I owe to you. And as in childhood, when existence had no toil beyond the day's simple lesson, no ambition beyond the neighboring approval of the night, I brought to you the morn- ing's task for the evening's sanction, so now I bring to you this self-appointed task- work of maturer years ; less confident indeed of your approval, but not less confident of your love ; and anxious only to realize your presence between myself and the public, and to mingle with those severer voices to whose final sentence I submit my work the beloved and gracious accents of your own. OWEN MEREDITH. PART I. CANTO I. 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 re- turn, 10 LUCILE. 1 dc.sire to receive from your hand. You discern My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. The distance to Serchon is short. I re- main A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego one brief page from the sum- mer romance Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your place At her feet, in the light of her fair Eng- lish face. I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel I desire nothing much. "Your friend always, " LUCILE." n. 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 straw- berry leaves : When cards, invitations, and three-cor- nered notes Fly about like white butterflies, gay little motes In the sunbeam of Fashion ; and even Blue Books Take a heavy-winged 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, ad- dressed In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guessed, An odor of violets faint as the Spring, And coquettishly sealed with a small signet-ring. But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection, When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection ; 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 flirta- tion, Are all a man finds for his day's occupa- tion, 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, Which, though classified yet by no nat- uralist, Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, And more mischievous, too, than the lynx or the bear. in. I marvel less, therefore, that, having al- ready 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 in- tend To fling all the unities by at the end.) He walked to the window. The morn- ing was chill : LUCILE. The brown woods were crisped 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 though teasing Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing : And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it, To himself more than once (vexed in soul) sighed ....." Confound it ! " 12 LUCILE. IV. What the thoughts 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. CotrsiN JOHN. A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool ! LORD ALFRED. JOHN. Who? The man who has anything better to do ; And yet so far forgets himself, so far de- grades 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. ALFRED. Indeed ! why 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- naired 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 eves, and one's feet too, from fall- ing asleep For even one half-hour of the long twen- ty-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 even crin- oline, When possessed by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, Is entitled to take in this very small star, Already too crowded, as 7 think, by far. You read Malthus and Sadler ? ALFKI i>. Of cou i'M\ 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 (reading the letter). " I hear from Bigorre you are there. 1 am told You are going to marry Miss Darci/. Of old " What is this ? ALFRED. Read it on to the end, and you '11 know. JOHN (continues reading). " When we parted, your last wordy re- corded a vow What you will " . . . , "READ ON TO THE END AND YOU "i.i. KNOW." Page 13. LUCILE. 13 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 '11 discern. JOHN (continues). " Those letters I ask you, my lord, to re- turn." ... Humph ! . . . Letters ! . . . the matter is worse than I guessed ; I have my misgivings ALFRED. Well, read out the rest, And advise. JOHN. Eh ? ... Where was I ? ... (Continues.) "Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego one brief page from the sum- mer romance Of her courtship. "... Egad ! a romance, for my part, I "d forego every page of, and not break my heart ! ALFRED. Continue ! JOHN (reading). "And spare you one day from your place At her feet." . . . Pray forgive me the passing grimace. t wish you had MY place ! (Heads.) " I trust you will feel I i/i'xire nothing much. Your friend "... Bless me ! " Lucile " ? The Comtesse de Nevers ? ALFRED. Yes. JOHN. What will you do ? ALFRED. You ask me just what I would rather ask you. JOHN, You can't go. ALFRED. I must. JOHN. And Matilda ? ALFRED. 0, 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 finished my breakfast, of course 1 receive A message for "dear Cousin John .'" . I must leave At the jeweller's the bracelet which you broke last night ; I must call for the music. "Dear Al- fred is right : The black shawl looks best : will I change it ? Of course I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hu- bert knows what ; Will I see the dog-doctor ? " Hang Beau! I willnctf. ALFRED. Tush, tush ! this is serious. JOHN. It is. ALFRED. Very well, You must think JOHN. What excuse will you make, though ? ALFRED. 0, tell Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits, Jack ! . . . the deuce ! Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's use ? Excuses are clothes which, when asked unawares, Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares. You nrnst have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. JOHN. My dear fellow ! Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. 14 LUCILE. ALFRED. You joke. .InllN. I am serious. Why go to Serchon ? 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 ( )f youth and romance, in whose shadowy light Hope whispered 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 grave- stone to move ; 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 l>ack. 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 consigned our heart's best, if the doors of the tomb Were not locked with a key which Fate keeps for our sake ? 1 f the dead could return, or the corpses awake ? JOHN. Nonsense ! ALFRED. Not wholly. The man who gets up A filled guest from the banquet, and drains off his cup, Sees the last lamp extinguished with cheerfulness, goes Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. But he wno hath supped at the tables of kings, And yet starved in the sight of InxaiioM things ; Who hath watched the wine flow, by himself but half tasted, Heard the music, and yet missed tin- tune ; who hath wasted 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. 1 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) Asked if he had nothing that weighed on his mind : "Well, . . . no," . . . says Lothario, "I think not. 1 find On reviewing my life, which in most things was pleasant, I never neglectea, when once it was present, An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, I have naugbt to regret " ; . . . and so, smiling, his soul Took its flight from this world. ALFRED. Well, Regret or Remorse, Which is best ? JOHN. Why, Regret. ALFRED. Xo ; Remorse, Jack, of course ; For the one is related, be sure, to tho Other, LUCILE. 15 Regret is a spiteful old maid ; but her brother, Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret ! JOHN. Bref ! you mean, then, to go ? ALFRED. Bref! I do. JOHN. One word . . . stay ! Are you really in love with Matilda ? Love, eh ? ALFRED. What a question ! Of course. JOHN. Were you really in love With Madame de Nevers ? ALFRED. What ; Lucile ? No, by Jove, Never really. JOHN. She 's pretty ? ALFRED. Decidedly so. At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. As soft and as sallow as Autumn, with hair Neither black, nor 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 own 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. 'T is a simile, trust me, if not new, exact. JOHN. Women change so. ALFRED. Of course. JOHN. And, unless rumor errs, I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers * Was at Baden the rage, held an abso- lute court Of devoted adorers, and really made sport Of her subjects. ALFRED. Indeed ! JOHN. When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it ? ALFRED. Pooh! * O Shakespeare ! how couldst thou ask " What 's in a name ? " T is the devil 's in it when a bard has to frame English rhymes for alliance with names that are French ; And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench All too far on that license which critics refuse. With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. Yet, though 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 ajnve, Your forgiveness for this pair the author in- vites. Whom necessity, not inclination, unites- 16 LUCILE. Pray would you have had her dress al- ways in Mack, And shut herself up in a convent, dear .Jack ? Brides, 't was my fault the engagement was broken. Most likely. JOHN. How was it ? ALFKED. The tale is soon spoken. She bored me. I showed it. She saw it. What next ? She reproached. I retorted. Of course she was vexed. I was vexed that she was so. She sulked. So did I. If I asked her to sing, she looked ready to cry. I was contrite, submissive. She softened. I hardened. At noon I was banished. At eve I was pardoned. She said I had no heart. 1 said she had no reason. I swore she talked nonsense. She sobbed I talked 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 released me. I lingered. I lingered, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, And declare myself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the stoiy you know. JOHN. No, indeed. ALFRED. Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. Yon conceive it was awkward ? Even Don Ferdinando Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. I think that I acted exceedingly well, Considering the time when this rupture befell, For Paris was charming just then. It deranged All my plans for tin- winter. I asked to be changed, Wrote for Naples, then vacant, ob- tained it, and so Joined my new post at once ; but reached 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 recovered, but yet Looking pale. I am seized with a con- trite regret ; I ask to renew the engagement. JOHN. And she T ALFRED. Reflects, but declines. We part, swear- ing to be Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing ! We each keep our letters ... a por- trait ... a ring . . . With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other shall call for them back. JOHN. ALFRED. Pray go on. My story is finished. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand good max- ims 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. Heigh- ho ! now, Jack, You know all. JOHN (nfttr a paute). You are really resolved to go back T LUCILE. 17 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. Well, JOHN. What is it you wish me to do ? ALFRED. You must tell Matilda, I meant to have called to leave word To explain but the time was so press- ing JOHN. My lord, Your lordship's obedient ! I really can't 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 (humming). And away ! said tlie stranger "... , off, ALFRED. 0, good ! 0, you scoff ! JOHN. At what, my dear Alfred ? ALFRED. At all things ! JOHN. Indeed ? ALFRED. Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed : That the dew of your youth is rubbed 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 all 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, unconcerned . . . 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 weighed All the drawbacks against the equiva- lent 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 ca- reer : You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich, Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch To be running away, on the eve of all this, To a woman whom never for once did you miss All these years since you left her ? Who knows what may hap ? This letter to me is a palpable trap. The woman has changed since you knew her. 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, 18 LUCFLE. Lucile 's a coquette to the end of her fingers, 1 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. 'Twere a vengeance, no doubt A triumph ; but why must you bring it about ? You are risking the substance of all that you schemed To obtain ; and for what ? some mad dream you have dreamed ! ALFRED. But there 's nothing to risk. You ex- aggerate, Jack. You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back. JOHN. Ay, but how ? . . . discontented, unset- tled, upset, Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret ; Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough To make your betrothed break off all in a huff. 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 furnished and found us, And which, for that reason, we least care alx>ut, And can best spare our friends, is good counsel, no doubt. I-'it advice, when 'tis sought from a friend (though civility May forbid to avow it), means mere lia- bility In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, Which we deem that a true friend is bound to indorse. A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore. Thus, the better his cousin's advi' 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 resist aim \\ ; ^ vain, And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack Came to terms, and assisted his cousin to pack A slender valise (the one small conde- scension Which his final remonstrance obtained), whose dimension Excluded large outfits ; and* cursing his stars, he Shook hands with his friend and re- turned to Miss Darcy. Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turned, Ere he locked up and quitted his cham- ber, discerned Matilda ride by, with her cheek beam- ing bright In what Virgil has called " Youth's pur- pureal light " (I like the expression, and can't find a better). He sighed as he looked at her. Did he regret her ? In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair, As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air, And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue eyes, With their little impertinent look of sur- prise, And her round youthful figure, and fair neck, below The dark 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 fine English mare, I should much have regretted Whatever might lose me one little half- hour "DISCERNED MATILDA RIDE BY WITH HER CHEEK BEAMING BRIGHT.' LUCILE. 19 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. But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred Vargrave now watched her ride by, I can only affirm that, in watching her ride, As he turned from the window, he cer- tainly sighed. CANTO II. Letter from LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE fc the COMTESSE DE NfiVEKS. " BIGORRE, Tuesday. " Your note, Madam, reached me to-day, at Bigorre, And commands (need I add ?) my obedi- ence. Before The night I shall be at Serchon, where a line, If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, Will find me, awaiting your orders. Re- ceive My respects. " Yours sincerely, " A. VARGRAVE. " I leave In an hour." II. In an hour from the time 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 cap- tives are drest, ; As our convicts, precisely the same one and all, While the coat cut for Peter is passed 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. ill. 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 Irreclaimable days ; but in these days of ours, In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to explore ; And in life's lengthened 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 uj 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 ad- miring grimace. Once the men were so great and so few, they appear, 20 LUCILE. Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. Now th.' iiirii arc so many and .small, disengage One man from the million to mark him, next moment The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your comment ; 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, des- cant 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 con- ceive. With irresolute finger he knocked at each one Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, And whatever he did he was sure to re- gret. That target, discussed by the travellers of old, Which to one appeared argent, to one appeared gold, To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margeut, Appeared 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 noth- ing more Than the path it pursues till its creep- ing be o'er, In its limited vision, is happier far Than the Ualf-Sa^r, whose course, fixed by no friendly star, Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows Each will still be as distant wherever he goes. v. Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable, Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave seemed able To dazzle, but not to illumine man- kind. A vigorous, various, versatile mind ; A character wavering, fitful, uncertain, As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain, Vague, flitting, but on it forever impress- ing 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 seemed 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 skilled, Was, at best, but a promise which noth- ing fulfilled. In the budding of youth, ere wild wind* can deflower The shut leaves of man's life, round tho 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 man- hood'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 re- sist, Or the frost of the world's wintry wis- dom. LUCILE. 21 He missed 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 disturbed, to repel and ignore. And thus, as some Prince by his subjects deposed, /Vhose strength he, by seeking to crush it, disclosed, In resigning the power he lacked power to support, Tunis his back upon courts, with a sneer at the court, In his converse this man for self-com- fort appealed To a cynic denial of all he concealed 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 controlled by the words he disdains to control. And, therefore, he seemed in the deeds of each day, The light code proclaimed on his lips to obey ; And, the slave of each whim, followed wilfully aught That perchance fooled the fancy, or flat- tered 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 stirred them selves strove to start Into deeds though deposed, in that Hades, his heart, Like those antique Theogonies ruined and hurled Under clefts of the hills, which, convuls- ing 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 wronged rebel powers that owned 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, Had he been of his own house the first- born, each gift Of a mind many-gifted had gone to uplift 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, com- bined with his nature, And formed, 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 seemed before there a sub- stance appears, From the fusion of forces whence issued the spheres ! But the permanent cause why his life failed and missed The full value of life was, where man should resist The world, which man's genius is called to command, He gave way, less from lack of the power to withstand, Than from lack of the resolute will to retain Those strongholds of life which the world strives to gain. 22 LUCILE. . Let this character go in the old-fashioned way, With the moral thereof tightly tacked to it. Say " Let any man once show the world that he feels Afraid of its bark, and 't will fly at his heels : I, ft him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone : Hut 't will fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone." VIII. The moon of September, now half at the full, Was unfolding from darkness and dream- land the lull Of the quiet blue air, where the many - faced hills Watched, 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 wind- ing at will Up the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which led O'er the mountain the reins on its neck, and its head Hanging lazily forward that, but for a hand Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command, Both rider and horse might have been in a trice Hurled horribly over the grim precipice. As soon as the moment's alarm had sub- sided, And the oath, with which nothing can find uni>ioviilr From a healthful repose, undisturbed by the s: 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 shut 11 a> an offering to passionate love Now floated or rested redundant above Her airy pure forehead and throat; gathered loose I'nder which, by one violet knot, the profuse Milk-white folds of a cool modest gar- ment reposed, Itippled faint by the breast they half hid, half disclosed, And her .-imple attire thus in all things revealed The fine ait which so artfully all things concealed. Lord Alfred, who never conceived that Lucile C'ould have looked so enchanting, felt tempted to kneel At her feet, and her pardon with passion implore ; lint the calm smile that met him sufficed to restore The pride and the bitterness needed to meet The occasion with dignity due and dis- creet. XI. " 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 had not so flattered myself, I avow ! " "For Heaven's sake, Madam," Lord Alfred replied, " Do not jest ! has the moment no sad- ness ? " he sighed. "'Tis an ancient tradition," she an- swered, "a tale Often told, a position too sure to pre- vail In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote, When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet remote, Wherein of necessity each would recall From the other the poor foolish records of all Those emotions, whose pain, when re- corded, seemed 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 remembered her yet A child, the weak sport of each mo- ment's regret, Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life, LUCILE. 37 The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the strife And the tumult of passion ; the tremu- lous 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 pained his self-love to behold. He himself knew none better the things to be said Upon subjects like this. Yet he bowed 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 these 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 Unreclaimed in your hands." A re- proach seemed suggested By these words. To meet it, Lord Al- fred looked up. (His gaze had been fixed on a blue Sevres cup With a look of profound connoisseurship, a smile Of singular interest and care, all this while.) He looked up, and looked 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 looked keenly and long, yet he looked there in vain. "You are generous, Madam," he mur- mured at last, And into his voice a light irony passed. He had looked 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 sweet- ness disclosed 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 sinned to myself, to the world, nay, I fear To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed, Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed Not her selfish and often mistaken de- sires, But his interest whose fate her own in- terest inspires ; 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 find its place in her heart. I, alas ! I perceived not this truth till too late ; I tormented your youth, I have darkened your fate. Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake Of its long expiation ! " XIV. Lord Alfred, awake, Seemed to wander from dream on to dream. In that seat Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 38 LUCILE. His accuser, he found himself turned by sumo change, As surprising and all unexpected as strange, To the judge from whose mercy indul- gence was sought. All the world's foolish pride in that mo- ment was naught ; He felt nil his plausible theories posed ; And, thrilled by the beauty of nature disclosed In the pathos of all he had witnessed, his head He bowed, and faint words self-reproach- fully said, As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'T was a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, lan- guid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, some- what graceless, in truth ; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, Or as Sorrow has crossed the life-line in the palm ? xv. The more that he looked, that he listened, the more He discovered perfections unnoticed be- fore. Less salient than once, less poetic, per- chance, This woman who thus had survived the romance That had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs, Seemed more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. Together they talked of the years since when last They parted, contrasting the present, the past. Yet no memory marred their light con- verse. Lucile Questioned 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 deri ved from a hymen so fit. Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit Her journeys, her daily employments, th lands She had seen, nnd the books she had read, and the hands She had shaken. In all that she said there appeared An amiable irony. Laughing, she reared The temple of reason, with ever a touch Of light scorn at her work, revealed only so much As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Kacelianals bear. Through the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, To that soul, whose experience had par- alyzed bliss, A benignant indulgence, to all things resigned, A justice, a sweetness, a meekit' mind, Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint And serene as the halo encircling a saint. Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. To each novel sensation spontaneously He abandoned himself with that ardor so strange "Which belongs to a mind grown accus- tomed to change. He sought, with well-practised and deli- cate 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 deemed he had touched on some chord in her Iwing, At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. I'.ver fleeing As ever he near it advanced, when he thought To have seized, and proceeded to ana- ly/e 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 stirred. LUCILE. 39 At tlife door knocked the negress, and thrust in her head, " The Duke do Luvois had just entered," 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. Explain," As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, " 1 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 turned To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly dis- cerned On her face an indefinite look of confu- sion. On his mind instantaneously flashed the conclusion, That his presence had caused it. He said, with a sneer Which he could not repress, ' ' Let not me 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 Ere he wished to recall them. He bit- terly read The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. Inclining her head, as in haughty reply, More reproachful perchance than all uttered rebuke, She said merely, resuming her seat, "Tell the Duke He may enter." And vexed with his own words and hers, Alfred Vargrave bowed low to Lucile de Nevers, Passed the casement and entered the gar- den. Before Plis shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. xvm. When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to him- self. With dull tone Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation, Went the bee on his business from sta- tion to station. The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around ; Its incessant small voices like stings seemed 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 bewildered, perplexed, And reproached him. The Duke's visit goaded and vexed. 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 formed this resolve, he perceived Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved And luxuriant laurels, Luile 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 warned him in time. They were walking Towards him. The Duke (a true French- man) was talking With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance That they barred the sole path to the gateway. No chance Of escape save in instant concealment ! Deep-dipped In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipped, Saved from sight, as in front of that am- bush they passed, 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. 40 LUCILE. LUCILE. I Mike, I scarcely conceive . . . Luvdis. Ah, forgive ! . . . I desired So deeply to see you to-day. You retired So .'ally last night from the luill . . . this whole week I have seen you pah-, silent, preoccupied . . . speak, Speak, Lucile, and forgive me ! ... I know that I am A rash fool but I love you ! I love you, Madame, More than language can say ! Do not deem, Lueile, 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 creature. 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 The leaves of the hushed windless lau- rels behind The two thus in converse were suddenly stirred. The sound half betrayed him. They started. He heard The low voice of Lueile ; 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, Lueile ! 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 mistake What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heart May have suffered of yore, this can only impart A pity profound to the love which 1 feel. Hush ! hush ! I know all. Tell me nothing, Lucile." "You know all, Duke?" she said; " well then, know that, in truth, I have learned from the mil. leon 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 answered, "you fence With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 'T is not my life, Lueile, that I plead for alone : 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 me give command of that sphere In whicBPgenius is power. Such gifts you despise ? But you do not disdain what such gifts realize ! I offer 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." LUCILE. 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 LUCILE. 41 Luvois. Lucile ! LTJCILE. I ask you to leave me Luvois. 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 on. The Duke bowed his lips o'er her hand, and was gone. Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And when Alfred Vargrave reeled forth to the sun- light again, He just saw the white robe of the woman recede As she entered the house. Scarcely conscious indeed Of his steps, he too followed, and en- tered. XXI. He entered Unnoticed ; Lucile never stirred : so concentred And wholly absorbed in her thoughts she appeared. Her back to the window was turned. As he neared The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. Her dark eyes were fixed on the ground. Pale, dejected, And lost in profound meditation she seemed. Softly, silently, over her drooped shoul- ders streamed 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 disturbed 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 " The sentence broke short, like a weapon that snaps When the weight of a man is upon it. " Perhaps," Said Lucile (her sole answer revealed in the flush Of quick color which up to her brows seemed 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, Bowed 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 furled Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand Drooped, and from it, unloosed from their frail silken band, 42 LUCILE. Fell those early lo%'e-letters, strewn, scattered, and shed At her feet life's lost blossoms ! De- jected, her head On her bosom was Ixnved. Her gaze vaguely strayed o'er Those strewn records of passionate mo- ments 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 perished years. They avenged themselves now, and she burst into tears. CANTO IV. Letter from COUSIN JOHN to COUSIN ALFRED. " BIC.ORRE, Thursday. " TIME up, you rascal ! Come back, or be hanged. 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 behavior Falls on me, sir ! Come back, do you hear ? or I leave your Affairs, and abjure you forever. Come back To your anxious betrothed ; and per- plexed " COUSIN JACK." Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from John To increase his impatience to fly from Serchon. All the place was now fraught with sen- sations of pain Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape from in vain. A wild instinct warned him to fly from a place Where he felt that some fatal event, swift of pace, Was approaching his life. In his endeavor To think of Matilda, her image forever Was educed from his fancy by that of Lucile. From the ground which he stood on he felt nimself reel. Scared, alarmed by those feelings to which, on the day Just before, all his heart li given way, When lie caught, with a strange sense of fear, for assistance, At what was, till then, the great fact in existence, 'T was a phantom he grasped. in. Having sent for his guide, He ordered his horse, and determined 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 Serchon ; and sug- gested a track By the lake to Bigorre, which, transvers- ing the back Of the mountain, avoided a circuit be- tween Two long valleys ; and thinking, " Per- chance change of scene May create change of thought," Alfred Vargrave agreed, Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full speed. 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 b' the woods ; Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes ; Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the lynx on his prey At nightfall descends, when the moun- tains are gray ; Where the sassafras blooms, and the bluebell is bom, LUCILE. 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 whispered to him all their thou- sand love-tales ; He has laughed with the girls, he has leaped 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 slackened their pace, And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face. The breezy and pure inspirations of morn Breathed about them. The scarped ravaged mountains, all worn By the torrents, whose course they watched faintly meander, Were alive with the diamonded shy sal- amander. They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses, And wound through a region of green wildernesses ; The waters went wirbling above and around, The forests hung heaped in their shad- ows profound. Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, Which the Demon of Tempest, descend- ing upon, Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux They marked ; and far down in the sun- shine below, Half dipped 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 gleamed the deli- cate shells, And the dew lingered fresh in the heavy harebells ; The large violet burned ; the campanula blue ; And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peered through The red-berried brambles and thick sas- safras ; And fragrant with thyme was the deli- cate 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, revealed 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 reached 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 over all, in the vast and serene 44 LUCILE. Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spir- its are furled 'Mid tin' clouds beyond which spreads the infinite world Of man's last aspirations, unfathomed, untrod, Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. VII. Meanwhile, as they journeyed, that ser- pentine road, Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly showed A gay cavalcade some few feet in ad- vance. Alfred Vargrave's heart beat ; for he saw at a glance The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next look Showed 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 to- gether. Soon after His sudden appearance suspended their laughter. VIII. " 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 re- plied, " But, since my way would seem to be yours, let me ride For one moment beside you." And then, with a stoop, At her ear, ..." and forgive me ! " By this time the troop Had regathered 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 pl<-a>A He talked much ; was witty, UM <[uilr at his ease. After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east Half the day, gathered closer, and rose and increased. The air changed and chilled. As though out of the ground, There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, And the wind rose. The guides sniffed, like chamois, the air, And looked at each other, and halted, and there Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white Aspens rustled, and turned up their frail leaves in fright. All announced the approach of the tem- pest. Erelong, Thick darkness descended the mountains among ; 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 hoi-ses took fright, every one. The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. The guides whooped. The band was obliged to alight ; And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walked blind To the darkness before from the darkness behind. XI. And the Storm is abroad in the moun- tains ! He fills The crouched 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. LUCILE. And the wind, that wild robber, for plun- der descends 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 gar- ments 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 intri- cate error Of mountain and mist. XII. There is war in the skies ! Lo ! the black-winged legions of tempest arise O'er those sharp splintered rocks that are gleaming below In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though Some seraph burned through them, the thunder-bolt searching Which the black cloud unbosomed 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, appalled at the sight Of the things seen in heaven ! XIII. Through the darkness and awe That had gathered around him, Lord Alfred now saw, Revealed 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 rushed on. For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone In its lurid embrace : like the sleek dazzling snake That encircles a sorceress, charmed for her sake And lulled by her loveliness ; fawning, it played 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 flick- ering wand, The lightning approached her. In terror, her hand Alfred Vargrave had seized within his ; and he felt The light fingers that coldly and linger- ingly dwelt In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. "See ! see ! Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree ! " She exclaimed, . . . "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 watch- ing above 46 LUCILE. To avenge if I Ho when I swear that I love, And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, I humble my head and my heart. I en- treat Your pardon, Lucile, for the past, I implore For the future your mercy, implore it with more Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the jM>\ver "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 belong Than the right to repair in the future the wrong To the past ? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, Hath bequeathed to me all the sad right to restore, To retrieve, to amend ! I, who injured your life, Urge the right to repair it, Lucile 1 Be my wife, My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth, And accept, for the sake of what yet may ive worth gve life, To my life, its contrition !" 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 marred by emotion, she said, "And your pledge to another ?" XVI. "Hush, hush ! " he exclaimed, "My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. 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, sup- pressing a lie ? Alas, no ! your hand holds my whole destiny. I can never recall what my lips have avowed ; In your love lies whatever can render me proud. For the great crime of all my existence hath been To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen, And most hallowed, 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 dimmed in the dust of the world, When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurled ! For your eyes rest no more on the un- quiet 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 wandered the world, and I feel That the least of your lovely regards, Lucile, Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream Which, though followed 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, Lucile, will so truly discern, And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, NEITHER HE NOR LUCILE FELT THE RAIN LUCILE. 47 The sublimity in you, as he whom at length These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal To his worship ? " She spoke not ; but Alfred could feel ,The light hand and arm, that upon him reposed, Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed ; But, under their languid mysterious fringe, A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge Of faint inward fire flushed transparently through The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue Of the cheek, half averted and drooped. 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 its sullen retreat Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar, Had already sent forward one bright, signal star. The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair, From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear, Had escaped ; and Lord Alfred now covered with kisses The redolent warmth of those long fall- ing tresses. Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet Had ceased falling around them ; when, splashed, drenched, and wet, The Due de Luvois down the rough mountain course Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow Of the storm-haunted mountain his mas- ter had thrown ; But the Duke, who was agile, had leaped 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, Braised and bleeding. XIX. If ever your feet, like my own, reader, have traversed these moun- tains 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, bedewed with its spray, And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and rolled, Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heaped over fold, Tracked the summits, from which every step that you tread Rolls the loose stones, with thunder be- low, to the bed Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound ? And, laboring onwards, at last through a break In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake ? If you have, this description I might have withheld. You remember how strangely your boson*. has swelled 48 LUCILE. At the vision revealed. On the over- worked soil Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpened by toil ; And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, To have roiHiui-ivd a claim to that won- derful sight. Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo ! Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow ; For o'er thee the angels have whitened their wings, And the thirst of the seraphs is quenched at thy springs. What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse ? When the breath of creation first fash- ioned 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 col- umbine ? XXI. But thy secret thou kecpest, and I will keep mine ; For once gazing on thee, it flashed 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, marked the dread pageant move The divine Whence and Whither of life ! But, O daughter Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. What I then saw and heard, the world never shall know. XXII. The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed, The rain had ceased falling, the moun- tains reposed. The stars had enkindled in luminous courses Their slow-sliding lamps, when, re- mounting their horses, The riders retraversed that mighty ser- ration Of rock-work. Thus left to its own desolation, The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last Transient pomp of the pageants of sun- set had passed, Drew into its bosom the darkness, and only Admitted within it one image, a lonely And tremulous phantom of flickering light That followed the mystical moon through the night. XXIII. It was late when o'er Serchon at last they descended. To her chalet, in silence, Lord Alfred attended Lucile. As they parted she whispered 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 ! 'tis the very same answer you made To the Due de Luvois but a day since," he said. "No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied. Her voice shook. "If you love me, obey me. Abide my answer, to-morrow." XXIV. Alas, Cousin Jack ! LUCILE. 49 You Cassandra in breeches and boots ! 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 ! "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 la the part which he never hath fully played out : For the first and last word in life's vol- ume is Doubt. The face the most fair to our vision al- lowed Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our exist- ence is one Which, before we can frame it in lan- guage, 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 questioned, say, ..." What 1 would have remained, or become, I am not" ? We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, Do theDanaids 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 circumstance 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 imper- fection in fate, The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fit- fully 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 shattered, the wine Spilt, one deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be thine, being of beauty and bliss ! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possessed there alone ! My days know thee not ; and my lipp name thee never. I Thy place in my poor life is vacant for- ever. We have met : we have parted. No more is recorded In my annals on earth. This alone was afforded To the man whom men knew me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 50 LUCILE. 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals ; At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies ; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft sam- phires bloom) Thou abidest and reignest forever, Queen Of that better world which thou swayest unseen I My one perfect mistress ! my all things in all! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call : For the seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, And its thoughts are the purest be- loved, 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. 1 have furled 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, surviv- eth 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, though I name thee not mis- tress or wife, Thou art mine and mine only, life of my life ! And though many 's the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, While there's life on the lip, whil there 's warmth in the wine, One deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be tliine ! 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 commixed earth and sky. Time cooled it, and calmed it, and taught it to go The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. The wind changeth and whirleth con- tinually : All the rivers run down and run into the sea : The wind whirleth about, and is pres- ently stilled : All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not filled : The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth 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 in- fraction, And to every emotion appoint a reaction. in. Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving LucQe, To review the rash step he had taken, and feel What the world would have called "his erroneous position. " Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recognition : Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt, Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. Every spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. IV. He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel LUCILE. 51 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 deemed himself loved, where he loved, Through his mind a vague self-accusation there moved. 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 failed 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 ! " v. 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 con- ceived That another could shake it. I deemed I had done i 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 vowed to my wife. Poor child ! 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 support, 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 ! " But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas! He yet felt unconvinced that 't 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 harrowed his heart and dis- tracted his mind. 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. Be- hind All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind, Which he saw and revered in her, some- thing unknown 52 LUCILE. And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. He felt that Lucile penetrated and pri/ed Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised, In himself ; but he did not feel sure that hi 1 knew, Or completely possessed, what, half hid- den from view, Remained 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 linked 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 reflection 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 reached him at last from Lucile. At the sight of the very first word that he read, That letter dropped 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 passed his hand hurriedly over his eyes, Bewildered, incredulous. Angry sur- prise And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. Anon He flicked up the page, and read rapidly IX. The COMTESSE DE NEVERS to LORD ALFRED 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 clasped as the hand of a brother, That hand and your honor arc pledged to another ! Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yet For that moment (now past !) I have made you forget What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, Mine the fault, and be mine the repent- ance ! 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 ! But 0, 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 reached me, which lightly made known To the world'your engagement, my heart and my mind Suffered 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 thral- dom which time Hath not weakened *here 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 LUCILE. What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone Void of life, is the young hero born of my own Perished 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, 0, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be again Reconciled to the world ; and, released from regret, Take the lot fate accords to my choice. ' "So we met. But the danger I did not foresee has oc- curred : The danger, alas, to yourself ! I have erred. But happy for both that this error hath been Discovered as soon as the danger was seen ! We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed, Shall be far from Serchon when this let- ter you read. My course is decided ; my path I discern : Doubt is over ; my future is fixed now. " Return, return to the young living love !. Whence, alas ! If, one moment, you wandered, 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 avowed to me, all in which others have clothed To my fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed ! In the fair morning light, in the orient dew Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth ? Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 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 rendered 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 re- morse 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 !) Have but deepened the old demarcations which then Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again, As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. In that self-independence which is to my life Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, Had our course through the world been henceforth side by side, I should have revolted forever, and shocked, Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mocked, 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 54 LUCILE. To the hope of a moment : no more ! If there fell Any tear on this page, 't was a friend's. "So lllivwell To the past and to you, Alfred Vai- grave. " LUCILE." So ended that letter. The room seemed 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 iv* 1, as it smote Down some hope, rose and grasped like a hand at his throat, To stifle and strangle him. Gasping already For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady, He passed from his chamber. He felt both oppressed And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, And, in search of fresh air and of soli- tude, passed The long lime-trees of Serchon. His footsteps at last Reached 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 ruined abbey. He reached it, sat down On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle, And read over again that perplexing epistle. XI. In re-reading that letter, there rolled from his mind The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind To the pathos breathed through it. Tears rose in his eyes, And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seemed to rise. The truth which he saw not the first time he read That letter, he now saw, that each word betrayed The love which the writer had sought to oonceaL His love was received not, he could not but feel, For one reason alone, that his love was not free. True ! five yet he was not : but could he not be Free erelong, free as air to revoke th;it 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 match In which they had yielded, alone at the whim Of their spoiled child, a languid ap- proval 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 in- sult to her. Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee He followed so fondly his own revery, That he felt not the angry regard of a man Fixed upon him ; he saw not a face stem and wan Turned towards him ; he heard not a footstep that passed And repassed the lone spot where he stood, till at last HE SAW, ON THE BARE HEATH BEFORE HIM, THE DuC DE LuVOIS " LITCILE. 55 A hoarse voice aroused him. He looked up and saw, On the bare heath before him, the Due de Ltivois. 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 feared, interrupted. Milord would do better, He fancied, however, to fold up a letter The writing of which was too well known, in fact, His remark as he passed to have failed to attract." It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bent Upon picking a quarrel ! and doubtless 't was meant From Mm to provoke it by sneers such as these. A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize The position. He felt that he could not expose His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the ban Of the world, if he now were to fight with this man. And indeed, when he looked in the Duke's haggard face, He was pained by 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 seemed resolved to display, Rose, and turned, with a stern saluta- tion, aside. XIV. Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one stride In advance, raised a hand, fixed 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 any excuse. I prefer to be frank. I admit not a rival in fortune or rank To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. I believed, ere you crossed 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 reproached on the day our acquaint- ance began : You ! that left her so lightly, I can- not believe That you love, as I love, her ; nor can 1 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 earnest- ness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Var- grave replied In words which he trusted might ye* turn aside 56 LUCILE. The niiarrel from whirh lie felt hound to abstain, And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst !) Had not been accepted. XVI. "Accepted ! say first Are you free to have offered ? " Lord Alfred was mute. "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 re- call, That you stepped in between me and her. If, milord, You 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 can be no quarrel between us. Say on ! " Lord Alfred grew galled and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repres^. "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and condi- tions with me. I refuse to reply." 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- perished race, With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath thorn, unnoticed, the grave*, and tin- ilr.-i'l, Those two men had met, as it were on tin- 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 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 appeared, 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 can vastrouser, confined By the long boots ; the woollen capote ; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheeled his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leaped the rivulet lightly, turned sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bowed low in the selle, and delivered a note. The two stood astonished. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turned, stretched his hand, and possessed 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 surprise Lord Alfred yet watched him, he turned on his heel, And said gayly. "A pressing request from Lucile ! LUCILE. 57 You are quite right, Lord Alfred ! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be re- versed. You are not accepted nor free to pro- pose ! I, perchance, am accepted already ; who knows ? I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. This letter but stay ! you can read it look here ! " It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could sanction resentment. He said Not a word, but turned round, took the letter, and read . . . The COMTESSE DE NEVERS to the Due DE Luvois. " SAINT SAVIOUR. "Your letter, which followed me here, makes me stay Till I 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 bowed ; Placed the note in his bosom ; addressed, half aloud , A few words to the messenger : . . . " Say your despatch Will be answered ere nightfall " ; then glanced at his watch, And turned back to the Baths. XXIII. Alfred Vargrave stood still, Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. He turned to Lncile's farewell letter to him, And read over her words ; rising tears made them dim ; " Doubt is over : my future infixed now," they said, "My course is decided." Her course? what ! to wed With this insolent rival ! With that thought there shot Through his heart an acute jealous an- guish. 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 rendezvous 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 horri- ble, ran Through his heart. XXIV. At that moment he looked 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 'twould be night Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. He walked on, but not Back toward Serchon : he walked on, but knew not in what Direction, nor yet with what object, in- deed, He was walking ; but still he walked 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 rerealed at its back, The old ruined abbey rose roofless and black. 58 LUCILE. The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven floor Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore, The site of that refuge where, back to its God How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the si Ml, Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest That now preyed on his own ! XXVII. By the thoughts in his breast With varying impulse divided and torn, He traversed the scant heath, and reached the forlorn Autumn woodland, in which but a short while ago He had seen the Duke rapidly enter; and so He too entered. The light waned around him, and passed Into darkness. The wrathful, red Oc- cident cast One glare of vindictive inquiry behind, As the last light of day from the high wood declined, And the great forest sighed its farewell to the beam, And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream Fell faintly. 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 inclinest, But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor divinest. While he woos, thou art wanton ; thou Id test 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, Anil thou laughest and toyest with any new comer, Not a tear more for winter, a smile les for summer ! Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart under That fair breast of thine, 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, concealed from the new, thou widow of earth's generations ? Goto! If the sea and the night wind know aught of these things, They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. CANTO VI. " THE huntsman has ridden too far on the chase, And eldrich, and eerie, and strange is the place ! The castle betokens a date long gone by. He crosses the court-yard with curious eye : He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet From strangeness to strangeness his foot- steps are set ; And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and less Like aught seen l)efore. Each in obsolete dress, Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise, Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes ; Strange epigraphs, blazoned, burn out of the wall : The spell of a wizard is over it all. In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping LUCILE. 59 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 ! 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, The mute men in armor around him, and all The weird figures frown, as though striv- ing to say, ' Holt I invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day ! And give not, madman! the heart in thy breast To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is By an Age not thine own I ' " 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 vanished 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 with smiles by the young. And the tale to each heart unto which it is known Has a different sense. It has puzzled my owjj. Eugene de Luvois was a man who, i 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 trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles, No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been Men of pleasure : but men's pleasant vices, which, seen Floating faint, in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood, Seemed amiable foibles, by Luvois pur- sued With impetuous passion, seemed semi- Satanic. Half pleased you see brooks play with ' pebbles ; in panic You watch them whirled down by the torrent. In truth, To the sacred political creed of his youth The century which he was born to de- nied 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 no- where he trod, Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god, And his pastime his purpose. From boyhood possessed Of inherited wealth, he had learned to invest Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cage Which penury locks, in each vice of an age All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered, Were to him iUegitimato. Thus, he appeare4 60 LUCILE. 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 perchance 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 joined The terror of missing his life's destina- tion, Which in her had its mystical repre- sentation. III. And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, passed O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast. As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller strayed in the waste un- awares, So that thought more than once darkened over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seemed to depart. Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the shaggy hillside : and the quarrel- ling crows Clanged above him, and clustering down the dim air Dropped into the dark woods. By fits here and there Shepherd fires faintly gleamed from the valleys. 0, how- He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy as- cent Of the mountain ! Behind him a mur- mur was sent From the torrent, before him a sound from the tracts Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, And the loose earth and loose stones rolled momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, And the Powers of the night tli rough the vast solitudes Walked abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mut- tered like seas In Elfland. The road through the for- est was hollowed. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were followed Fast, fast by the Erl King ! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last opened sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleamed like gems, Broke the broad moon above the volu- minous Rock-chaos, the Hecate of that Tar- tarus ! With his horse reeking white, he at last reached the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leaped o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seemed to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reached it. " My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creaking pine rafter He followed her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunned him, his head seemed to reel, For a door closed Luvois was alone with Lucile. LUCILE. 61 In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and tossed 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 seemed 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 inward strife. LUCILE. Your letter ! yes, Duke. For it threat- ens 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 let- ter . . . " I know Why now you refuse me ; 't is (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, wan- tonly, And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myself. But he shall not ! By man's last wild law, I will seize on tJie right (the right, Due de Luvois !) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom,. That man shall not live To make you as wretched as you have made me ! " 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 I Every word ! would you not, Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soiled and dishonored by more than mere shame If the woman that bore it had first been the cause Of the crime which in these words i.s 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 con- test but draws Every right into ruin. By all human laws Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sancti- ties Of man's social honor ! The Duke drooped his eyes. " I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite, 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 seemed to startle. She raised A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast. Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now passed, Pity crept, and perchance o'er her con- science a tear, Falling softly, awoke it. However severe, Were they unjust, these sudden up- braidings, to her ? Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character, 62 LUCILE. KTiich had seemed, oven when most im- p;issioned it seemed, Too self-conscious to lose all in love ? llilil she deemed That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, So proud of the place the world gave him, held furled In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide Might tug, till it snapped, 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 forever To fling its fond heart in the sea ; if it lose This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use, It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies Its deep life from 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 ? v. At that thought, from her aspect what- ever had been Stern or haughty departed ; and, hum- blcd iii mien, She approached him, and brokenly mur- mured, as though To herself more than him, "Was 1 \\ PIN;; >. 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 inn 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 hoj>ed to see all this, or deemed that I saw For a moment the promise of this, in the plighted Affection of one who, in nature, united So much that from others affection might claim, If only affection were free? Do you blame The hope of that moment ? I deemed my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deemed 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 ! " Luvois. 0, again, Yet again, say that thrice-blessed word 1 say, Lucile, That you then deigned to hope LUCILE. ! 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 ; LUCILE. 63 A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope ? Ltrvois. 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 cher- ished was o'er, And forever, I said to you then, ' Hope no more ' ? I myself hoped no more ! " With but ill-suppressed wrath The Duke answered ..." What, then ! he recrosses your path This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own, which he wronged years ago ! " Lucile faintly, brokenly murmured, . . . "No ! no ! 'T is not that but alas ! but I can- not 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 ruined it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me ! " He approached her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answered, " No ! " An emotion more fierce seemed to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaimed, "Am I right? You reject me ! accept him ? " "I have not done so," She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet, no ! But can you with accents as firm promise me That you will not accept him ? " " Accept ? Is he free ? Free to offer ? " she said. "You evade me, Lucile," He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel ! He might make himself free ? 0, you blush, turn away ! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! While you deign to reply to one question from me ? I may hope not, you tell me : but tell me, may he ? What ! silent ? I alter my question. If quite Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then ?" "He might," She said softly. VI. Those two whispered words, in his breast, As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast 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 wasfe 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 jeal- ousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rushed upon him ; fierce jealousy, swelled By all passions bred from it, and ever impelled To involve all things else in the anguish within it, And on others inflict its own pangs ! At that minute What passed 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 ? 64 LUCILE. Hr stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely ! That silence ! no sound Reached that room, through tin- dark evening air, save tin- drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless ami near ! It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather ; Deep midnight in him ! They two, lone and together. Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! The triumph and bliss of his rival flashed o'er him. The abyss of his own black despair seemed to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin passed iiito his soul in the gloom, And, uttering words he dared never re- call, Words of insult and menace, he thun- dered down all The brewed storm-cloud within him : its flashes scorched blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of a reckless emotion beyond his con- trol ; A torrent seemed loosened within him. His soul Surged up from that caldron of passion that hissed And seethed in his heart. VII. He had thrown, and had, missed His last stake. For, transfigured, she rose from the place Where he rested o'erawed : a saint's scorn on her face ; Such a dread vade retro was written in light On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, Have sunk back abashed to perdition. I know If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so, She had needed no dagger next morning. She rose And .swept to the door, like that phan- tum tlie snows Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone, Aii'I I 'aueaxti.s is with the moon all alone. There she paused ; ;iiul, as though IVom immeasurable, Insurpassable distance, she murmured " Farewell ! We, alas! have mistaken ea<-h other. Once more Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime' i Due de Luvoi.s, adieu ! " From the heart-break ing gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and de 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 accusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, In which he remained. " 0, return ; I repent ! " He exclaimed ; but no sound through the stillness was sent, Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, And the bee tie that, sleeping, yethummed her night-hymn : An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a searching, and wistful, and ques- tioning prayer. "Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar Of the waters replied, "Nevermore ! nevermore ! ' He walked 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 gloomed sullenly round. A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewildered he huiif,', Vaguely watching the broken and shim- mering blink " SHE ROSE, AND SWEPT TO THE DOOR. LUCILE. 65 Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of wa- ter ; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persist- ing Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquished His unconscious employment, that light was extinguished. 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 rushed 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 glim- mering 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 for- ever ; Before him a Future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, Of the other a fear. What remained to be done ? Whither now should he turn ? Turn again, as before, To his old easy, careless existence of yore He could not. He felt that for better or worse A change had passed o'er him ; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marred Such a refuge forever. The future seemed barred 5 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 disgrace 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 kneeled To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard field, With the Crescent) become, ere it reached him, tradition ; A mere faded badge of a social posi- tion ; 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 failed the strong needs of his manhood, in truth ! And beyond them, what region of ref- uge ? what field For employment, this civilized age, did it yield, In that civilized land ? or to thought ? or to action ? Blind deliriums, bewildered 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, un- represt, Ran riot through that ruined world in his breast. 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, Natxire's deep voice was teaching him prayer ; But what had he to pray to ? The winds in the woods 66 LUCILE. The voices abroad o'er those vast soli- tudes, Were in commune all round with the invisible Tower That \v;ilkfd the dim world by Himself at that hour. But their language he had not yet l-;mied in despite' Of the much he had learned or for- gotten it quite, With its once native accents. Alas ! what had he To add to that deep-toned sublime sym- phony Of thanksgiving ? . . . A fiery finger was still Scorching into his heart some dread sen- tence. 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 heaped themselves over the bare west in crowds Of misshapen, incongruous portents. A green Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between The base of their black barricades, and the ridge Of the grim world, gleamed ghastly, as under some bridge, Cyclop-si2ed, in a city of ruins o'er- thrown I'.y >icges forgotten, some river, unknown And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands Dismantled and rent ; and revealed, through a loop In the breached dark, the blemished 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, Darkened round him. One object alone that gray cross Glimmered faint on the dark. Gazing up, he descried Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretched wide, As though to embrace him. He turned from the sight, Set his face to the darkness, and fled. When the light Of the dawn grayly flickered 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 Serchon. Thus riding, with eyes of defiance Set against the young day, as disclaim- ing alliance With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, 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. Eu- gene 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 fixed keenly on him. And, to meet it, a lie leaped at once to his own ; A lie born of that lying darkness now grown Over all in his nature ! He answered that gaze With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys More intensely than words what a man means, conveyed Beyond doubt in its smile an announce- ment which said, " T //"!< ti-iimtphfd. The qur.ifinn your eyes inuilil imply Comes too late, Alfred Vargravc!" LUCILE. 67 And so he rode by, And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight, Learing 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 impelled, by one wild fear pursued, And led by one instinct, which seemed to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one The torture of doubt had strayed moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that even- ing in which With the Duke he had parted ; strayed on, through the rich Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, Which darkened, unnoticed, the land from his sight, Toward Saint Saviour ; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery round him avail to recall To his senses their normal perceptions, until, As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung Two dark hours in a cloud, slipped 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 unfurled, 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 Serchon ; not yet then the Duke had returned ! He listened, he looked up the dark, but discerned 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, Revealed to him, riding toward Serchon, the Duke. 'T was then that the two men exchanged look for look. And the Duke's rankled in him. XVI. He rushed on. Ha tore His path through the thick et. He reached the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, And inquired for the Countess. The man rubbed 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 grinned and replied, With a vacant intelligence, "He, ay, ay ! He went after the lady." No further reply Could he give. Alfred Vargrave de- manded no more, Flung a coin to the man, and so turned from the door. " What ! the Duke then the night in that lone inn had passed ? In that lone inn with her ! " Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which remained On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explained ? The day was half turned to the evening, before 68 LUCILE. He re-entered Serchon, 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, Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turned, stepped aside, And, cordially grasping his hand, whis- pered low, " 0, how right have you been ! There can never be no, Never any more contest between us ! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends ! " Having uttered that word, He turned 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, stunned 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, flat- tering 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 only is blameless ! Hark ! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs All his heart into tumult ? . . . Lucile de Nevers With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light, Free allusion ? Not so as might give him the right To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet To a trite and irreverent compliment set! xvni. Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul Where the thought of Lucile was en- shrined, did there roll Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course O'er his nature, with gathered momentum and force, THE WORLD. XIX. " No ! " he muttered, " she cannot have sinned ! True ! women there are (self-named women of mind !) Who love rather liberty liberty, yes ! To choose and to leave than the legal- ized stress Of the lovingest marriage. But she is she so ? I will not believe it. Lucile ? no, no ! Not Lucile ! " But the world ? and, ah, what would it say ? the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day ! The gossip's light question ! the slan- derous jest ! She is right ! no, we could not be happy. 'T is best As it is. I will write to her, write, 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, 1 know. 'T was a dream ! we must waken ! " xx. With head bowed, as though By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. Drawn apart From the gate, in the court-yard, and ready to start, LUCILE. 69 Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast, A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he passed. He ordered his horse to be ready anon : Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly passed on, And ascended the staircase, and entered 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 MACRAE. 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-phylacteried gown Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of ; A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of This world and the next ; having largely invested Not only where treasure is never mo- lested 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 wicted expand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception did Ridley pre- sent. Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prospered his piety. The leader of every religious society, Christian knowledge he labored through life to promote With personal profit, and knew how to quote Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantage To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant- Age. Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, A waiter his head through the doorway protruded ; " Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wished to speak." Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek ; He brushed 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 sil- very, said, "Sir Ridley may enter." In three minutes more That benign apparition appeared at the door. Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his re- lease, In company there with his sister and niece, Found himself now at Serchon, dis- tributing 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, him- self, setting out 70 LUCILE. 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 seemed to threaten thr 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 seemed to cause Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answered, "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. Alfred Vargrave, before Sir Ridley observed it, had passed through the door. A few moments later, with footsteps re- vealing Intense agitation of uncontrolled feel- ing, He was rapidly" pacing the garden below. What passed through his mind then is more than I know. But before one half-hour into darkness hail IU1, In the courtyard he stood with Sir Rid- ley. His tread Was firm and composed; Not a sign on his face Betrayed there the least agitation . ' ' The place You so kindly have offered," he said, " I accept. " And he stretched out his hand. The two travellers stepped Smiling into the carriage. And thus, out of sight, They drove down the dark road, and into the night. XXII. Sir Ividley 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 dark- ness and doubt." For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. It was snapped up at once. " What is truth ? " jesting Pilate Asked, and passed from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futility. Had he addressed it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had con- fessed it Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man Could more promptly have answered the sceptical Roman Than Ridley. Hear some street astrono- mer 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 en- large on his theme ! Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, In ! He '11 prove you the whole plan in plain ABC. Here 's your sun, call him A ; B 'a the moon ; it is clear How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place, "MATILDA SPRANG TC HIM, AT ONCE' LUCILE. 71 (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face !) Their science in plain A B c to accord To your point-blank inquiry, my friends ! not a word Will you get for your pains from their ad lips. Alas ! Not a drop from the bottle that 's quite full will pass. 'T is the half-empty vessel that freest emits The water that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability Of imparting to others a truth with facility Is proportioned forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar com- pactness, 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 vestment, The length of the process would limit the act ; And therefore the truth that 's summed up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed. As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suf- fered to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking contin- ued to go Onward somehow, together, on into the night, The midnight, in which they escape from our sight. XXIII. And meanwhile aworld 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 sanc- tion extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun. And the world laughed. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they passed through the thick passion-flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now stopped, 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 murmured, or sighed, " 0, how could I have strayed From this sweet child, or suffered in aught to invade Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, The thought of another ? " " Look up, my sweet flower ! " He whispered her softly, "my heart unto thee Is returned, as returns to the rose the wild bee ! " "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. "No more," He repeated. And, low to himself, " Yes, 'tis o'er ! My course, too, is decided, Lucile ! Was I blind To have dreamed that these clever French- women of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, Or sympathize with it ? " 72 LUCILE. XXIV. And here the first part Of this drama is over. The curtain falls furled On the actors within it, the Heart and the World. Wooed and wooer have played 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, rny 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 yore ! From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set ; From the children that cry for the birth, and behold, There is no strength to bear them, old Time is so old ! From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth Sapped 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 bowed ; Back, back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the beauty of times that are faded forever ! To the palms ! to the tombs ! to the still Sacred River ! Where I too, the child of a day that is done, First leapt into life, and looked up at the sun. Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home I come, my friend, my consoler, I come ! Are the three intense stars, that we watched 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 played on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones upheaped, where we recklessly trod O'er the old ruined fane of the old ruined god? How he frowned, while around him we carelessly played ! That frown on my life ever after hath stayed, 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 frowned, To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found, In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss Which his science divine seemed divine- ly to miss. Alas ! you may haply remember me yet The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget. I come a sad woman, defrauded of rest : I bear to you only a laboring breast : My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurled O'er the whirlpools of tune, with the wrecks of a world : The dove from my bosom hath flown far away : It is flown, and returns not, though many a day Have I watched 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 wander- ing sea : LUCILE. 73 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 earth- quake 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 burned 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 scattered links. But 't is vain ! Each attempt seems to shatter the chap- let again ; Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er, Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore Whence too far I have wandered. " How many long years Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears, While I wrote to you, splashed out a girl's premature Moans of pain at what women in silence endure ! To your eyes,- friend of mine, an,d 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 seemed 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, 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, Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom, Or only a wayfarer strayed 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 my- self As those idols of old. " Other times, other men, Other men, other passions ! "So be it ! yet again I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, And the light of those lands where the great sun is bom ! Spread your arms, my friend ! on your breast let me feel The repose which hath fled from my own. " Your LUCILE." 74 LUCILE. PAET II. CANTO I. HAIL, Muse ! But each Muse by this time has, I know, Been used up, aud 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 Albemarle Street may thy temple long stand ! Long enlightened and led by thine eru- dite hand, May each novice in science nomadic unravel Statistical mazes of modernized travel ! May eacli 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 ! Mayst thou long, 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, unskilled, I should wan- der in vain. 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, John Murray ! And I start with thy book for the Baths in a hurry. II. " At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine ; And from thence the road, winding by Ehrenbreitstein, Passes over the frontier of Nassau. (" N. P.. No custom-house here since the Zoll- verein." See Murray, paragraph 30.) " The route, at each turn, Here the lover of nature allows to dis- cern, 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 up- land 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 Restaura- teur Is attached to the place ; but most trav- ellers prefer (Including, indeed, many persons of note) To dine at the usual-priced table d'h&te. Through the town nins the Lahn, the steep green banks of which Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich ; And between the high road and the river is laid Out a sort of a garden, called 'TuB Promenade.' LUCILE. 75 Female visitors here, who may make up their mind To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day long, Troops of donkeys sure-footed pro- verbially strong " ; And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes, Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. 'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these springs In the month when the merle on the 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 self-same 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 hus- band and wife, Grown weary ere half through the jour- ney of life. 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 looked 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 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 unrolled 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 inti- mate 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 missed something he sought for : indeed, The more that he missed it the greater the need ; Till it seemed to himself he could will- ingly spare All the charms that he found for the one charm not there. IV. For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly demands 76 LUCILE. The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. And the value of all things exists, not indeed In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's need. Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and youth, Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Y.-i in truth Unfulfilled the ambition, and sterile the wealth LUCILE. 77 (In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), Had remained, while the beauty and youth, unredeemed From a vague disappointment at all things, but seemed Day by day to reproach him in silence for all That lost youth in himself they had failed to recall. No career had he followed, no object ob- tained In the world by those worldly advantages gained From nuptials beyond which once seemed to appear, Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. All that glittered and gleamed through the moonlight of youth With a glory so fair, now that manhood in truth Grasped and gathered it, seemed like that false fairy gold Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and mould ! Fairy gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy Bride ? Lived there yet fairy-lauds in the face at his side ? Say, friend, if at evening thou ever hast watched Some pale and impalpable vapor, de- tached From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all The chilled splendor reluctantly waned in the deep Of its own native heaven ? Even so seemed to creep O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil Of a sadness unconscious. The lady grew pale As silent her lord grew : and both, as they eyed Each the other askance, turned, and secretly sighed. Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give ? True, we know what life is but, alas ! do we live ? The grammar of life we have gotten by heart, But life's self we have made a dead lan- guage, an art, Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 't was spoken When the silence of passion the first time was broken ! Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt : But the last man, at best, was but learned about What the first, without learning, enjoyed. What art thou To the man of to-day, 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, leech, and dissect it ! This accursed sesthetical, ethical age Hath so fingered life's hornbook, so blurred every page, That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story, With its fables of faery, its legends of gi r y> Is turned to a tedious instruction, not new To the children that read it insipidly through. We know too much of Love ere we love. We can trace Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face When we see it at last. 'T is the same little Cupid, With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost stxipid, We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our shelves, And copied a hundred times over, our- selves. And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, Still, that horrible sense of the dej& eonnu I 78 LUCILE. n. 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 com- plain 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, Each must speak to the crown with a mask on his face. Praise followed Matilda wherever she went. She was flattered. Can flattery pur- chase content ? Yes. While to its voice, for a moment, she listened, The young cheek still bloomed, and the soft eyes still glistened ; 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 bowed, (As they turned to each other, each flushed from the crowd,) And murmured those praises which yet seemed 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 sighed ; " this is love, then, and yet / " Ah, that 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, for ever and ever, away To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 'T was this same little fatal and mysti- cal word That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah ; Drooping pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara ! VIII. At the same time, pursued by a spell much the same, To these waters two other worn pilgrims there came : One a man, one a woman : just now, at the latter, As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her And judge for himself, I will not even glance. Of the self-crowned young kings of the Fashion in France Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so bright, Who so hailed in the salon, so marked in the Bois, Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois ? Of all the smooth-browed premature debauchees In that town of all towns, where De- bauchery 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, LUCILE. 79 Walked that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois ? Yes ! he marched through the great masquerade, loud of tongue, Bold of brow : but the motley he masked in, it hung So loose, trailed so wide, and appeared to impede So strangely at times the vexed effort at speed, That a keen eye might guess it was made not for him, But some brawler more stalwart of stat- ure and limb. That it irked 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 oppressed 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, And there, while 1 laughed at Grassot and Arnal, My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; Every time that he laughed I observed that he sighed, As though vexed to be pleased. I re- marked that he sat 111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat In his hand, with a look of unquiet ab- straction. I inquired the cause of his dissatisfac- tion. " Sir," he said, "if what vexes me here you would know, Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours ago, I walked into the Franais, to look at Rachel. (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a mira- cle !) Well, I asked 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 t$tc-&-t$te with a friend In a box out of reach at the opposite end : Then the crowd pushed me out. What was left me to do ? I tried for the tragedy . . . que voulez- vous ? Every place for the tragedy booked ! . . . mon ami, The farce was close by : ... at the farce me voici ! The piece is a new one : and Grassot plays well : There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel : And Hyacinth's nose is superb ! . . . Yet I meant My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have spent. Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours ! Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers." I once met the Due de Luvois for a mo- ment ; And I marked, when his features I fixed in my comment, O'er those features the same vague dis- quietude stray I had seen on the face of my friend at the play ; And I thought that he too, very proba- bly, spent His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. source of the holiest joys we inherit, 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 80 LUCILE. A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee, And then bows to the sound of the cym- bal 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. xn. It was night ; and the lamps were be- ginning to gleam Through tlie long linden-trees, folded each in his dream, From that building which looks like a temple . . . and is The Temple of Health ? Nay, but enter ! I wis That never the rosy-hued deity knew One votary out of that sallow-cheeked crew Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prus- sians ; Jews Hamburghers chiefly ; pure patriots, Suabians ; " Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, And the dwellers in Pontus "... My muse will not weary More lines with the list of them . . . curfremuere ? What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum ? Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come? O, what is the name of the god at whose fane Every nation is mixed in so motley a train ? What weird Eabala 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, rrpassi-s. and flits to and fro, And rolls without ceasing thr w>-,\\ Y. ., and No : Round this altar alternate' tin- wrinl Passions dance, And the God worshipped here is the old God of Chance. Through the wide-open doors of the dis- tant saloon Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune ; And an indistinct music forever is rolled, That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold, From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze, Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass, And the weird words pursue it Rouge, Impair, et Passe I Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat. The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this self-same Pavil- ion 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 passed away. 'T was a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings ; the men who had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt, Is why, on the night I am speaking about, LUCILE. 81 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 vexed, 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 followed 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 Natura dbhorret Vacuum and my lord, as he watched his last crown Tumble into the bank, turned away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have decked On that day of all days when an empire was wrecked On thy plain, Waterloo, and he wit- nessed 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 search- ing to bear. He rose and looked up. Was it fact ? Was it fable ? Was it dream ? Was it waking ? Across the green table, That face, with its features so fatally known, Those eyes, whose deep gaze answered 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 N overs ! Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem, Who appeared to herself but the dream of a dream ! 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hushed, That pale cheek forever by passion un- fiushed, There yawned 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 even- ing 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- fixed existence, Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance : A strange sort of faint-footed fear, like a mouse That comes out, when 't is dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, And the forms on the arras are all that move there. In Rome, in the Forum, there opened one night A gulf. All the augurs turned pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods : then the oracle said : "Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, But the gulf yawned as wide. Rome seemed likely enough 82 LUCILE. To be mined ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke " Quirites ! to this Heaven's question is conic : 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 destroyed ? T is a warm human life that must fill up the void. Thorough many a heart runs the rent in the fable ; But who to discover a Curtius is able ? XVII. Back she came from her long hiding- place, at the source Of the sunrise ; where, fair in their fab- ulous 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 oppressed With the same hungry heart, and un- peaceable breast The same, to the same things ! The world, she had quitted With a sigh, with a sigh she re-entered. Soon flitted Through the salons and clubs, to the great satisfaction Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. The enchanting Lucile, the gay Coun- tess, once more To her old friend, the World, had re- opened 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 vexed and attacked With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach The lone heart they aimed at. Her tears fell beyond ' The world's limit, to feel that the world could respond To that heart's deepest, innermost yearn- ing, 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 n?n of the age. Some had genius; and all, wealth of mind to confer On the world : but that wealth was not lavished for her. For the genius of man, though so human indeed, When called out to man's help by some great human need, The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses To use what it hoards for mankind's no- bler uses. 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 com- bines, 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 sighed to find Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken, When they stooped themselves to it, as mere clever men ; Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurled Worlds new-fashioned 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 watched her own shadow grow long at her feet, As though stretched out, the shade of some other to meet, Che woman felt homeless and childless : in scorn She seemed mocked by the voices of children unborn ; LUCILE. 83 And when from these sombre reflections away She turned, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay For her presence within it, she knew herself friendless ; That her path led from peace, and that path appeared endless ! That even her beauty had been but a snare, And her wit sharpened only the edge of despair. XVIII. With a face all transfigured and flushed by surprise, Alfred turned to Lucile. With those deep searching eyes She looked into his own. Not a word that she said, Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betrayed. She seemed to smile through him, at something beyond : When she answered his questions, she seemed 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 remembered resentment, half checked 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 free- dom allowed To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd By the crowd unobserved. Not unno- ticed, 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 witnessed their meeting, had turned On Lucile and Lord Alfred ; and, scared, she discerned On his features the shade of a gloom so profound That she shuddered instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers He replied not, but murmured, " Lucile de Nevers Once again then ? so be it ! " In the mind of that man, At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. XIX. " So ! " he thought, " they meet thus : and reweave the old charm ! And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me ! 0, what if I showed 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 Fixed upon them, Lucile and my lord sauntered by, In converse which seemed to be earnest. A smile Now and then seemed to show where their thoughts touched. Meanwhile The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. xx. The Duke, with that soil 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 LUC1LE. The case for the prisoner, and deals ten- derly \Vitli the man he is minded to hang by and by), H;nl referred to Lucile, and then stopped to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropped. There 's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aimed) as praise. Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen : and now Each was silent, preoccupied, thoughtful. You know There are moments when silence, pro- longed 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 seemed 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 fallen 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 watched her caressing the leaves all the while, And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wished ; 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 dropped back on her floweret abashed. Then, still seeking The assurance she fancied she shown 1 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 burned, "You know, then, this . . . lady?" "Too well !" he returned. MATILDA. True ; you drew with emotion her por- trait just now. Luvois. With emotion ? MATILDA. Yes, yes ! you described her, I know, As possessed of a charm all unrivalled. Luvois. Alas! You mistook me completely ! You, madam, surpass 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 trepidation, "That you quite comprehended" ... a slight hesitation Shook the sentence, ... "a passion so strong as " Ltrvois. True, true ! LTJCILE. 85 But not in a man that had once looked at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or ... " Hush, hush ! " She broke in, all more fair for one inno- cent 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 may be, that we women are better than you." LTJVOIS. Who denies it ? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some differ- ence 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 learned that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it. "Yes ! yes ! That is too true, indeed ! " . . . the Duke sighed. 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 wronged love, to which women less fair Are exposed, when they love ? V a quick change of tone, As though by resentment impelled, he went on : "The name that you bear, it is whis- pered, 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 be- trays no surprise," (He pointed his hand as he spoke to the door, Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred,) . . . "before, Have you ever once seen what just 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 looked 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 : V '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 stooped, 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." The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half- frightened rebuke, LTJCILE. Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seemed to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. There \va.s silence again. A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that even- ing had said. There, half drowned by the music, Ma- tilda, that night, Had listened, long listened, no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirred. And so, having suffered 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 hus- band's. You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady . . . nay, Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. But, trust me, no true love there can be without Its dread penalty jealousy. " Well, do not start ! Until now, either thanks to a singu- lar art Of supreme self-control, you have held them all down Unrevealed in your heart, or you never have known Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs Which deep passion engenders ; that an- guish which hangs On the heart like a nightmare, by jeal- ousy bred. But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed Of a blissful security thus hath reposed 1'iidisturlied with mild eyelids on hap- piness closeil, 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 wul 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 eloquence. 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 LUCILE. 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 ! ' " XXV. This appeal, both by looks and by lan- guage, increased 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 ex- press 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 con- ceal. " Duke," she answered in accents short, cold, and severe, As she rose from her seat, " I continue to hear ; But permit me to say, I no more under- stand. " " Forgive ! " with a nervous appeal of the hand, And a well-feigned confusion of voice and of look, " Forgive, 0, 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 seemed to sink ; And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glistened. XXTI. Matilda, despite of herself, sat and lis- tened. 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 Scorned of course by the beauties, and shunned by the wits. All the world is accustomed to wound, or neglect, Or oppress, claims my heart and com- mands my respect. No Quixote, I do not affect to be- long, I admit, to those chartered redressers of wrong ; But I seek to console, where I can. 'T is a part 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 believed By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. And so He continued . . . "Olady ! 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 heart-broken tears unde- scried ! On how many a lip have I witnessed 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," 88 LUCILE. " Perhaps so," said he ; " But at least that devotion small merit can boast, For one day may yet come, if one day at the most, When, perceiving at last all the dill'er- ence how great ! Twixt the heart that neglects and the heart that can wait, 'Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain, Some woman, that else might have passed in disdain Or indifference 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 approached. With some grief I must own that her welcome, perchance, was expressed The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast Of a conscience disturbed, and her smile not less warm, Though she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on his arm. The Duke turned and adjusted his collar. Thought he, " Good ! the gods fight my battle to- night. I foresee That the family doctor's the part I must play. Very well ! but the patients my visits shall pay." Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife ; And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife Of emotions which made her voice shake, murmured low Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a bow Which betokened a distant defiance, re- plied To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, her place She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance, Or resolved not to notice, the half- frightened glance That followed that movement. The Duke to his feet Arose; and, in silence, reliiniui.sliril lii-s seat. One must own that the moment was awkward for all ; But nevertheless, before long, the sti-;un/e thrall Of Lucile's gracious tact was bj r every one felt, And from each the reserve seemed, re- luctant, to melt ; Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four Through the crowd sauntered, smiling. XXIX. Approaching the door, Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen be- hind, By Lucile, after some hesitation, was joined With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal Which appeared to imply, without words, ' ' Let us feel That the friendship between us in years that arefled, Has survived one mad moment forgot- ten," she said, " You remain, Duke, at Ems?" He turned on her a look Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; And then, with a more than significant glance At Matilda, maliciously answered, "Per- chance I have here an attraction. And you ? " he returned. Lucile's eyes had followed his own, and discerned The boast they implied. He repeated, " And you ? " And, still watching Matilda, she an- swered, " I too." And he thought, as with that word she left him, she sighed. The next moment her place she resumed by the side Of Matilda ; and soon they shook hands at the gate Of the selfsame hotel. "LORD ALFRED PRESENTED LUCILE TO HIS WIFE. LTICILE. 89 XXX. One depressed, one elate, The Duke and Lord Alfred again, through the glooms Of the thick linden alley, returned to the Booms. His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, At the inn, as they turned, arm-in-arm, from the door. Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, experto (Me miserum quoties .') crede Roberto. In silence, awhile, they walked onward. At last The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously passed. Luvois. Once more ! yet once more ! ALFRED. What? Luvois. We meet her, once more, The woman for whom we two mad men of yore (Laugh, mo?!, cher Alfred, laugh !) were about to destroy Each the 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, man 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 per- chance I now may Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until Such a moment, I waited . . . Luvois. Oh ! ask what you will. Fraiicjeu ! on the table my cards I spread out. Ask! ALFRED. Duke, you were called 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 ! " Luvois. Well? 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 an- swered 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 asked me, this night, to my wife (understand To my wife !) to present her. I did so. Her hand Has clasped that of Matilda. We gen- tlemen owe Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so, 90 LUCILE. To the woman that bears it a twofold IWMCfc Answer, Due de Luvois ! Did Lucile then rrjivt 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 ques- tion, 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 ac- quaintance, 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 flashed in a moment these thoughts through his head : " Leave Ems ! would that suit me ? no ! that were again To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, She herself will . . . et puis, il a raison ; on r.st Gentilhomme avant tout I " 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 feared for his life ; and the letter which then She wrote me, I showed 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 ; You are wedded, (blessed Englishman. wedded to one Whose past can be called into question l>y 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 Olym- pus apart, That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave ! " XXXII. The Duke, with a smile, Turned and entered the Rooms which, thus talking, meanwhile, They had reached. XXXIII. Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown Heart and mind !) in the darkness be- wildered, 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 strayed down the darkness. XXXIV. Re-entering again The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to roulette, And sat down, and played fast, and lost largely, and yet He still smiled : night deepened : he played his last number : Went honif : and soon slept : and still smiled in his slumber. LUCILE. 91 XXXV. In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefou- cauld 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, "Xo 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 Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." Burn thy book, La Rochefoucauld ! Fool ! one man's wit All men's selfishness how should it fathom ? sage, Dost thou satirize Nature ? She laughs at thy page. CANTO II. i. COUSIN JOHN to COUSIN ALFRED. "LONDON, 18. " 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 du- ties, the deuce Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse ! 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 com- mittee. 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 con- ferred 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, Betokened,- I grant that it may be in truth, The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. But if, when the wine should have mel- lowed with time, Being bottled and binned, to a flavor sublime 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 dar- ling 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 fixes, no doubt, 'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that 'a without ? 92 LUCILE. What one of us finds the world just as he likes ? Or gets what he wants when he wants it ? Or strikes Without missing tin- tiling that he strikes at the lir.M .' Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his thirst At one 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. 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 though life were earnest, and life will be so. Let each moment, like Time's last am- bassador, 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 fox 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 pre- sumes 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? 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 neigh- bors, 't is plain ; And the drudgery drearily gone through in town Is more than repaid by provincial re- nown. Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, Shall have eyed him with passing com- plaisance ; 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, primo ; my friend Is the head of a family known from one end Of his shire to the other, as the oldest ; and therefore 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 haugh- tiest beauty LUCILE. 93 Have never inspired in my soul that in- tense, Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense Of heartfelt admiration I feel for this man, As I see him beside me ; there, wear- ing the wan London daylight away, on his humdrum committee ; So unconscious of all that awakens my P itv > And wonder and worship, I might say. "Tome There seems something nobler than gen- ius to be In that dull patient labor no genius re- lieves, 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 sub- limity 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 wish- ing 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, perfecti- ble real, With its pained 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 Of 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 ascend- ing so high ; Things slight in themselves, long- tailed toys, and no more. What is it that makes the kite steadily soar Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth? I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, And the hornbook I learned on my poor mother's knee. In truth, I 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 learned 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 ; 94 LUCILE. F>ut .-lit not tho one thread by which it is bound, l!c 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 sighed 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 le- gitimate spouse, This thought has consoled me : "At least I have given For my own good behavior no hostage to heaven." You have, though. Forget it not ! faith, if you do, I would rather break stones on a 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 men- tioned at once, But 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 oar 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 Mammon, Seem so shrewdly familiar. " Neglect not this warning. There were rumors afloat in the City this morning Which I scarce like the ?ound of. Who knows 1 would he fleece At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece 1 For the sake of Matilda I cannot impor- tune Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune 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 ! get 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. Verbum, sap. I admit nothing yet jus- tifies My mistrust ; but I have in my own mind a notion That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion, Have long been the only ostensible cap- ital 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 Government 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. LUCILE. 95 And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes. It is evident that they are clearing the dishes, And cramming their pockets with bon- bons. Your news Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman ? I know That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take care Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there ; But, before I am free, you are sure to be gone. Good by, my dear fellow. Yours, anx- iously, "JOHN." 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 reached 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. Primum dementat Quern Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact Was behaving just then in a way to dis- tract 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 passed o'er them, they each, heart from heart, Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. More and more of his time Alfred passed 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, That Lucile and the Duke at the self- same hotel With 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 together In the garden, to listen, of course, to the band. The house was a sort of phalanstery ; and Lucile and Matilda were pleased to dis- cover 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 played to. My lord Would also at times, when he was not too bored, Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new mu- sic, not ill ; With some little things of his own, show- ing skill. For which reason, as well as for some others too, Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendezvous. Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heart- less coquette !) All the mischief she could not but mark ? Patience yet ! In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the sun, By laburnum and lilac with blooms over- run, Formed 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- uncurled From the feet of the lindens, and crept through the grass, Their blue hours would this gay little colony paas. 96 LUCILE. Tin men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, Undeterred by tobacco, their work there, and sing Or converse 1 , till the dew fell, and home- ward the bee Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there was tea (A luxury due to Matilda), and ice, Fruit, and coffee. *0 "^awepe, irdvra fapeis ! 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, And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked, And two Austrian Colonels, that Al- fred, who yet Was lounging alone with his last cigar- ette, Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, And 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 pro- found. " You are ill? " he exclaimed. " No ! " she hurriedly said, "No, no!" "You alarm me !" She drooped 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. Your farewell ! you go ! Lucile ! LUCILE. Yes, Lord Alfred. ALFRED. Reveal The cause of this sudden unkiudness. Unkind ? LUCILE. ALFRED. Yes ! what else is this parting ? LUCILE. 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 dis- guise 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 passed at that meeting which settled my fate. Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet ! let it be! I but say what is due to yourself, due to me, And must say it. He rushed incoherently on, Describing how, lately, the truth he had known, To explain how, and whence, he had wronged 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, 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 Unobserved by another, the void which remained Unconcealed to myself ? If I have not attained, I have striven. One word of unkindness has never SHE DROOPED DOWN HER HEAL)." LUCILE. 97 Passed my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever Received my submission. And if, of a truth, I have failed to renew what I felt in my youth, I at least have been loyal to what I do feel, U.'spect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, 1 speak not of love now, nor love's long regret : I would not offend you, nor dare I for- get The ties that are round me. But may there not be A friendship yet hallowed 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 ! 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 discuss Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life ! 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. "Hush ! hush! 1 would say what I wished to have said when you came. Do not think that years leave us and find 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 ! "Oyet, Let me thank you for that which en- nobled 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, Such love as youth dreams of at least) the sole part 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 ua no more. We each of us stand on an opposite shore. Trust a woman's opinion for once. Wom- en learn, By an instinct men never attain, to dis- cern Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, Matilda is young see her now, sitting there ! How tenderly fashioned (0, is she not ? say,) To love and be loved ! " He turned 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 " 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 vivi- fied : I mean that the child to a woman has grown : And that woman is jealous. " " What ! she ? " with a toue 98 LUCILE. Of ironical wonder, he answered "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 too keenly, I fear, That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear ? " " Explain ! explain, madam ! " he cried in surprise ; And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. " How blind are you men ! " she re- plied. " Can you doubt That a woman, young, fair, and neg- lected " "Speak out ! " He gasped with emotion. " Lucile ! you mean what ? Do you doubt her fidelity ? " "Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain Is so hard to shape forth. I could al- most refrain From touching a subject so fragile. However, Bear with me awliile, if I frankly en- deavor To invade for one moment your inner- most 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 turned pale, as she spoke. She had aimed^t his heart, And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, That her aim had not missed. " Stay, Lucile ! " he exclaimed, " 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 spotlest 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 at- mosphere 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 depart At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart, For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, A disease healed 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." v. "Such thoughts could have never," he faltered, " I know, Reached the heart of Matilda." "Matilda? no ! But reflect ! when such thoughts do not come of themselves To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves That seek lonely places, there rarely is wanting Some voice at her side, with an evil en- chanting To conjure them to her." " 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 exclaimed . . . " 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 ! " LUCILE. 99 The clenched hand and bent eyebrow betokened the strife She had roused in his heart. " You forget," she began, " That you menace yourself. You your- self 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 ? 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 failed you ; and that too, when under The assumption of rights which to her you refuse, The immunity claimed for yourselves you abuse ! Where the contract exists, it involves obligation To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. You unloose, in asserting your own lib- erty, A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. Then, Alfred ! be juster at heart : and thank Heaven That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit You have cause to reproach your own . self, could you see it ! " In the silence that followed the last word she said, In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, Poor Lucile marked her words had suf- ficed to impart A new germ of motion and life to that heart Of which he himself had so recently spoken As dead to emotion, exhausted, or broken ! New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. In the husband indifferent no more to the wife She already, as she had foreseen, could discover That Matilda had gained, 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 clasped warmly, " I both understand And obey you." " Thank Heaven ! " she murmured. "0 yet, One word, I beseech you ! I cannot forget," He exclaimed, " 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 seemed strangely and sud- denly broken. She turned from him nervously, hur- riedly. "Nay, I know not," she murmured, " 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 ! " sighed he, "And bear my heart's blessing wher- ever you are ! " And her hand, with emotion, he kissed. 100 LUCILE. IX. From afar That kiss was, alas ! by Matilda beheld With far other emotions : her young bosom swelled, And her young cheek with anger was crimsoned. The Duke Adroitly attracted towards it her look By a faint but significant smile. Much ill-construed, Renowned Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, strewed With arguments page upon page to teach That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them, That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them ! CANTO III. WHEN first the red savage called 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 furbelowed flounce and the broad crinoline Of my lady . . . you all know of course whom I mean . . . This art of concealment has greatly in- creased. 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 revealed now and then to bur eyes In the newspaper-files and the courts of ate, ir. In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, 'Mid those walks over which the labur- num-bough trembled, And the deep-bosomed lilac, empam- dising The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing, The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only, A circle of fiiends, minded not to leave lonely The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom ; Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom, Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories, Cheated death and killed time with Boccaccian stories. But at length the long twilight more deeply grew shaded, And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded. And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough, Through the shadowy garden were slum- bering now. The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk, Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. And, as each little sprightly and garru- lous leaf Woke up with an evident sense of relief, They all seemed to be saying ..." Once more we 're alone, And, thank Heaven, those tiresome peo- ple are gone ! " 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, looked down O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was their own, When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, And entered the garden, unseen, unat- tended. Her forehead was aching and parched, and her breast By a vague inexpressible sadness op- pressed ; LUCILE. 101 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, seemed 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 looked once in her face, And pressed both her hands in a silent embrace, And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. He, of late so indifferent and listless ! ... at last Was he startled and awed by the change which had passed 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 lulled to a fatal security ! Ha ! would he deceive her again by this kindness ? Had she been, then, fool ! in her in- nocent blindness 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 com- bined : Life and death : pain and rapture." Thus wandering astray, Led by doubt, through the darkness she wandered away. All silently crossing, recrossing the night, With faint, meteoric, miraculous light, The swift-shooting stars through the infinite burned, And into the infinite ever returned. And silently o'er the obscure and un- known In the heart of Matilda there darted and shone Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to expire, Leaving traces behind them of tremulous IV. She entered 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 infested. The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted. Through the darkness there rose on the heart which it daunted Each dreary detail of that desolate day, So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away The acacias were muttering, like mis- chievous elves, The whole story over again to them- selves, Each word, and each word was a wound ! By degrees Her memory mingled its voice with the trees. 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 seemed to hiss Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, which is The right of reprisals. An image uncertain, 102 LUCILE. And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on tne curtain Of the darkness around her. It eame, and it went ; Through her senses a faint sense of j>eril it sent : It passed and repassed 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 rec- ognize The man to whose image, the more and the more That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of yore, From her husband detached itself slowly, with pain, Her thoughts had returned, and returned to, again, As though by some secret indefinite law, The vigilant Frenchman, Eugene de Luvois ! A light sound behind her. She trem- bled. 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 pulse 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 retained her, like fear in a dream. VII. " Ah, lady ! in life there are meetings which seem Like a fate. Dare I think like a sym- pathy too ? Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you ? Alone with my thoughts, on this star- lighted lawn, By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawu To revisit the memories left in the place Where so lately this evening I looked 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 deemed but a moment ago My heart uncompanioned, save only by woe, Should indeed be more blessed than I dare to believe Ah, but one word, but one from your lips to receive "... Interrupting him quickly, she murmured, " 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 And find out what that feeling may be ? Ah, not so, 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 ? unless It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, And some sadness ? ' "No doubt. To all facts there are laws. LUCILE. 103 The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause." VIII. Matilda shrank back ; for she suddenly found That a finger was pressed 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 pressed 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 deemed that you were : You are sad : for that knowledge hath left you aware That you have not yet loved, though you thought that you hail. Yes, yes ! . . . you are sad because knowledge is sad ! " 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 exclaimed, "0 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 gasped, Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasped 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 ! 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 hidden, can prevail To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale, 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 I 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 ? " " hush, sir ! hush ! " Cried Matilda, as thoiigh her whole heart were one blush. " Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life ! Is not Alfred your friend ? and anl I not his wife ? " IX. " And have I not, lady," he answered, . . . "respected His rights as a friend, till himself he neglected Your rights as a wife ? Do you think 'tis alone For three days I have loved you ? My love may have grown I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs. But, lady ! I loved you before I be- lieved That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved. 104 LUCILE. Thi-n I doemed you were happy I deemed you pos> All the love you deserved, and I hid in my breast My own love, till this hour when 1 could not but feel Your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal ! I knew, years ago, of the singular power Which Lucile o'er your husband pos- sessed. Till the hour In which he revealed it himself, did I, say! By a word, or a look, such a secret be- tray ? No ! no ! do me justice. I never have spoken Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had broken Which bound your 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 ! ... 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 ! 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 ! " 4 'Leave me, leave me ! " . . . she gasped, with a voice thick and low From emotion. ' ' For pity's sake, Duke, let me go ! I feel that to blame we should both of us be, Did I linger." "To blame? yes, no doubt!" . . . answered he, "If the love of your husband, in bring- ing you peace, Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your release By the hand of another. One moment ! but one 1 Who knows when, alas ! I may see you alone As to-night I have seen you ? or whei we may meet As to-night we have met ? when, en- tranced at your feet, As in tliis Messed hour, 1 may ever avow The thoughts which are pining for utter- ance now ? " " Duke ! Duke ! "... she exclaimed . . . ' ' for heaven's sake let me go ! It is late. In the house they will miss me, 1 know. We must not be seen here together. The night Is advancing. I feel overwhelmed 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 he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth ? 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, And sad, . . . "You mistake, sir ! that other is here." Eugene and Matilda both started. "Lncile!" With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. " Ho, oh ! What! eaves-dropping, madam?" . . . the Duke cried . . . "And so You were listening ? " "Say, rather," she said, "that 1 heard, Without wishing to hear it, that in- famous word, Heard and therefore reply. " "Belle Cotntesse," said the Duke, LUCILE. 105 With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke, Which betrayed that he felt himself baffled ..." you know That your place is not here." "Duke," she answered 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 she sighed) 1 felt that from folly fast growing to crime The crime of self-blindness Heaven yet spared me time 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 turned to Matilda, and lightly laid on her Her soft, quiet hand . . . "'Tis, lady, the honor Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite Of 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 ?" And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, Wound one arm round her waist unre- sisted, and sought Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. The Duke stood confounded, and followed them not. But not yet the house had they reached when Lucile Her tender and delicate burden could feel Sink and falter beside her. 0, then she knelt down, Flung her arms round Matilda, and pressed 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 revealing the face Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame 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 touched 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 ! " sobbed Matilda, "but saved to what fate ? Tears, prayers, yes ! not hopes." " Hush ! " the sweet voice replied. " Fooled 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 To receive, lady. What was it chilled you both now ? Not the absence of love, but the igno- rance how Love is nourished by love. Well ! hence- forth you will prove Your heart worthy of love, since it knows how to love." 106 LUCILE. XIII. " What gives you such power over me, that I feel Thus drawn to obey you ? What arc you, Lucile ? Sighed Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face Of Lucile. There passed suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness ; and o'er that fair fore- iiead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. "The pupil of sorrow, perchance" . . . she replied. "Of sorrow/" Matilda exclaimed . . . "0 confide 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 flowed 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 entered the house. '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 streamed 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 huslu -il, tearful speech, Like the showery whispers of flowers, , each to each Linked, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, So united, yet diverse, the two women there Looked, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. All that soul said to soul in that cham- ber, who knows ? All that heart gained from heart ? Leave the lily, the rose, Undisturbed with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret 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 mov- ing. You heard Passed from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brightened 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 badly, My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly ! " As for you, Polonius, you vex me but slightly ; But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, LUCILE. 107 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 ? 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 de- claim ! The soldier's ? three lines on the cold Abbey pavement ! 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 Save the name of John Milton ! For all men, indeed, Who in some choice edition may gracious- ly 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 madness ! Dante's dreams, not his waking to exile and sadness ! Milton's music, but not Milton's blind- ness ! . . . 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 days : And Shakespeare, though all Shake- speare's writings were lost, 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 uttered, and haply where, pure On its death-bed, wronged Love lay, have moaned with the Moor ! II. When Lord Alfred that night to the salon returned He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burned 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 108 LUCILE. Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. He endeavored to think, an unwonted employment, Which api>eared to afford him no sort of enjoyment. in. " 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 then; in disorder. For more than an hour He sat with his head drooped like some stubborn llower Beaten down by the rush of the rain, with such force Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the course Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim, From the cloud that had darkened the evening for him. At one moment he rose, roseandopened the door, And wistfully looked down the dark corridor Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sigh Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly Back again to his place in a sort of sub- mission To doubt, and returned to his former position, That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the face, And the eye vaguely fixed on impalpable space. The dream, which till then had been lulling his life, As once Circe the winds, had sealed thought ; and his wife And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, Forgotten ; but cow o'er the troubled abystes Of the spirit within him, aolian, forth leapt To their freedom new-found, and resist- lessly swept All his heart into tumult, the thoughtg which had been Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen. How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not, Till he started, as though he were sud- denly shot, To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, Which was making some noise in the passage without. A sound English voice, with a round English accent, Which the scared German echoes resent- fully back sent ; The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver Mingled with it, demanding some ulti- mate stiver : Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot Which revealed by its sound no diminu- tive 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 doubt- less 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 scanned 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. LUCILE. 109 " 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 ? JOHN. You have acted upon it ? ALFRED. On what ? JOHN. The advice that I gave you 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 ! ALFRED. What Bank ? JOHN. Heavens ! I know You are careless ; but surely you have not forgotten, Or neglected ... I warned 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 ! 0, what devil bewitched you to wait ? ALFRED. Mercy save us ! you don't mean to say . . . JOHN. ALFRED. What ! Sir Ridley ? . . . Yes, I do. JOHN. Smashed, broken, blown up, bolted too! ALFRED. But his own niece ? . . . In heaven's name, Jack . . . JOHN. 0, I told you The old hypocritical scoundrel would . . . ALFRED. Hold ! you Surely can't mean we are ruined ? JOHN. Sit down ! A fortnight ago a report about town Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas ! I at once wrote and warned you. Well, now let that pass. A run on the Bank about five days ago Confirmed my forebodings too terribly, though. I drove down to the city at once : found the door Of the Bank close : the Bank had stopped payment at four. Next morning the failure was known to be fraud : Warrant out for MacNab ; but MacNaTs was abroad : Gone we cannot tell where. I en. deavored to get Information : have learned nothing cer. tain 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 called out: 110 LUCILE. If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. Twenty families ruined, they say : what was left, 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 ? * He stopped here, aghast At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face Had grown livid ; and glassy his eyes fixed 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 Seemed 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. JOHN. Perhaps so. But now There is clearly no use in considering how, These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, Took place when Bad News as yet travelled by horse. Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzzed on a wire, Or Time was calcined by electrical firr ; Ere n cable went under the hoary Atlantir, Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic. Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here. Broken shins are not mended by crying, that 'a 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. " Jack, I have been a brute idiot ! a beast ! A fool ! I have sinned, and to her I have sinned ! I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! And now, in a flash, I see all things ! " As though To shut out the vision, he bowed his head low On his hands ; and the great tears in silence rolled on, And fell momently, heavily, one after one. John felt no desire to find instant relief For the trouble he witnessed. He guessed, 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 the use Of the conscience God gave him, than. simply and merely The neglect for which now he was pay- ing so dearly. So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own Cordial heart fur .Matilda. Thus, silently lost In his anxious reflections, he crossed ;.ny 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 1 cannot tmt fed 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 exte- rior, Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem ; from my inner- most nature Not wholly expelled 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 heaped o'er it ? Some one fact to trust And to hope in ? Or by you alone am I deemed The mere frivolous fool I so often have seemed 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 be- token it ? " JOHN. No! ALFRED. Thank you, cousin ! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. TniM tn m< .-. VIII. JOHN. I do. But 't isl.-itr-. If she sleeps, you'll not wake her. ALFKKD. No, no ! it will wait (Poor infant !) too surely, this ii of sorrow ; If she sleeps, I will not mar her ilivam.s of to-morrow. He opened the door, and passed put Cousin John Watched him wistful, and left him to seek her alone. His heart beat so loud when he knocked at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knocked lightly. No answer. The handle he tried : The door opened : he entered the room undescried. No brighter than is that dim circlet of Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp and indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling ; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seemed 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 MATILDA WAS KNEELING: so WRAPT IN DEEP PRAYER" LUCILE. 113 Where Love lies, than the lady that kneeled in that gloom. She had put off her dress ; and she looked to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise ; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair ; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. As the light that, from water reflected, forever Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, So the beam of her beauty went trem- bling in him, Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim, Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. That sight Bowed his heart, bowed his knee. Know- ing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he si- lently slid, And knelt down beside her, and prayed at her side. Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her ; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet. As a young fawn uncouches, Shy with fear, from the fern where some hunter approaches, She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on her brow pressed one kiss long and warm. Then her fear changed in impulse ; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung locked in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She feared, if their clasp were relaxed, he would go : 8 Her smooth naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort with- in it Lived and died with each tender, tumul- tuous minute. "0 Alfred, Alfred ! forgive me," she cried, "Forgive me ! " " Forgive you, my poor child ! " he sighed ; " But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, And I have not one thought that re- proaches 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 dark- ened 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," murmured Matilda, "0 yes !" "Then," he cried, "This chamber in which we two sit, side by side 114 LUCILE. (And his arm, as he spoke, seemed more softly to press her), Is now n confessional, you, my con- fessor ! " "I?" she faltered, and timidly lifted her llruil. "Yes ! but first answer one other ques- tion," he said : "When a woman once feels that she is not alone ; That the heart of another is warmed 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, say, The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away ? Will she feel (feeling this), when calam- ities come, That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home ? " She turned, like a soft rainy heaven, on him Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim. " That woman," she murmured, "indeed were thrice blest ! " " Then courage, true wife of my heart ! " to his breast As he folded and gathered her closely, he cried. " For the refuge, to-night in these arms opened wide To your heart, can be never closed to it again, And this room is for both an asylum ! For when I passed through that door, at the door 1 left there A calamity, sudden, and heavy to bear. One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, We must face it henceforth : but it enters not here, For that door shuts it out, and admits here .alone A heart which calamity leaves all your own ! " She started . . . "Calamity, Alfred! to you ? " "To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it too The courage, 1 trust, to subdue it." " speak ! Speak!" she faltered 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 summer flies, That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies While the skies smile, and heed not each other : at last, When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast, 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 sun- beam is set, And the night brings its darkness around us. O, yet, Have we weathered 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 streamed to us, And its myriad voices of joy seemed to woo us, We strayed from each other, too far, it may be, Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate ! But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, Watching o'er us, to warn, and to rescue ! " That smile Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyed With resentment, an angel's they were at your side And at mine ; nor perchance is the day all so far, Whi-n \vo both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are, LUCILE. 115 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 suf- fused happy eyes She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart, And tenderly closing them round him, his heart Clasped in one close embrace to her bosom ; and there Drooped her head on his shoulder ; and sobbed. Not despair, Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, Flowed in those happy tears, so oblivi- ous she was Of all save the sense of her own love ! Anon, However, his words rushed back to her. " All gone, The fortune you brought me ! " And eyes that were dim With soft tears she upraised : but those tears were for him. " Gone ! my husband ?" she said, "tell me all ! see ! I need, To sober this rapture, so selfish in- deed, Fuller sense of affliction." " Poor innocent child ! " He kissed her fair forehead, and mourn- fully 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 revealed it, my nature's full power." . " And I too," she murmured, " I too am no more The mere infant at heart you have known me before. I have suffered since then. I have learned much in life. take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, The heart I have learned as a woman to feel! For I love you, my husband ! " As though to conceal Less from him, than herself, what that motion expressed, She dropped her bright head, and hid all on his breast. "0 lovely as woman, beloved as wife ! Evening star of my heart, light forever my life ! If from eyes fixed too long on this base earth thus far You have missed your due homage, dear guardian star, 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 How lovely she looked in the lovely moonlight, That streamed through the pane from the blue balmy night ! How lovely she looked in her own lovely youth, As she clung to his side full of trust, and of truth ! How lovely to him as he tenderly pressed Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caressed The glittering tresses which now shaken loose Showered gold in his hand, as he smoothed them ! XIII. Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart 'Twixt these two silent souls ! There 's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast. 116 LUCILE. XIV. Here were lovers twice wed, that happy at leaM ! No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breathed their bridals abroad ; and no rro.srt, Uphuilg, Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. He opened the casement : he led her with him, Hushed in heart, to the terrace, dipped cool in the 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 His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale ; o'er the dark-sapphire sphere The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace ; from unknown Hollow glooms freshened odors around them were blown Intermittingly ; then the moon dropped 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 Na- ture, 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 blossoms, And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands ; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies, the wary, gray strategist, Time, With the armies of Life, lay Grief and < 'rime, Love and Faith, in the darkness un- hei-ded ; maturing, For his great war with man, new sur- prises ; 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, completely Confiding in that yet untrodden exist- ence Over which they were pausing. To- morrow, resistance And struggle ; to-night, Love his hal- lowed device Hung forth, and proclaimed his serene armistice. CANTO V. WHEN Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long over- wrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old home- less 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. ir. From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank rev- eries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. LUCILE. 117 The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unrisen, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave : No sound, save the voice of the long river wave, And the crickets that sing all the night ! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curled 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-breaking 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 ? Hath the darkness a dwelling, save there, in those eyes ? And what name hath that half-revealed hope in the skies ? Ay, question, and listen ! What an- swer ? The sound Of the long river wave through its stone- troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night. There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms stinging creatures, that crawl, Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. When the soul, on the impulse of an- guish, hath passed Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last ; When she traverses nature and space, till she stands lu the Chamber of Fate ; where, through tremulous hands, Hum the threads from an old-fashioned distaff uncurled, And those three blind old women sit spinning the world. The dark was blanched 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 fixed by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her : those eyes seemed to burn, And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fixed her. He looked 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 wilder- ness. " At last, then, at last, and alone, I and thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met ? " Hush ! I know Not for me was the tryst. Never mind ! it is mine ; And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, They remove not, until we have spoken. My hour Is come ; and it holds thee and me in its power, As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'T is well ! The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell Of her first lover's vows listened, hushed with delight, When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, Never listened, I swear, more unques- tioningly, 118 LUCILE. Than thy fate hath compelled thee to listen to me ! " To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream, She appeared 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 answered, " 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 disturbed. To and fro he contin- ued 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 ^nicker. 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 scrawled through it, defacing a soul ? " In his face there was something so wrath- ful and wild, That the sight of it scared her. He saw it, and smiled, And then turned him from her, renewing again That short, restless stride ; as though searching in vain For the point of some purpose within him. "Lucile, 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 muttered again, " Gentle justice ! you first bid Life hope not, and tln-n To Despair you say ' Act not ! ' " He watched her awhile With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loomed 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 our- selves we prepare For the souls that we boast of ! weak insects we are ! 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, Give me back the young heart that I gave thee ... in vain ! " " Duke ! " she faltered. "Yes, yes ! " he went on, " I was not Always thus ! what I once was, I have not forgot." VI. As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirred Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail ; as, witli feveri.-h 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 ! LUCILE. 119 But hame, shame and sorrow, woman, to thee Whose hand sowed the seed of destruction in me ! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine ! Whose looks made me doubt lies that looked 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 began, 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 por- tion among The great needs of man's life, or ex- hausted its joys ; What is broken ? one only of youth's pleasant toys ! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I g. For one passion survived ? No ! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightin- gales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom can- celled from Spring ! Hast thou loved, my heart ? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. 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 ! all vain ! . . . For when, laugh- ing, the wine I would quaff, I remembered 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 stirred, 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 ! It was with me the night long in dream- ing or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burden of the bitterness in me ! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, ' No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, ' Lo, my father ! ' and said To the worm, ' Lo, my sister ! ' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just ! " He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night, And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineifable pity replied to his own. "And say you, and deem you, that I wrecked 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 wronged you ! " ' ' Wronged ! ah, is it so ? You could never have loved me ? " "Duke !" "Never ? no ! " (He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he aid) 120 LUCILE. " 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. 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 murmured, "Alas! These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. Enough, Due de Luvois ! farewell. I shall try To forget every word I have heard, every sight That has grieved and appalled me in this wretched night Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had ! Adieu ! " " Stay, Lucile, stay ! "... he groaned, ..." I am mad, Brutalized, blind with pain ! I know not what I said. I meant it not. But" (he moaned, drooping his head) " Forgive me ! I have I so wronged 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 murmured. " I think, could I gaze Thus awhile on your face, the old inno- cent 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 yd, if you will, Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. I lied. And the truth, now, could justify naught. There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, Had you helped me to bear what you forced me to feel "Could I help you," she murmured, "but what can I say That your life will respond to ? " " My life ? " he sighed. " Nay, My life hath brought forth only evil, and there The wild wind hath planted the wild weed : yet ere You exclaim, ' Fling the weed to the flames,' think again Why the field is so barren. With all other men First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. For a man, at least most men, may love on through life : Love in fame ; love in knowledge ; in work : earth is rife With laljpr, 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 destiny Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas ! Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass ! It perished, and all perished with it. Ambition ? Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. Fame ? But fame in itself cresupposes some great Fit-Id wherein to pursue and attain it. The State ? I, to cringe to an upstart ? Tin- < 'amji ? I, to draw LUCILE. 121 From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois To defend usurpation ? Books, then ? Science, Art ? But, alas ! 1 was fashioned for action : my heart, Withered thing though it be, I should hardly compress 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 Of a fate I can neither control nor dis- pute, I am what I am ! " VIII. For a while she was mute. Then she answered, "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 bloomed for of yore ? Yet be that as it may be ; I cannot per- chance Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugene De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in pain, 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 failed to express Just the one note the great final harmony needs. And what best proves there 's life in a heart ? that it bleeds ! Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! Cease the sin with the sorrow ! See morning begin ! Pain must burn itself out if not fuelled by sin. There 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 ruined 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 It once sought, the poor idiot who passed for a king, Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confessed A madman more painfully mad than the rest, So the sound of her voice, as it there wandered o'er His echoing heart, seemed in part to re- store The forces of thought : he recaptured the whole 122 LUCILE. Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul Reflected on his : he appeared to awake From a dream, and perceived he had dreamed a mistake : His spirit was softened, yet troubled in him : He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim, But he murmured . . . " 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. Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower Dwells muffled. Be darkness hencefor- ward my dower. Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes Grown familiar with ruins may yet rec- ognize Enough desolation." " The pride that claims here On earth to itself (howsoever severe To itself it may be) God's dread office and right Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, And against heaven's service. "Eugene de Luvois, Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows tne law. Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all His own doomsman." Her words seemed to fall With the weight of tears in them. He looked up, and saw That sad serene countenance, mournful as law And tender as pity, bowed o'er him : and heard In some thicket the matin al 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 UB. Yon day- spring for me Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be We shall meet nevermore. Grant, grant to me yet The belief that it is not in vain we have iin-t ! 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, To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, Be the memory mine. " Once of yore, when for man Faith yet lived, ere this age of the slug- gard began, Men, aroused to the knowledge 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 action or thought, Life's strong earnest, in all things ! think not of me, But yourself ! for I plead for your own destiny : I plead for your life, with its duties un- done, With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon ; And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead For all that you miss, and for all that you need." XI. Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke, A clear, chilly chime from a church- turret broke ; And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell, On his ear, where he kneeled, 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 ; crashed the glasses, and crawled is the wall " OUR TWO PATHS MUST PART US, EUGENE. LUCILE. 123 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, ap- pears noting meanwhile The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn Oped behind her ; and pure as the pure light of dawn, She stood, bathed in morning, and seemed to his eyes From their sight to be melting away in the skies That expanded around her. There passed through his head A fancy, a vision. That woman was dead He had loved long ago, loved and lost ! dead to him, Dead to all the life left him ; but there, in the dim Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit ; , 't was hers ; And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers : " soul to its sources departing away ! Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power, One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour I name not my heart, and I speak not to thine. Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart denies, Hope, when hope is salvation ? Behold, in yon skies, This wild night is passing away while I speak : Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break ! Something 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 extinguished 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 wished to say more, But no matter ! 't will pass. All be- tween us is o'er. Forget the wild words of to-night. 'T was the pain For long years hoarded up, that rushed from me again. I was unjust : forgive me. Spare now to reprove Other words, other deeds. It was mad- ness, not love, That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done. Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. I was maddened, 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 ! Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas ! Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 'T is to meet nevermore. Is it not so ? Who knows, Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies ? Or what altars of his in the desert may rise ? Is it not so, Lucile ? Well, well ! Thus then we part Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart ! " And again, clearer far than the chime of the bell, That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. " Our two paths must part us, Eugene ; for my own Seems no more through that world in which henceforth alone You must work out (as now I believe that you will) 124 LUCILE. The hope which you speak of. That work 1 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 never- more, For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, 1 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 hav 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, I will promise : whatever your path, or my own, If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance Lost or shattered, borne down by the stress of the war, You falter and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide, In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, To warn, if you will, or incite, or con- trol ; And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul ! " The voice ceased. XIV. 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, Hippies in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place, was the Sun- rise ! 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 rolled back one by one, The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun ! Thrice holy Eospheros ! Light's reign began In the heaven, on the earth, in thw heart of the man. The dawn on the mountains ! the dawn everywhere ! Light ! silence ! the fresh innovations of air ! earth, and ether ! A butterfly breeze Floated up, fluttered down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, 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 rolled the flood Of the sunrise all golden, he seemed 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 seemed to call him. There, hovered in light, That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seemed to be LUCILE. 125 Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native ! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it ! Around The rims of the sunrise it hovered and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone ; And he, as the body may yearn for the soul, So he yearned 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. CANTO VI. MAN is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks That have shattered 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 roused into wrath o'er his head : 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes : her solitudes spread To daunt him : her forces dispute his command : Her snows fall to freeze him : her suns burn to brand : Her seas yawn to engulf him : her 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 breath- less 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-limbed and red- handed, go by, And the first thing he worships is Terror. Anon, Still impelled 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 poison- ous 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 wor- shipped by man. A camp has this world been since first it began ! From his tents sweeps the roving Ara- bian ; at peace, A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece ; But, warring his way through a world's destinies, Lo, from Delhi, from Bagdadt, from Cordova, rise Domes of empiry, dowered with science and art, Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart ! New realms to man's soul have bean conquered. But those, 126 LUCILE. Forthwith they are peopled for man by new I'm'.- ' The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her own, And bold must the man be that braves the Unknown ! Not a truth has to art or to science been given, Hut brows have ached for it, and souls toiled and striven ; And many have striven, and many have failed, And many died, slain by the truth they assailed. 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. II. Silence straightway, stem Muse, the soft cymbals of pleasure, Be all bronzen these numbers, and mar- tial the measure ! Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time, Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublime In the light of the aureole over her head, Hears, and heeds not the wound in her heart fresh and red. Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold The shrill clanging curtains of war ! And behold A vision ! The 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 abreast !) Where the towers of tha North fret the skies of the East. Since that sunrise, which rose through the calm linden stems O'er Lucile and Eugene, in the ganlt-n 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 flowed with the fates Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the gates Of that doomed and heroical city, in which (Fire crowning the rampart, blood bath- ing the ditch !) At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear, Whom the huntsmen have hemmed round at last in his lair. IV. A fanged, arid plain, sapped with under- ground fire, Soaked with snow, torn with shot, mashed to one gory mire ! There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, While those two famished ogres, the Siege, the Defence, Face to face, through a vapor frore, dis- mal, and dun, Glare, scenting the breath of each other. The one Double-bodied, two-headed, by sepa- rate ways Winding, serpent-wise, nearer ; the other, each day's Sullen toil adding size to, concentrat- ed, solid, Indefatigable, the brass-fronted, em- bodied, And audible auros gone sombrely forth To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north ! v. In the dawn of a moody October, a pale LUCILE. 127 Ghostly motionless vapor began to pre- vail Over city and camp ; like the garment of death Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. 'T was the breath War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire ; Wherethrough, here and there, flashed an eye of red fire, And closed, from some rampart begin- ning to bellow Hoarse challenge ; replied to anon, through the yellow And sulphurous twilight : till day reeled and rocked, And roared into dark. Then the mid- night was mocked With fierce apparitions. Ringed 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 scharpenelle, And fired the horizon, and singed the coiled gloom With wings of swift flame round that City of Doom. So the day so the night ! So by night, so by day, With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, 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 maimed, And Death's daily obolus due, whether claimed By man or by nature. Time passes. The dumb, Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen Novem- ber 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. The moon, swathed in storm, has long set : thnnigh 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 place, However, my Muse is compelled to re- trace Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. The shock which had suddenly shat- tered at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, concealed till that mo- ment beneath All he yet had appeared. From the gay broidered sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel sum- moned forth by a blow. And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. The wife gained a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrowed by fate, Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their possessions. Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech 128 LUCILE. The hypocrite brought 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 and Alfred ; guest, guar- dian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to tin 1 end, With his large lively love. Alfred Var- grave meanwhile Faced the world'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 diffi- cult days, Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Worked his way through the world ; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims from man), After years of unwitnessed, unwearied endeavor, Years impassioned yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of cur- rent 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 renewed, fame and for- tune he won Working only for home, love, and duty. One son Matilda had borne him ; but scarce had the boy, With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chanced That a blight sharp and sudden was breathed o'er the bloom Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom Of a grief premature on their fair prom- ise fell : No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, Captious April engenders; but derp ; n his own Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known The cause of this sorrow, I track tin- event. When first a wild war-note through England was scut, He, transferring without either token or word, To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet vir- gin sword, From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, Had marched forth, with eyes that saw death in the star Whence others sought glory. Thus, fighting, he fell On the red field of Inkerman ; found, who can tell By what miracle, breathing, though shattered, 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. 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 pen- sive youth, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, Lay ensheathed : 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 tlire are, though, in love, Wliich 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. 0, is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? A vision which fever hath fashioned to sight? "BUT A WOUND DEEPER FAR, UNDESCRIED." Page Ii8. LUCILE. 129 The wind wailing ever, with motion un- certain, Sways sighingly there the drenched tent's tattered 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 concentres Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside, all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds : the hot blood-stained dressing Slips from them. A comforting quie- tude steals Through the racked weary frame : and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neigh- borhood. Something smooths the tossed 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, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping ! A soft voice says ..." Sleep ! " And he sleeps : he is sleeping. . xi. He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : Still that pale woman moves not. A ministering care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown and benignant, he blessed In silence the sense of salvation. And rest I 9 Having loosened the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sighed ..." Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And ministering spirit ! " A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence ..." The Sceur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to in- quire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'T is more brave To live, than to die. Sleep ! " He sleeps : he is sleeping. XII. He wakened again, when the dawn was just steeping 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 seemed returning 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 ; if it may be, re- vealing Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ? " " 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 liveth 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 ! there her kindred ! " 130 LUCILE. 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, 1 knew them, I know them." "0 can it be ? you ! My dearest dear father ! my mother ! you knew, You know them ? " She bowed, half averting, her head In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, " Do they know I am thus ?" " Hush ! " . . . she smiled, as she drew From her bosom two letters : and can it be true ? That beloved and familiar writing ! He burst Into tears ..." My poor mother my father ! the worst Will have reached them ! " "No, no!" she exclaimed with a smile, " They know you are living ; they know that meanwhile I am watching beside you. Young sol- dier, weep not ! " But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fevered brow of the boy weeping wildly is pressed. There, at last, the young heart sobs it- self into rest : And he hears, as it were between smil- ing and weeping, The calm voice say ..." Sleep ! " And he sleeps, he is sleeping. XIII. And day followed 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 Seemed to cherish, impeded life's pro- gress. And still A feebleness, less of the frame than the will, Clung about the sick man : hid and harbored within The sad hollow eyes : pinched the cheek pale and thin : And clothed the wan fingers with languor. And thorp, Day by day, night by night, unremit- ting in care, Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien, And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine ! XIV. 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 Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transpsirent, the soul Seemed to fill with its own light, like some sunny fountain Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, And all . the more lovely for loneliness seems. So that, watching that face, you would scarce pause to guess The years which its calm careworn lines might express, Feeling only what suffering with these must have past To have perfected there so much sweet- ness 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 ..." Uhave healed These wounds of the body. Why hast thou concealed, 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 't ' he moaned bitterly. LUCILE. 131 "Nay," With compassionate accents she hastened 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 ? " 0, was it spoken, ' Go ye forth, heal tlie sick, lift the low, bind the broken ! ' Of the body alone ? Is our mission, then, done, When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone ? Nay, is not the mission of mercy two- fold ? 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 afflic- tion, and art Helped 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, when it changes our lot. ] Booking up to this light, which is com- mon 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 ! 0, if in this hour I en deavor To trace the shade creeping across the young life Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watched through its strife With the shadow of death, 't is with this faith alone, That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun. Trust to me ! " She paused : he was weeping. Small need Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed, Had those gentle accents to win from his pale And parched, 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. 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 Nor- man 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 re- gard, From childhood to girlhood. This fair orphan ward Seemed the sole human creature that lived in the heart Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart One ray of response to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, looked down with a love That seemed almost stern, so intense was its chill 132 LUCILE. Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. Grass grew in the court-yard ; the cham- bers were bare In that ancient mansion ; when first the stern tread Of its owner awakened their echoes long dead : Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had placed on his bosom. 'T was said right or wrong That, in the lone mansion, left tenant- less long, To which, as a stranger, its lord now returned, In years yet recalled, through loud mid- nights had burned The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, Slow and sad was the footstep which now wandered through Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate. Men now saw appear Every morn at the mass that h'rm sor- rowful face, Which seemed to lock up in a cold iron case Tears hardened to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, His severity seemed 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 seemed in the midst of his good deeds to stand A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. There ap|>eared some inscrutable flaw in the plan Of his life, that love failed 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 Seemed the type of some joy lost, and missed, in himself. Ever welcome he suffered 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. But few years had passed o'er that child- hood before A change came among them. A letter, which bore Sudden consequence with it, one morn- ing 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 passed. When he came back again he returned With a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the child learned That they were of the same race and name. With a face Sad and anxious, to this withered 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 watchword And the creed of his youth in unsheath- ing his sword For a Fatherland fathered no more (such is fate !) By legitimate parents. Aud meanwhile, elate CONSTANCE. LUCILE. 133 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 en- dure, 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 ! Vive la France ! " Few and rare were the meetings hence- forth, as years fled, Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women led Lone lives in the lone house. Mean- while the child grew Into girlhood ; and, like a sunbeam, sliding through Her green quiet years, changed by gen- tle 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 confide 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 ac- quaintance 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 Nor checked, the young soldier was gra- ciously bidden An habitual guest to that house by the dame. His own candid graces, the world-hon- ored name Of his father (in him not dishonored) 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 prolonged, she (thus easing long self-gratulation) Wrote to him a lengthened and moving narration Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer : His father's fair fame ; the boy's defer- ence to her ; His love for Constance, unaffected, sincere ; And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear Limpid eyes ; then the pleasure with which she awaited Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. At length from that cousin an answer there came, Brief, stern ; such as stunned and as- tonished 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 ! " No appeal from that sentence. It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover : The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. 134 LUCILE. Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life, where invisible hands seemed to trace O'er the threshold, these words . . . " Hope no more ! " Unretumed Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurned 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 destroyed him ? News reached him indeed, Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Con- stance (it was one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, A Frenchman, and friend of the Fau- bourg), which said That Constance, although never a mur- mur betrayed "What she suffered, in silence grew paler each day, And seemed 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 gliinpsesalone,acoiled grief. Through each pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, The rain shook the canvas, unheeded ; aloof, And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-root At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, The sick man, exhausted, drooped back- ward his head, And fell into a feverish slumber. Long while Sat the Sosur 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 Seemed to darken the lines of long sor- row and care, As low to herself she sighed . . . "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 ? " XVIII. Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. "Here, at least, I have failed not" . . . she mused ..." this is well ! " She drew from her bosom two letters. In one, A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. "The pledge of a love owed to thee, Lucile ! The hope of a home saved by thee, of a heart Which hath never since then (thrice en- deared as thou art !) Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save ! . . . save my son ! And if not" . . . the letter went brokenly on, " Heaven help us ! " Then followed, from Alfred, a few Blotted heart-broken pages. He mourn- fully drew, With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, So unlike his own : how in beauty and troth He had nurtured that nature, so simple .-mil brave ! LUCILE. 135 And how he had striven his son's youth to save From the errors so sadly redeemed in his own, And so deeply repented : how thus, in that son, In whose youth he had garnered his age, he had seemed To be blessed by a pledge that the past was redeemed, And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak Of the boy's baffled love ; in which fate seemed 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 ! Lucile ! Heaven bless you for all you have done ! Save him, save him, Lucile ! save my son ! save my son ! " " Ay ! " murmured the Sceur Seraphine ..." heart to heart ! There, at least, I have failed not ! Ful- filled is my part ? Accomplished my mission ? One act crowns the whole. Do I linger ? Nay, be it so, then ! . . . Soul to soul ! " She knelt down, and prayed. Still the boy slumbered on. Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone. Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, bus- ily bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-ordered tent There sits a French General, bronzed by the sun And seared 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 entered, in- deed, Late in life (and discarding his Bour- bonite creed) The Army of France : and had risen, in part, From a singular aptitude 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, in- trepidly won With many a wound, trenched in many a scar, From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. 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 messen- gers 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. 136 LUCILE. Ho 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 de- clares 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 ... Soeur . . . how do they call her ? "Ay, truly, of her 1 have heard much," the General, mus- ing, replies ; " And we owe her already (unless nimor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean . . . Ay, how do they call her ? . . . the Sceur Seraphine, (Is it not so ?) I rarely forget names once heard." "Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." "On my word, I have much wished 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, man G6n6ral ; I believe she has lately obtained 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, man Central." 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 Of brief private speech with the General there. Will the General speak with her ? " "Bid her declare Her mission." " She will not. She craves to be seen And be heard." "Well, her name then?" "The Soeur Serajiliinr. " " Clear the tent She may enter." XXII. The tent has been cleared. The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, A sable long silvered : and pressed down his brow On his hand, heavy veined. All his countenance, now Unwitnessed, 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, unrepressed, Steals th' impatient quick sigh, which reveals in man's breast A conflict concealed, an experience at strife With itself, the vexed heart's passing protest on life. He turned 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 wished 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 Darkened over his features. He muttered ..." Strange ! strange ! Any face should so strongly remind me of her ! Fool ! again the delirium, the dream I does it stir ? LUCILE. 137 Does it move as of old ? Psha ! "Sit, Sister ! I wait Your answer, iny time halts but hur- riedly. State The cause why you seek me T" " 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 move- ment she made, Less toward him than away from herself ; drooped her head. 138 LUCILE. And folded her hands on her bosom : long, spare, Fatigued, mournful hands ! Not a stream <>f Mi-ay hair Escaped tlif pair hands; scarce more pale than the face Which they bound and locked up in a rigid whit. She fixed her eyes on him. There crept a vague a\vr OVr his sense, such as ghosts cast. "Eugene de Luvois, The cause which recalls me again to your side Is a promise that rests unfulfilled," she replied. "I come to fulfil it." He sprang from the place Where he sat, pressed his hand, as in doubt, o'er his fare ; And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground That he trod on (as one who walks fear- ing the sound Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light Unawares), crept towards her ; one heavy hand laid On her shoulder in silence ; bent o'er her his head, Searched her face with a long look of troubled appeal Against doubt ; staggered backward, and murmured ..." Lucile ! Thus we meet then ? . . . here ! . . . thus?" "Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, As I pledged you my word that we should meet again. Dead, . . ." she murmured, "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 ma)' 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 - He said (worked and white was his cheek As he raised it), "Speak to me ! " 1 1, 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 string, A swift hand athwart the hushed 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 Unaccomplished 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 twi- light of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh - flowered slope Of life's dawning land ! 'T is the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy ! The unproved desire, the unaimed as- piration, The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation ; 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, LUCILE. 139 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, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy ! Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene ! While the leaf's in the 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 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. v XXV. Lo ! manhood is come. And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree, And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see : What shade from the leaf? what sup- port from the branch ? Spreads the leaf broad and fair ? holds the boijgh 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 re- joice ! 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 hurled Those fragments), " It was not a love, 't was a world, 'T was a life that lay ruined, Lucile ! " 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 shat- ters the past." "Ay," he moodily murmured, "and who cares to scan The heart's perished 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 ! " XXVII. Lucile ! ... the old name, the old self ! silenced long : Heard once more ! felt once more ! As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature, surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, Calling to her forlornly ; and (saddening the psalms Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms !) The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth Sighed above some lone grave in the land of her birth ; So that one word . . . Lucile ! . . . stirred the Sceur Seraphine, For a moment. Anon she resumed her serene And concentrated calm. " Let the Nun, then, retrace The life of the Soldier ! " . . . she said, with a face That glowed, gladdening her words. " To the present I come : Leave the Past." There her voice rose, and seemed as when some Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise 140 LTJCILE. 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 ex- istence. Her words were of trial, endurance, re- sistance ; Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours : And the same sentinels 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 neighborhood ; And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cot- tager's door. There she paused : and her accents seemed dipped in the hue Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, Yet working love's work ; reading back- wards life's pages For penance ; and stubbornly, many a 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 reached his heart, And sank lower. She spoke of herself : how, apart And unseen, far away, she had watched, year by year, With how many a blessing, how many a tear, And how many a prayer, every stage in the stiitr : Guessed the thought in the deed : traced the love in the life : Blessed the man in the man's work ! " Thy work ... 0, not mine ! Thine, Lucile ! " . . . he exclaimed . . . " all the worth of it thine If worth there be in it ! " Her answer conveyed His reward, and her own : joy that can- not 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 for others ! . . . . She bent Her divine face above him, and filled up his heart With the look that glowed from it. Then slow, with soft art, Fixed her aim, and moved to it. XXIX. He, the soldier humane, He, the hero ; whose heart hid in glory the pain Of a youth disappointed ; whose life had made known The value of man's life ! . . . that youth overthrown And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth In another ? his own life of strenuous truth Accomplished in act, had it taught him no care For the life of another ? ... no ! every- where In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face With some noble token, some generou? 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 tire mind ! T is heart that needs aid ! LUCILE. 141 You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can Save the life of this man. Will you save it ? " "Whatman? 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 despair, 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 ! 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 woun ds 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 dropped, stricken down . By the news that the heart of Constance, like his own, Was breaking beneath . . . But there " Hold ! " he exclaimed, Interrupting, "forbear!" . . . his whole face was inflamed With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke, Had been gathering silent, at last the storm 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 deigned 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 the past Must the present be vassal ? " she said. " In the hour We last parted I urged you to put forth the power Which I felt to be yours, in the con- quest of life. Yours, the promise to strive : mine, to watch o'er the strife. I foresaw you would conquer ; you have conquered much, Much, indeed, that is noble ! I hail it as such, And am here to record and applaud it. I saw 142 LUCILE. Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, One peril, one point where I feared 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, For that gentle child without father or mother, To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, For your own nobler nature, and plead for Constance ! " At the sound of that name he averted his head. 'Constance ! . . . Ay, she entered my lone life " (he said) ' When its sun was long set ; and hung over its night Her own starry childhood. I have but that light, In the midst of much darkness ! Who names me but she With titles of love ? and what rests there for me In the silence of age save the voice of that child ? The child of my own better life, unde- nted ! My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts ! " "Say," Said the Soeur Seraphine, "are you able to lay Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man And swear that, whatever may happen, you can Feel assured for the life you thus cher- ish?" "How so?" He looked up. "If the boy should die thus?" "Yes, I know What your look would imply . . . this sleek stranger 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 tnese are strong They break it, and farewell ! the bird flies ! " . . . The nun Laid her hand on the soldier, and mur- mured, "The sun Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus ! 0, 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 robbed, 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 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 nmbrage an- cestral the wind Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the il. ']> 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 ? " " 0, think not," she said, " of the son LUCILE. 143 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 wrecked a whole life ! then, Eugene, Look with me (still those words in our ears !) once again At this young soldier sinking from life here, dragged down By the weight of the love in his heart : no renown, No fame comforts him/ nations shout not above The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love Which life has rejected ! Will you stand apart ? You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart ! You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won, By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, Such as lies at your door now : who have but, in truth, To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word, And by that word you rescue a life ! " He was stirred. Still he sought to put from him the cup ; bowed his face On his hand ; and anon, as though wish- ing to chase With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, He sprang up, brushed past her, and bitterly cried, " No ! Constance wed a Vargrave ! I cannot consent ! " Then uprose the Sceur Seraphine. The low tent, In her sudden uprising, seemed dwarfed by the height From which those imperial eyes poured the light Of their deep silent sadness upon him. No won dei- He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under The compulsion of that grave regard ! For between The Due de Luvois and the Sceur Sera- phine At that moment there rose all the height of one soul O'er another ; she looked 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 thrilled through And transfixed him. " Eugene de Luvois, but for you, I might have been now, not this wandering nun, But a mother, a wife, pleading, not for the son Of another, but blessing some child of my own, His, the man's that I once loved ! . . . Hush ! that which is done I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That 's best Which God sends. 'T was His will : it is mine. And the rest Of that riddle 1 will not look back to. He reads In your heart, He that judges of all thoughts and deeds, With eyes, mine forestall not ! This only I say : You have not the right (read it, you, as you may !) To say ... ' I am the wronged.' "... "Have I wronged thee ? wronged thee ! " He faltered, "Lucile, ah, Lucile ! " " Nay, not me," She murmured, " but man ! The lone nun standing here Has no claim upon earth, and is passed 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, heed, while you can, This voice from the grave ! " " Hush ! " he moaned, " I obey The Sceur Seraphine. There, Lucile ! let this pay 144 LUCILE. Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on : I follow you, Sceur 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 hastions, with bat- teries crowned, Of the city beneath them . . . " Then, there, underground, And valete d plauditc, 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 declining ; a day sick and damp. In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly camp Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent (Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent On thi? daylight departing, the sick man was sitting Upon his low ]>allet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting, Crossed the silence between him and death, which seemed near. " Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balked ! 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. 0, 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 aun 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 watched through the glory and gloom Of the battle, with long, longing looks that dim plume Which now (one stray sunbeam mpon it) shook, stooped To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was looped ! How that stern face had haunted and hovered about The dreams it still scared ! through what fond fear and doubt Had the boy yeamed in heart to the hero ! (What 's like A boy's love for some famous man ?) . . . O, to strike A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, And so fall in his glorious regard ! . . . Oft, how oft Had his heart flashed 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, dropped through the camp-babble in praise Of his hero, each tale of old ventu- rous 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 reeled back : a dim Sanguine haze filled his eyes ; in his ears rose the din And rush, as of cataracts loosened within, Through which he saw faintlj', and heard, the pale nun (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun) 'THE SICK SOLDIER SPRANG UP- LUCILE. 145 Point to him and murmur, " Behold ! " Then that plume Seemed 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 sighed, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face ! and those eyes, All the mother's ! The old things again ! "Do not rise. You suffer, young man ? " THE BOY. Sir, I die. THE DUKE. Not so young ! THE BOY. So young ? yes ! and yet I have tangled among The frayed warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, young so young ! And 1 knew you not ? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable ! . . . late, too late to repair. If 1 knew any means . . . but I know none ! . . . I swear, If this broken fraction of'time could ex- tend 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 for- give ? 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 forgive- ness I think Should free my soul hence. 10 Ah ! you could not surmise Thai a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing 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 ! 0, how obdurate then looked your tent ! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . "Off! he is there!" I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low Other footsteps (not those !) must soon bear to the grave. But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. Duke, I swear, 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 seemed Born to love her. Alas, were that all ! had I dreamed Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend ... why, whilst there was room In life left for warning, had no one the heart To warn me ? Had any one whispered ..." Depart !" To the hope the whole world seemed in league then to nurse ! Had any one hinted ..." Beware of the curse Which is coming ! " There was not a voice raised to tell, Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, 146 LUC1LE. And then . . . then the blow fell on both I This is why 1 implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought 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 BOY. Of whom ? THE DUKB. 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 nought 'T is for me to forgive. Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an elo- quent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life ? Nay, all these, Were they so many lying and false wit- nesses, Does there rest not one voice, which was never untrue ? I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does 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 signed out by his hand. I was not of those whom the bufTets of fate Tame and teach : and my heart buried slain love in hate. If your own frank young heart, yet un- conscious of all Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall, 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 atone- ment, 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 01 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 tu- multuous joy Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy : As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined, Struggles outward through shadows, the varying wind Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison, So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen To answer the Duke ; but strength failed 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 To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake ! " "Yes, Duke : I will live. I must live, live to make LUCILE. 147 My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, " For joy does not kill ! " Back again the faint head Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw His lips quiver, and motioned the Duke to withdraw And leave them a moment together. He eyed Them both with a wistful regard ; turned, and sighed, And lifted the tent-door, and passed from the tent. XXXV. Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occi- dent 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 por- tents arise, Monstrous clouds, massed, misshapen, and tinged with strange dyes, Hovered over the red fume, and changed to weird shapes 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, And changed by his influence !) change- less, as when, Ere he lit down to death generations of men, O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which there- with wild shapes this cloud-world seemed to mimic in air, The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone, And shall shine on the ages we reach not, the sun ! XXXVI. Nature posted her parable thus in the skies, And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors arise And fall, pass and change, group them- selves and revolve Round the great central life, which is Love : these dissolve And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there terror ; And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, And endless complexity, lasts but a while ; Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile Of God, on the soul, in the deep heart of Heaven Lives changeless, unchanged : and our morning and even Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. XXXVII. While he yet Watched the skies, with this thought in his heart ; while he set Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, Summed it up, searched it out, proved it vapor and wind, And embraced the new life which that hour had revealed, Love's life, which earth's life had de- faced and concealed ; Lucile left the tent and stood by him. Her tread Aroused him ; and, turning towards her, he said : " Sceur Seraphine, are you happy ? " "Eugene, What is happier than to have hoped not in vain ? " She answered, "And you ? " "Yes." "You do not repent ? " "No." " Thank Heaven ! " she murmured. He musingly bent His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart Where he stood, sighed, as though ^o his innermost heart, " blessed are they, amongst whom 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, 148 LUCII.K. With all its hushed thunders shut up ! Would you know A thought which came to me a few days ago. Whilst watching those ships ? . . . When the great Ship of Life, Surviving, though shattered, the tumult and strife Of earth's angry element, masts broken short, Decks drenched, 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 baf- fled roar, The mariner turns to his rest ever- more ; What will then be the answer the helms- man must give ? Will it be ... ' Lo our log-book ! Thus once did we live In the zones of the South ; thus we trav- ersed the seas Of the Orient ; there dwelt with the Hesperides ; Thence followed the west-wind ; here, eastward we turned ; The stars failed us there ; just here land we discerned On our lee ; there the storm overtook us at last ; That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast ; There the mermen came round us, and there we saw bask A siren ' ? The Captain of Port will he ask Any one of such questions ? I cannot think so ! But . . . ' What is the last Bill of Health you can show ? ' Not How fared the soul through the trials she passed? But What is the state of that soul at the last?" " May it be so ! " he sighed. " There ! the sun drops, behold ! " And indeed, whilst he spoke, all the pur- ple and gold In the west had turned ashen, save one fading strip Of light that yet gleamed 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. " Nimc dimittis f" she said. "0 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, lu both these confirm us ! " The helmsman, Eugene, Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. Again We two part : each to work out Heaven's will : you, I 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 art- many and wide, And seldom are two ways the same. ide by side May we stand at the same little door when all 's done ! The ways they are many, the end it is one. He that knocketh shall enter : who asks shall obtain : And who seeketh, he findeth. Remem- ber, Eugene ! " She turned to depart. " Whither? whither?" ... he said. She stretched forth her hand where, al- ready outspread On the darkened horizon, remotely they saw The French camp-fires kindling. " Due de Luvois, See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart Made as one man's by one hope ! That hope 't is your part To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse : Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse. I go to my work : you to yours." XXXVII. Whilst she spoke On the wide wasting evening there dis- tantly broke LUCILE. 149 The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, From the dim Flag-staff Battery bel- lowed a gun. " Our chasseurs are at it ! " he muttered. She turned, Smiled, and passed up the twilight. He faintly discerned 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, accom- plished, 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 in- fuse, Through the sorrow and sin of earth's registered 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 veiled in cloud : Yet still burning outward : a branch which, though bowed By the bird in its passage, springs up- ward again : Through all symbols I search for her sweetness in vain ! Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love In act. Pure was hers : and the dear God above, Who knows what His creatures have need of for life, And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirrored, as life's troubled dream Wore away ; and love sighed into rest, like a stream That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shore Of the great sea which hushes it up ever- more 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 just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the Face that makes glo- rious their own, Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary ? Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo : He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog ; The loud fortress barked at her like & chained dog. 150 THE APPLE OF LIFE. The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, War and winter, and twilight, and ter- ror, and doubt ; All within, light, warmth, calm ! In the twilight, long while Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thought- ful sinil(! Lingered, looking, and listening, lone by the tent. At last he withdrew, and night closed aa he went THE APPLE OF LIFE. FROM the river Euphrates, the river whose source is in Paradise, far As red Egypt, sole lord of the land and the sea, 'twixt the home of the star That is horn in the blush of the East, and the porch of the chambers of rest Where the great sea is girded with fire, and Orion returns in the West, And the ships come and go in grand silence, King Solomon reigned. And behold, In that time there was everywhere silver as common as stones be, and gold That for plenty was 'counted as silver, and cedar as sycamore-trees That are found in the vale, for abundance. For GOD to the King gave all these, With glory exceeding ; moreover all kings of the earth to him came, Because of his wisdom, to hear him. So great was King Solomon's fame. And for all this the King's soul was sad. And his heart said within him, "All* For man dies ! if his glory abideth, himself from his glory shall pass. And that which remaineth behind him, he seeth it not any more : For how shall he know what comes after, who knoweth not what went before ? I have planted me gardens and vineyards, and gotten me silver and gold, And my hand from whatever my heart hath desired I did not withhold : And what profit have I in the works of my hands which I take not away ? I have searched out wisdom and knowledge : and what do they profit me, they? As the fool dieth, so doth the wise. What is gathered is scattered again. As the breath of the beasts, even so is the breath of the children of men : And the same .thing befalleth them both. And not any man's soul is his own." This he thought, as he sat in his garden and watched the great sun going dowir In the glory thereof ; and the earth and the sky by the beam of the same Were clothed with the gladness of color, and bathed in the beauty of flame. And " Behold," said the King, " in a moment the glory shall vanish ! " Even then. While he spake, he was 'ware of a man drawing near him, who seemed to his ken (By the hair in its blackness like flax that is burned in the hemp-dresser's shed, And the brow's smoky hue, and the smouldering eyeball more livid than lead) As the sons of the land that lies under the sword of the Cherub whose wing Wraps in wrath the shut gateways of Paradise. He, being come to the King, Seven times made obeisance before him. To whom, " What art thou," the King cried, " That thus unannounced to King Solomon comest ? " The man, spreading wide The palm of his right hand, showed in it an apple yet bright from the Tree In whose stem springs the life never-failing which Sin lost to Adam, when he, Tasting knowledge forbidden, found death in the fruit of it. ... So doth the Giver Evil gifts to the evil apportion. And " Hail ! let the King live forever ! " Bowing down at the feet of the monarch, arid laughingly, even as one Whose meaning, in joy or in jest, hovers hid 'twixt the word and the ton, THE APPLE OF LIFE. 151 Raid the stranger, " For lo ye " (and lightly he dropped in the hand of the King That apple), " from 'twixt the four rivers of Eden, Gor> gave me to bring To his servant King Solomon, even to my lord that on Israel's throne He hath 'stablisht, this fruit from the Tree in whose branch Life abideth : for none Shall taste death, having tasted this apple." And therewith he vanished. Remained In the hand of the King the life-apple : ambrosial of breath, golden-grained, Rosy-bright as a star dipt in sunset. The King turned it o'er, and perused The fruit, which, alluring his lip, in his hand lay untasted. He mused, " Life is good : but not life in itself. Life eternal, eternally young, That were life to be lived, or desired ! Well it were if a man could prolong The manhood that moves in the muscles, the rapture that mounts in the brain "When life at the prime, in the pastime of living, led on by the train Of the jubilant senses, exulting goes forth, brave of body and spirit, _ To conquer, choose, claim, and enjoy what 't was born to achieve or inherit. The dance, and the festal procession ! the pride in the strenuous play Of the sinews that, pliant of power, the will, though it wanton, obey ! When the veins are yet wishful, and in them the bountiful impulses beat, When the lilies of Love are yet living, the roses of Beauty yet sweet : And the eye glows with glances that kindle, the lip breathes the warmth that inspires, And the hand hath yet vigor to seize the good thing which the spirit desires ! well for the foot that bounds forward ! and ever the wind it awakes Lifts no lock from the forehead yet white, not a leaf that is withered yet shakes From the loose crown that laughs on young tresses ! and ever the earth and the skies Are crammed with audacious contingencies, measureless means of surprise ! Life is sweet to the young that yet know not what life is. But life, after Youth, The gay liar, leaves hold of the bauble, and Age, with his terrible truth, Picks it up, and perceives it is broken, and knows it unfit to engage The care it yet craves. . . . Life eternal, eternally wedded to Age ! What gain were in that ? Why should any man seek what he loathes to prolong ? The twilight that darkens the eyeball : the dull ear that 's deaf to the song, When the maidens rejoice and the bride to the bridegroom, with music, is led : The palsy that shakes 'neath the blossoms that fall from the chill bridal bed. When the hand saith 'I did,' not ' I will do,' the heart saith ' It was,' not "Twill be,' Too late in man's life is Forever, too late comes this apple to me ! " Then the King rose. And lo, it was evening. And leaning, because he was old, On the sceptre that, curiously sculptured in ivory garnished with gold, To others a rod of dominion, to him was a staff for support, Slow paced he the murmurous pathways where myrtles, in court up to court, Mixt with roses in garden on garden, were ranged around fountains that fed With cool music green odorous twilights : and so, never lifting his head To look up from the way he walked wearily, he to the House of his Pride Reascended, and entered. In cluster, high lamps, spices, odors, each side, Burning inward and onward, from cinnamon ceilings, down distances vast Of voluptuous vistas, illumined deep halls through whose silentness passed King Solomon sighing ; where columns colossal stood, gathered in groves As the trees of the forest in Libanus, there where the wind, as it moves, Whispers, " I, too, am Solomon's servant ! " huge trunks hid in garlands of gold, On whose tops the skilled sculptors of Sidon had granted men's gaze to behold How the phoenix that sits on the cedar's lone summit 'mid fragrance and fire, Ever dying, and living, hath loaded with splendors her funeral pyre ; 152 THE APPLE OF LIFE. How the stork builds her nest on the pine-top ; the date from the palm-branch depends ; And the aloe's great blossom bursts, crowning with beauty the life that it ends. A inl from hall on to hull, in the doors, mutt', magnificent .slaves, watchful-eyed, Bowed to earth as King Solomon passed them. And, passing, King Solomon sighed. And, from hall on to hall pacing feebly, the king mused ... "0 fair ShulamiU- : Thy beauty is brighter than starlight on Hebron when Hebron is bright, Thy sweetness is sweeter than Carmel. The King rules the nations ; but thou, Thou rulest the King, my Beloved." So murmured King Solomon low To himself, as he passed through the portal of porphyry, that dripped, as he passed, From the myrrh-sprinkled wreaths on the locks and the lintels ; and entered at last, Still sighing, the sweet cedarn chamber, contrived for repose and delight, Where the beautiful Shulamite slumbered. And straightway, to left and to right, Bowing down as he entered, the Spirits in bondage to Solomon, there Keeping watch o'er his love, sank their swords, spread their wings, and evanished in air. The King with a kiss woke the sleeper. And, showing the fruit in his hand, "Behold ! this was brought me erewhile by one coming," he said, "from the land That lies under the sword of the Cherub. 'T was pluckt by strange hands from the Tree Of whose fruit whoso tastes lives forever. And therefore I bring it to thee, My Beloved. For thou of the daughters of women art fairest. And lo, I, the King, I that love thee, whom men of man's sons have called wisest, I know That in knowledge is sorrow. Much thought is much care. In the beauty of youth, Not the wisdom of age, is enjoyment. Nor spring, is it sweeter, in truth, Than winter to roses once withered. The garment, though broidered with gold, Fades apace where the moth frets the fibres. So I, in my glory, grow old. And this life maketh mine (save the bliss of my soul in the beauty of thee) No sweetness so great now that greatly unsweet 't were to lose what to me Life prolonged, at its utmost, can promise. But thine, thou spirit of bliss, Thine is all that the living desire, youth, beauty, love, joy in all this ! And were it not well for the praise of the world to maintain evermore This mould of a woman, God's masterwork, made for mankind to adore ? Wherefore keep thou the gift I resign. Live forever, rejoicing in life ! And of women unborn yet the fairest shall still be King Solomon's wife." So he said, and so dropped in her bosom the apple. But when he was gone, And the beautiful Shulamite, eying the gift of the King, sat alone With the thoughts the King's words had awakened, as ever she turned and perused The fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untested she mused, " Life is good ; but not life in itself. So is youth, so is beauty. Mere stuff Are all these for Love's usance. To live, it is well ; but it is not enough. Well, too, to be fair, to be young ; but what good is in beauty and youth If the lovely and young are not surer than they that be neither, forsooth, Young nor lovely, of being beloved ? my love, if thou lovest net me, Shall I love my own life ? Am I fair, if not fair, Azariah, to thee." Then she hid in her bosom the apple. And rose. And, reversing the ring That, inscribed with the word that works wonders, and signed with the seal of the King, Compels even spirits to obedience (for she, for a plaything, erewhile From King Solomon's awful forefinger, had won it away with a smile) THE APPLE OF LIFE. 153 The beautiful Shulamite folded her veil o'er her forehead and eyes, And unseen from the sweet cedarn chamber, unseen through the long galleries, Unseen from the palace, she passed, and passed down to the city unseen, Unseen passed the green garden wicket, the vineyard, the cypresses green, And stood by the doors of the house of the Prince Azariah. And cried, In the darkness she cried, "Azariah, awaken ! ope, ope to me wide ! Ope the door, ope the lattice ! Arise ! Let me in, my love ! It is I. I, the bride of King Solomon, love thee. Love, tarry not. Love, shall I die At thy doors ? I am sick of desire. For my love is more comely than gold. More precious to me is my love than the throne of a king that is old. Behold, I have passed through the city, unseen of the watchmen. I stand By the doors of the house of my love, till my love lead me in by the hand." Azariah arose. And unbolted the door to the fair Shulamite. "0 my queen, what dear folly is this, that hath led thee alone, and by night, To the house of King Solomon's servant ? For lo you, the watchmen awake. And much for my own, my queen, must I fear, and much more for thy sake. For at that which is done in the chamber the leek on the house-top shall peep : And the hand of a king it is heavy : the eyes of a king never sleep : But the bird of the air beareth news to the king, and the stars of the sky Are as soldiers by night on the turrets. I fear, my queen, lest we die." " Fear thou not, my love ! Azariah, fear nothing. For lo, what I bring ! 'T is the fruit of the Tree that in Paradise GOD hideth under the wing Of the Cherub that chased away Adam. And whoso this apple doth eat Shall live live forever ! And since unto me my own life is less sweet Thai*, thy love, Azariah, (sweet only my life is if thou lovest me ! ) Therefore eat ! Live, and love, for life's sake, still, the love that gives life unto thee ! " Then she held to his lips the life-apple, and kissed him. But soon as alone, Azariah leaned out from his lattice, he muttered, " 'T is well ! She is gone." While the fruit in his hand lay untasted. "Such visits," he mused, "may cost dear. In the love of the great is great danger, much trouble, and care more than cheer." Then he laughed and stretched forth his strong arms. For he heard from the streets of the city The song of the women that sing in the doors after dark their love ditty. And the clink of the wine-cup, the voice of the wanton, the tripping of feet, And the laughter of youths running after, allured him. And " Life, it is sweet While it lasts," sang the women, " and sweeter the good minute, in that it goes. For who, if the rose bloomed forever, so greatly would care for the rose? Wherefore haste ! pluck the time in the blossom." The prince mused, " The coun- sel is well." And the fruit to his lips he uplifted : yet paused. " Who is he that can tell What his days shall bring forth ? Life forever . . . But what sort of life ? Ah, the doubt ! " 'Neath his cloak then he thrust back the apple. And opened the door and passed out To the house of the harlot Egyptian. And mused, as he went, " Life is good : But not life in itself. It is. well while the wine-cup is hot in the blood, And a man goeth whither he listeth, and doeth the thing that he will, And liveth his life as he lusteth, and taketh in freedom his fill Of the pleasure that pleaseth his humor, and feareth no snare by the way. Shall I care to be loved by a queen, if my pride with my freedom I pay ? Better far is a handful in quiet than both hands, though filled to o'erflow With pride, in vexation of spirit. And sweeter the roses that blow From the wild seeds the wind, where he wanders, with heedless beneficence flings, Than those that are guarded by dragons to brighten the gardens of kings. 154 THE APPLE OF LIFE. Let a man take hts chance, and be happy. The hart by the hunter pursued, That far from the herd on the hill-top hounds swift through the blue solitude, Is more to be envied, though Death with his dart follow t'u.-t to destroy, Than the tame Insist that, pent in the paddock, tastes neither the danger nor joy Of the mountain, and all its surprises. The main tiling is, not to live long, But to live. Better moments of rapture soon ended than ages of wrong. Life's feast is best spiced by the flavor of death in it. Just the one chance To lose it to-morrow the life that a man lives to-day doth enhance. The may-be for me, not the must-be ! Best flourish while flourish the flowers, And fall i;re the frost falls. The dead, do they rest or arise with new powers ? For a man cannot feed and be full on the faith of to-morrow's baked meat. Open ! open, my dark-eyed beguiler of darkness ! " Up rose to his knock, Light of foot, the lascivious Egyptian, and lifted the latch from the lock, And opened. And led in the prince to her chamber, and shook out her hair, Dark, heavy, and humid with odors ; her bosom beneath it laid bare, And sleek sallow shoulder ; and sloped back her face, as, when falls the slant South In wet whispers of rain, flowers bend back to catch it ; so she, with shut mouth Half-unfolding for kisses ; and sank, as they fell, 'twixt his knees, with a laugh, On the floor, m a flood of deep hair flung behind her full throat ; held him half Aloof with one large, languid arm, while the other uppropped, where she lay, Limbs flowing in fulness and lucid in surface as waters at play, Though in firmness as slippery marble. Anon she sprang loose from his clasp, And whirled from the table a flagon of silver twined round by an asp That glittered, rough gold and red rubies ; and poured him, and praised him, the wine Wherewith she first brightened the moist lip that murmured, " Ha, fool ! art thou mine ? I am thine. This will last for an hour." Then, humming strange words of a song, Sung by maidens in Memphis the old, when they bore the Crowned Image along, Apples yellow and red from a basket with vine-leaves o'erlaid she 'gan take, And played with, peeled, tost them, andcaught them, and bit them, foridleness' sake ; But the rinds on the floor she flung from her, and laughed at the figures they made, As her foot pusht them this way and that way together. And "Look, fool," she said, " It is all sour fruit, this ! But those I fling from me, see here by the stain ! Shall cany the mark of my teeth in their flesh. Could they feel but the pain, my soul, how these teeth should go through them ! Fool, fool, what good gift dost thou bring ? For thee have I sweetened with cassia my chambers." " A gift for a king," Azariah laughed loud ; and tost to her the apple. "This comes from the Tree Of whose fruit whoso tastes lives forever. I care not. I give it to thee. Nay, witch ! 't is worth more than the shekels of gold thou hast charmed from my purse. Take it. Eat, and thank me for the meal, witch ! for Eve, thy sly mother, fared worse, Othou white-toothed taster of apples?" "Thouliest, fool!" " Taste, then, and try. For the truth of the fruit 's in the eating. 'T is thou art the ser]x>nt, not I." And the strong man laughed loud as he pushed at her lip the life-apple. She caught And held it away from her, musing ; and muttered ..." Go to ! It is naught. Fool, why dost thou laugh ? " And he answered, " Because, witch, it tickles my brain Intensely to think that all we, that be Something while yet we remain, 'AND, KNEELING THERE, CRIED, 'LET THE KING LIVE FOREVER ! ' " Page 155. THE APPLE OF LIFE. 155 We, the princes of people, ay, even the King's self, shall die in our day, And thou, that art Nothing, shalt sit on our graves, with our grandsons, and play." So he said, and laughed louder. But when, in the gray of the dawn, he was gone, And the wan light waxed large in the window, as she on her bed sat alone, With the fruit that, alluring her lip, in her hand lay untasted, perusing, Perplext, the gay gift of the Prince, the dark woman thereat fell a musing, And she thought ..." What is Life without Honor ? And what can the life that I live Give to me, I shall care to continue, not caring for aught it can give ? I, despising the fools that despise me, a plaything not pleasing myself, Whose life, for the pelf that maintains it, must sell what is paid not by pelf ! 1 ? ... the man called me Nothing. He said well. ' The great in their glory must go. ' And why should I linger, whose life leadeth nowhere ? a life which I know To name is to shame struck, unsexed, by the world from its list of the lives Of the women whose womanhood, saved, gets them leave to be mothers and wives. And the fancies of men change. And bitterly bought is the bread that I eat ; For, though purchased with body and spirit, when purchased 't is yet all unsweet." Her tears fell: they fell on the apple. She sighed . . . "Sour fruit, like the rest ! Let it go with the salt tears upon it. Yet life ... it were sweet if possessed In the power thereof, and the beauty. ' A gift for a king' . . . did he say ? Ay, a king's life is a life as it should be, a life like the light of the day, Wherein all that liveth rejoiceth. For is not the King as the sun That shineth in heaven and seemeth both heaven and itself all in one ? Then to whom may this fruit, the life-giver, be worthily given ? Not me. Nor the fool Azariah that sold it for folly. The King ! only he, Only he hath the life that 's worth living forever. Whose life, not alone Is the life of the King, but the life of the many made mighty in one. To the King will I carry this apple. And he (for the hand of a king Is a fountain of hope) in his handmaid shall honor the gift that I bring. And men for this deed shall esteem me, with Rahab by Israel praised, As first among those who, though lowly, their shame into honor have raised : Such honor as lasts when life goes, and, while life lasts, shall lift it above What, if loved by the many I loathe, must be loathed by the few I could love." So she rose, and went forth through the city. And with her the apple she bore In her bosom : and stood 'mid the multitude, waiting therewith in the door Of the hall where the King, to give judgment, ascended at morning his throne : And, kneeling there, cried, " Let the King live forever ! Behold, I am one Whom the vile of themselves count the vilest. But great is the grace of my lord. And now let my lord on his handmaid look down, and give ear to her word." Thereat, in the witness of all, she drew forth, and (uplifting her head) Showed the Apple of Life, which who tastes, tastes not death. " And this apple," she said, ; ' Last night was delivered to me, that thy servant should eat, and not die. But I said to the soul of thy servant, ' Not so. For behold, what am I ? That the King, in his glory and gladness, should cease from the light of the sun, Whiles I, that am least of his slaves, in my shame and abasement live on.' For not sweet is the life of thy servant, unless to thy servant my lord Stretch his hand, and show favor. For surely the frown of a king is a sword, But the smile of the King is as honey that flows from the clefts of the rock, And his grace is as dew that from Horeb descends on the heads of the flock ; In the King is the heart of a host : the King's strength is an army of men \ And the wrath of the King is a lion that roareth by night from his den ; 156 THE APPLE OF LIFE. But as grapes from the vines of En-Gedi are favors that fall from his hands, And as towers on the hill-tops of Slienir the throne of King Solomon stands. And for this, it were well that forever the King, who is many in one, Should sit, to lie seen through all time, on a throne "twixt the moon and the sun ! For how shall one lose what he hath not ? Who hath, let him keep what he hath. Wherefore I to the King give this apple." Then great was King Solomon's wrath. And he rose, rent his garment, and cried, "Woman, whence came this apple to thee ? " But when he was 'ware of the truth, then his heart was awakened. And he Knew at once that the man who, erewhile, unawares coming to him, had brought That Apple of Life was, indeed, GOD'S good Angel of Death. And he thought " In mercy, I doubt not, when man's eyes were opened, and made to see plain All the wrong in himself, and the wretchedness, GOD sent to close them again For man's sake, his last friend upon earth Death, the servant of GOD, who is just. Let man's spirit to Him whence it cometh return, and his dust to the dust ! " Then the Apple of Life did King Solomon seal in an urn that was signed With the seal of Oblivion : and summoned the Spirits that walk in the wind Unseen on the summits of mountains, where never the eagle yet flew ; And these he commanded to bear far away, out of reach, out of view, Out of hope, out of memory, higher than Ararat buildeth nis throne, In the Urn of Oblivion the Apple of Life. But on green jasper-stone Did the King write the story thereof for instruction. And Enoch, the seer, Coming afterward, searched out the meaning. And he that hath ears, let him hear. THE WANDERER. TO J. F. As, in the laurel's murmurous leaves 'T was fabled, once, a Virgin dwelt ; Within the poet's page yet heaves The poet's Heart, and loves or grieves Or triumphs, as it felt. A human spirit here records The annals of its human strife. A human hand hath touched these chords. These songs may all be idle words : And yet they once were life. I gave my harp to Memory. She sung of hope, when hope was young, Of youth, as youth no more may be ; And, since she sung of youth, to thee, Friend of my youth, she sung. For all youth seeks, all manhood needs, All youth and manhood rarely find : A strength more strong than codes or creeds, In lofty thoughts and lovely deeds Revealed to heart and mind ; A staff to stay, a star to guide ; A spell to soothe, a power to raise ; A faith by fortune firmly tried ; A judgment resolute to preside O'er days at strife with days. large in lore, in nature soiind! man to me, of all men, dear ! All these in thine my life hath found, And force to tread the rugged ground Of daily toil, with cheer. Accept not these, the broken cries Of days receding far from me But all the love that in them lies, The man's heart in the melodies, The man's heart honoring thee ! Sighing I sung ; for some sublime Emotion made my music jar : The forehead of this restless time Pales in a fervid, passionate clime, Lit by a changeful star ; And o'er the Age's threshold, traced In characters of hectic fire, The name of that keen, fervent-faced And toiling seraph, hath been placed, Which men have called Desire. But thou art strong where, even of old, The old heroic strength was rare, In high emotions self-controlled, And insight keen, but never cold, To lay all falsehood bare ; Despising all those glittering lies Which in these days can fool mankind ; But full of noble sympathies For what is genuinely wise, And beautiful, and kind. And thou wilt pardon all the much Of weakness which doth here abound, Till music, little prized as such, With thee find worth from one true touch Of nature in its sound. Though mighty spirits are no more, Yet spirits of beauty still remain. Gone is the Seer that, by the shore Of lakes as limpid as his lore, Lived to one ceaseless strain And strenuous melody of mind. But one there rests that hath the power To charm the midnight moon, and bind All spirits of the sweet south -wind, And steal from every shower That sweeps green England cool and clear, The violet of tender song. Great Alfred ! long may England's ear His music fill, his name be dear To English bosoms long ! And one ... in sacred silence sheathed That name I keep, my verse would shame. The name my lips in prayer first breathed Was his : and prayer hath yet bequeathed Its silence to that name ; Which yet an age remote shall hear, Borne on the fourfold wind sublime By Fame, where, with some faded year These songs shall sink, like leaflets sere, In avenues of Time. 158 THE WANDERER. Love on my harp his finger lays ; His hand is held against the chords. My heart upon the music weighs, And, beating, hushes foolish praise From desultory words : And Childhood steals, with wistful grace, "I'wixt him and me ; an infant hand ( 'hides gently back the thoughts that chase The forward "hour, and turns my face To that remembered land Of legend, and the Summer sky, And all the wild Welsh waterfalls, And haunts where he, and thou, and I Once wandered with the wandering Wye, And scaled the airy walls Of Chepstow, from whose ancient height We watched the liberal sun go down ; Then onward, through the gradual night, Till, ere the moon was fully bright, We supped in Monmouth Town. And though, dear friend, thy love retains The choicest sons of song in fee, To thee not less I pour these strains, Knowing that in thy heart remains A little place for me. FLOKEHCE, September 24, 1857. Nor wilt thou all forget the time Though it be past, in which together, On many an eve, witli many a rhyme Of old and modern hards sublime We soothed the summer weather : And, riting all he said or sung With praise reserved for bards like him, Spake of that friend who dwells among The Apennine, and there hath strung A harp of Anakhn ; Than whom a mightier master never Touched the deep chords of hidden things ; Nor error did from truth dissever With keener glance ; nor made endeavor To rise on bolder wings In those high regions of the soul Where thought itself grows dim with awe. But now the star of eve hath stole Through the deep sunset, and the whole Of heaven begins to draw The darkness round me, and the dew. And my pale Muse doth fold her eyes. Adieu, my friend ; my guide, adieu! May never night, 'twixt me and you, With thoughts less fond arise ! THE AUTHOR PKOLOGUE. PART I. SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips. That first kissed ours, albeit they kiss no more : Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships, Although they leave us on a lonely shore : Sweet are familiar songs, though Music dips Her hollow shell in Thought's forlorn- est wells : And sweet, though sad, the sound of midnight bells, When the oped casement with the night- rain drips. There is a pleasure which is born of pain : The grave of all things hath its violet. Else why, through days which never come again, Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret ? Why put the posy in the cold dead hand ? Why plant the rose above the lonely grave ? Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave ? Why deem the dead more near in native land? Thy name hath been a silence in my life So long, it falters upon language now, more to me than sister or than wife Once . . . and now nothing ! It is hard to know That such things have been, and are not, and yet Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even meas- ure, And goes upon its business and its pleasure, And knows not all the depth? of its re- gret. PROLOGUE. 159 Thou art not in thy picture, my friend ! ^ The years are sad and many since I saw thee, And seem with me to have survived their end. Far otherwise than thus did memory draw thee I ne'er shall know thee other than thou wast. Yet save, indeed, the same sad eyes of old, And that abundant hair's warm silken gold, Thou art changed, if this be like the look thou hast. Changed ! There the epitaph of all the years "Was sounded ! I am changed too. Let it be. Yet is it sad to know my latest tears Were faithful to a memory, not to thee. Nothing is left us ! nothing save the soul. Yet even the immortal in us alters too. Who is it his old sensations can re- new ? Slowly the seas are changed. Slow ages roll The mountains to a level. Nature sleeps, And dreams her dream, and to new work awakes After a hundred years are in the deeps. But Man is changed before a wrinkle breaks The brow's sereneness, or the curls are gray. We stand within the flux of sense : the near And far change place : and we see nothing clear. That's false to-morrow which was true to-day. Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do The snake's brood theirs in spring ! and be once more Wholly renewed, to dwell i' the time that 's new, With no reiterance of those pangs of yore. Peace, peace ! My wild song will go wandering Too wantonly, down paths a private pain Hath trodden bare. What was it jarred the strain ? Some crusht illusion, left with crumpled wing Tangled in Music's web of twined strings That started that false note, and cracked the tune In its beginning. Ah, forgotten tilings Stumble back strangely ! And the ghost of June Stands by December's fire, cold, cold ! and puts The last spark out. How could I sing aright With those old airs haunting me all the night And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts ? For back she comes, and moves reproach- fully, The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft (Cruel to the last !) as though 't were I, not she, That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left Memory comfortless. Away ! away ! Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, Hopeless regret ! In thinking of these things Some men have lost their minds, and others may. Yet, 0, for one deep draught in this dull hour ! One deep, deep draught of the depart- ed time ; 0, for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, To beat and breathe through all the valves of rhyme ! Thou, Memory, with the downward eyes, that art The cupbearer of gods, pour deep and long, Brim all the vacant chalices of song With health ! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart. 160 THE WANDERER. One draught of what I shall not taste again, Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimmed, One draught ! and then straight onward, spite of pain, And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimmed, Love's footsteps through the waning Past to explore Undaunted ; and to carve, in the wan light Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's ut- most height The sad resemblance of an hour no more. Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy! Love in the land where love most lovely seems ! Land of my love, though I be far from thee, Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, The spirit of thy cypress-groves, and all Thy dark-eyed beauty, for a little while To my desire. Yet once more let her smile Fall o'er me : o'er me let her long hair fall, The lady of my life, whose lovely eyes Dreaming, or waking, lure me. I shall know her By Love's own planet o'erherin the skies, And Beauty's blossom in the grass be- low her ! Dreaming, or waking, in her soft, sad gaze Let my heart bathe, as on that fated night I saw her, when my life took in the sight Of her sweet face for all its nights and days. Her winsome head was bare : and she had twined Through its rich curls wild red anemo- nes ; One stream of her soft hair strayed un- confined Down her ripe cheek, and shadowed her deep eyes. The bunch of sword-grass fell from her loose hand. Her modest foot beneath its snowy skirt Peeped, and the golden daisy was not hurt. Stately, yet slight, she stood, as fairies stand. Under the blessed darkness unreproved We were alone, in that blest hour of time, Which first revealed to us how much we loved, 'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime Hung trembling o'er us. At her )'<<( I knelt, And gazed up from her feet into her eyes. Her face was bowed : we breathed each other's sighs : We did not speak : not move: we looked: we felt. The night said not a word. The breeze was dead. The leaf lay without whisj>ering on the tree, As I lay at her feet. Droopt was her head : One hand in mine : and one still pen- sively Went wandering through my hair. We were together. How? Where? What matter? Some- where in a dream, Drifting, slow drifting, down a wizard stream : Whither ? Together : then what matter whither ? It was enough for me to clasp her hand : To blend with her love-looKs my own : no more. Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land, Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) To realize, in each mysterious feeling, The droop of the warm cheek so near my own : The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown : Those exquisite frail feet, where I was kneeling. How little know they life's divinest liliss, That know not to possess and yet re- frain ! PROLOGUE. 161 Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss : Grasp it a few poor grains of dust remain. See how those floating flowers, the but- terflies, Hover the garden through, and take no root ! Desire forever hath a flying foot. Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies. Close not thy hand upon the innocent jy That trusts itself within thy reach. It may, Or may not, linger. Thou canst but de- stroy The winged wanderer. Let it go or stay. Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. Think ! Midas starved by turning all to gold. Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold. Because the whole world shall be trusted then. The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph That culls her flowers beside the preci- pice, Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph : But, just when she must perish or be his, Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore Gains some new fountain ; or the lilied lawn A rarer sort of rose : but, ah, poor Faun ! To thee she shall be changed forevermore. Chase not too close the fading rapture. Leave To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. Be ready to release, as to receive. Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own, If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown Is life to love, religion, poetry. 11 The moon had set. There was not any light, Save of the lonely legioned watch-stars pale In outer air, and what by fits made bright Hot oleanders in a rosy vale Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark Went in and out, like passion's bash- ful hope. Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to A ponderous shoulder sunward through the dark, And the night passed in beauty like a dream. Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, With her last star descending in the gleam Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. The hour, the distance from her old self, all The novelty and loneness of the place, Had left a lovely awe on that fair face, And all the land grew strange and magical. As droops some billowing cloud to the crouched hill,. Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all earth's care, She drooped unto me, without force or will, And sank upon my bosom, murmur- ing there A woman's inarticulate, passionate words. moment of all moments upon earth ! life's supreme ! How worth, how wildly worth, Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords What even Eternity cannot restore ! When all the ends of life take hands, and meet Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more, Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet Be mingled so in the pale after-years ! One hour of life immortal spirits pos- sess. 162 THK WANDERER. This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, And parching passion, and perplexing tears. Sad is it, that we cannot even keep That hour to sweeten life's last toil : but Youth rasps all, and leaves us : and, when we would weep, We dare not let our tears flow lest, in truth, Thi-y full upon our work which must be done. And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking : Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching : And follow the long pathway all alone. moment of sweet peril, perilous sweet ! When woman joins herself to man ; and man Assumes the full-lived woman, to com- plete The end of life, since human life be- gan ! When in the perfect bliss of union, Body and soul triumphal rapture claim, When there 's a spirit in blood, in spirit a flame, And earth's lone hemispheres glow, fused in one ! Rare moment of rare peril ! . . . The bard's song, The mystic's musing fancy. Did there ever Two perfect souls, in perfect forms, be- long Perfectly to each other ? Never, never ! Perilous were such moments, for a touch Might mar their clear perfection. Ex- quisite Even for the peril of their frail delight. Such things man feigns : such seeks : but finds not such. No ! for 't is in ourselves our love doth grow : And, when our love is fully risen within us, Round the first object doth it overflow, Which, be it fair or foul, is sure to win ua Out of ourselves. We clothe with our own nature The man or woman its first want doth find. The leafless prop with our own buds we bind, And hide in blossoms : fill the empty feature With our own meanings : even prize de- fects Which keep the mark of our own choice upon The chosen : bless each fault whose spot protects Our choice from possible confusion With the world's other creatures : we believe them What most we wish, the more we find they are not : Our choice once made, with oA own choice we war not : We worship them for what ourselves we give them. Doubt is this otherwise. . . . When fate removes The unworthy one from our reluctant arms, We die with that lost love to other loves, And turn to its defects from other charms. And nobler forms, where moved those forms, may move With lingering looks : our cold fare- wells we wave them. We loved our lost loves for the love we gave them, And not for anything they gave our love. Old things return not as they were in Time. Trust nothing to the recompense of Chance, Which deals with novel forms. This falling rhyme Fails from the flowery steeps of old romance, Down that abyss which Memory droops above, And, gazing out of hopelessness down there, I see the shadow creep through Youth's gold hair And white Death watching over red- lipped I/ore, PROLOGUE. 163 PART II. THE soul lives ou. What lives on with the soul ? Glimpses of something better than her best ; Truer than her truest : motion to a pole Beyond the zones of this orb's dimness guest : And (since life dies not with the first dead bliss) Blind notions of some meaning moved through time, Some purpose in the deeps of the sub- lime, That stirs a pulse here, could we find out this. Visions and noises rouse us. I discern Even in change some comfort, Be- loved ! Suns rise and set ; stars vanish and re- turn ; But never quite the same. And life is moved Toward new experience. Every eve and morn Descends and springs with increase on the world. And what is death but life in this life furled ? The outward cracks, the inward life is born. Friends pass beyond the borders of this Known, And draw our thoughts up after them. We say " They are : but their relations now are done With Nature, and the plan of night and day." If never mortal man from this world's light Did pass away to that surrounding gloom, 'T were well to doubt the life beyond the tomb ; But now is Truth's dark side revealed to Father of spirits ! Thine all secrets be. I bless Thee for the light Thou hast revealed, And that Thou hidest. Part of me I see, And part of me Thy wisdom hath concealed, Till the new life divulge it. Lord, imbue me With will to work in this diurnal sphere, Knowing myself my life's day -laborer here, Where evening brings the day's work's wages to me. I work my work. All its results are Thine. I know the loyal deed becomes a fact Which Thou wilt deal with : nor will I repine Although I miss the value of the act. Thou carest for the creatures : and the end - Thou seest. The world unto Thy hands I leave : And to Thy hands my life. I will not grieve Because I know not all Thou dost in- tend. Something I know. Oft, shall it come about When every heart is full with hope for man The horizon straight is darkened, and & doubt Clouds all. The work the world so well began Wastes down, and by some deed of shame is finished. Ah yet, I will not be dismayed : nor though The good cause flourish fair, and Free- dom flow All round, my watch beyond shall be diminished. What seemed the triumph of the Fiend at length Might be the effort of some dying Devil, Permitted to put forth his fulleststrength To lose it all forever. While, the evil Whose cloven crest our paeans float above Might have been less than what un- noticed lies 'Neath our rejoicings. Which of us is wise ? We know not what we mourn : nor "why we love. But teach me, Omnipotent, since strife, Sorrow, and pain are but occurrences 164 THE WANDERER. Of that condition through which flows my life, Not part of me, the immortal, whom distress Cannot retain, to vex not thought for these : But to be patient, bear, forbear, re- strain, And hold my spirit pure above my pain. No star that looks through life's dark lattices, But what gives token of a world else- where. I bless Thee for the loss of all things here Which proves the gain to be : the hand of Care That shades the eyes from earth, and beckons near The rest which sweetens all : the shade Time throws On Love's pale countenance, that he may gaze Across Eternity for better days Unblinded ; and the wisdom of all woes : I bless Thee for the life Thou gavest, albeit It hath known sorrow : for the sorrow's self I bless Thee ; and the gift of wings to flee it, Led by this spirit of song, this ministering elf, That to sweet uses doth unwind my pain, And spin his palace out of poison- flowers, To float, an impulse, through the live- long hours, From sky to sky, on Fancy's glittering skein. Aid me, sweet Spirit, escaping from the throng Of those that raise the Corybantic shout, And barbarous, dissonant cymbal's clash prolong, In fear lest any hear the God cry out, Now that the night resumes her bleak retreat In these dear lands, footing the un- wandered waste Of Loss, to walk in Italy, and taste A little while of what was once so sweet. PART III. NURSE of an ailing world, beloved Ni^lit ! Our days are fretful children, weak to bear A little pain: they wrangle, wound, and fight Each other, weep, and sicken, and de- spair. Thou, with thy motherly hand that healeth care, Stillest our little noise : rebukest one, Soothest another : blamest tasks un- done: Refreshest jaded hope ; and teachest prayer. Thine is the mother's sweet hush-hush, that stills The flutterings of a plaintive heart to rest. Thine is the mother's medicining hand that fills Sleep's opiate : thine the mother's pa- tient breast : Thine, too, the mother's mute reproach- ful eyes, That gently look our angry noise to shame When all is done : we dare not meet their blame : They are so silent, and they are so wise. Thou that from this lone casement, while I write, Seen in the shadowy upspring, swift dost post Without a sound the polar star to light, Not idly did the Chaldee shepherds boast By thy stem lights man's life aright to read. All day he hides himself from his own heart, Swaggers and struts, and plays his foolish part : Thou only seest him as he is indeed. For who could feign false worth, or give the nod Among his fellows, or this dust dis- own, With nought between him and those lights of God, Left awfully alone with the Alone ? Who vaunt high words, whose least heart's beating jars PROLOGUE. 165 The hush of sentinel worlds that take mute note Of all beneath yon judgment plains remote '! A universal cognizance of stars ! And yet, gentlest angel of the Lord ! Thou leadest by the hand the artisan Away from work. Thou bringest, on ship- board, When gleam the dead-lights, to the lonely man That turns the wheel, a blessed memory Of apple-blossoms, and the mountain vales About his little cottage in Green Wales, Miles o'er the ridges of the rolling sea. Thou bearest divine forgiveness amongst men. Eelenting Anger pauses by the bed Where Sleep looks so like Death. The absent then Return ; and Memory beckons back the dead. Thou helpest home (thy balmy hand it is !) The hard-worked husband to the pale- cheeked wife, And hushest up the poor day's house- hold strife On marriage pillows, with a good-night kiss. Thou bringest to the wretched and forlorn Woman, that down the glimmering by-street hovers, A dream of better days : the gleam of corn About her father's field, and her first lover's Grave, long forgotten in the green churchyard : Voices, long-stilled, from purer hours, before The rushlight, Hope, went out ; and, through the door Of the lone garret, when the nights were hard, Hunger, the wolf, put in his paw, and found her Sewing the winding-sheet of Youth, alone ; And griped away the last cold comforts round her : Her little bed ; the mean clothes she had on : Her mother's picture the sole saint she knew : Till nothing else was left for the last crust But the poor body, and the heart's young trust In its own courage : and so these went too. Home from the heated Ball flusht Beauty stands, Musing beside her costly couch alone : But while she loosens, faint, with jew- elled hands, The diamonds from her dark hair, one by one, Thou whisperest in her empty heart the name Of one that died heart-broken for her sake Long since, and all at once the coiled hell-snake Turns stinging in his egg, and pomp is shame. Thou comest to the man of many pleas- ures Without a joy, that, soulless, plays for souls, Whose life 's a squandered heap of plun- dered treasures, While, listless loitering by, the mo- ment rolls From nothing on to nothing. From the shelf Perchance he takes a cynic book. Perchance A dead flower stains the leaves. The old romance Returns. Ere morn, perchance, he shoots himself. Thou comest, with a touch of scorn, to me, That o'er the broken wine-cup of my youth Sit brooding here, and pointest silently To thine unchanging stars. Yes ! yes ! in truth, They seem more reachless now than when of yore Above the promist land J watcht them shine, And all among their cryptic serpentine Went climbing Hope, new planets to ex- plore. 166 THE WANHKRER. Not for the flesh that fades although decay This thronged metropolis of sense o'er- spreiitl : Not for the joys of youth, that fleet away When the wise swallows to the south are fled ; Not that, beneath the law which fades the flower, An earthly hope should wither in the cells Of this poor earthly house of life, where dwells Unseen the solitary Thinking- Power ; But that where fades the flower the weed should flourish ; For all the baffled efforts to achieve The imperishable from the things that perish, For broken vows, and weakened will, 1 grieve. Knowing that night of all is creeping on Wherein can no man work, 1 sorrow most For what is gained, and not for what is lost ; Nor mourn alone what 's undone, but what 's done. What light, from yonder windless cloud released, Is widening up the peaks of yon black hills ? It is the full moon in the mystic east, "Whose coming half the unravisht darkness fills Till all among the ribbed light cloudlets pale, From shore to shore of sapphrine deeps divine, The orbed splendor seems to slide and shine 'Aslope the rolling vapors in the vale. Abroad tiie stars' majestic light is flung, And they fade brightening up the steps of Night. Cold mysteries of the midnight ! that, among The sleeps and pauses of this world, in sight, Reveal a doubtful hope to wild Desire ; Which, hungering for the sources of the suns, Makes moan beyond the blue Septen- trions, And spidery Saturn in his webs of fire ; Whether the unconscious destinies of man Move with the motions of your sphered lights, And his brief course, foredoomed ere he began, Your shining symbols fixed in reach- less heights, Or whether all the purpose of his pain Be shut in his wild heart and feverish will, He knows no more than this : that you are still, But he is moved : he goes, but you remain. Fooled was the human vanity that wrote Strange names in astral fire on yonder pole. Who and what were they in what age remote That scrawled weak boasts on yon sidereal scroll ? Orion shines. Now seek for Nimrod. Where ? Osiris is a table, and no more : But Sirius bums as brightly as of yore. There is no shade on Berenice's hair. You that outlast the Pyramids, as they Outlast their founders, tell us of our doom ! You that see Love depart, and Error stray, And Genius toiling at a splendid tomb, Like those Egyptian slaves : and Hope deceived : And Strength still failing when the goal is near : And Passion parcht : and Rapture claspt to Fear : And Trust betrayed : and Memory be- reaved ! Vain question ! Shall some other voice declare What my soul knows not of herself? Ah no ! Dumb patient Monster, grieving every- where, Thou answerest nothing which I did not know. The broken fragments of ourselves we seek In alien forms, and leave our lives behind. PROLOGUE. 167 In our own memories our graves we find. And when we lean upon our hearts, they break. I seem to see 'mid yonder glimmering spheres Another world : not that our prayers record, Wherein our God shall wipe away all tears, And never voice of mourning shall be heard ; But one between the sunset and moon- rise : Near night, yet neighboring day : a twilit land, And peopled by a melancholy band The souls that loved and failed with hopeless eyes ; More like that Hades of the antique creeds ; A land of vales forlorn, where Thought shall roam Regretful, void of wholesome human deeds, An endless, homeless pining after home, To which all sights and sounds shall minister In vain : white roses glimmering all alone In an evening light, and, with his haunting tone, The advancing twilight's shard-born trumpeter. A world like this world's worst come back again ; Still groaning 'neath the burthen of .a Fall : Eternal longing with eternal pain, Want without hope, and memory sad- dening all. All congregated failure and despair Shall wander there, through some old maze of wrong : Ophelia drowning in her own death- song, And First-Love strangled in his golden hair. Ai well, for those that overcome, no doubt The crowns are ready ; strength is to the strong. But we but we weak hearts that grope about In darkness, with a lamp that fails along The lengthening midnight, dying ere we reach The bridal doors ! 0, what for us remains, But mortal effort with immortal pains ? And yet God breathed a spirit into each ! I know this miracle of the soul is more Than all the marvels that it looks upon. And we are kings whose heritage was before The spheres, and owes no homage to the sun. In my own breast a mightier world I bear Than all those orbs on orbs about me rolled ; Nor are you kinglier, stars, though throned on gold, And given the empires of the midnight- air. For I, too, am undying as you are. teach me calm, and teach me self- control : To sphere my spirit like yon fixed star That moves not ever in the utmost pole, But whirls, and sleeps, and turns all heaven one way. So, strong as Atlas, should the spirit stand, And turn the great globe round in her right hand, For recreation of her sovereign sway. Ah yet ! For all, I shall not use my power, Nor reign within the light of my own home, Till speculation fades, and that strange hour Of the departing of the soul is come ; Till all this wrinkled husk of care falls by, And my immortal nature stands up- right In her perpetual morning, and the light Of suns that set not on Eternity ! 168 THE WANDEBEB. BOOK I. -IN ITALY. THE MAGIC LAND. BY woodland belt, by ocean bar, The full south breeze our foreheads fanned, And, under many a yellow star, We dropped into the Magic Land. There, every sound and every sight Means more than sight or sound else- where ; Each twilight star a twofold light ; Each rose a double redness, there. By ocean bar, by woodland belt, Our silent course a syren led, Till dark in dawn began to melt, Through the wild wizard-work o'er- head. A murmur from the violet vales ! A glory in the goblin dell ! There Beauty all her breast unveils, And Music pours out all her shell. We watched, toward the land of dreams, The fair moon draw the murmuring main ; A single thread of silver beams Was made the monster's rippling chain. We heard far off the syren's song ; We caught the gleam of sea-maid's hair. The glimmering isles and rocks among, We moved through sparkling purple Then Morning rose, and smote from far, Her eltin harps o'er land and sea ; And woodland belt, and ocean bar, To one sweet note, sighed " Italy ! " DESIRE. THE golden Planet of the Occident^ Warm from his bath comes up, i' the rosy air, And you may tell which way the Day light went, Only by his last footsteps shining there: ''or now he dwells Sea-deep o' the other shore of the world. Vnd winds himself in the pink-mouthed shells ; Or, with his dusky, sun-dyed Pri> Walks in the gardens of the gorgeous V.;i* \ : Or hides in Indian him; or sailrth where Floats, curiously curled, Leagues out of sight and scent of spicy trees, The cream-white nautilus on sapphrine seas. But here the Night from the hill-top yonder Steals all alone, nor yet too soon ; I have sighed for, and sought for, her ; sadder and fonder (All through the lonely and lingering noon) Than a maiden that sits by the lattice to ponder On vows made in vain, long since, under the moon. Her dusky hair she hath shaken free, And her tender eyes are wild with love ; And her balmy bosom lies bare to me. She hath lighted the seven sweet Plei- ads above, She is breathing over the dreaming sea, She is murmuring low in the cedar grove ; She hath put to sleep the moaning dove In the silent cypress-tree. And there is no voice nor whisper, No voice nor whisper, In the hillside olives all at rest, Underneath blue-lighted Hesper, Sinking, slowly, in the liquid west : For the night's heart knoweth best Love by silence most exprest. The nightingales keep mute Each one his fairy ilute, Where the unite stars look down, And the laurels close the green seaside : Only one amorous lute Twangs in the distant town, From some lattice opened wide : The climbing rose and vine are here, are there. IN ITALY. 169 On the terrace, around, above me : The lone Ledaean* lights from yon en- chanted air Look down upon my spirit, like a spir- it's eyes that love me. How beautiful, at night, to muse on the mountain height, Moated in purple air, and all alone ! How beautiful, at night, to look into the light Of loving eyes, when loving lips lean down unto our own ! But there is no hand in mine, no hand in mine, Nor any tender cheek against me prest : stars that o'er me shine, I pine, I pine, I pine, With hopeless fancies hidden in an ever-hungering breast ! where, where is she that should be here, The spirit my spirit dreameth ? With the passionate eyes, so deep, so dear, Where a secret sweetness beameth ? sleepeth she, with her soft gold hair Streaming over the fragrant pillow, And a rich dream glowing in her ripe cheek, Far away, I know not where, By lonely shores, where the tumbling billow Sounds all night in an emerald creek ? Or doth she lean o'er the casement stone When the day's dull noise is done with, And the sceptred spirit remounts alone Into her long-usurped throne, By the stairs the stars are won with ? Hearing the white owl call Where the river draws through the meadows below, By the beeches brown, and the broken wall, His silvery, seaward waters, slow To the ocean bounding all : With, here a star on his glowing breast, And, there a lamp down-streaming, And a musical motion towards the west Where the long white cliffs are gleam- ing ; * "How oft, unwearied, have we spent the nights, Till the Ledsean stars, so famed for love, Wondered at us from above." COWLEV. While, far in the moonlight, lies at rest A great ship, asleep and dreaming ? Or doth she linger yet Among her sisters and brothers, In the chamber where happy faces are met, Distinct from all the others ? As my star up there, be it never so bright, No other star resembles. Doth she steal to the window, and strain her sight (While the pearl in her warm hair trem- bles) Over the dark, the distant night, Feeling something changed in her home yet; That old songs have lost their old de- light, And the true soul is not come yet ? Till the nearest star in sight Is drowned in a tearful light. I would that I were nigh her, Wherever she rest or rove ! My spirit waves as a spiral fire In a viewless wind doth move. Go forth, alone, go forth, wild-winged. Desire, Thou art the bird of Jove, That broodest lone by the Olympian throne ; And strong to bear the thunders which destroy, Or fetch the ravisht, flute-playing Phry- gian boy ; Go forth, across the world, and find my love ! FATALITY. I HAVE seen her, with her golden hair, And her exquisite primrose face, And the violet in her eyes ; And my heart received its own despair The thrall of a hopeless grace, And the knowledge of how youth dies. Live hair afloat with snakes of gold, And a throat as white as snow, And a stately figure and foot ; And that faint pink smile, so sweet, so cold, Like a wood anemone, closed below The shade of an ilex root. 170 THE WANDERER. And her delicate milk-white hand in mine, And her pensive voice in my ear, Ami her eyes downcast as we speak. I iun filled with a rapture, vague ami I'm.- ; For there has fallen a sparkling tear Over her soft, pale cheek. And I know that all is hopeless now. And that which might have been, Had she only waited a year or two, Is turned to a wild regret, I know, Which will haunt us both, whatever the scene, And whatever the path we go. Meanwhile, foronemoment, hand in hand, We gaze on each other's eyes ; And the red moon rises above us ; We linger with love in the lovely land, Italy with its yearning skies, And its wild white stars that love us. A VISION. THE hour of Hesperus ! the hour when feeling Grows likest memory, and the full heart swells With pensive pleasure to the mellow pealing Of mournful music upon distant bells : The hour when it seems sweetest to be . loved, And saddest to have loved in days no more. love, life, lovely land of yore, Through which, erewhile, these weary footsteps roved, Was it a vision ? Or Irene, sitting, Lone in her chamber, on her snowy bed, With listless fingers, lingeringly unknit- ting Her silken bodice ; and, with bended head, Hiding in warm hair, half-way to her knee, Her pearl-pale shoulder, leaning on one arm, Athwart the darkness, odorous and warm, To watch the low, full moon Bet, pen- sively ? A fragrant lamp burned dimly in the room, With scarce a gleam in either looking- S'ass. ow moonlight, through the deep- blue gloom, Did all along the dreamy chamber pass, As though it were a little toucht with awe (Being new-come into that (piiet place In such a quiet way) at the strange grace Of that pale lady, and what else it saw ; Rare flowers : narcissi ; irises, each crowned ; Red oleander blossoms ; hyacinths Flooding faint fragrance, richly curled all round, Corinthian, cool columnar flowers on plinths ; Waxen camelias, white and crimson ones ; And amber lilies, and the regal rose, Which for the breast of queens full- scornful grows ; All pinnacled in urns of carven bronze : Tables of inwrought stone, tme Floren- tine, Olympian circles thronged with Mer- curies, Minervas, little Junos dug i' the green Of ruined Rome ; and Juno sown rich eyes Vivid on peacock plumes Sidonian : A ribboned lute, young Music's cradle : books, Vellumed and claspt : and with be- wildered looks, Madonna's picture, the old smile grown wan. From bloomed thickets, firefly-lamped, beneath The terrace, flu ted cool the nightingale. In at the open window came the breath Of many a balmy, dim blue, dreaming vale. At intervals the howlet's note came clear, Fluttering dark silence through the cypress grove ; An infant breeze from the elf-land of Love, Lured by the dewy hour, crept, lisping, near. And now is all the night her own, to make it Or grave or gay with throngs of wak- ing dreams. IN ITALY. 171 Now grows her heart so ripe, a sigh might shake it To showers of fruit, all golden as be- seems Hesperian growth. Why not, on nights like this, Should Daphne out from yon green laurel slip ? A Dryad from the ilex, with white hip Quivered and thonged to hunt with Ar- temis ? To-night, what wonder were it, while such shadows Are taking up such shapes on moonlit mountains, Such slar-flies kindling o'er low emerald meadows, Such voices floating out of hillside fountains, If some full face should from the win- dow greet her, Whose eyes should be new planetary lights, Whose voice a well of liquid love- delights, And to the distance sighingly entreat her? EROS. WHAT wonder that I loved her thus, that night ? The Immortals know each other at first sight, And Love is of them. . In the fading light Of that delicious eve, whose stars even yet Gild the long dreamless nights, and can- not set, She passed me, through the silence : all her hair, Her waving, warm, bright hair neglect- fully Poured round her snowy throat as with- out care Of its own beauty. And when she turned on me The sorrowing light of desolate eyes di- vine, I knew in a moment what our lives must be Henceforth. It lightened on me then and there, How she was irretrievably all mine, I hers, through time, become eternity. It could not ever have been otherwise, Gazing into those eyes. And if, before I gazed on them, my soul, Oblivious of her destiny, had followed, In days forever silent, the control Of any beauty less divinely hallowed Than that upon her beautiful whitt brows, (The serene summits of all earthly sweet-. ness ! ) Straightway the records of all other vows Of idol-worship faded silently Out of the folding leaves of memory, Forever and forever ; and my heart be- came Pure white at once, to keep in its com- pleteness, And perfect purity, Her mystic name. INDIAN LOVE-SONG. MY body sleeps : my heart awakes. My lips to breathe thy name are moved In slumber's ear : then slumber breaks ; And I am drawn to thee, beloved. Thou drawest me, thou drawest me, Through sleep, through night. I hear the rills, And hear the leopard in the hills, And down the dark I feel to thee. The vineyards and the villages Were silent in the vales, the rocks. I followed past the myrrhy trees, And by the footsteps of the flocks. Wild honey, dropt from stone to stone, Where bees have been, my path sug- gests. The winds are in the eagles' nests. The moon is hid. I walk alone. Thou drawest me, thou drawest me Across the glimmering wildernesses, And drawest me, my love, to thee, With dove's eyes hidden in thy tresse* The world is many : my love is one. I find no likeness for my love. The cinnamons grow in the grove : The Golden Tree grows all alone. who hath seen her wondrous hair ! Or seen my dove's eyes in the woods ? Or found her voice upon the air ? Her steps along the solitudes I 172 Till: WANDERER Or where is beauty like to hers ? She draweth me, she draweth me. I sought lier liy tin- incense-tree, Ami in the alucs, and in the firs. Where art Ihou, my heart's delight, With dove's eyes hidden in thy locks? My hair is wet with dews of night. My feet are torn upon the rocks. The cedarn scents, the spices, fail About me. Strange anil stranger seems The path. There conies a sound of streams Above the darkness oil the vale. No trees drop gums ; but poison flowers From rifts and clefts all round me fall ; The ]>erfunies of thy midnight bowers, The fragrance of thy chambers, all Is drawing me, is drawing me. Thy baths prepare ; anoint thine hair : Open the window : meet me there : I come to thee, to thee, to thee ! Thy lattices are dark, my own. Thy doors are still. My love, look out. Arise, my dove with tender tone. The camphor-clusters all about Are whitening. Dawn breaks silently. And all my spirit with the dawn Expands ; and, slowly, slowly drawn, Through mist and darkness moves toward thee. MORNING AND MEETING. ONE yellow star, the largest and the last Of all the lovely night, was fading slow (As fades a happy moment in the past) Out of the changing east, when, yet aglow With dreams her looks made magical, from sleep I waked ; and oped the lattice. Like a rose All the red-opening morning 'gan disclose A ripened light upon the distant steep. A bell was chiming through the crystal air From the high convent-church upon the hill. The folk were loitering by to matin prayer. The church-bell called me out, and seemed to fill The air with little hopes. I reached the door Before the chanted hymn began to rise, And float its liquid Latin melodies O'er pious groups about the marble floor. Breathless, I slid among the kneelingfolk. A little bell went tinkling through the pause Of inward prayer. Then forth the low chant broke Among the glooming aisles, that through a gauze Of sunlight glimmered. Thickly throbbed my blood. I saw, dark -tressed in the rose-lit shade, Many a little dusk Italian maid, Kneeling with fervent face close where I stood. The morning, all a misty splendor, shook Deep in the mighty window's flame- lit webs. It touched the crowned Apostle with his hook, And brightened where the sea of jasper ebbs About those Saints' white feet that stand serene Each with his legend, each in his own hue Attired : some beryl-golden : sapphire blue Some : and some ruby-red : some emer- ald-green. Wherefrom, in rainbow-wreaths, the rich light rolled About the snowy altar, sparkling clean. The organ groaned and pined, then, growing bold, Revelled the cherubs' golden wings atween. And in the light, beneath the music, kneeled (As pale as some stone Virgin bending solemn Out of the red gleam of a granite col- umn) Irene with claspt hands and cold lips sealed. As one who, pausing on some mountain- height, Above the breeze that breaks o'er vine- yard walla, IN ITALY. 173 Lean to the impulse of a wild delight, Bows earthward, feels the hills bow too, and falls I dropt beside her. Feeling seemed to expand Andclose : a mistof music filled the air : And, when it ceased in heaven, I was aware That, through a rapture, I had toucht her hand. THE CLOUD. WITH shape to shape, all day, And change to change, by foreland, firth, and bay, The cloud comes down from wander- ing with the wind, Through gloom and gleam across the green waste seas ; And, leaving the white cliff and lone tower bare To empty air, Slips down the windless west, and grows defined In splendor by degrees. And, blown by every wind Of wonder th rough all regions of the mind, From hope to fear, from doubt to sweet despite Changing all shapes, and mingling snow with fire, The thought of her descends, sleeps o'er the bounds Of passion, grows, and rounds Its golden outlines in a gradual light Of still desire. ROOT AND LEAF. THE love that deep within me lies Unmoved abides in conscious power ; Yet in the heaven of thy sweet eyes It varies every hour. A look from thee will flush the cheek : A word of thine awaken tears : And, ah, in all I do and speak How frail my love appears ! In yonder tree, Beloved, whose boughs Are household both to earth and heaven , Whose leaves have murmured of our vows To many a balmy even, The branch that wears the liveliest green, Is shaken by the restless bird ; The leaves that nighest heaven are seen, By every breeze are stirred : But storms may rise, and thunders roll, Nor move the giant roots below ; So, from the bases of the soul, My love for thee doth grow. It seeks the heaven, and trembles there To every light and passing breath ; But from the heart no storm can tear Its rooted growth beneath. WARNINGS. BEWARE, beware of witchery ! And fall not in the snare That lurks and lies in wanton eyes, Or hides in golden hair : For the Witch hath sworn to catch thee, And her spells are on the air. "Thou art fair, fair, fatal fair, Irene ! What is it, what is it, In the whispers of the leaves ? In the night-wind, when its bosom, With the shower in it, grieves ? In the breaking of the breaker, As it breaks upon the beach Through the silence of the night ? Cordelia ! Cordelia ! A warning in my ear " Not here ! not here ! not here ! But seek her yet, and seek her, Seek her ever out of reach, Out of reach, and out of sight ! " Cordelia ! Eyes on mine, when none can view me ! And a magic murmur through me ! And a presence out of Fairyland, Invisible, yet near ! Cordelia ! " In a time which hath not been : In a land thou hast not seen : Thou shalt find her, but not now : Thou shalt meet her, but not here ": Cordelia ! Cordelia ! " In the falling of the snow : In the fading of the year : When the light of hope is low, And the last red leaf is sere." Cordelia 1 174 THE WANDERER. And my senses lie asleep, fast asleep, Irene ! In the chambers of this Sorceress, the South, In a slumber dim and deep, She is set-king yet to Keep, Brimful of poisoned perfumes, The shut blossom of my youth. O fatal, fatal fair Irene ! But the whispering of the leaves, And the night-wind, when it grieves, And the breaking of the breaker, As it breaks upon the beach Through the silence of the night, Cordelia ! Whisper ever in my ear " Not here ! not here ! not here ! But awake, wanderer ! seek her, Ever seek her out of reach, Out of reach, and out of sight ! " Cordelia ! There is a star above me Unlike all the millions round it. There is a heart to love me, Although not yet I have found it. And awhile, Cordelia, Cordelia ! A light and careless singer, In the subtle South I linger, While the blue is on the mountain, And the bloom is on the peach, And the fire-fly on the night, Cordelia ! But my course is ever norward, And a whisper whispers "For- ward ! " Arise, wanderer, seek her, Seek her ever out of reach, Out of reach and out of sight ! Cordelia ! Out of sight, Cordelia ! Cordelia ! Out of reach, out of sight, Cordelia ! A FANCY. How sweet were life, this life, if we (My love and I) might dwell together Here beyond the summer sea, In the heart of summer weather ! With jKHTipgranates on the bough, And with lilies in the bower ; And a sight of distant snow, Rosy in the sunset hour. And a little house, no more In state than suits two quiet lovers ; And a woodbine round the door, Where the swallow builds and hovers ; With a silver sickle-moon, O'er hot gardens, red with roses : And a window wide, in June, For serenades when evening closes : In a chamber cool and simple, Trellised light from roof to basement ; And a summer wind to dimple The white curtain at the casement : Where, if we at midnight wake, A green acacia-tree shall quiver In the moonlight, o'er some lake Where nightingales sing songs forever. With a pine-wood dark in sight ; And a bean-field climbing to us, To make odors faint at night Where we roam with none to view us. And a convent on the hill, Through its light green olives peeping In clear sunlight, and so still, All the nuns, you 'd say, were sleeping. Seas at distance, seen beneath Grated garden-wildernesses ; Not so far but what their breath At eve may fan my darling's tresses. A piano, soft in sound, To make music when speech wanders, Poets reverently bound, O'er whose pages rapture ponders. Canvas, brushes, hues, to catch Fleeting forms in vale or mountain : And an evening star to watch When all 's still, save one sweet foun- tain. Ah ! I idle time away With impossible fond fancies ! For a lover lives all day In a land of lone romances. But the hot light o'er the city Drops, and see ! on fire departs. IN ITALY. 175 And the night comes down in pity To the longing of our hearts. Bind thy golden hair from falling, my love, my one, my own ! T is for thee the cuckoo 's calling With a note of tenderer tone. Up the hillside, near and nearer, Through the vine, the corn, the flow- ers, Till the veiy air grows dearer, Neighboring our pleasant bowers. Now I pass the last Podere : There, the city lies behind me. See her fluttering like a fairy O'er the happy grass to find me ! ONCE. A FALLING star that shot across The intricate and twinkling dark Vanisht, yet left no sense of loss Throughout the wide ethereal arc Of those serene and solemn skies That round the dusky prospect rose, And ever seemed to rise, and rise, Through regions of unreached repose. Far, on the windless mountain-range, One crimson sparklet died : the blue Flushed with a brilliance, faint and strange, The ghost of daylight, dying too. But half-revealed, each terrace urn Glimmered, where now, in filmy flight, We watched return, and still return, The blind bats searching air for sight. With sullen fits of fleeting sound, Borne half asleep on slumbrous air, The drowsy beetle hummed around, And passed, and oft repassed us, there ; Where, hand in hand, our looks alight With thoughts our pale lips left un- told, We sat, in that delicious night, On that dim terrace, green and old. Deep down, far off, the city lay, When forth from all its spires was swept A music o'er our soul? ; and they To music's midmost meanings leapt ; And, crushing some delirious cry Against each other's lips, we clung Together silent, while the aky Throbbing with sound around us hung For, borne from bells on music soft, That solemn hour went forth through heaven, To stir the starry airs aloft, And thrill the purple pulse of even. happy hush of heart to heart ! moment molten through with bliss .' Love, delaying long to part That first, fast, individual kiss ! Whereon two lives on glowing lips Hung claspt, each feeling fold in fold, Like daisies closed with crimson tips, That sleep about a heart of gold. Was it some drowsy rose that moved ? Some dreaming dove's pathetic moan ? Or was it my name from lips beloved ? And was it thy sweet breath, mine own. That made me feel the tides of sense O'er life's low levels rise with might, And pour my being down the immense Shore of some mystic Infinite ? " 0, have I found thee, my soul's soul ? My chosen forth from time and space I And did we then break earth's control ? And have I seen thee face to face ? "Close, closer to thy home, my breast, Closer thy darling arms enfold ! 1 need such warmth, for else the rest Of life will freeze me dead with cold. " Long was the search, the effort long, Ere I compelled thee from thy sphere, I know not with what mystic song, 1 know not with what nightly tear : " But thou art here, beneath whose eyes My passion falters, even as some Pale wizard's taper sinks, and dies, When to his spell a spirit is come. " My brow is pale with much of pain : Though I am young, my youth is gone, And, shouldst thou leave me lone again, I think I could not live alone. 176 THE WANDERER. " As some idea, half divined, With tumult, works within the brain Of desolate genius, and the mind Is vassal to imperious pain, " For toil by day, for tears by night, Till, in the sphere of vision brought, Rises the beautiful and bright Predestined, but relentless Thought ; " So, gathering up the dreams of years, Thy love doth to its destined seat Rise sovran, through the light of tears Achieved, accomplisht, and complete ! " I fear not now lest any hour Should chill the lips my own have prest ; For I possess thee by the power Whereby I am myself possest. "These eyes must lose their guiding light : These lips from thine, I know, must sever : looks and lips may disunite, But ever love is love forever ! " SINCE. WORDS like to these were said, or dreamed (How long since !) on a night divine, By lips from which such rapture streamed I cannot deem those lips were mine. The day comes up above the roofs, All sallow from a night of rain ; The sound of feet, and wheels, and hoofs In the blurred street begins again : The same old toil no end no aim ! The same vile babble in my ears ; The same unmeaning smiles : the same Most miserable dearth of tears. The same dull sound : the same dull lack Of lustre in the level gray : It seems like Yesterday come back With his old things, and not To-day. But now and then her name will fall From careless lips with little praise, On this dry shell, and shatter all The smooth indifference of my days. They chatter of her deem her light ~ The apes and liars ! they who know As well to sound the unfathomed Night As her impenetrable woe ! And here, where Slander's scorn is f-pilt. And gabbling Folly clucks above Her addled eggs, it feels like guilt, To know that far away, my love Her heart on every heartless hour Is bruising, breaking, for my sake : While, coiled and numbed, and void of power, My life sleeps like a winter snake. I know that at the mid of night, (When she flings by the glittering stress Of Pride, that mocks the vulgar sight, And fronts her chamber's loneliness,) She breaks in tears, and, overthrown With sorrowing, weeps the night away, Till back to his unlovely throne Returns the unrelenting day. All treachery could devise hath wrought Against us : letters robbed and read : Snares hid in smiles : betrayal bought : And lies imputed to the dead. I will arise, and go to her, And save her in her own despite ; For in my breast begins to stir A pulse of its old power and might. They cannot so have slandered me But what, I know, if I should call And stretch my arms to her, that she Would rush into them, spite of all. In Life's great lazar-house, each breath We breathe may bring or spread the pest ; And, woman, each may catch his death From those that lean upon his breast. I know how tender friends of me Have talked with broken hint, and glance : The choicest flowers of calumny, That seem, like weeds, to spring from chance ; That small, small, imperceptible Small talk, which cuts like powdered IN ITALY. 177 Ground in Tophana none can tell Where lurks the power the poison has ! I may be worse than they would prove, (Who knows the worst of any man ?) But, right or wrong, be sure my love Is not what they conceive, or can. Nor do I question what thou art, Nor what thy life, in great or small, Thou art, I know, what all my heart Must beat or break for. That is all. A LOVE-LETTER. MY love, my chosen, but not mine ! I send My whole heart to thee in these words I write ; So let the blotted lines, my soul's sole friend, Lie upon thine, and there be blest at night. This flower, whose bruised purple blood will stain The page now wet with the hot tears that fall (Indeed, indeed, I struggle to restrain This weakness, but the tears come, spite of all ! ) I plucked it from the branch you used to I praise, The branch that hides the wall. tend your flowers. I keep the paths we paced in happier days. How long ago they seem, those pleas- ant hours. The white laburnum's out. Your judas- tree Begins to shed those crimson buds of his. The nightingales sing ah, too joyously ! Who says those birds are sad ? I think there is That in the books we read, which deeper wrings My heart, so they lie dusty on the shelf. Ah me, 1 meant to speak of other things Less sad. In vain ! they bring me to myself. 12 I know your patience. And I would not cast New shade on days so dark as yours are grown By weak and wild repining for the past, Since it is past forever, mine own ! For hard enough the daily cross you bear, Without that deeper pain reflection brings ; And all too sore the fretful household care, Free of the contrast of remembered things. But ah ! it little profits, that we thrust From all that 's said, what both must feel, unnamed. Better to face it boldly, as we must, Than feel it in the silence, and be shamed, Irene, I have loved you, as men love Light, music, odor, beauty, love it- self ; Whatever is apart from, and above Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf. And I had been content, without one thought Our guardian angels could have blusht to know, So to have lived and died, demanding nought Save, living dying, to have loved you so. My youth was orphaned, and my age will be Childless. I have no sister. None, to steal One stray thought from the many thoughts of thee, Which are the source of all I think and feel. My wildest wish was vassal to thy will : My haughtiest hope, a pensioner on thy smile, Which did with light my barren being fill, As moonlight glorifies some desert isle. I never thought to know what I have known, The rapture, dear, of being loved by you : 178 THE WANDERER. I never thought, within my heart, to own One wish so blest that you should share it too : Nor ever did I deem, contemplating The many sorrows in this place of pain, So strange a sorrow to my life could cling, As, being thus loved, to be beloved in vain. But now we know the best, the worst. We have Interred, and prematurely, and un- known, Our youth, our hearts, our hopes, in one small grave, Whence we must wander, widowed, to our own. And if we comfort not each other, what Shall comfort us, in the dark days to come ? Not the light laughter of the world, and not The faces and the firelight of fond home. And so I write to you ; and write, and write, For the mere sake of writing to you, dear. What can I tell you, that you know not ? Night Is deepening through the rosy atmos- phere About the lonely casement of this room, Which you have left familiar with the grace That grows where you have been. And on the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face. Not pale with pain, and tears restrained for me, As when I last beheld it; but as first, A ih cam of rapture and of poesy, Upon my youth, like dawn on dark, it burst. Perchance I shall not ever see again That face. I know that I shall never see Its radiant beauty as I saw it then, Save by this lonely lamp of memory, With childhood's starry graces lingering yet 1' the rosy orient of young womanhood ; And eyes like woodland violets newly \vct ; And lips that left their meaning in my blood ! I will not say to you what I might say To one less worthily loved, less worthy love. I will not say . . . "Forget the past. Be gay. And let the all ill-judging world ap- prove " Light in your eyes, and laughter on your lip." I will not say ..." Dissolve in thought forever Our sorrowful, but sacred, fellowship." For that would be, to bid you, dear, _, dissever ;/ Your nature from its nobler heritage In consolations registered in heaven, For griefs this world is barren to assuage, And hopes to which, on earth, no home is given. But I would whisper, what forevermore My own heart whispers through the wakeful night, . . . "This grief is but a shadow, flung be- fore, From some refulgent substance out of sight." Wherefore it happens, in this riddling world, That, where sin came not, sorrow yet should be ; Why heaven's most hurtful thunders should be hurled At what seems noblest in humanity ; And we are punished for our purest deeds, And chastened for our holiest thoughts ; . . . alas ! There is no reason found in all the creeds, Why these things are, nor whence they come to pasa But in the heart of man, a secret voice There is, which Bpeaka, and will not be restrained, IN ITALY. 179 Which cries to Grief . . . "Weep on, while I rejoice, Knowing that, somewhere, all will be explained." I will not cant that commonplace of friends, Which never yet hath dried one mourner's tears, Nor say that griefs slow wisdom makes amends For broken hearts and desolated years. For who would barter all he hopes from life, To be a little wiser than his kind ? Who arm his nature for continued strife, Where all he seeks for hath been left behind ? But I would say, pure and perfect pearl Which I have dived so deep in life to find, Locked in* my heart thou liest. The wave may curl, The wind may wail above us. Wave and wind, What are their storm and strife to me and you ? No strife can mar the pure heart's in- most calm. This life of ours, what is it ? A very few Soon-ended years, and then, the ceaseless psalm, And the eternal sabbath of the soul ! Hush ! . . . while I write, from the dim Carmine The midnight angelus begins to roll, And float athwart the darkness up to me. My messenger (a man by danger tried) Waits in the courts below ; and ere our star Upon the forehead of the dawn*hath died, Beloved one, this letter will be far Athwart the mountain, and the mist, to you. I know each robber hamlet. I know all This mountain people. I hare friends, both true And trusted, sworn to aid whate'er be- fall. I have a bark upon the gulf. And I, If to my heart I yielded in this hour, Might say. . . "Sweet fellow-sufferer, let us fly ! I know a little isle which doth em- bower " A home where exiled angels might for- bear Awhile to mourn for paradise." . . . But no ! Never, whate'er fate now may bring us, dear, Shalt thou reproach me for that only Which even love is powerless to console ; Which dwells where duty dies : and haunts the tomb Of life's abandoned purpose in the soul ; And leaves to hope, in heaven itself, no room. Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate, By nobly bearing it. So let us trust, Not to ourselves, but God, and calmly wait Love's orient, out of darkness and of dust. Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet Never farewell, if farewell mean to fare Alone and disunited. Love hath set Our days, in music, to the self-same air ; And I shall feel, wherever we may be, Even though in absence and an alien clime, The shadow of the sunniness of thee, Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time. Farewell ! The dawn is rising, and the light Is making, in the east, a faint en- deavor To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good night. Thine own, and only thine, my love, forever. 180 TIIK \V.\NHF.RER. CONDEMNED ONES. ABOVE thy child I saw thee bend. Where in tliat .silent room we sat apart. 1 watched tin- involuntary tear descend ; The firelight was not all so dim, my friend, But I could read thy heart. Yet when, in that familiar room, I strove, so moveless in my place, To look with comfoit in thy face, That child's young smile was all that I could see Ever between us in the thoughtful gloom, Ever between thyself and me, With its bewildering grace. Life is not what it might have been, Nor are we what we would ! And we must meet with smiling mien, And part in careless mood, Knowing that each retains unseen, In cells of sense subdued, A little lurking secret of the blood A little serpent-secret rankling keen That makes the heart its food. Yet is there much for grateful tears, if sad ones, And Hope's young orphans Memory mothers yet ; So let them go, the sunny days we had once, Our night hath stars that will not ever set. And in our hearts are harps, albeit not glad ones, Yet not all unmelodious, through whose strings The night-winds murmur their familiar things, Unto a kindred sadness : the sea brings The spirits of its solitude, with wings Folden about the music of its lyre, Thrilled vith deep duals by sublime de- sire, Which never can attain, yet ever must aspire, And glonfy regret. What might have been, I know, is not : What must be, must be borne : But, ah ! what hath been will not be forgot, Never, oh ! never, in the years to follow ! Though all their summers light a waste forlorn, Yet shall there be (hid from the careless swallow And sheltered from the bleak wind in the thorn) In Memory's mournful but beloved hol- low, One dear green spot ! Hope, the high will of Heaven To help us hath not given, But more than unto most of consolation : Since heart from heart may borrow Healing for deep heart-sorrow, And draw from yesterday, to soothe to- morrow, The sad, sweet divination Of that unuttered sympathy, which is Love's sorceress, and for Love's dear sake, About us both such spells doth make, As none can see, and none can break, And none restrain ; a secret pain Claspt to a secret bliss ! A tone, a touch, A little look, may be so much ! Those moments brief, nor often, When, leaning laden breast to breast, Pale cheek to cheek, life, long represt, May gush with tears that leave half blest The want of bliss they soften. The little glance across the crowd, None else can read, wherein there lies A life of love at once avowed The embrace of pining eyes. . . . So little more had made earth heaven, That hope to help us was not given ! THE STORM. BOTH hollow and hill were as dumb as death, While the skies were silently changing form ; And the dread forecast of the thunder- storm Made the crouched land hold in its breath. But the monstrous vapor as yet was un- liven That was breeding the thunder and lightning and rain ; And the wind that was waiting to ruin the plain Was yet fast in some far hold of heaven. IN ITALY. 181 So, in absolute absence of stir or strife, The red land lay as still as a drifted leaf: The roar of the thunder had been a relief, To the calm of that death-brooding life. At the wide-flung casement she stood full height, With her long rolling hair tumbled all down her back ; And, against the black sky's super- natural black, Her white neck gleamed scornfully white. I could catch not a gleam of her angered eyes (She was sullenly watching the slow storm roll), But I felt they were drawing down into her soul The thunder that darkened the skies. And how could I feign, in that heartless gloom, To be carelessly reading that stupid page? What harm, if I flung it in anguish and rage, Her book, to the end of the room ? " And so, do we part thus forever ? " ... I said, " 0, speak only one word, and I par- don the rest ! " She drew her white scarf tighter over her breast, But she never once turned round her head. "In this wicked old world is there naught to disdain ? Or " I groaned "are those dark eyes such deserts of blindness, That, O Woman ! your heart must hoard all its unkindness, For the man on whose breast it hath lain? "Leave it nameless, the grave of the grief that is past ; Be its sole sign the silence we keep for its sake. I have loved you lie still in my heart till it break : As I loved, I must love to the last. " Speak ! the horrible silence is stifling my soul." She turned on me at once all the storm in her eyes ; And I heard the low thunder aloof in the skies, Beginning to mutter and roll. She turned by- the lightning revealed in its glare, And the tempest had clothed her with terror : it clung To the folds of her vaporous garments, and hung In the heaps of her heavy wild hair. But one word broke the silence ; but one ; and it fell With the weight of a mountain upon me. Next moment The fierce levin flashed in my eyes. From my comment She was gone when I turned. Who can tell How I got to my home on the mountain ? I know That the thunder was rolling, the lightning still flashing, The great bells were tolling, my very brain crashing In my head, a few hours ago : Then all hushed. In the distance the blue rain receded ; And the fragments of storm were spread out on the hills ; Hard by, from my lattice, I heard the far rills Leaping down their rock-channels, wild- weeded. The round, red moon was yet low in the air. . . . 0, I knew it, foresaw it, and felt it, before I heard her light hand on the latch of the door ! When it opened at last, she was there. Childlike, and wistful, and sorrowful- eyed, With the rain on her hair, and the rain on her cheek ; She knelt down, with her fair forehead fallen and meek In the light of the moon at my side. 182 THE WANDERER. And she called me by every caressing old name She of old had invented and chosen for me : She crouched at my feet, with her cheek on my knee, Like a wild tiling grown suddenly tame. In the world there are women enough, maids or mothers ; Yet, in multiplied millions, I never should find The symbol of aught in her face, or her mind. She has nothing in common with others. And she loves me ! This morning the earth, pressed beneath Her light foot, keeps the print. 'T was no vision last night, For the lily she dropped, as she went, is yet white With the dew on its delicate sheath ! THE VAMPYRE. I FOUND a corpse, with golden hair, Of a maiden seven months dead. But the face, with the death in it, still was fair, And the lips with their love were red. Rose leaves on a snow-drift shed, Blood-drops by Adonis bled, Doubtless were not so red. I combed her hair into curls of gold, And I kissed her lips till her lips were warm, And I bathed her body in moonlightcold, Till she grew to a living form : Till she stood up bold to a magic of old, And walked to a muttered charm Life-like, without alarm. And she walks by me, and she talks by me, Evermore, night and day ; For she loves me so, that, wherever I go, She follows me all the way This corpse you would almost say There pined a soul in the clay. Her eyes are so bright at the dead of night That they keep me awake with dread ; Ami my lite-Mood fails iu my veins, and pales At the sight of her lips so red : For her face is as white as the pillow by night Where she kisses me on my bed : All her gold hair outspread Neither alive nor dead. I would that this woman's head Were less golden about the hair : I would her lips wen; less red, And her face less deadly fair. For this is the worst to 1 > How came that redness there ? 'T is my heart, be sure, she eats for her food ; And it makes one's whole flesh erecji To think that she drinks and drains my blood Unawares, when I am asleep. How else could those red lips keep Their redness so damson-deep ? There's a thought like a serpent, slips Ever into my heart and head, There are plenty of women, alive and human, One might woo, if one wished, and wed Women with hearts, and brains, ay, and lips Not so very terribly red. But to house with a corpse and she so fair, With that dim, unearthly, golden hair, And those sad, serene, blue eyes, With their looks from who knows where, Which Death has made so wise, With the grave's own secret there It is more than a man can bear ! It were better for me, ere I came nigh her, This corpse ere I looked upon her, Had they burned my body in flame and fire With a sorcerer's dishonor. For when the Devil hath made his lair, And lurks in the eyes of a fair young woman (To grieve a man's soul with her golden hair, And break his heart, if his heart be human), Would not a saint despair To be Nived by fast or prayer From perdition made so fair I IN ITALY. 183 CHANGE. SHE is unkind, unkind ! On the windy hill, to-day, I sat in the sound of the wind. I knew what the wind would say. It said ... or seemed to my mind . . . " The flowers are falling away. The summer," ... it said, . . . "will not stay, And Love will be left behind. " The swallows were swinging themselves In the leaden-gray air aloft ; Flitting by tens and twelves, And returning oft and oft ; Like the thousand thoughts in me, That went, and came, and went, Not letting me even be Alone with my discontent. The hard-vext weary vane Rattled, and moaned and was still, In the convent over the plain, By the side of the windy hill. It was sad to hear it complain, So fretful, and weak, and shrill, Again, and again, and in vain, While the wind was changing his will. I thought of our walks last summer By the convent-walls so green ; Of the first kiss stolen from her, With no one near to be seen. 1 thought (as we wandered on, Each of us waiting to speak) How the daylight left us alone, And left his last light on her cheek. The plain was as cold and gray (With its villas like glimmering shells) As some north- ocean bay. All dumb in the church were the bells. In the mist, half a league away, Lay the little white house where she dwells. I thought of her face so bright, By the firelight bending low O'er her work so neat and white ; Of her singing so soft and slow ; Of her tender-toned " Good-night" ; But a very few nights ago. . O'er the convent doors, I could see A pale and sorrowful-eyed Madonna looking at me, As when Our Lord first died. There was not a lizard or spider To be seen on the broken walls. The ruts, with the rain, had grown wider And blacker since last night's falls. O'er the universal dulness There broke not a single beam. I thought how my love at its fulness Had changed like a change in a dream. The olives were shedding fast About me, to left and right, In the lap of the scornful blast Black berries and leaflets white. I thought of the many romances One wintry word can blight ; Of the tender and timorous i'ancies By a cold look put to flight. How many noble deeds Strangled perchance at their birth! The smoke of the burning weeds Came up with the steam of the earth, From the red, wet ledges of soil, And the sere vines, row over row, And the vineyard-men at their toil, Who sang in the vineyard below. Last Spring, while I thought of her here, I found a red rose on the hill. There it lies, withered and sere ! Let him trust to a woman who will. I thought how her words had grown colder, And her fair face colder still, From the hour whose silence had told her What has left me heart-broken and ill ; And "Oh ! " I thought, ... "if I be- hold her Walking there with him under the hill ! " O'er the mist, from the mournful city The blear lamps gleamed aghast, " She has neither justice, nor pity," I thought, . . . "all 's over at last ! " The cold eve came. One star Through a ragged gray gap forlorn Fell down from some region afar, And sickened as soon as born. I thought, " How long and how lone The years will seem to be, When the last of her looks is gone, And my heart is silent in me ! " One streak of scornful gold, In the cloudy and billowy west, Burned with a light as cold As love in a much-wronged breast. 184 TIIK Y\ ANUKKKK. I thought of her faee so fnir ; Of her )>ei feet luisiiiii and arm ; Of her deep sweet eyes Mini hair ; Of her bit-Mlli so pure and warm ; Of her foot, so line and fairy Through the meadows where she would pass ; Of t lie sweep of her skirts so airy And fragrant, over the grass. I thought ..." Can I live without her Whatever she do, or say ? " I thought. . . "Can I dare to doubt her, Now when I have given away My whole self, body and spirit, To keep, or to cast aside, To dower or disinherit, To use as she may decide ? " The West was beginning to close O'er the last light burning there. I thought ..." And when that goes, The dark will be everywhere ! " Oh ! well is it hidden from man Whatever the Future may bring. The bells in the church began On a sudden to sound and swing. The chimes on the gust were caught, And rolled up the windy height. I rose, and returned, and thought . . . " I SHALL NOT SEE HER TO-NIGHT." A CHAIN TO WEAR. AWAY ! away ! The dream was vain. We meet too soon, or meet too late : Still wear, as best you may, the chain Your own hands forged about your fate, Who could not wait ! What ! . . . you had given your life away Before you found what most life misses ? Forsworn the bridal dream, you say, Of that ideal love, whose kisses Are vain as this is ! Well, I have left upon your mouth The seal I know must burn there yet ; My claim is set upon your youth ; My sign upon your soul is set : Dare you forget ? And you '11 haunt, I know, where music plays, Yet find a pain in music's tone ; You '11 blush, of course, when othrri pnJaa That beauty scarcely now your own. What 's done, is done ! For me, you say, the, world is wide, Too wide to find the grave I seek ! Enough ! whatever now betide, No greater pang can blanch my rheek. Hush ! ... do not s}>eak. SILENCE. WORDS of fire, and words of scorn, I have written. Let them go ! Words of love heart-broken, torn, With this strong and sudden woe. All my scorn, she could not doubt, Was but love turned inside out. Silence, silence, still unstirred ; Long, unbroken, unexplained : Not one word, one little word, Even to show her touched or pained : Silence, silence, all unbroken : Not a sound, a sign, a token. Well, let silence gather round All this shattered life of mine. Shall I break it by a sound ? Let it grow, and be divine Divine as that Prometheus kept When for his sake the sea-nymphs wept. Let silence settle, still and deep ; As the mist, the thunder-cloud, O'er the lonely blasted steep, Which the red bolt hath not bowed, Settle, to drench out the star, And cancel the blue vales afar. In this silence I will sheathe The sharp edge and point of all ! Not a sigh my Ups shall breathe ; Not a groan, whate'er befall. And let this s worded silence be A fence 'twixt prying fools and me. Let silence be about her name, And o'er the things which once have been : Let silence cover up my shame, And annul that face, once seen In fatal hours, and all the light Of those eyes extinguish quite. IN ITALY. 185 In silence, I go forth alone O'er the solemn mystery Of the deeds which, to be done, Yet undone in the future lie. I peer in Time's high nests, and there Espy the callow brood of Care, The fledgeless nurslings of Regret, With beaks forever stretched for food : But why should I forecount as yet The ravage of that vulture brood ? O'er all these things let silence stay, And lie, like snow, a.long my way. Let silence in this outraged heart Abide, and seal these lips forever ; Let silence dwell with me apart Beside the ever-babbling river Of that loud life in towns, that runs Blind to the changes of the suns. Ah ! from what most mournful star, Wasting down on evening's edge, Or what barren isle afar Flung by on some bare ocean ledge, Came the wicked hag to us, That changed the fairy revel thus ? There were sounds from sweet guitars Once, and lights from lamps of amber ; Both went up among the stars From many a perfumed palace- cham- ber : Suddenly the place seemed dead ; Light and music both were fled. Darkness in each perfumed chamber ; Darkness, silence, in the stars ; Darkness on the lamps af amber ; Silence in the sweet guitars : Darkness, silence, evermore Guard empty chamber, moveless door. NEWS. 4- NEWS, news, news, my gossiping friends ! I have wonderful news to tell. A lady, by me, her compliments sends ; And this is the news from Hell : The Devil is dead. He died resigned, Though somewhat opprest by cares ; But his wife, my friends, is a woman of mind, And looks after her lord's affairs. I have just come back from that wonder- . ful place, And kist hands with the Queen down there ; But I cannot describe Her Majesty's face, It has filled me so with despair. The place is not what you might sup- pose : It is worse in some respects. But all that I heard there, I must not disclose, For the lady that told me objects. The laws of the land are not Salique, But the King never dies, of course ; The new Queen is young, and pretty, and chic, There are women, I think, that are worse. But however that be, one thing I know, And this I am free to tell ; The Devil, my friends, is a woman, just now ; 'T is a woman that reigns in Hell. COUNT RINALDO RINALDI. 'T is a dark-purple, moonlighted mid- night : There is music about on the air. And, where, through the water, fall flashing The oars of each gay gondolier, The lamp-lighted ripples are dashing, In the musical moonlighted air, To the music, in merriment ; washing, And splashing, the black marble stair That leads to the last garden-terrace, Where many a gay cavalier And many a lady yet loiter, Round the Palace in festival there. 'T is a terrace all paven mosaic, Black marble, and green malachite ; Round an ancient Venetian Palace, Where the windows with lampions are bright. 'T is an evening of gala and festival, Music, and passion, and light. There is love in the nightingales' throats, That sing in the garden so well : There is love in the face of the moon ; 186 THE WANDERER. There is love in the warm languid glances Of the dancers adown the dim dances : There is love in the low languid notes That rise into rapture, and swell, From viol, and flute, and bassoon. The tree that bends down o'er the water So Murk, is a black cypress-tree. And the statue, there, under the terrace, MiiemoM nc's statue must be. TIi ere comes a black gondola slowly To the Palace in festival there : And the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi II. is mounted the black marble stair. There was nothing but darkness, and midnight, And tempest, and storm, in the breast Of the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi, As his foot o'er the black marble prest : The glimmering black marble stair Where the weed in the green ooze is clinging, That leads to the garden so fair, Where the nightingales softly are singing, Where the minstrels new music are stringing, And the dancers for dancing prepare. There rustles a robe of white satin : There 's a footstep falls light by the stair : There rustles a robe of white satin : There 's a gleaming of soft golden hair : And the Lady Irene Ricasoli Stands near the cypress-tree there, Near Mnemosyne's statue so fair, The Lady Irene Ricasoli, With the light in her long golden hair. And the nightingales softly are singing In the mellow and moonlighted air ; And the minstrels their viols are string- ing; And the dancers for dancing prepare. " Siora," the Count said unto her, "The shafts of ill-fortune pursue me ; The old grief grows newer and newer, The old pangs are never at rest ; And the foes that have sworn to undo me Have left me no peace in my breast. They have slandered, and wronged, and maligned me : Though they broke not my sword in my hand, They have broken my heart in my bosom And sorrow my youth has unmanned. But I love you, Irene, Irene, With such love as the wretched alone Can feel from the desert within them Which only the wretched have known ! And the heart of Rinaldo Rinaldi Dreads, Lady, no frown but your own. To others be all that you are, love A lady more lovely than most ; To me be a fountain, a star, love, That lights to his haven the lost ; A shrine that with tender devotion, The mariner kneeling, doth deck With the dank weeds yet dripping from ocean, And the last jewel saved from the wreck. "None heeds us, beloved Irene ! None will mark if we linger or fly. Amid all the mad masks in yon revel, There is not an ear or an eye, Not one, that will gaze or will listen ; And, .save the small star in the sky Which, to light us, so softly doth glisten, There is none will pursue us, Irene. love me, save me, I die ! I am thine, be mine, beloved ! " Fly with me, Irene, Irene ! The moon drops : the morning is near, My gondola waits by the garden And fleet is my own gondolier ! " What the Lady Irene Ricasoli, By Mnemosyne's statue in stone, Where she leaned, 'neath the black cypress-tree, To the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Replied then, it never was known, And known, now, it never will be. But the moon hath been melted in morning : And the lamps in the windows are dead : And the gay cavaliers from the terrace, And the ladies thev laughed with, are fled ; And the music is husht in the viols : And the minstrels, and dancers, are gone; IN ITALY. 187 And the nightingales now in the garden, From singing have ceased, one by one : But the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Still stands, where he last stood, alone, 'Neath the black cypress-tree, near the water, By Mnemosyne's statue in stone. O'er his spirit was silence and midnight, In his breast was the calm of despair. He took, with a smile, from a casket A single soft curl of gold hair, A wavy warm curl of gold hair, And into the black-bosomed water He flung it athwart the black stair. The skies they were changing above him ; The dawn, it came cold on the air ; He drew from his bosom a kerchief "Would," he sighed, "that her face was less fair ! That her face was less hopelessly fair." And folding the kerchief, he covered The eyes of Mnemosyne there. THE LAST MESSAGE. FLING the lattice open, And the music plain you '11 hear ; Lean out of the window, And you '11 see the lamplight clear. There, you see the palace Where the bridal is to-night. You may shut the window. Come here, to the light. Take this portrait with you, Look well before you go. She can scarce be altered Since a year ago. Women's hearts change lightly, (Truth both trite and olden !) But blue eyes remain blue ; Golden hair stays golden. Once I knew two sisters : One was dark and grave As the tomb ; one radiant And changeful as the wave. Now away, friend, quickly ! Mix among the masks : Say you are the bride's friend, If the bridegroom asks. If the bride have dark hair, And an olive brow, Give her this gold bracelet ; Come and let me know. If the bride have bright hair, And a brow of snow, In the great canal there Quick the portrait throw : And you '11 merely give her This poor faded flower. Thanks ! now leave your stylet With me for an hour. You 're my friend : whatever I ask you now to do, If the case were altered, I would do for you. And you '11 promise me, my mother Shall never miss her son, If anything should happen Before the night is done. VENICE. THE sylphs and ondines, And the sea-kings and queens, Long ago, long ago, on the waves built a city, As lovely as seems To some bard, in his dreams, The soul of his latest love-ditty. Long ago, long ago, ah ! that was long ago Thick as gems on the chalices Kings keep for treasure, Were the temples and palaces In this city of pleasure : And the night broke out shining With lamps and with festival, O'er the squares, o'er the streets ; And the soft sea went, pining With love, through the musical, Musical bridges, and marble re- treats Of this city of wonder, where dwelt the ondines, Long ago, and the sylphs, and the sea- kings and queens, Ah ! that was long ago ! But the sylphs and ondines, And the sea-kings and queens Are fled under the waves : 188 THE WANDERER. And I glide, and I glide Up the glimmering tide Through a city of graves. Here will I bury my heart, Wrapt in the dream it dreamed ; One grave more to the many ! One grave as silent as any ; Sculptured about with art, For a palace this tombonce seemed. Light lips have laughed there, Bright eyes have beamed. Revel and dance ; Lady and lover ! Pleasure hath quaffed there : Beauty hath gleamed, Love wooed Romance. Now all is over ! And I glide, and I glide Up the glimmering tide, 'Mid forms silently passing, as silent as any, Here, 'mid the waves, In this city of graves To bury my heart one grave more to the many ! ON THE SEA. COME ! breathe thou soft, or blow thou bold, Thy coming be it kind or cold, Thou soul of the heedless ocean wind ; Little I rede and little I reck, Though the mast be snapt on the mizzen- deck, So thoxi blow her last kiss from my neck, And her memory from my mind ! Comrades around the mast, The welkin is o'ercast : One watch is wellnigh past Out of sight of shore at last ! Fade fast, thou falling shore, With that fair false face of yore, And the love, and the life, now o'er ! What she sought, that let her have The praise of traitor and knave, The simper of coward and slave, And the worm that clings and stings The knowledge of nobler things. But here shall the mighty sea Make moan with my heart in me, And her name be torn By the winds in scorn, In whose march we are moving fp . . I am free, 1 am free, I am free ! Hark ! how the wild waves roar ! Hark ! how the wild winds rave ! Courage, true hearts and brave, Whom Fate can afflict no more ! Comrades, the night is long. I will sing you an ancient song Of a tale that was told In the days of old, Of a Baron blithe and strong, High heart and bosom bold, To strive for the right with wrong ! " Who left his castled home, When the Cross was raised in Home, And swore on his sword To fight for the Lord, And the banners of Christendom. To die or to overcome ! " In hauberk of mail, and helmet of steel, And armor of proof from head to heel, 0, what is the wound which he shall feel? And where the foe that shall make him reel? True knight on whose crest the cross doth shine ! They buckled his harness, brought him his steed A stallion black of the land's best breed Belted his spurs, and bade him God-speed 'Mid the Paynim in Palestine. But the wife that he loved, when she poured him up A last deep health in her golden cup, Put poison into the wine. " So he rode till the land he loved grew dim, And that poison began to work in him, A true knight chanting his Christian hymn, With the cross on his gallant crest. Eastward, aye, from the waning west, Toward the land where the bones of the Saviour rest, And the Battle of God is to win : With his young wife's picture upon his breast, And her poisoned wine within. " Alas ! poor knight, poor knight ! He carries the foe lie cannot fight In his own tnie breast shut up. IN FRANCE. 189 He shall die or ever he fight for the Lord, And his heart be broken before his sword. He hath pledged his life To a faithless wife, In the wine of a poisoned cup ! " Comrade, thy hand in mine ! Pledge me in our last wine, While all is dark on the brine. My friend, I reck not now If the wild night-wind should blow Our bark beyond the poles : To drift through fire or snow, Out of reach of all we know Cold heart, and narrow brow, Smooth faces, sordid souls ! Lost, like some pale crew . From Ophir, in golden galleys, On a witch's island ! who Wander the tamarisk alleys, Where the heaven is blue, And the ocean too, That murmurs among the valleys. " Perisht with all on board ! " So runs the vagrant fame Thy wife weds another lord, My children forget my name, While we count new stars by night. Each wanders out of sight Till the beard on his chin grows white And scant grow the curls on his head. One paces the placid hours In dim enchanted bowers, By a soft-eyed Panther led To a magical milk-white bed Of deep, pale poison-flowers. With ruined gods one dwells,. In caverns among the fells, Where, with desolate arms outspread, A single tree stands dead, Smitten by savage spells, And striking a silent dread From its black and blighted head Through the horrible, hopeless, sultry dells Of Elephanta, the Red. BOOK II.- " PRENSUS IN 1EGJEO." 'T is toil must help us to forget. In strife, they say, grief finds repose. Well, there 's the game ! I throw the stakes : A life of war, a world of foes, A heart that triumphs while it breaks. Some day I too, perchance, may lose This shade which memory o'er me throws, And laugh as others laugh, (who knows ?) But ah, 't will not be yet ! How many years since she and I Walked that old terrace, hand-in- hand ! Just one star in the rosy sky, And silence on the summer land. And she ? . . . I think I hear her sing That song, the last of all our songs. How all comes back ! thing after thing, The old life o'er me throngs ! FEA^OE. But I must to the palace go ; The ambassador's to-morrow : Here 's little time for thought, I know, And little more for sorrow. Already in the porte-cochere The carriage sounds . . . my hat and gloves ! I hear my friend's foot on the stair, How joyously it moves ! He must have done some wicked thing To make him tread so light : Or is it only that the king Admired his wife last night ? We talk of nations by the way, And praise the Nuncio's manners, And end with something fine to say About the "allied banners." 'T is well to mix with all conditions Of men in every station : I sup to-morrow with musicians, Upon the invitation Of my clever friend, the journalist, Who writes the reading plays Which no one reads ; a socialist Most social in his ways. 190 THE WANDERER. But I am sick of nil the din That's mailc in praising Verdi, Who only know a violin Is not a hurdy-gurdy. Here oft, while on a nerveless hand An aching brow reclining, Through this tall window where I stand, I see the great town shining. Hard by, the restless Boulevart roars, Heard all the night through, even in dreaming : "While from its hundred open doors The mauy-headed Life is streaming. Upon the world's wide thoroughfares My lot is cast. So be it ! Each on his back his burthen bears, And feels, though he may not see it. My life is not more hard than theirs Who toil on either side : They cry for quiet in their prayers, And it is still denied. But sometimes, when I stand alone, Life pauses, now and then : And in the distance dies the moan Of miserable men. As in a dream (how strange !) I seem To be lapsing, slowly, slowly, From noise and strife, to a stiller life, Where all is husht and holy. Ah, love ! our way 's in a stranger land. We may not rest together. For an Angel takes me by the hand, And leads me ... whither ? whither ? A L'ENTRESOL. ONE circle of all its golden hours The flitting hand of the Time-piece there, In its close white bower of china flowers, Hath rounded unaware : While the firelight, flung from the flicker- ing wall On the large and limpid mirror behind, Hath reddened and darkened down o'er all, As the fire itself declined. Something of pleasure and something of pain There lived in that sinking light. What is it ? Faces I never shall look at again, In places you never will visit, Revealed themselves in each faltering ember, While, under a palely wavering flame, Half of the years life aches to remember Reappeared, and died as they came. To its dark Forever an hour hath gone Since either you or I have spoken : Each of us might have been sitting alone In a silence so unbroken. I never shall know what made me look up (In this cushioned chair so soft and deep, By the table where, over the empty cup, I was leaning, half asleep) To catch a gleam on the picture up there Of the saint in the wilderness under the oak ; And a light on the brow of the bronze Voltaire, Like the ghost of a cynical joke. To mark, in each violet velvet fold Of the curtains that fall 'twixt room and room, The dip and dance of the manifold Shadows of rosy gloom. O'er the Rembrandt there the Caracci here Flutter warmly the ruddy and waver- ing hues ; And St. Anthony over his book has a leer At the little French beauty by Greuze. There, the Leda, weighed over her white swan's back, By the weight of her passionate kiss, ere it falls ; O'er the ebony cabinet, glittering black Through its ivory cups and balls : Your scissors and thimble, and work laid away, With its silks, in the scented rose- wood box ; The journals, that tell truth every day, And that novel of Paul de Kock's : IN FRANCE. 191 The flowers in the vast, with their bells shut close In a dream of the far green fields where they grew ; The cards of the visiting people and shows In that bowl with the sea-green hue. Your shawl, with a queenly droop of its own, Hanging over the arm of the crimson chair : And, last, yourself, as silent as stone, In a glow of the firelight there ! I thought you were reading all this time. And was it some wonderful page of your book Telling of love, with its glory and crime, That has left you that sorrowful look ? For a tear from those dark, deep, humid orbs 'Neath their lashes, so long, and soft, and sleek, All the light in your lustrous eyes ab- sorbs, As it trembles over your cheek. Were you thinking how we, sitting side by side, Might be dreaming miles and miles apart ? Or if lips could meet over a gulf so wide As separates heart from heart ? Ah, well ! when time is flown, how it fled It is better neither to ask nor tell. Leave the dead moments to bury their dead. Let us kiss and break the spell ! Come, arm in arm, to the window here ; Draw by the thick curtain, and see how, to-night, In the clear and frosty atmosphere, The lamps are burning bright. All night, and forever, in yon great town, The heaving Boulevart flares and roars ; And the streaming Life flows up and down From its hundred open doors. It is scarcely so cold, but I and you, With never a friend to find us out, May stare at the shops for a moment or two, And wander awhile about. For when in the crowd we have taken our place, ( Just two more lives to the mighty street there !) Knowing no single form or face Of the men and women we meet there, Knowing, and known of, none in the whole Of that crowd all round, but our two selves only, We shall grow nearer, soul to soul, Until we feel less lonely. Here are your bonnet and gloves, dear. There, How stately you look in that long rich shawl ! Put back your beautiful golden hair, That never a curl may fall. Stand in the firelight ... so, ... as you were, my heart, how fearfully like her she seemed ! Hide me up from my own despair, And the ghost of a dream 1 dreamed ! TERRA INCOGNITA. How sweet it is to sit beside her, When the hour brings nought that ' better ! All day in my thoughts to hide her, And, with fancies free from fetter, Half remember, half forget her. Just to find her out by times In my mind, among sweet fancies Laid away : In the fall of mournful rhymes ; In a dream of distant climes ; In the sights a lonely man sees At the dropping of the day ; Grave or gay. As a maiden sometimes locks With old letters, whose contents Tears have faded, In an old worm-eaten box, Some sweet packet of faint scents, Silken-braided ; And forgets it : 192 THE WANDERER. Careless, so I hide In my life her love, Fancies on each side, Memories heaix-d above : There it lies, unspi<-il : Nothing frets it. On a sudden, when Deed, or word, or glance, Brings me back again To the old romance, With what rapture then, When, in its completeness, Once my heart hath found it, By each sense detected, Steals on me the sweetness Of the air around it, Where it lies neglected ! Shall I break the charm of this In a single minute ? For some chance with fuller bliss Proffered in it ? Secrets unsealed by a kiss, Could I win it ! 'T is so sweet to linger near her, Idly so ! Never reckoning, while I hear her Whispering low, If each whisper will make clearer Bliss or woe ; Never roused to hope or fear her Yes or Xo ! What if, seeking something more Than before, All that 's given I displace (.'aim and grace Nothing ever can restore, As of yore, That old quiet face ! Quiet skies in quiet lakes, No wind wakes, All their beauty double : But a single pebble breaks Lake and sky to trouble ; Then dissolves the foam it makes In a bubble. With the pebble in my hand, Here, upon the brink, I stand ; Meanwhile, standing on the brink, Let me think ! Not for her sake, but for mine, Let those eyes unquestioned shine, Half divine : Let no hand disturb the rare Smoothness of that lustrous hair Anywhere : Let that white breast never break Its calm motion sleep or wake For my sake. Not for her sake, Ini t for mine, All I might have, I resign. Should I glow To the hue the fragrance fine The mere first sight of tin- wine, If 1 drained the goblet low ? Who can know ? With her beauty like the snow, Let her go ! Shall I repine That no idle breath of mine Melts it ? No ! T is better so. All the same, as she came, With her beauty like the snow, Cold, unspotted, let her go ! A REMEMBRANCE. 'T WAS eve and May when last, through tears, Thine eyes sought mine, thy hand my hand. The night came down her silent spheres, And up the silent laud. In silence, too, rny thoughts were furled, Like ring-doves in the dreaming grove. Who would not lightly lose the world To keep such love ? But many Mays, with all their flowers, Are faded since that blissful time The last of all my happy hours I' the golden clime ! By hands not thine these wreaths were curled That hide the care my brows above : And I have almost gained the world, But lost that love. As though for some serene dead brow, These wreaths for me I let them twine. I hear the voice of praise, and know It is not thine. How many long and lonely days I strove with life thy love to gain ! I know my work was worth thy prai.M- ; But all was vain. Vain Passion's fire, vain Music's art ! For who from thorns grape-bunches gathers ? What depth is in the shallow heart ? What weight in feathers ? IN FRANCE. 193 As drops the blossom, ere the growth Of fruit, on some autumnal tree, I drop from my changed life, its youth And joy in thee : And look beyond, and o'er thee, right To some sublimer end than lies Within the compass of the sight Of thy cold eyes. With thine my soul hath ceased its strife. Thy part is filled ; thy work is done ; Thy falsehood buried in my life, And known to none. Yet still will golden memories frame Thy broken image in my heart, And love for what thou wast shut blame From what thou art. In Life's long galleries, haunting-eyed, Thy pictured face no change shall show; Like some dead Queen's who lived and died An age ago ! MADAME LA MARQUISE. THE folds of her wine- dark violet dress Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, As she sits in the air of her loveliness , With a smile for each and for all. Half of her exquisite face in the shade Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings : Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid : In the firelight are sparkling her rings. As she leans, the slow smile half shut up in her eyes Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies, Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. As she leans, where your eye, by her beauty subdued, Droops from under warm fringes of broidery white The slightest of feet silken-slippered, protrude, For one moment, then slip out of sight. 13 As I bend o'er her bosom, to tell her the news, The faint scent of her hair, the ap- proach of her cheek, The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses suffuse With HERSELF : and I tremble to speak. So she sits in the curtained, luxurious light Of that room, with its porcelain, and pictures, and flowers, When the dark day 's half done, and the snow flutters white, Past the windows in feathery showers. All without is so cold, 'neath the low leaden sky ! Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the gendarme Stalks surly : a distant carriage hums by:- All within is so bright and so warm ! Here we talk of the schemes and the scandals of court, How the courtesan pushes : the char- latan thrives : We put horns on the heads of our friends, just for sport : Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrilled mine, That at dinner I scarcely remark what they say, Drop the ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine, Then go yawn at my favorite play. But she drives after noon : then 's the time to behold her, With her fair face half hid, like a ripe peeping rose, 'Neath that veil, o'er the velvets and furs which enfold her, Leaning back with a queenly repose, As she glides up the sunlight ! . . . You 'd say she was made To loll back in a carriage, all day, with a smile, And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade Of soft lamps, and be wooed for while. 194 THK WANDERER. Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace ! Can it beat without ruffling her sump- tuous dress ? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; But what the heart's like, we must guess. With live women and men to be found in the world (- 1 Live with sorrow and sin, live with pain and with passion, ) Who could live with a doll, though its locks should be curled, And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 'T is so fair ! . . . would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? ... Is it worth while to guess at all this ? THE NOVEL. " HERE, I have a book at last Sure," I thought, "to make you weep !" But a careless glance you cast O'er its pages, half asleep. 'T is a novel, a romance, (What you will) of youth, of home, And of brilliant days in France, And long moonlit nights in Rome. 'T is a tale of tears and sins, Of love's glory and its gloom ; In a ball-room it begins, And it ends beside a tomb ; There 's a little heroine too, Whom each chapter leaves more pale ; And her eyes are dark and blue Like the violet of the vale ; And her hand is frail and fair ; Could you but have seen it lie O'er the convent death-bed, where Wept the nuns to watch her die, You, I think, had wept as well ; For the patience in her face (Where the dying sunbeam fell) Had such strange heart-breaking grace. There 's a lover, eager, bold, Knocking at the convent gate : But that little hand grows cold, And the lover knocks too late. There 's a high-born lady stands At a golden mirror, pale ; Something makes her jewelled hands Tremble, as she hears the tale Which her maid (while weaving roses For the ball, through her dark hair) Mixed with other news, discloses. 0, to-night she will look fair ! There 's an old man, feeble-handed, Counting gold ..." My son shall wed With the Princess, as I planned it, Now that little girl is dead." There 's a young man, sullen, husht, By remorse and grief unmanned, With a withered primrose crusht In his hot and feverish hand. There's a broken-hearted woman, Haggard, desolate, and wild, Says . . . "The world hath grown in- human ! Bury me beside my child." And the little god of this world Hears them, laughing in his sleeve. He is master still in his world, There 's another, we believe. Of this history every part You have seen, yet did not heed it ; For 't is written in my heart, And you have not learned to read it. AUX ITALIENS. AT Paris it was, at the Opera there ; And she looked like a queen in a book, that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore : And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. 195 The moon on the tower slept soft as snow : And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, " Non ti sc&rdar di me" 1 The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city -gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well ! there in our front-row box we sat, Together, my bride-betrothed and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had ; So confident of her charm ! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was ! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass. I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress- trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather : Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again : And the jasmin-flower in her fair young breast : \ (0 the faint, sweet smell of that jas- min-flower !) And the one bird singing alone to his nest : And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife ; And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. And I thought . . . "were she only liv- ing still, How I could forgive her, and love her ! " And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmin- flower, Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt sc sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned, and looked. She was sit- ting there In a dim box, over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmin in her breast ! I was here : and she was there : And the glittering horseshoe curved between : From my bride-betrothed, with her ra- ven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien. 196 THE WANDERER. To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short from tin- Future back to the Past) There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then 1 stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side, I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be ex- prest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmin in her breast She is not dead, and she is not wed ! But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and hand- some still, And but for her . . . well, we '11 let that pass, She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face : for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say : For Beauty is easy enough to win ; But one is n't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There 'a a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven. But the smell of that jasmin-flower ! And that music ! and the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower Non ti scordar di >ne, 2fon ti scordar dim* I PROGRESS. WHKN Liberty lives loud on every lip, But Freedom moans, Trampled l>y Nations whose faint foot- falls slip Round bloody thrones ; When, here and there, in dungeon and in thrall, Or exile pale, Like torches dying at a funeral, Brave natures fail ; When Truth, the armed archangel, stretches wide God's tromp in vain, And the world, drowsing, turns upon its side To drowse again ; Man, whose course hath called itself sublime Since it began, What art thou in such dying age of time, As man to man ? When Love's last wrong hath been for- gotten coldly, As First Love's face : And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldly In some lone place, Once festal, in the realm of light and laughter Grim Doubt appears ; Whilst weird suggestions from Death's vague Hereafter, O'er ruined years, Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mutter Through Life's long shade, Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutter Which once they made : Whether it be, that all doth at the grave Round to its term, That nothing lives in that last darkness, save The little worm, Or whether the tired spirit prolong its course Through realms unseen, Secure, that unknown world cannot be worse Than this hath been ; Then when through Thought's gold chain, so frail and slender, No link will mc^et ; IN FRANCE. 197 When all the broken harps of Language render No sound that 's sweet ; When, like torn books, sad days weigh down each other I' the dusty shelf ; Man, what art thou, my friend, my brother, Even to thyself? THE PORTRAIT. MIDNIGHT past ! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up stairs. A night of tears ! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were drip- ping yet ; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet : Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love : And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control ; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul. I sat by the dreary hearth alone : I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said " the staff of my life is gone : The woman I loved is no more. " On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. " It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there, my heart hath bled : For each pearl, my eyes have wept." And I said ' ' the thing is precious to me : They will bury her soon in the church- yard clay ; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding-sheet. There, stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head. As I stretched my hand, I held my breath ; I turned as I drew the curtains apart r I dared not look on the face of death : I knew where to find her heart, I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, It had wanned that heart to life, with love ; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'T was the hand of a man, that was mov- ing slow O'er the heart of the dead, from the other side ; And at once the sweat broke over my brow, ' ' Who is robbing the corpse ? " I cried. Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved. "What do you here, my friend ?" . . . The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. " There is a portrait here," he began ; " There is. It is mine," I said. 198 THE WANDERER. Said the friend of my bosom, " yours, no doubt, The ]>ortntit was, till a mouth ago, When tliis suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." 4 ' This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me; 4t And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered ... "let us see." " Enough ! " I returned, " let the dead decide : And whose soever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Whore Death is arraigned by Love." We found the portrait there, in its place : W> opened it, by the tapers' shine : The gems were all unchanged : the face Was neither his nor mine. " One nail drives out another, at least ! The face oi' the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled : For each pearl my eyes have wept. ASTAKTE. WHEN the latest strife is lost, and all is done with, Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain, We drowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun with, And their tender light returns to us again. I have cast away the tangle and the tor- ment Of the cords that bound my life up in a mesh : And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dormant 'Neath th fir pressure ; and the old wounds bleed afresh. I am touched again with shades of early sadness, Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my hair : I am thrilled again with breaths of boy- ish gladness, Like the scent of some last primrose on the air. And again she comes, with all her silent graces, The lost woman of. my youth, yet tin- possest : And her cold face so unlike the other faces Of the women whose dead lips I since have prest. The motion and the fragrance of her garments Seem about me, all the day long, in the room : And her face, with its bewildering old endearments Comes at night, between the curtains, in the gloom. When vain dreams are stirred with sigh- ing, near the morning, To my own her phantom lips I feel approach : And her smile, at eve, breaks o'er me without warning From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach. When Life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint there Of the orient, in the freshness of the grass, (Ah, what feet since then have trodden out the print there !) Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall, They fell lightly, as the dew falls, 'mid ungathered Meadow-flowers ; and lightly lingered with the dew. But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and withered, And the traces of those steps have faded too. Other footsteps fall about me, faint, uncertain, In the shadow of the world, as it re* cedes: IN FRANCE. 199 Other forms peer through the half-up- lifted curtain Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds. What is gone, is gone forever. And new fashions May replace old forms which nothing can restore : But I turn from sighing back departed passions With that pining at the bosom as of yore. I remember to have murmured, morn and even, "Though the Earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face, Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in Heaven, For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space. " Where it listeth, there it bloweth ; all existence Is its region ; and it houseth, where it will. I shall feel her through immeasurable distance, And grow nearer and be gathered to her still. " If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses, Brows, and breast, and lips, and lan- guage of sweet strains, I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses, And that portion of myself which she retains." But my being is confused with new ex- perience, And changed to something other than it was ; And the Future with the Past is set at variance ; And Life falters with the burthens which it has. Earth's old sins press fast behind me, weakly wailing : Faint before me fleets the good I have not done : And my search for her may still be un- availing 'Mid the spirits that are passed beyond the sun. AT HOME DURING THE BALL. 'T is hard upon the dawn, and yet She comes not from the Ball. The night is cold, and bleak, and wet, And the snow lies over all. I praised her with her diamonds on : And, as she went, she smiled. And yet I sighed, when she was gone, Above our sleeping child. And all night long, as soft and slow As falls the falling rain, The thoughts of days gone long ago Have filled my heart again. Once more I hear the Rhine rush down, (I hear it in my mind !) Once more, about the sleeping town, The lamps wink in the wind. The narrow, silent street I pass : The house stands o'er the river : A light is at the casement-glass, That leads my soul forever. I feel my way along the gloom, Stair after stair, I push the door : I find no change within the room, And all things as of yore. One little room was all we had For June and for December. The world is wide, but how sai It seems, when I remember ! The cage with the canary-bird Hangs in the window still : The small red rose-tree is not stimd Upon the window-sill. Wide open her piano stands ; That song I made to ease A passing pain while her soft hands Went faintly o'er the keys ! The fire within the stove burns down ; The light is dying fast. How dear is all it shines upon, That firelight of the Past ! No sound ! the drowsy Dutch-clock tick^ 0, how should I forget The slender ebon crucifix, That by her bed is set ? 200 THE WANDERER Her litt.lt 1 bod is white as snow, Hmv dear that little bed ! Sweet dreams about the curtains go, And whisper round her head. That gentle head sleeps o'er her arm Sleeps all its soft brown hair : And those dear clothes of hers, yet warm, Droop open on the chair. Yet warm the snowy petticoat ! The dainty corset too ! How warm the ribbon from her throat, And warm each little shoe ! Lie soft, dear arm upon the pillow ! Sleep, foolish little head ! Ah, well she sleeps ! I know the willow That curtains her cold bed. Since last I trod that silent street 'T is many a year ago : And, if I there could set my feet Once more, I do not know If I should find it where it was, That house upon the river : But the light that lit the casement-glass I know is dark forever. Hark ! wheels below, . . . my lady's knock ! Farewell, the old romance ! Well, dear, you 're late, past four o'clock ! How often did you dance ? Not cooler from the crowning waltz, She takes my half the pillow. Well, well ! the women free from faults Have beds below the willow ! AT HOME AFTER THE BALL. THE clocks are calling Three Across the silent floors. The fire in the library Dies out ; through the open doors The red empty room you may see. In the nursery, up stairs, The child had gone to si rep, Half-way 'twixt dreams and prayers, When the hall-door made him leap To its thunders unaware*. Like love in a worldly breaat, Alone in my lady's chamber, The lamp burns low, supprest 'Mid satins of brmdered amber. Where she stands, half undrest : Her bosom all unlaced : Her cheeks with a bright red spot : Her long dark hair displaced, Down streaming, heeded not, From her white throat to her waist : She stands up her full height, With her ball-dress slipping down her, And her eyes as fixed and bright As the diamond stars that crown her, An awful, beautiful sight. Beautiful, yes . . . with her hair So wild, and her cheeks so flusht I Awful, yes ... for there In her beauty she stands husht By the pomp of her own despair ! And fixt there, without doubt, Face to face with her own sorrow, She will stand, till, from without, The light of the neighboring morrow Creeps in, and finds her out. With last night's music pealing Youth's dirges in her ears : With last night's lamps revealing, In the charnels of old years, The face of each dead feeling. Ay, Madam, here alone You may think, till your heart is bro- ken, Of the love that is dead and done, Of the days that, with no token, Forevermore are gone. Weep if you can, beseech you ! There 's no one by to curb you : Your child's cry cannot reach you : Your lord will not disturb you : Weep ! . . . what can weeping teach you ? Your tears are dead in you. "What harm, whcreall things change," You say, ' ' if we change too ? The old still sunny Grange ! Ah, that 's far off i* the dew. " Were those not pleasant hours, Ere I was what I am ? IN FRANCE. 201 My garden of fresh flowers ! My milk-white weanling lamb ! My bright laburnum bowers ! " The orchard walls so trim ! The redbreast in the thorn ! The twilight soft and dim ! The child's heart ! eve and morn, So rich with thoughts of him 1 " Hush ! your weanling lamb is dead : Your garden trodden over. They have broken the farm shed : They have buried your first lover With the grass above his head. Has the Past, then, so much power, You dare take not from the shelf That book with the dry flower, Lest it make you hang yourself For being yourself for an hour ? Why can't you let thought be For even a little while ? There 's nought in memory Can bring you back the smile Those lips have lost. Just see, Here what a costly gem To-night in your hair you wore Pearls on a diamond stem ! When sweet things are no more, Better not think of them. Are you saved by pangs that pained you, Is there comfort in all it cost you, Before the world had gained you, Before that God had lost you, Or your soul had quite disdained you ? For your soul (and this is worst To bear, as you well know) Has been watching you, from first, As sadly as God could do ; And yourself yourself have curst. Talk of the flames of Hell ! We fuel ourselves, I conceive, The fire the Fiend lights. Well, Believe or disbelieve, We know more than we tell ! Surely you need repose ! To-morrow again the Ball. And you must revive the rose In your cheek, to bloom for all. Not go ? ... why the whole world goes. To bed ! to bed ! 'T is sad To find that Fancy's wings Have lost the hues they had. In thinking of these things Some women have gone mad. AIT CAFF, A PARTY of friends, all light-hearted and g a 7> At a certain French cafe, where every one goes, Are met, in a well-curtained warm cabi- net, Overlooking a street there, which every one knows. The guests are, three ladies well known and admired : One adorns the Lyrique ; one ... I oft have beheld her At the Vaudeville, with raptures ; the third lives retired "Dans ses meubles "... (we all know her house) . . . Rue de Helder. Besides these is a fourth ... a young Englishman, lately Presented the round of the clubs in the town. A taciturn Anglican coldness sedately Invests him : unthawed by Clarisse, he sits down. But little he speaks, and but rarely he shares In the laughter around him ; his smiles are but few ; There 's a sneer in the look that his countenance wears In repose ; and fatigue in the eyes' weary blue. The rest are three Frenchmen. Three Frenchmen (thank heaven !) Are but rarely morose, with Cham- pagne and Bordeaux : And their wit, and their laughter, suf- fices to leaven With mirth their mute guest's imita- tion of snow. The dinner is done : the Lafitte in its basket, The Champagne in its cooler, is passed in gay haste ; 202 THE WANDERER. Whatever you wish for, you have but to ask it : Here are coffee, cigars, and liqueurs to your taste. And forth from the bottles the corks fly ; and chilly, The bright wine, in bubbling and blushing, confounds Its warmth with the ice that it seethes round ; and shrilly (Till stifled by kisses) the laughter re- sounds. Strike, strike the piano, beat loud at the wall ! Let wealthy old Lycus with jealousy groan Next door, while fair Chloris responds to the call, Too fair to be supping with Lycus alone ! * Clarisse, with a smile, has subsided, op- prest, Half, perhaps, by Champagne . . . half, perhaps, by affection, In the arms of the taciturn, cold, Eng- lish guest, With, just rising athwart her imperial complexion, One tinge that young Eviau himself might have kist From the fairest of Maenads that danced in his troop ; And her deep hair, unloosed from its sumptuous twist, Overshowering her throat and her bosom a-droop. The soft snowy throat, and the round, dimpled chin, Upturned from the arm-fold where hangs the rich head ! And the warm lips apart, while the white lids begin To close over the dark languid eyes which they shade ! And next to Clarisse (with her wild hair all wet From the wine, in whose blush its faint fire-fly gold "Audeat invidus Demcntcm strepitum Lycus tt vii-ina seni non habilis Lyco." HORACE. She was steeping just now), the blue- eyed Juliette Is murmuring her witty bad things to Arnold. Cries Arnold to the dumb English guest ..." Mon ami, What 's the matter ? . . . you can't sing . . . well, speak, then, at least : More grave, had a man seen a ghost, could he be ? Mais quel drdle de farceur ! . . . comme il a le vin triste I " And says Charles to Eugene (vainly seeking to borrow Ideas from a yawn) ..." At the club there are three of us With the Duke, and we play lansquenet till to-morrow : I am off on the spur . . . what say you ? . . . will you be of us ? " "Mon enfant, tu me baudes tu me boudes, cheri," Sighs the soft Celestine on the breast of Eugene ; "A h bah I ne me fais pas poser, mon amie," Laughs her lover, and lifts to his lips the Champagne. And loud from the bottles the corks fly ; and chilly The wine gurgles up to its fine crystal bounds. While Charles rolls his paper cigars round, how shrilly (Till kist out) the laughter of Juliette resounds ! Strike, strike the piano ! beat loud at the wall ! Let wealthy old Lycus with jealousy groan Next door, while fair Chloris responds to the call, Too fair to be supping with Lycus alone. There is Celestine singing, and Eugene is swearing. In the midst of the laughter, the oaths, and the songs, ?alls a knock at the door ; but there 's nobody hearing : Each, uninterrupted, the revel pro- longs. IN FRANCE. 203 Said I ... "nobody hearing?" one only ; the guest, The morose English stranger, so dull to the charms Of Clarisse, and Juliette, Celestine, and the rest ; Who sits, cold as a stone, with a girl in his arms. Once, twice, and three times, he has heard it repeated ; And louder, and fiercer, each time the sound falls. And his cheek is death pale, 'mid the others so heated ; There 's a step at the door, too, his fancy recalls. And he rises . . . (just so an automaton rises, Some man of mechanics made up, that must move In the way that the wheel moves within him ; there lies his Sole path fixt before him, below and above). He rises . . . and, scarcely a glance cast- ing on her, Flings from him the beauty asleep on his shoulder ; Charles springs to his feet ; Eugene mut- ters of honor ; But there 's that in the stranger that awes each beholder. For the hue on his cheek, it is whiter than whiteness : The hair creeps on his head like a strange living tiling. The lamp o'er the table has lost half its brightness ; Juliette cannot laugh ; Celestine can- not sing. He has opened the door in a silence un- broken : And the gaze of all eyes where he stands is fixt wholly: Not a hand is there raised ; not a word is there spoken : He has opened the door ; . . . and there comes through it slowly A woman, as pale as a dame on a tomb- stone, With desolate violet eyes, open wide ; Her look, as she turns it, turns all in the room stone : She sits down on the sofa, the stranger beside. Her hair it is yellow, as moonlight on water Which stones in some eddy torment into waves ; Her lips are as red as new blood spilt In slaughter ; Her cheek like a ghost's seen by night o'er the graves. Her place by the taciturn guest she has taken ; And the glass at her side she has filled with Champagne. As she bows o'er the board, all the rev- ellers awaken. She has pledged her mute friend, and she fills up again. Clarisse has awaked ; and with shrieks leaves the table. Juliette wakes, and faints in the arms of Arnold. And Charles and Eugene, with what speed they are able, Are off to the club, where this tale shall be told. Celestine for her brougham, on the stairs, was appealing, With hysterical sobs, to the surly con- cierge, When a ray through the doorway stole to her, revealing A sight that soon changed her appeal to " La vierge." All the light-hearted frignds from tha chamber are fled : And the cafe itself has grown silent by this. From the dark street below, you can scarce hear a tread, Save the Gendarme's, who reigns there as gloomy as Dis. The shadow of night is beginning to flit : Through the gray window shimmers the motionless town. The ghost and the stranger, together they sit Side \>y side at the table the place is their own. 204 THE WANDERER. They nod and change glances, that pale man and woman ; For they both are well known to each other : and then, Some ghosts have a look that 's so hor- ribly human, In the street you might meet them, and take them for men. "Thou art changed, my beloved! and the lines have grown stronger, And the curls have grown scanter, that meet on thy brow. Ah, faithless ! and dost thou remember no longer The hour of our passion, the words of thy vow ? " Thy kiss, on my lips it is burning for- ever ! I cannot sleep calm, for my bed is so cold. Embrace me ! close . . . closer ... let us part never, And let all be again as it once was of old ! " So she murmurs repiningly ever. Her breath Lifts his hair like a night-wind in winter. And he ... "Thy hand, Irene, is icy as death, But thy face is unchanged in its beauty to me." "'Tis so cold, my beloved one, down there, and so drear." "Ah, thy sweet voice, Irene, sounds hollow and strange ! " " T is the ehills of the grave that have changed it, I fear : But the voice of my heart there's no chill that can change." " Ha ! thy pale cheek is flusht with a heat like my own. Is it breath, is it flame, on thy lips that is burning ? Ha ! thy heart flutters wild, as of old, 'neath thy zone. And those cold eyes of thine fill with passionate yearning." Thus, embracing each other, they bend and they waver, And, laughing and weeping, converse. The pale ghost, As the wine warms the grave-worm wrtn- in her, grown braver, Fills her glass to the brim, and pro poses a toast. "Here's a health to the glow-worm, Death's sober lamplighter, That saves from the darkness below the gravestone The tomb's pallid pictures . . . the sad- der the brighter; Shapes of beauty each stony-eyi-.'. corpse there hath known : " Mere rough sketches of life, where a glimpse goes for all, Which the Master keeps (all the rest let the world have ! ) But though only rough-scrawled on the blank charnel wall, Is their truth the less sharp, that 't is sheathed in the grave ? " Here's to Love . . . the prime passion . . . the harp that we sung to In the orient of youth, in the days pure of pain ; The cup that we quaffed in : the stirrup we sprung to, So light, ere the journey was made and in vain ! "0 the life that we lived once! the beauty so fair once ! Let them go ! wherefore weep for what tears could not save ? What old trick sets us aping the fools that we were once, And tickles our brains even under the grave? " There 's a small stinging worm which the grave ever breeds From the folds of the shroud that around us is spread : There 's a little blind maggot that revels and feeds On the life of the living, the sleep of the dead. "To our friends ! . . . " But the full flood of dawn through the pane, Having slowly rolled down the huge street there unheard (While the great, new, blue sky, o'er the white Madeleine Was wide opening itself), from her lip washed the word ; IN FRANCE. 205 Washed her face faint and fainter ; while, dimmer and dimmer, In its seat, the pale form flickered out like a flame, As broader, and brighter, and fuller, the glimmer Of day through the heat-cloudd win- dow became. And the day mounts apace. Some one opens the door. In shuffles a waiter with sleepy red eyes : He stares at the cushions flung loose on the floor, On the bottles, the glasses, the plates, with surprise. Stranger still ! he sees seated a man at the table, With his head on his hands : in a slumber he seems, So wild, and so strange, he no longer is able In silence to thrid through the path of his dreams. For he moans, and he mutters : he moves and he motions : To the dream that he dreams o'er his wine-cup he pledges. And his sighs sound, through sleep, like spent winds over ocean's Last verge, where the world hides its outermost edges. The gas-lamp falls sick in the tube : and so, dying, To the fumes of spilt wine, and cigars but half smoked, Adds the stench of its last gasp : chairs broken are lying All about o'er the carpet stained, lit- tered, and soaked. A touch starts the sleeper. He wakes. It is day. And the beam that dispels all the phantoms of night Through the rooms sends its kindly and comforting ray : The streets are new-peopled : the morning is bright. And the city 's so fair ! and the dawn breaks so brightly ! With gay flowers in the market, gay girls in the street, Whate'er the strange beings that visit us nightly, When Paris awakes, from her smile they retreat. I myself have, at morning, beheld them departing ; Some in masks, and in dominos, foot- ing it on ; Some like imps, some like fairies ; at cockcrow all starting, And speedily flitting from sight one by one. And that wonderful night-flower, Mem- ory, that, tearful, Unbosoms to darkness her heart full of dew, Folds her leaves round again, and from day shrinks up fearful In the cleft of her ruin, the shade of her yew. This broad daylight life's strange enough : and wherever We wander, or walk ; in the club, in the streets : Not a straw on the ground is too trivial to sever Each man in the crowd from the others he meets. Each walks with a spy or a jailer behind him (Some word he has spoken, some deed he has done) ; And the step, now and then, quickens, just to remind him, In the crowd, in the sun, that he is not alone. But 't is hard, when by lamplight, 'mid laughter and songs too, Those return, ... we have buried, and mourned for, and prayed for, And done with . . . and, free of the grave it belongs to, Some ghost drinks your health in the wine you have paid for. Wreathe the rose, Young Man ; pour the wine. What thou hast That enjoy all the days of thy youth. Spare thou naught. Yet beware ! ... at the board sits a ghost 't is the Past ; In thy heart lurks a weird Necroman- cer 't is Thought. 206 THE WANDERER. THE CHESS-BOARD. MY little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, < 'urtained warm from the snowy weather, When you ami I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand. The double Castles guard the wings : The Bishop, bent on distant tilings, Moves, sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle 's done, Disperst is all its chivalry ; Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played, What is it we have won ? This, this at least if this alone ; That never, never, never more, As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played, together ! SONG. IF Sorrow have taught me anything, She hath taught me to weep for you ; And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed For Truth, these tears are true. If the one star left by the morning Be dear to the dying night, If the late lone rose of October Be sweetest to scent and sight, If the last of the leaves in December Be dear to the desolate tree, Remember, beloved, remember How dear is your beauty to me ! And more dear than the gold, is the silver Grief hath sown in that hair's young gold: And lovelier than youth is the language Of the thoughts that have made youUi old ; We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear Fashion and shatter the spell Of how many a love in a life, dear Ere life learns to love once and love well. Then what matters it, yesterday's sorrow ? Since 1 have outlived it And what matter the cares of to-morrow, Since you, dear, will share them with me? To love it is hard, and 't is harder Perchance to be loved again : But you '11 love me, I know, now I love 3"ou. What I seek I am patient to gain. To the tears 1 have .shed, and regret not, What matter a few more tears ? Or a few days' waiting longer, To one that has waited for years ? Hush ! lay your head on my breast, there. Not a word ! . . . while I weep for your sake, Sleep, and forget me, and rest there : My heart will wait warm till you wake. For -- if Sorrow have taught me any- thing She hath taught me to weep for you ; And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed For Truth, these tears are true ! THE LAST REMONSTRANCE. YES ! I am worse than thou didst once believe me. Worse than thou deem'st me now I cannot be But say " the Fiend 's no blacker," . . . canst thou leave me ? Where wilt thou flee ? Where wilt thou bear the relics of the days Squandered round this dethroned love of thine ? Hast thou the silver and the gold to raise A new God's shrine ? Thy cheek hath lost its roundness and its bloom : Who will forgive those signs where tears have fed IN FRANCE. 207 On thy once lustrous eyes, save he for whom Those tears were shed ? Know I not every grief whose course hath sown Lines on thy brow, and silver in thy hair? Will new love learn the language, mine alone Hath graven there ? Despite the blemisht beauty of thy brow, Thou wouldst be lovely, couldst thou love again ; For Love renews the Beautiful : but thou Hast only pain. How wilt thou bear from pity to im- plore What once those eyes from rapture could command ? How wilt thou stretch who wast a Queen of yore A suppliant's hand ? Even were thy heart content from love to ask No more than needs to keep it from the chill, Hast thou the strength to recommence the task Of pardoning still ? Wilt thou to one, exacting all that I Have lost the right to ask for, still extend Forgiveness on forgiveness, with that sigh That dreads the end ? Ah, if thy heart can pardon yet, why yet Should not its latest pardon be for me? For who will bend, the boon he seeks to get, On lowlier knee ? Where wilt thou find the unworthier heart than mine, That it may be more grateful, or more lowly ? To whom else, pardoning much, become divine By pardoning wholly ? Hath not thy forehead paled beneath my kiss? And through thy life have I not writ my name ? Hath not my soul signed thine ? . . . I gave thee bliss, If I gave shame : The shame, but not the bliss, where'er thou goest, Will haunt thee yet : to me no shame thou hast : To me alone, what now thou art, thou knowest By what thou wast. What other hand will help thy heart to swell To raptures mine first taught it how to feel ? Or from the unchorded harp and vacant shell New notes reveal ? Ah, by my dark and sullen nature nurst, And rocked by passion on this stormy heart, Be mine the last, as thou wert mine the first ! We dare not part ! At best a fallen Angel to mankind, To me be still the seraph I have dared To show my hell to, and whose love re- signed Its pain hath shared. If, faring on together, I have fed Thy lips on poisons, they were sweet at least, Nor couldst thou thrive where holier Love hath spread His simpler feast. Change would be death. Could sever- ance from my side Bring thee repose, I wo\ild not bid thee stay. My love should meet, as calmly as my pride, That parting day. It may not be : for thou couldst not for- get me, Not that my own is more than other natures. 208 T1IK WANDERER. But that 't is diflVrriit : and tliou wouldst regret me 'Mid purer creatures. Then, if love's first ideal now grows wan, And thou wilt love again, again love me, For what 1 am : no hero, but a man Still loving thee. SORCERY. You "re a milk-white Panther : 1 "m a Genius of the air. You 're a Princess once enchanted ; That is why you seem so fair. For a crime untold, unwritten, That was done an age ago, I have lost my wings, and wander In the wilderness below. In a dream too long indulged, In a Palace by the sea, You were changed to what you are By a muttered sorcery. Your name came on my lips When I first looked in your eyes : At my feet you fawned, you knew me In despite of all disguise. The black elephants of Delhi Are the wisest of their kind, And the libbards of Soumatra Are full of eyes behind : But they guessed not, they divined not, They believed me of the earth, When I walked among them, mourning For the region of my birth. Till I found you in the moonlight. Then at once I knew it all. You were sleeping in the sand here, But you wakened to my call. I knew why, in your slumber, You were moaning piteously : You heard a sound of harping From a Palace by the sea. Through the wilderness together We must wander everywhere, Till we find the magic berry That shall make us \vh:it"wo were. 'T is a berry sweet and bitter, I have heard ; there is but one ; On a tall tree, by a fountain, In the desert all alone. When at last 't is found and eaten, We shall both be what we were ; You, a Princess of the water, I, a Genius of the air. See ! the Occident is flaring Far behind us in the skies, And our shadows float before us. Night is coming forth. Arise ! ADIEU, MIGNONNE, MA BELLE. ADIEU, Mignonne, ma belle . . . when you are gone, Vague thoughts of you will wander, searching love Through this dim heart : through this dim room, Mignonne, Vague fragrance from your hair and dress will move. How will you think of this poor heart to-morrow, This poor fond heart with all its joy in you ? Which you were fain to lean on, once, in sorrow, Though now you bid it such a light adieu. You '11 sing perchance ..." I passed a night of dreams Once, in an old inn's old worm-eaten bed, Passing on life's highway. How strange it seems, That never more I there shall lean my head ! " Adieu, Mignonne, adieu, Mignonne, ma belle ! Ah, little witch, our greeting was so gay. Our love so painless, who 'd have thought " Farewell" Could ever be so sad a word to say ? IN FRANCE. 209 I leave a thousand fond farewells with you : Some for your red wet lips, which were so sweet : Some for your darling eyes, so dear, so blue : Some for your wicked, wanton little feet: But for your little heart, not yet awake, What can I leave your little heart, Mignonne ? It seems so fast asleep, I fear to break The poor thing's slumber. Let it still sleep on ! TO MIGNONNE. AT morning, from the sunlight I shall miss your sunny face, Leaning, laughing, on my shoulder With its careless infant grace ; And your hand there, With its rosy, inside color, And the sparkle of its rings ; And your soul from this old chamber Missed in fifty little things, When I stand there. And the roses in the garden Droop stupid all the day, Red, thirsty mouths wide open, With not a word to say ! Their last meaning Is all faded, like a fragrance, From the languishing late flowers, With your feet, your slow white move- ments, And your face, in silent hours, O'er them leaning. And, in long, cool summer evenings, I shall never see you, drest In those pale violet colors Which suit your sweet face best. Here 's your glove, child, Soiled and empty, as you left it, Yet your hand's warmth seems to stay In it still, as though this moment You had drawn your hand away ; Like your love, child, 14 Which still stays about my fancy. See this little, silken boot. What a plaything ! was there ever Such a slight and slender foot ? Is it strange now How that, when your lips are nearest To the lips they feed upon For a summer time, till bees sleep, On a sudden you are gone ? What new change now Sets you sighing . . . eyes uplifted To the starry night above ? "God is great . . . the soul's immortal. . . Must we die, though ! ... Do you love ? One kiss more, then : "Life might end now !" . . . And next moment With those wicked little feet, You have vanished, like a Fairy From a fountain in the heat, And all 's o'er, then. Well, no matter ! . . . hearts are breaking Every day, but not for you, Little wanton, ever making Chains of rose, to break them through. I would mourn you, But your red smile was too warm, Sweet, And your little heart too cold, And your blue eyes too blue merely, For a strong, sad man to scold, Weep, or scorn, you. For that smile's soft, transient sunshine At my hearth, when it was chill, I shall never do your name wrong, But think kindly of you still ; And each moment Of your pretty infant angers, (Who could help but smile at ... when Those small feet would stamp our love out?) Why, I pass them now, as then, Without comment. Only, here, when I am searching For the book I cannot find, I must sometimes pass your boudoir, Howsoever disinclined ; And niust meet there 210 THE WANDERER. The cold bird-cage in the window, Where no bird is singing now ; The small sofa and the footstool, Where I miss ... I know not how . . . Your young feet there, Silken-soft in each quaint slipper ; Anil the jewelled writing-case, Where you never more will write now ; And the vision of your face, Just turned to me : I would save this, if I could, child, But that 's all. . . . September 's here ! I must write a book : read twenty : Learn a language . . . what 's to fear ? Who grows gloomy Being free to work, as I am ? Yet these autumn nights are cold. How I wonder how you '11 pass them ! Ah, . . . could all be as of old ! But 't is best so. All good things must go for better, As the primrose for the rose. Is love free ? why so is life, too ! Holds the grave fast ? . . . I suppose Things must rest so. COMPENSATION. WHEN the days are silent all Till the drear light falls ; And the nights pass with the pall Of Love's funerals ; When the heart is weighed with years; And the eyes too weak for tears ; And life like death appears ; Is it nought, soul of mine, To hear i' the windy track A voice with a song divine Calling thy footsteps back To the land thou lovest best, Toward the Garden in the West Where thou hast once been blest ? IB it nought, aching brow, To feel in the dark hour, Which came, though called, so slow, And, though loathed, yet lingers slower, A hand upon thy pain, Lovingly laid again, Smoothing the ruffled brain. ? love, my own and only ! The seraphs shall not see By my looks that life was lonely ; But that 't was blest by thee. If few lives have been more lone, Few have more rapture known, Than mine and thine, my own ! When the lamp burns dim and dim- mer ; And the curtain close is drawn ; And the twilight seems to glimmer With a supernatural dawn ; And the Genius at the door Turns the torch down to the floor, Till the world is seen no more ; In the doubt, the dark, the fear, 'Mid the spirits come to take thee, Shall mine to thine be near, And my kiss the first to wake thee. Meanwhile, in life's December, On the wind that strews the ember, Shall a voice still moan ..." Remem- ber ! " TRANSLATIONS FROM PETER RONSARD. " VOICI LE BOIS QUE MA SAINCTE AN- GELETTE." HERE is the wood that freshened to her song; See here, the flowers that keep her footprints yet ; Where, all alone, my saintly Angel- ette Went wandering, with her maiden thoughts, along. Here is the little rivulet where she stopped ; And here the greenness of the grass shows where She lingered through it, searching here and there Those daisies dear, which in her breast she dropped. Here did she sing, and here she wept, and here Her smile came back ; and here I seem to hear Those faint half-words with which my thoughts are rife ; IN FRANCE. 211 Here did she sit ; here, childlike, did she dance, To some vague impulse of her own ro- mance Ah, Love, on all these thoughts, winds out my life ! "CACHE POUR CETTE NUICT." HIDE, for a night, thy horn, good Moon ! Fair fortune For this shall keep Endymion ever prest Deep - dreaming, amorous, on thine argent breast, Nor ever shall enchanter thee importune. Hateful to me the day ; most sweet the night ! I fear the myriad meddling eyes of day ; But courage comes with night. Close, close, 1 pray, Your curtains, dear dark skies, on my delight ! Thou too, thou Moon, thou too hast felt love's power ! Pan, with a white fleece, won thee for an hour ; And you, sidereal Signs in yonder blue, Favor the fire to which my heart is moved. Forget not, Signs, the greater part of you Was only set in heaven for having loved ! "PAGE SUY MOY." FOLLOW, my Page, where the green grass embosoms The enamelled Season's freshest-fallen dew ; Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew Of frail-lived April's newliest nurtured blossoms. Take from the wall now, my song-tune"d Lyre ; Here will I sit and charm out the sweet pain Of a dark eye whose light hath burned my brain, The unloving loveliness of my desire .' And here my ink, and here my papers, place : A hundred leaves of white, whereon to trace A hundred words of desultory woe Words which shall last, like graven dia- monds, sure ; That, some day hence, a future race may know And ponder on the pain which I endure. " LES ESPICES SONT A CERES." CERES hath her harvest sweet : Chlora's is the young green grass : Woods for Fauns with cloven feet : His green laurel Phoebus has : Minerva has her Olive-tree : And the Pine 's for Cybele. Sweet sounds are for Zephyr's wings : Sweet fruit for Pomona's bosom : For the Nymphs are crystal springs And for Flora bud and blossom : But sighs and tears, and sad ideas, These alone are Cytherea's. "MA DOUCE JOUVENCE." MY sweet youth now is all done ; The strength and the beauty are gone. The tooth now is black, and the head now is white, And the nerves now are loosed : in the veins Only water (not blood now) remains, Where the pulse beat of old with de- light. Adieu, my lyre, adieu, You sweet women, my lost loves, and you Each dead passion ! . . . The end creep- eth nigher.. Not one pastime of youth has kept pace With my age. Nought remains in their place But the bed, and the cup, and the fire. My head is confused with low fears, And sickness, and too many years ; Some care in each corner I meet And, wherever I linger or go, I turn back, and look after, to know If the Death be still dogging my feet : Dogging me down the dark stair, Which windeth, I cannot tell where, To some Pluto that opens forever His cave to all comers Alas ! How easily down it all pass, And return from it never, ah, never ! 212 THE WANDERER. BOOK III. -IN ENGLAND. THE ALOE. A STRANGER sent from burning lands, In realms where buzz and mutter yet Old gods, with hundred heads and hands, On jewelled thrones of jet, (Old gods as old as Time itself,) And, in a hot and level calm, Recline o'er many a sandy shelf Dusk forms beneath the palm, To Lady Eve, who dwells beside The river-meads, and oak-trees tall, Whose dewy shades encircle wide Her old Baronial Hall, An Indian plant with leaves like horn, And, all along its stubborn spine, Mere humps, with angry spike and thorn Armed like the porcupine. In midst of which one sullen bud Surveyed the world, with head aslant, High-throned, and looking like the god Of this strange Indian plant. A stubborn plant, from looking cross It seemed no kindness could retrieve ! But for his sake whose gift it was It pleased the Lady Eve. She set it on the terraced walk, Within her own fair garden -ground ; And every morn and eve its stalk Was duly watered round. And every eve and morn, the while She tended this uncourteous thing, I stood beside her, watched her smile, And often heard her sing. The roses I at times would twist To deck her hair, she oft forgot ; But never that dark aloe missed The daily watering-pot. She seemed so gay, I felt so sad, Her laugh but made me frown the more : For each light word of hers I had Some sharp reply in store. Until she laughed . . . "This aloe shows A kindlier nature than your own "... Ah, Eve, you little dreamed what foes The plant and I had grown ! At last, one summer night, when all The garden-flowers were dreaming still, And still the old Baronial Hall, The oak-trees on the hill, A loud and sudden sound there stirred, As \j'hen a thunder-cloud is torn ; Such thunder-claps are only heard When little gods are born. The echo went from place to place, And wakened every early sleeper. Some said that poachers in the chase Had slain a buck or keeper. Some hinted burglars at the door : Some questioned if it had not light- ened : While all the maids, as each one swore, From their seven wits were frightened. The peacocks screamed, and every rook Upon the elms at roost did caw : Each inmate straight the house forsook : They searched and, last, they saw That sullen bud to flower had burst Upon the sharp-leaved aloe there ; A wondrous flower, whose breath disperst Rich odors on the air. A flower, colossal dazzling white, And fair as is a Sphinx's face, Turned broadly to the moon by night From some vast temple's base. Yes, Eve ! your aloe paid the pains With which its sullen growth you nurst. But ah ! my nature yet remains As churlish as at first. And yet, and yet it might have proved Not all unworth your heart's approv- ing. Ah, had I only been beloved, (Beloved as I was loving ! ) IN ENGLAND. 213 I might have been . . . how much, how much, I am not now, and shall not be ! One gentle look, one tender touch, Had done so much for me ! I too, perchance, if kindly tended, Had roused the napping generation, With something novel, strange, and splendid, Deserving admiration : For all the while there grew, and grew A germ, a bud, within my bosom : No flower, fair Eve ! for, thanks to you, It never came to blossom. "MEDIO DE FONTE LEPORUM SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID." LUCRETIUS. WE walked about at Hampton Court, Alone in sunny weather, And talked half earnest, and half sport, Linked arm in arm together. I pressed her hand upon the steps. Its warmest light the sky lent. She sought the shade : I sought her lips : We kissed : and then were silent. Clare thought, no doubt, of many things, Besides the kiss I stole there ; The sun, and sunny founts in rings, The bliss of soul with soul there, The bonnet, fresh from France, she wore, My praise of how she wore it, The arms above the carven door, The orange-trees before it ; But I could only think, as, mute 1 watched her happy smile there, With rising pain, of this curst boot, That pinched me all the while there. THE DEATH OF KING HACON. IT was Odin that whispered in Vingolf, " Go forth to the heath by the sea ; Find Hacon before the moon rises, And bid him to supper with me." They go forth to choose from the Princes Of Yngvon, and summons from fight A man who must perish in battle, And sup where the gods sup to-night. Leaning over her brazen spear, Gondula Thus bespake her companions, "The feast Of the gods shall, in Vingolf, this evening, ye Daughters of War, be increast. For Odin hath beckoned unto me, For Odin hath whispered me forth, To bid to his supper King Hacon With the half of the hosts of the North." Their horses gleamed white through the vapor : In the moonlight their corselets did shine : As they wavered and whispered together, And fashioned their solemn design. Hacon heard them discoursing "Why hast thou Thus disposed of the battle so soon ? 0, were we not worthy of conquest ? Lo ! we die by the rise of the moon." " It is not the moon that is rising, But the glory which penetrates death, When heroes to Odin are summoned : Rise, Hacon, and stand on the heath ! " It is we," she replied, " that have given To thy pasture the flower of the fight, It is we, it is we that have scattered Thine enemies yonder in flight. " Come now, let us push on our horses Over yonder green worlds in the east, Where the great gods are gathered to- getter, And the tables are piled for the feast. " Betimes to give notice to Odin, Who waits in his sovran abodes, That the King to his palace is coming This evening to visit the gods." Odin rose when he heard it, and with him Rose the gods, every god to his feet. He beckoned Hermoder and Brago, They came to him, each from his seat. 214 THE WANDERER. " Go forth, O my sons, to King Haeon, And meet liim and greet him from all, A King that we know !>y his valor Is coining to-night to our hall." Then faintly King Haeon approaches, Arriving from buttle, and sore With the wounds that yet bleed through his armor Bedabbled and dripping with gore. His visage is pallid and awful With the awe and the pallor of death, Like the moon that at midnight arises Where the battle lies strewn on the heath. To him spake Hermoder and Brago, " We meet thee and greet thee from all, To the gods thou art known by thy valor, And they bid thee a guest to their hall. "Come hither, come hither, King Haeon, And join those eight brothers of thine, Who already, awaiting thy coming, With the gods in Wulhala recline. "And loosen, Haeon, thy corselet, For thy wounds are yet ghastly to see. Go pour ale in the circle of heroes, And drink, for the gods drink to thee." But he answered, the hero, " I never Will part with the armor I wear. Shall a warrior stand before Odin Unshamed, without helmet and spear ?" Black Fenris, the wolf, the destroyer, Shall arise and break loose from his chain Before thafr a hero like Haeon Shall stand in the battle again. "CARPE DIEM." HORACE. TO-MOKHOW is a day too far To trust, whateYr the day be. We know, a little, what we are, But who knows what he may be ? The oak that on the mountain grows A goodly ship may be, Next year : but it is as well (who knows?) May l>e a gallows-tree. 'Tis God made man, no doubt, not Chance : He made us, great and small ; But, being made, 't is Circumstance That finishes us all. The Author of this world's great plan The same results will draw From human life, however man May keep, or break, His law. The Artist to his Art doth look ; And Art's great laws exact That those portrayed in Nature's Book, Should freely move and act. The moral of the work unchanged Endures eternally, Howe'er by human wills arranged The work's details may be. " Give us this day our daily bread, The morrow shall take heed Unto itself." The Master said No more. No more we need. To-morrow cannot make or mar To-day, whate'er the day be : Nor can the men which now we are Foresee the men we may be. THE FOUNT OF TRUTH. IT was the place by legends told. I read the tale when yet a child. The castle on the mountain hold, The woodland in the wild. The wrecks of unremembered days Were heaped around. It was the hour When bold men fear, and timorous fays Grow bold, and know their power. The month was in the downward year. The breath of Autumn chilled the sky : And useless leaves, too early sere, Muttered and eddied by. that I was wending back Among the ruins of my youth, Along a wild night-haunted track To seek the Fount of Truth, IX ENGLAND. 215 The Fount of Truth, that wondrous fount ! Its solemn sound I seemed to hear Wind-borne adown the clouded mount, Desolate, cold, and clear. By clews long lost, and found again I know not how, my course was led Through lands remote from living men, As life is from the dead. Yet up that wild road, here and there, Large, awful footprints did I meet : Footprints of gods perchance they were, Prints not of human feet. The mandrake underneath my foot Gave forth a shriek of angry pain. I heard the roar of some wild brute Prowling the windy plain. I reached the gate. I blew with power A blast upon the darkness wide. "Who art thou ?" from the gloomy tower The sullen warder cried. "A Pilgrim to the Fount of Truth." He laughed a laugh of scornful spleen. "Art thou not from the Land of Youth ? Report where thou hast been." " The Land of Youth ! an alien race There, in my old dominions, reign ; And, with them, one in whose false face I will not gaze again. " From to and fro the world I come, Where I have fared as exiles fare, Mocked by the memories of home And homeless everywhere. "The snake that slid through Paradise Yet on my pathway slides and slips : The apple plucked in Eden twice Is yet upon my lips. " I can report the world is still Where it hath been since it began : And Wisdom, with bewildered will, Is still the same sick man, "Whom yet the self-same visions fool, The self-same nightmares haunt and scare. Folly still breeds the Public Fool, Knowledge increaseth care : " Joy hath his tears, and Grief her smile ; And still both tears and smiles deceive. And in the Valley of the Nile I hear and I believe " The Fiend and Michael, as of yore, Yet wage the ancient war : but how This strife will end at last, is more Than our new sages know." I heard the gate behind me close. It closed with a reluctant wail. Roused by the sound from her repose Started the Porteress pale : In pity, or in scorn . . . "Forbear, Madman, " she cried, . . . "thy search for Truth. The curl is in thy careless hair. Return to Love and Youth. "What lured thee here, through dark, and doubt, The many-perilled prize to win ? " - "The dearth" ... I said ... "of all without, The thirst of all within. "Age comes not with the wrinkled brow But earlier, with the ravaged heart ; Full oft hath fallen the winter snow Since Love from me did part. " Long in dry places, void of cheer, Long have I roamed. These features scan : If magic lore be thine, look here, Behold the Talisman ! " I crossed the court. The bloodhound bayed Behind me from the outer wall. The drowsy grooms my call obeyed And lit the haunted hall. They brought me horse, and lance, and helm, They bound the buckler on my breast, Spread the weird chart of that wild realm, And armed me for the quest. Uprose the Giant of the Keep. "Rash fool, ride on !" ... I heard him say, " The night is late, the heights are steep, And Truth is far away ! " 216 THE WANDEBER, And ..." Far away ! " . . . the echoes fell Behind, as from that grisly hold I turned. No tongue of man may tell What mine must leave untold. The Fount of Truth, that wondrous fount ! Far off I heard its waters play. But ere 1 scaled the solemn mount, Dawn broke. The trivial day To its accustomed course flowed back, And all the glamour faded round. Is it forever lost, that track ? Or was it never found ? MIDGES. SHE is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature ! Upon Man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile. Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature, The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle. I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now ; So I follow with my surreptitious cigar ; While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now, Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her " Thoughts on a Star.' Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower A swarm of young midges. They dance high and low. *T is a sweet little species that lives but one hour, And the eldest was born half an hour ago. One impulsive young midge I hear ar- dently pouring In the ears of a shy little wanton in gauze, His eternal devotion ; his ceaseless ador- "ing; Which shall last till the Universe breaks from its laws : His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control : It will bum in his breast through exist- ence forever, Immutably fixed in the deeps of the soul ! She wavers : she flutters : . . . male midges are fickle : Dare she trust him her future ? . . . she asks with a sigh : He implores, . . . and a tear is beginning to trickle : She is weak : they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by. While they pass me, down here on a rose leaf has lighted A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn : His existence is withered ; its future is blighted : , His hopes are betrayed : and his breast is forlorn. By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived, now In the virtue of midges no more he believes : From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, now He will bury his desolate life in the leaves. His friends would console him . . . the noblest and sagest Of midges have held that a midge lives again. In Eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest With sorrow shall cease . . . but their words are in vain ! Can Eternity bring back the seconds now wasted In hopeless desire ? or restore to his breast The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted, Embracing the midge that his being loved best ? His friends would console him . . . lift- Yi-t, is before him ; Many hundred long seconds he still has to live : IN ENGLAND. 217 In the state yet a mighty career spreads before him : Let him seek in the great world of action to strive ! There is Fame ! there 's Ambition ! and, grander than either, There is Freedom ! . . . the progress and march of the race ! . . . But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither Ambition nor action her loss can replace. If the time had been spent in acquiring aesthetics I have squandered in learning this language of midges, There might, for my friend in her peri- patetics, Have been now two asses to help o'er the bridges. As it is, ... I '11 report her the whole conversation. It would have been longer ; but, some- how or other (In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamentation), A midge in my right eye became a young mother. Since my friend is so clever, I '11 ask her to tell me Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg !) Can make a man's tears flow, as now it befell me ... you dear clever woman, explain it, I beg! THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH. THERE are some things hard to under- stand. help me, my God, to trust in thee ! But I never shall forget her soft white hand, And her eyes when she looked at me. It is hard to pray the very same prayer Which once at our mother's knee we prayed When, where we trusted our whole heart, there Our trust hath been betrayed. I swear that the milk-white muslin so light On her virgin breast, where it lay demure, Seemed to be toucht to a purer white By the touch of a breast so pure. I deemed her the one thing undefiled By the air we breathe, in a world of sin: The truest, the tenderest, purest child A man ever trusted in ! When she blamed me (she, with her fair child's face !) That never with her to the Church I went To partake of the Gospel of truth and grace, And the Christian sacrament, And I said I would go for her own sweet sake, Though it was but herself I should worship there, How that happy child's face strove to take On its dimples a serious air ! I remember the chair she would set for me, By the flowers, when all the house was gone To drive in the Park, and I and she Were left to be happy alone. There she leaned her head on my knees, my Ruth, With the primrose loose in her half- closed hands : And I told her tales of my wandering youth In the far fair foreign lands. The last time I met her was here in town, At a fancy ball at the Duchess of D., On the stairs, where her husband was handing her down. There we met, and she talked to me. She, with powder in hair, and patch on chin, And I, in the garb of a pilgrim Priest, And between us both, without ami within, A hundred years at least 1 ,218 THE WANDERER. We talked of the House, and the late long rains, And the crush at the French Ambas- sador's ball, And . . . well, I have not blown out my brains. You see I can laugh. That is all. MATRIMONIAL COUNSELS. You are going to marry my pretty rela- tion, My dove-like young cousin, so soft in the eyes, You are entering on life's settled dis- simulation, And, if you 'd be happy, in season be wise. Take my counsel. The more that, in church, you are tempted To yawn at the sermon, the more you '11 attend. The more you 'd from milliner's bills be exempted, The more on your wife's little wishes you '11 spend. You '11 be sure, every Christmas, to send to the rector A dozen of wine, and a hamper or two. The more your wife plagues you, the more you '11 respect her, She '11 be pleasing your friend, if she 's not plaguing you. For women of course, like ourselves, i need emotion ; And happy the husband, whose failings afford x To the wife of his heart, such good cause for commotion, That she seeks no excitement, save plaguing her lord. Above all, you '11 be careful that nothing offends, too, Your wife's lady's maid, though she give herself airs. With the friend of a friend it is well to be friends too, And especially so, when that friend livea up stairs. Under no provocation you '11 ever avow yourself A little put out, when you 're kept at the door, And you never, I scarcely need say, will allow yourself To call your wife's mother a vulgar old bore. However she dresses, you '11 never sug- gest to her That her taste, as to colors, could scarcely be worse, Of the rooms in your house, you will give up the best to her, And you never will ask for the car- riage, of course. If, at times with a doubt on the soul and her future, Revelation and reason, existence should trouble you, You '11 be always on guard to keep care- fully mute your Ideas on the subject, and read Dr. W. Bring a shawl with you, home, when you come from the Club, sir, Or a ring, lest your wife, when you meet her, should pout ; And don't fly in a rage and behave like a cub, sir, If you find that the fire, like yourself, has gone out. In eleven good instances out of a dozen, 'Tis the husband's a cur, when the wife is a cat. She is meekness itself, my soft-eyed little cousin, But a wife has her rights, and I 'd have you know that. Keep my counsel. Life's struggles are brief to be borne, friend. In Heaven there 's no marriage nor giving in marriage. When Death comes, think how truly your widow will mourn, friend, And your worth not the best of your friends will disparage 1 SEE-SAW. SHE was a harlot, and I was a thief : But we loved each other beyond belief : IN ENGLAND. 219 She lived in the garret, and I in the kitchen, And love was all that we both were rich in. When they sent her at last to the hos- pital, Both day and night my tears did fall ; 'They fell so fast that, to dry their grief, I borrowed my neighbor's handkerchief. The world, which, as it is brutally taught, Still judges the act in lieu of the thought, Found my hand in my neighbor's pocket, And clapped me, at once, under chain and locket. When they asked me about it, I told them plain, Love it was that had turned my brain : How should I heed where my hand had been, When my heart was dreaming of Celes- tine? Twelve friends were so struck by my woful air, That they sent me abroad for change of air : And, to prove me the kindness of their intent, They sent me at charge of the Govern- ment. When I came back again, whom, think you, I meet But Celestine, here, in Regent Street ? In a carriage adorned with a coronet, And a dress, all flounces, and lace, and jet: For her carnage drew up to the book- seller's door, Where they publish those nice little books for the poor : I took off my hat : and my face she knew, And gave me a sermon by Mr. Bellew. But she gave me (God bless her !) along with the book, Such a sweet sort of smile, such a heav- enly look, That, as long as I live, I shall never for- get Celestine, in her coach with the earl's coronet. There 's a game that men play at in great London-town ; Whereby some must go up, sir, and some must go down : And, since the mud sticks to your coat if you fall, Why, the strongest among us keep close to the wall. But some day, soon or late, in my shoes I shall stand, More exalted than any great Duke in the land ; A clean shirt on my back, and a rose in my coat, And a collar conferred by the Queen round my throat. And I know that my Celestine will not forget To be there, in her coach with my lord's coronet : She will smile to me then, as she smiled to me now : I shall nod to her gayly, and make her my bow ; Before I rejoin all those famous old thieves Whose deeds have immortalized Rome, sir, and Greece : Whose names are inscribed upon His- tory's leaves, Like my own on the books of the City / Police : Alexander, and Caesar, and other great robbers, Who once tried to pocket the whole uni- verse : Not to speak of our own parliamentary jobbers, With their hands, bless them all, in the popular purse ! BABYLONIA. ENOUGH of simpering and grimace ! Enough of damning one's soul for nothing ! Enough of Vacuity trimmed with lace ! And Poverty proud of her purple cloth- ing ! In Babylon, whene'er there 's a wind (Whether it blow rain, or whether it blow sand), 220 THE WANDERER. The weathercocks change their mighty miinl ; And the weathercocks are forty thou- sand. Forty thousand weathercocks, Each well-minded to keep his place, Turning about in the great and small ways ! Knch knows, whatever the weather's shock s, That the wind will never blow in his face ; And in Babylon the wind blows al- ways. I cannot tell how it may strike you, But it strikes me now, for the first and last time, That there may be better things to do, Than watching the weathercocks for pastime. And I wish I were out of Babylon, Out of sight of column and steeple, Out of fashion and form, for one, And out of the midst of this double- faced people. Enough of catgut ! Enough of the sight Of the dolls it sets dancing all the night ! For there is a notion come to me, As here, in Babylon, I am lying, That far away, over the sea, And under another moon and star, Braver, more beautiful beings arc dying (Dying, not dancing, dying, dying !) To a music nobler far. Full well I know that, before it came To inhabit this feeble, faltering frame, My soul was weary ; and, ever since then, It has seemed to me, in the stir and bustle Of this eager world of women and men, That my life was tired before it began, That even the child had fatigued the man, And brain and heart have done their part To wear out sinew and muscle. Yet, sometimes, a, wish has come to me, To wander, wander, I know not where, Out of the sight of all that I see, Out of the hearing of all that I hear ; Where only the tawny, bold, wild beast Roams his realms ; and find, at least, The strength which even the beast finds there, A joy, though but a savage joy ; \\Vre it only to find the food I need, The .six-lit to track, and the force to de- stroy, And the very appetite to feed ; The bliss of the sense without the thought, And the freedom, for once in my life, from aught That fills my life with care. And never this thought hath so wildly crost My mind, with its wildering, strange temptation, As just when I was enjoying the most The blessings of what is called Civiliza- tion : The glossy boot which tightens the foot ; The club at which my friend was black- balled (I am sorry, of course, but one must be exclusive) ; The yellow kid glove whose shape I ap- prove, And the journal in which I am kindly called "Whatever 's not libellous only abusive : The ball to which I am careful to go, Where the folks are so cool, and the rooms are so hot ; The opera, which shows one what music is not ; And the simper from Lady . . . but why should you know ? Yet, I am a part of the things I despise, Since my life is bound by their com- mon span : And each idler I meet, in square or in street, Hath within him what all that 's with- out him belies, The miraculous, infinite heart of man, With its countless capabilities ! The sleekest guest at the general feast, That at every sip, as he sups, says grace, Hath in him a touch of the untamed beast; And change of nature is change of place. The judge on the bench, and the scamp at the dock, Have, in each of them, much that is common to both ; Each is part of the parent stock, And their difference comes of their different cloth. IN ENGLAND. 221 Twixt the Seven Dials and Exeter Hall The gulf that is fixed is not so wide : And the fool that, last year, at Her Majesty's Ball, Sickened me so with his simper of pride, Is the hero now heard of, the first on the wall, , With the bayonet-wound in his side. 0, for the times which were (if any Time be heroic) heroic indeed ! When the men were few, And the deeds to do Were mighty, and many, And eacli man in his hand held a noble deed. Now the deeds are few, And the men are many, And each man has, at most, but a noble need. Blind fool ! . . . I know that all acted time By that which succeeds it, is ever re- . ceived As calmer, completer, and more sublime, Only because it is finished : because We only behold the thing it achieved ; We behold not the thing that it was. For, while it stands whole and immuta- ble, In the marble of memory we, who have seen But the statue before us, how can we tell What the men that have hewn at the block may have been ? Their passion is merged in its passionless- ness ; Their strife in its stillness closed for- ever : Their change upon change in its change- lessness ; In its final achievement, their feverish endeavor : Who knows how sculptor on sculptor starved With the thought in the head by the hand uncarved ? And he that spread out in its ample re- pose That grand, indifferent, godlike brow, How vainly his own may have ached, who knows, 'Twixt the laurel above and the wrin- kle below ? So again to Babylon I come back, Where this fettered giant of Human Nature Cramped in limb, and constrained in stature, In the torture-chamber of Vanity lies ; Helpless and weak, and compelled to speak The things he must despise. You stars, so still in the midnight blue, Which over these huddling roofs I view, Out of reach of this Babylonian riot, We so restless, and you so quiet, What is difference 'twixt us and you ? You each may have pined with a pain divine, For aught I know, As wildly as this weak heart of mine, In an Age ago : For whence should you have that stern repose, Which, here, dwells but on the brows of those Who have lived, and survived life's fever, Had you never known the ravage and fire Of that inexpressible Desire, Which wastes and calcines whatever is less In the soul, than the soul's deep con- sciousness Of a life that shall last forever ? Doubtless, doubtless, again and again, Many a mouth has starved for bread In a city whose wharves are choked with corn And many a heart hath perished dead From being too utterly forlorn, In a city whose streets are choked with men. Yet the bread is there, could one find it out : And there is a heart for a heart, no doubt, Wherever a human heart may beat ; And room for courage, and truth, and love, To move, wherever a man may move, In the thickliest crowded street. Lord of the soul of man, whose will Made earth for man, and man for heaven, Help all thy creatures to fulfil The hopes to each one given ! 222 THE WANDERER. So fair thou madest, and so complete, The little daisies at our feet ; So sound, and so robust in heart, The patient beasts, that bear their part In this world's labor, never asking The reason of its ceaseless tasking ; Hast thou made man, though more in kind, By reason of his soul and mind, Yet less in unison with life, By reason of an inward strife, Than these, thy simpler creatures, are, Submitted to his use and care ? For these, indeed, appear to live To the full verge of their own power, Nor ever need that time should give To life one space beyond the hour. They do not pine for what is not ; Nor quarrel with the things which are ; Their yesterdays are all forgot ; Their morrows are not feared from far : They do not weep, and wail, and moan, For what is past, or what 's to be, Or what 's not yet, and may be never ; They do not their own lives disown, Nor haggle with eternity For some unknown Forever. Ah yet, in this must I believe That man is nobler than the rest : That, looking in on his own breast, He measures thus his strength and size With supernatural destinies, Whose shades o'er all his lx>ine fall; And, in that dread comparison 'Twixt what is deemed and what is done, He can, at intervals, perceive How weak he is, and small. Therefore, he knows himself a child, Set in this rudimental star, To learn the alphabet of Being ; By straws dismayed, by toys beguiled, Yet conscious of a home afar ; With all things here but ill agreeing, Because he trusts, in manhood's prime, To walk in some celestial clime ; Sit in his Father's house ; and be The inmate of Eternity. BOOK IV. -IN SWITZEKLASTD. THE HEART AND NATURE. THE lake is calm ; and, calm, the skies In yonder silent sunset glow, Where, o'er the woodland, homeward flies The solitary crow ; The woodman to his hut is gone ; The wood-dove in the elm is still ; The last sheep drinks, and wanders on To graze at will. Nor aught the pensive prospect breaks, Save where my slow feet stir the gmss, Or where the trout to diamonds breaks The lake's pale glass. No moan the cushat makes, to heave A leaflet round her windless nest ; The air is silent in the eve ; The world 's at rest. All bright below ; all calm above ; No sense of pain, no sign of wrong ; Save in thy heart of hopeless love, Poor chUd of Song ! Why must the soul through Nature rove, At variance with her general plan ? A stranger to the Power, whose love Soothes all save Man ? Why lack the strength of meaner crea- tures ? The wandering sheep, the grazing kine, Are surer of their simple natures Than I of mine. For all their wants the poorest land Affords supply ; they browse and breed ; I scarce divine, and ne'er have found, What most I need. God, that in this human heart Hath made Belief so hard to grow, And set the doubt, the pang, the smart In all we know 'THE LAKE is CALM; AND CALM, THE SKIES." Page IN SWITZERLAND. 223 Why hast thou, too, in solemn jest At this tormented thinking-power, Inscribed, in flame on yonder West, In hues on every flower, Through all the vast unthinking sphere Of mere material Force without, Rebuke so vehement and severe To the least doubt ? And robed the world and hung the night, With silent, stern, and solemn forms ; And strown with sounds of awe and might, The seas and storms, All lacking power to impart To man the secret he assails, But armed to crush him, if his heart Once doubts or fails ! To make him feel the same forlorn Despair the Fiend hath felt ere now, In gazing at the stern sweet scorn On Michael's brow. A QUIET MOMENT. STAY with me, Lady, while you may ! For life 's so sad, this hour ' so sweet ; Ah, Lady, life too long will stay ; Too soon this hour will fleet. How fair this mountain's purple bust, Alone in high and glimmering air ! And see, . . . those village spires, up- thrust From yon dark plain, how fair ! How sweet yon lone and lovely scene, And yonder dropping fiery ball, And eve's sweet spirit, that steals, un- seen, With darkness over all ! This blessed hour is yours, and eve's ; And this is why it seems so sweet To lie, as husht as fallen leaves In autumn, at your feet ; And watch, awhile released from care, The twilight in yon quiet skies, The twilight in your quiet hair, The twilight in your eyes : Till in my soul the twilight stays, Eve's twilight, since the dawn's is o'er ! And life's too well-known worthless days Become unknown once more. Your face is no uncommon face ; Like it, I have seen many a one, And may again, before my race Of care be wholly run. But not the less, those earnest brows, And that pure oval cheek can charm ; Those eyes of tender deep repose ; That breast, the heart keeps warm. Because a sense of goodness sleeps In every sober, soft, brown tress, That o'er those brows, uncared for, keep.* Its shadowy quietness : Because that lip's soft silence shows, Though passion it hath never known, That well, to kiss one kiss, it knows A woman's holiest one ! Yours is the charm of calm good sense, Of wholesome views of earth and heaven, Of pity, touched with reverence, To all tilings freely given. Your face no sleepless midnight fills, For all its serious sweet endeavor ; It plants no pang, no rapture thrills, But ah ! it pleases ever ! Not yours is Cleopatra's eye, And Juliet's tears you never knew : Never will amorous Antony Kiss kingdoms out for you ! Never for you will Romeo's love, From deeps of moonlk musing, break To poetry about the glove Whose touch may press your cheek. But ah, in one, no Antony Nor Romeo now, nor like to these, (Whom neither Cleopatra's eye, Nor Juliet's tears, could please) How well they lull the lurking care Which else within the mind endure.-, That soft white hand, that soft dark hair. And that soft voice of yours ! 224 T1IK WANDERER. So, while you stand, a fragile form, With that close shawl around you drawn, And eve's last ardors fading warm Adown the mountain lawn, T is sweet, although we part to-morrow, And ne'er, the same, shall meet again, Awhile, from old habitual sorrow To cease ; to cease from pain ; ; To feel that, ages past, the soul Hath lived and ages hence will live ; And taste, in hours like this, the whole Of all the years can give. Then, Lady, yet one moment stay, While your sweet face makes all things sweet, For ah, the charm will pass away Before again we meet ! SOFT, soft be thy sleep in the land of the West, Fated maiden ! Fair lie the flowers, love, and light, on thy breast Passion-laden, In the place where thou art, by the storm-beaten strand Of the moaning Atlantic, While, alone with my sorrow, I roam through thy land, The beloved, the romantic ! And thy faults, child, sleep where in those dark eyes Death closes All their doings and undoings ; For who counts the thorns on last year's perisht roses ? Smile, dead rose, in thy ruins ! With thy beauty, its frailty is over. No token Of all which thou wast ! Not so much as the stem whence the blossom was broken Hath been spared by the frost. With thy lips, and thine eyes, and thy long golden tresses, Cold . . . and so young too ! All lost, like the sweetness which died with our kisses, On the lips we once clung to. Be it so ! too loved, and too lovely, to linger When- Age in its Imrrness Creeps slowly, and Time with his terri- ble lilli_ r T Kll'ares all fairn Thy being was but beauty, thy life only rapture, And, ere both were over, Or yet one delight had escaped from thy capture, Death came, thy last lover, And found thee, ... no care on thy brow, in thy tresses No silver all gold there ! On thy lips, when he kissed them, their last human kisses Had scarcely grown cold there. Thine was only earth's joy, not its sor- row, its sinning, Its friends that are foes too. 0, fair was \\\y life in its lovely beginning, And fair in its close too ! But I ? . . . since we parted, both mourn- ful and many Life's changes have been to me : And of all the love-garlands Youth wove me, not any Remain that are green to me. 0, where are the nights, with thy touch and thy breath in them, Faint with heart-beating ? The fragrance, the darkness, the life and the death in them, Parting and meeting ? All the world ours in that hour ! . . . O, the silence, The moonlight, and, far in it, 0, the one nightingale singing a mile hence ! The oped window one star in it ! Sole witness of stolen sweet moments, unguest of By the world in its primness ; Just one smile to adore by the starlight : the rest of Thy soul in the dimness ! If I glide through the door of thy cham- ber, anil sit there, The old, faint, uncertain Fragrance, that followed thee, surely will flit there, O'er the chairs, in the curtain : But thou ? . . . thou missed, and thou mourned one ! O never, Nevermore, shall we rove Through chamber, or garden, or by the dark river Soft lamps burn above t IN HOLLAND. 225 dead, child, dead, dead all the shrunken romance Of the dream life begun with ! But thou, love, canst alter no more smile or glance ; Thy last change is done with. As a moon that is sunken, a sunset that 's o'er, So thy face keeps the semblance Of the last look of love, the last grace that it wore, In my mourning remembrance. As a strain from the last of thy songs, when we parted, Whose echoes thrill yet, Through the long dreamless nights of sad years, lonely-hearted, With their haunting regret, Though nerveless the hand now, and shattered the lute too, Once vocal for me, There floats through life's ruins, when all's dark and mute too, The music of thee ! Beauty, how brief ! Life, how long ! . . . well, love 's done now ! Down the path fate arranged for me I tread faster, because 1 must tread it alone now. This is all that is changed for me. My heart must have broken, ere I broke the fetter Thyself didst undo, love. Ah, there 's many a purer, and many a better, But more loved, ... 0, how few, love ! BOOK Vt HOLLAND. AUTUMN. So now, then, Summer 'sover by degrees. Hark ! 't is the wind in yon red region frieves. o says the world grows better, growing old ? See ! what poor trumpery on those pau- per trees, That cannot keep, for all their fine gold leaves, Their last bird from the cold. This is Dame Nature, puckered, pinched, and sour, Of all the charms her poets praised, bereft, Scowling and scolding (only hear her, there !) Like that old spiteful Queen, in her last hour, Whom Spenser, Shakespeare, sung to . . . nothing left But wrinkles and red hair ! LEAFLESS HOURS. THE pale sun, through the spectral wood, Gleams sparely, where I pass : My footstep, silent as my mood, Falls in the silent grass. 15 Only my shadow points before me, Where I am moving now : Only sad memories murmur o'er me From every leafless bough : And out of the nest of last year's Red- breast Is stolen the very snow. ON MY TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR. THE night 's in November : the winds are at strife: The snow 's on the hill, and the ice on the mere : The world to its winter is turned : and my life To its twenty-fourth year. The swallows are flown to the south long ago: The roses are fallen : the woodland is sere. Hope 's flown with the swallows : Love's rose will not grow In my twenty-fourth year. The snow on the threshold : the cold at the heart : But the fagot to warm, and the wine- cup to cheer : 226 TIIK WANDERER. God's help to look up to : and courage to start On my twenty-fourth year. And 'tis well that the month of the roses is o'er ! The last, which I plucked for Nersea to weai-, She gave her new lover. A man should do more With his twenty-fourth year Than mourn for a woman, because she *s unkind, Or pine fora woman, because she is fair. Ah, I loved you, Nenea ! But now . . . never mind, 'T is my twenty-fourth year ! What a thing ! to have done with the follies of Youth, Ere Age brings ITS follies ! . . . though many a tear It should cost, to see Love fly away, and find Truth In one's twenty-fourth year. The Past's golden valleys are drained. I must plant On the Future's rough upland new harvests, I fear. Ho, the plough and the team ! . . . who would perish of want In his twenty-fourth year ? Man's heart is a well, which forever re- news The void at the bottom, no sounding comes near : And Love does not die, though its object I lose In my twenty-fourth year. The great and the little are only in name. The smoke from my chimney casts shadows as drear On the heart, as the smoke from Vesu- vius in flame : And my twenty-fourth year, From the joys that have cheered it, the cares that have troubled, What is wise to pursue, what is well to revere, May judge all as fully as though life were doubled To its forty-eighth year ! If the prospect grow dim, 't is becaaws it grows wide. Every loss hath its gain. So, from sphere on to sphere, Man mounts up the ladder of Time : so I stride Up my twenty-fourth year ! Exulting ? ... no ... sorrowing ? . . . no ... with a mind Whose regret chastens hope, whose faith triumphs o'er fear : Not repining : not confident : no, but resigned To my twenty-fourth year. JACQUELINE, COUNTESS OF HOLLAND AND HAINAULT.* Is it the twilight, or my fading sight, Makes all so dim around me ? Jso, the night Is come already. See ! through yonder pane, Alone in the gray air, that star again Which shines so wan, I used to call it mine For its pale face : like Countess Jacque- line Who reigned in Brabant once . . . that 's years ago. I called so much mine, then : so much seemed so ! And see, my own ! of all those things, my star (Because God hung it there, in heaven, so far Above the reach and want of those hard men) Is all they have not taken from me. Then I call it still My Star. Why not ? The dust Hath claimed the dust : no more. And moth and rust * Who was married to the impotent ami worthless John of Brabant, affianced to " good Duke Humphry." of Cli.iicester, and finally wedded to Frank von i.orselen, a p'litlcman of Zealand, in eoMseqiien.-e of which marriage she lost even the title of Countess. MIC died nt the age of thirty-six, after a lift- of unparalleled adventure and misfortune. See any Biographi- cal Dictionary, or any History of the Nether- lands. IN HOLLAND. 227 May rot the throne, the kingly purple fray : What then? You star saw kingdoms rolled away Ere mine was taken from me. It sur- vives. But think, Beloved, in that high life of lives, When our souls see the suns themselves burn low Before that Sun of Righteousness, and know What is, and was, before the suns were lit, How Love is all in all ... Look, look at it, My star, God's star, for being God's 't is mine : Had it been man's ... no matter . . . see it shine The old wan beam, which I have watched ere now So many a wretched night, when this poor brow Ached 'neath the sorrows of its thorny crown. Its crown ! . . . ah, droop not, dear, those fond eyes down. No gem in all that shattered coronet Was half so precious as the tear which wet Just now this pale sick forehead. my own, My husband, need was, that I should have known Much sorrow, more than most Queens, all know some, Ere, dying, I could bless thee for the home Far dearer than the Palace, call thy tear, The costliest gem that ever sparkled here. Infold me, my Beloved. One more kiss. 0, I must go ! 'T was willed I should not miss Life's secret, ere I left it. And now see, My lips touch thine thine arm encir- cles me The secret 's found God beckons I must go. Earth's best is given. Heaven's turn is come to show How much its best earth's best may yet exceed, Lest earth's should seem the very best indeed^ So we must part a little ; but not long. I seem to see it all. My lands belong To Philip still ; but thine will be my grave, (The only strip of land which I could save !) Not much, but wide enough for some few flowers, Thou 'It plant there, by and by, in later hours : Duke Humphry, when they tell him I am dead (And so young too !) will sigh, and shake his head, And if his wife should chide, "Poor Jacqueline, " He '11 add, ' ' You know she never could be mine." And men will say, when some one speaks of me, "Alas, it was a piteous history, The life of that poor countess ! " For the rest Will never know, my love, howl wasblest. Some few of my poor Zealanders, per- chance, Will keep kind memories of me ; and in France Some minstrel sing my story. Pitiless John Will prosper still, no doubt, as he has done, And still praise God with blood upon the Rood. Philip will, doubtless, still be called "The Good." And men will curse and kill : and the old game Will weary out new hands : the love of fame Will sow new sins : thou wilt not be renowned : And I shall lie quite quiet under ground. My life is a torn book. But at the end A little page, quite fair, is saved, my friend, Where thou didst write thy name. No stain is there, No blot, from marge to marge, all pure no tear ; The last page, saved from all, and writ by thee, Which I shall take safe up to Heaven . with me. All 's not in vain, since this be so. Dost grieve ? Beloved, I beseech thee to beliere 228 THE WANDERER, Although this be the last page of my life, It is my heart's first, only one. Thy wilt-, Poor though she be, thou sole wealth of mine, Is happier than the Countess Jacqueline ! And since my heart owns thine, say, am I not A Queen, my chosen, though by all forgot ? Though all forsake, yet is not this thy hand ? I, a lone wanderer in a darkened land, I, a poor pilgrim with no stall' of hope, I, a late traveller down the evening slope, Where any spark, the glow-worm's by the way, Had been a light to bless . . . have I, say, Not found, Beloved, in thy tender eyes, A light more sweet than morning's ? As there dies Some day of storm all glorious in its even, My life grows loveliest as it fades in heaven. This earthly house breaks up. This flesh must fade. So many shocks of grief slow breach have made In the poor frame. Wrongs, insults, treacheries, Hopes broken down, and memory which sighs In, like a night-wind ! Life was never meant To bear so much in such frail tenement. Why should we seek to patch and plaster o'er This shattered roof, crusht windows, broken door The light already shines through ? Let them break. Yet Would I gladly live for thy dear sake, my heart's first and last, if that could be ! In vain ! . . . yet grieve not thou. I shall not see England again, and those white cliffs ; nor ever Again those four gray towers beside the river, And London's roaring bridges : never more Those windows with the market-stalli before, Where the red-kirtled market-girls went by In the great square, beneath the great gray sky, In Brussels : nor in Holland, night or day, Watch those long lines of siege, and fight at bay Among my broken army, in default Of Gloucester's failing forces from Hai- nault : Nor shall I pace again those gardens green, With their clipt alleys, where they called me Queen, In Brabant once. For all these things are gone. But thee 1 shall behold, my chosen one, Though we should seem whole worlds on worlds apart, Because thou wilt be ever in my heart. Nor shall I leave thee wholly. 1 shall be An evening thought, a morning dream to thee, A silence in thy life when, through the night, The bell strikes, or the sun, with sinking light, Smites all the empty windows. As there sprout Daisies, and dimpling tufts of violets, out Among the grass where some corpse lies asleep, So round thy life, where I lie buried deep, A thousand little tender thoughts shall spring, A thousand gentle memories wind and cling. 0, promise me, my own, before my soul Is houseless, let the great world turn and roll Upon its way unvext ... Its pomps, its powers ! The dust says to the dust, ..." the earth is ours." I would not, if I could, be Queen again For all the walls of the vide world con- tain. Be thou content with silence. Who would raise A little dust and noise of human praise, If he could see, in yonder distance dim, The silent eye of God that watches him ? Oh ! couldst thou see all that I see to- night Upon the brinks of the great Infinite ! IN HOLLAND. 229 " Come out of her, my people, lest ye be Partakers of her sins ! " . . . My love, but we Our treasure where no thieves break in and steal, Have stored, I trust. Earth's weal is not our weal. Let the world mind its business peace or war, Ours is elsewhere. Look, look, my star, my star ! It grows, it glows, it spreads in light unfurled ; Said I " my star " ? No star a world God's world ! What hymns adown the jasper sea are rolled, Even to these sick pillows ! "Who infold White wings about me ? Rest, rest, rest ... I come ! Love ! 1 think that I am near my home. Whence was that music ? Was it Heav- en's I heard ? Write " Blessed are the dead that die i' the Lord, Because they rest, ". . . because their toil is o'er. The voice of weeping shall.be heard no more In the Eternal city. Neither dying Nor sickness, pain nor sorrow, neither crying, For God shall wipe away all tears. Rest, rest, Thy hand, my husband, so upon thy breast ! MACROMICROS. IT is the star of solitude, Alight in yon lonely sky. The sea is silent in its mood, Motherlike moaning a lullaby, To hush the hungering mystery To sleep on its breast subdued. The night is alone, and I. It is not the scene I am seeing, The lonely sky and the sea, It is the pathos of Being That is making so dark in me This silent and solemn hour : The bale of baffled power, The wail of unbaffled desire, The fire that must ever devour The source by which it is fire. My spirit expands, expands ! I spread out my soul on the sea. I feel for yet unfound lands, And I find but the land where She Sits, with her sad white hands, At her golden broidery, In sight of the sorrowful sands, In an antique gallery, Where, ever beside her, stands (Moodily mimicking me) The ghost of a something her heart de- mands For a blessing which cannot be. And broider, broider by night and day The brede of thy blazing broidery ! Till thy beauty be wholly woven away Into the desolate tapestry. Let the thread be scarlet, the gold be g a y For the damp to dim, and the moth to fray : Weave in the azure, and crimson, and green ! Till the slow threads, needling out and in, To take a fashion and form begin : Yet, for all the time and toil, I see The work is vain, and will not be Like what it was meant to have been. woman, woman, with face so pale ! Pale woman, weaving away A frustrate life at a lifeless loom, Early or late, 't is of little avail That thou lightest the lamp in the gloom. Full well, I see, there is coming a day When the work shall forever rest in- complete. Fling, fling the foolish blazon away, And weave me a winding-sheet ! It is not for thee, in this dreary hour, That I walk, companionless here by the shore. 1 am caught in the eddy and whirl of a power Which is not grief, and is not love, Though it loves, and grieves, Within me, without me, wherever I move In the going out of the ghostly eves, And is changing me more and more. I am not mourning for thee, although 230 11 IK WANDEREK. I love thee, and thou art lost : Nor yet for myself, allx'it I know That my life is flawed and crost : But for that sightless, sorrowing Soul That is feeling, Miml with immortal pain, All round, for what it can never attain ; That prisoned, pining, and passionate soul, So vast, and yet so small ; That seems, now nothing, now all, That moves me to pity beyond control, And repulses pity again. 1 iim mourning, since mourn I must, With those patient Powers that bear, ' N'rath the unattainable stars up there, With the pomp and pall of funeral, Subject and yet august, The weight of this world's dust : The ruined giant under the rock : The stricken spirit below the ocean : And the winged things wounded of old by the shock That set the earth in motion. Ah yet, . . . and yet, and yet, I f She were here with me, If she were here by the sea, With the face I cannot forget, Then all things would not be So fraught with my own regret, But what I should feel and see, And seize it at last, at last, The secret known and lost in the past, To unseal the Genii that sleep In vials long hid in the deep ; By forgotten, i'ashionless spells held fast, Where through streets of the cities of coral, aghast, The sea-nymphs wander and weep. MYSTERY. THE hour was one of mystery, When we were sailing, I and she, Down the dark, the silent stream. The stars above were pale with love, And a wizard wind did faintly move, Like a whisper through a dream. II'T head was on my hi Her loving little head ! Her hand in mine was prest, And not a word we said ; But round and round the night we wound, Till we came at last to the Isle of Fays ; And, all the while, from the magic isle, Came that music, that music of other days ! The lamps in the garden gleamed. The Palace was all alight. The sound of the viols streamed Through the windows over the night. We saw the dancers pass At the windows, two by two. The dew was on the grass, And the glow-worm in the dew. We came through the grass to the cypress-tree. We stood in its shadow, I and she. " Thy face is pale, thine eyes are wild. What aileth thee, what aileth thee ? " " Naught aileth me," she murmured mild, " Only the moonlight makes me pale ; The moonlight, shining through the veil Of this black cypress-tree." " By yonder, moon, whose light so soon Will fade upon the gloom, And this black tree, whose mystery Is mingled with the tomb, By Love's brief moon, and Death's dark tree, Lovest thou me ? " Upon my breast . And be forgiven. Close, if thou wilt, mine eyes, and smooth my hair : Fond words will come upon my part- ing breath. Nor, having desolated life, forbear Kind offices to death. BLUEBEARD. I WAS to wed young Fatima, As pure as April's snowdrops are, In whose love lay hid my crooked life, As in its sheath my scimitar. Among the hot pomegranate boughs, At sunset, here alone we sat. To call back something from that hour I 'd give away my Caliphat. She broke her song to gaze at me : Her lips she leaned my lips above . . . " Why art thou silent all this while, Lord of my life, and of my love ? " " Silent I am, young Fatima, For silent w my soul in ine, And language will not help the want Of that which cannot ever be." " But wherefore is thy spirit sad, My lord, my love, my life ? " . . . she said. " Because thy face is wondrous like The face of one I knew, tliat 's dead." "Ah cruel, cruel," cried Fatima, " That I should not possess the past ! What woman's lips first kissed the lips Where my kiss lived and lingered last ? " And she that 's dead was loved by thee, That so her memory moves thee yet ? ... Thy face grows cold and white, as looks The moon o'er yonder minaret ! " " Ay, Fatima ! I loved her well, With all of love's and life's despair, Or else I had not strangled her, That night, in her own fatal hair. " FATIMA. A YEAR ago thy cheek was bright, As oleander buds that break The dark of yonder dells by night Above the lamp-lit lake. Pale as a snowdrop in Cashmere Thy face to-night, fair infant, seems. Ah, wretched child ! What dost thou hear When I talk in my dreams ? GOING BACK AGAIN. I DREAMED that I walked in Italy When the day was going down, By a water that flowed quite silently Through an old dim-lighted town : IN HOLLAND. 237 Till I came to a Palace fair to see : Wide open the windows were : My love at a window sat, and she Beckoned ine up the stair. I roamed through many a corridor And many a chamber of state : I passed through many an open door, While the day was growing late : Till I came to the Bridal Chamber at last, All dim in the darkening weather. The flowers at the window were talking fast, And whispering all together. The place was so still that I could hear Every word that they said : They were whispering under their breath with fear, For somebody there was dead. When I came to the little rose-colored room, From the window there flew a bat. The window was opened upon the gloom : My love at the window sat : She sat with her guitar on her knee, But she was not singing a note, For some one had drawn (ah, who could it be ?) A knife across her throat. THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH. THIS is the castle of King Macbeth. And here he feasts when the day- light wanes, And the moon goes softly over the heath His Earls and Thanes. A hundred harpers with harps of gold Harp thorough the night high festival : And the sound of the music they make is rolled From hall to hall. They drink deep healths till the rafters rock In the Banquet Hall ; and the shout is borne To the courts outside, where the crowing cock Is waked ere morn. And the castle is all in a blaze of light From cresset, and torch, and sconce : and there Each warrior dances all the night With his lady fair. They dance and sing till the raven is stirred On the wicked elm-tree outside in the gloorn : And the rustle of silken robes is heard From room to room. But there is one room in that castle old, In a lonely turret where no one goes, And a dead man sits there, stark and cold, Whom no one knows. DEATH-IN-LIFE. BLEST is the babe that dies within the womb. Blest is the corpse which lies within tin, tomb. And blest that death for which this lift makes room. But dreary is the tomb where the corpse lies : And wretched is the womb where the child dies : And curst that death which steals this life's disguise. KING LIMOS. THERE once was a wicked, old, gray king Long damned, as I have reason to know, For he was buried (and no bad thing !) Hundreds of years ago. His wicked old heart had grown so chilled That the leech, to warm him, did not shrink To give him each night a goblet, filled With a virgin's blood, to drink. "A splenetic legend," . . . you say, of course ! Yet there may be something in it, too. Kill, or be killed . . . which choice were the worse ? I know not. Solve it you. 238 THE WANDERER. But even the wolf must have his prey : And even the gallows will have lierfood : And a king, my frii-nd, will have his way, Though that way may lie through blood. My heart is hungry, and must be fed ; My life is empty, and must be filled ; One is not a Ghoul, to live on the dead : What then if fresh blood be spilled ? We follow the way that nature leads. What's the very first thing that we learn ? To devour. Each life the death of some other needs To help it from hour to hour. From the animalcule that swallows his friends, Nothing loath, in the wave as it rolls, To man, as we see him, this law ascends ; 'T is the same in the world of souls. The law of the one is still to absorb : To be absorbed is the other's lot : The lesser orb by the larger orb, The weak by the strong . . . why not ? My want 's at the worst : so why should I spare (Since just such a thing my want sup- plies) This little girl with the silky hair, And the love in her two large eyes ? THE FUGITIVE. THERE is no quiet left in life, Not any moment brings me rest : Fore verm ore, from shore to shore, I bear about a laden breast. 1 see new lands : I meet new men : I learn strange tongues in novel places. I cannot chase one phantom face That haunts me, spite of newer faces. For me the wine is poured by night, And deep enough to drown much sad- ness ; But from the cup that face looks up, And mirth and music turn to madness. There 's many a lij> that 's warm for me : Many a heart with passion bounding : But ah, my breast, when closest prest, Creeps to a cold step near me sounding. To this dark penthouse of the mind I lure the bat-winged Sleep in vain ; For on his wings a dream he brings That deepens all the dark with pain. I may write books which friends will praise, I may win fame, I may win treasure ; But hope grows less with each success, And pain grows more with every pleas- ure. The draughts I drain to slake my thirst But fuel more the infernal flame. There tangs a sting in everything : The more I change, the more the same ! A man that flies before the pest, From wind to wind my course is whirled. This fly accurst stung lo first, And drove her wild across the world ! THE SHORE. CAN it be women that walk in the sea-mist under the cliffs there ? Where, 'neath a briny bow, creaming, advances the lip Of the foam, and out from the sand-choked anchors, on to the skiffs there, The long ropes swing through the surge, as it tumbles ; and glitter, and drip. All the place in a lurid, glimmering, emerald glory, Glares like a Titan world come back under heaven again : Yonder, up there, are the steeps of the sea-kings, famous in story ; But who are they on the beach ? They are neither women, nor men. Who knows, are they the land's, or the water's, living creatures ? Born of the boiling sea ? nurst in the seething storms ? IN HOLLAND. 239 With their woman's hair dishevelled over their stern male features, Striding, bare to the knee ; magnified maritime forms ! They may be the mothers and wives, they may be the sisters and daughters Of men on the dark mid-seas, alone in those black-coiled hulls, That toil 'neath yon white cloud, whence the moon will rise o'er the waters To-night, with her face on fire, if the wind in the evening lulls. But they may be merely visions, such as only sick men witness (Sitting as 1 sit here, filled with a wild regret), Framed from the sea's misshapen spume with a horrible fitness To the winds in which they walk, and the surges by which they are wet : Salamanders, sea-wolves, witches, warlocks ; marine monsters, Which the dying seaman beholds, when the rats -are swimming away, And an Indian wind 'gins hiss from an unknown isle, and alone stirs The broken cloud which burns on the verge of the dead, red day, I know not. All in my mind is confused ; nor can I dissever The mould of the visible world from the shape of my thoughts in me. The Inward and Outward are fused : and, through them, murmur forever The sorrow whose sound is the wind, and the roar of the limitless sea- THE NORTH SEA. BY the gray sand-hills, o'er the cold sea-shore ; where, dumbly peering, Pass the pale-sailed ships, scornfully, silently ; wheeling and veering Swift out of sight again ; while the wind searches what it finds never, O'er the sand-reaches, bays, billows, blown beaches, homeless forever ! And, in a vision of the bare heaven seen and soon lost again, Over the rolling foam, out in the mid-seas, round by the coast again, Hovers the sea-gull, poised in the wind above, o'er the bleak surges, In the green briny gleam, briefly revealed and gone ; . . . fleet, as emerges Out of the tumult of some brain where memory labors, and fretfully Moans all the night-long, a wild winged hope, soon fading regretfully. Here walk the lost Gods o' dark Scandinavia, morning and even ; Faint pale divinities, realmless and sorrowful, exiled from Heaven ; Burthened with memories of old theogonies ; each ruined monarchy Roaming amazed by seas oblivious of ancient fealty. Never, again at the tables of Odin, in their lost Banquet Hall, Shall they from golden cups drink, hearing golden harps, harping high festival, Never praise bright-haired Freya, in Vingolf, for her lost loveliness ! Never, with JEgir, sail round cool moonlit isles of green wilderness ! Here on the lone wind, through the long twilight, when day is waning, Many a hopeless voice near the night is heard coldly complaining, Here, in the glimmering darkness, when winds are dropped, and not a seaman sings From cape or foreland, pause, and pass silently, forms of discrowned kings, With sweeping, floating folds of dim garments ; wandering in wonder Of their own aspect ; trooping towards midnight ; feeling for thunder. Here, in the afternoon ; while, in her father's boat, heavily laden, Mending the torn nets, sings up the bleak bay the Fisher- Maiden, I too, forlornly wandering, wandering, see, with the mind's eye, Shadows beside me, . . . (hearing the wave moan, hearing the wind sigh) . . . Shadows, and images balefully beautiful, of days departed : 240 THE WANDERER. Sounds of faint footsteps, gleams of pale foreheads, make me sad-hearted ; Sad for the lost, irretrievable sweetness of former hours ; Sad with delirious, desolate odors, from faded Mowers; Sad for the beautiful gold hair, the exquisite, exquisite graces Of a divine face, hopelessly unlike all other faces ! O'er the gray sand-hills (where I sit sullenly, full of black fancies), Nipt by the sea-wind, drenched by the sea-salt, little wild pansies Flower, and freshly tremble, and twinkle ; sweet sisterhoods, Lone, and how lovely, with their frail green stems, and dark purple hoods I Here, even here in the midst of monotonous, fixt desolation, Nature has touches of tenderness, beauties of young variation ; Where, my heart, in thy ruined, and desolate, desolate places, Springs there a floweret, or gleams there the green of a single oasis ? Hidden, it may be perchance, and 1 know it not . . . hidden yet inviolate, Pushes the germ of an unconscious rapture in me, like the violet Which, on the bosom of March, the snows cover and keep till the coming Of April, the first bee shall find, when he wanders, and welcome it humming. Teach me, thou North where the winds lie in ambush ; the rains and foul weather Are stored in the house of the storms ; and the snow-flakes are garnered together ; Where man's stern, dominate, sovereign intelligence holds in allegiance Whatever blue Sirius beholds on this Earth-ball, all seas, and all regions ; The iron in the hill's heart ; the spirit in the loadstone ; the ice in the poles ; All powers, all dominions ; ships ; merchandise ; armaments ; beasts ; human souls ; . . . Teach me thy secrets : teach to refrain, to restrain, to be still ; Teach me unspoken, steadfast endurance ; the silence of Will ! A NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. PART I. THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER. IF the wind had been blowing the Devil this way The midnight could scarcely have grown more unholy, Or the sea have found secrets more wicked to say To the toothless old crags it is hiding there wholly. I love well the darkness. I love well the sound Of the thunder-drift, howling this way over ocean. For 't is though as in nature my spirit had found A trouble akin to its own fierce emotion. The hoarse night may'howl herself silent for me. When the silence comes, then comes the howling within. I am drenched to my knees in the surf of the sea, And wet with the salt bitter rain to the skin. Let it thunder and lighten ! this world's ruined angel Is but fooled by desire like the frailest of men ; Both seek in hysterics life's awful evan- gel, Then both settle down to life's silence again. Well I know the wild spirits of water and air, When the lean morrow turns up its cynical gray, Will, baffled, revert with familiar de- spair To their old listless work, in their old helpless way. . Yonder 's the light in the Fisherman's hut: But the old wolf himself is, I know, off at sea. IN HOLLAND. 241 And I see through the chinks, though the shutters be shut, By the firelight that some one is watching for me. Three years ago, on this very same night, I walked in a ballroom of perfume and splendor With a pearl-bedecked lady below the lamplight : Now I walk with the wild wind, whose breath is more tender. Hark ! the horses of ocean that crouch at my feet, They are moaning in impotent pain on the beach ! Lo ! the storm-light, that swathes in its blue winding-sheet That lone desert of sky, where the stars are dead, each ! Holloa, there ! open, you little wild girl ! Hush, ... 't is her soft little feet o'er the floor. Stay not to tie up a single dark curl, But quick with the candle, and open the door. One kiss ? . . . there 's twenty ! . . . but first, take my coat there, Salt as a sea-sponge, and dripping all through. The old wolf, your father, is out in the boat there. Hark to the thunder ! ... we 're safe, I and you. Put on the kettle. And now for the cask Of that famous old rum of your father's, the king Would have clawed on our frontier. There, fill me the flask. Ah, what a quick, little, neat-handed thing ! There 's my pipe. Stuff' it with black negro-head. Soon I shall be in the cloud-land of glory. Faith, 't is better with you, dear, than 'fore the mast-head, With such lights at the windows of night's upper story ! Next, over the round open hole in the shutter You may pin up your shawl, . . . lest a mermaid should peep. Come, now, the kettle 's beginning to splutter, And the cat recomposes herself into Poor little naked feet, . . . put them up there . . . Little white foam-flakes ! and now the soft head, Here, on my shoulder ; while all the dark hair Falls round us like sea-weed. What matter the bed If sleep will visit it, if kisses feel there Sweet as they feel under curtains of silk ? So, shut your eyes, while the firelight will steal there O'er the black bear-skin, the arm white as milk ! Meanwhile I '11 tell to you all I remember Of the old legend, the northern romance I heard of in Sweden, that snowy De- cember I passed there, about the wild Lord Rosencrantz. Then, when you 're tired, take the cards from the cupboard, Thumbed over by every old thief in our crew, And I '11 tell you your fortune, you little Dame Hubbard ; My own has been squandered on witches like you. Knave, King, and Queen, all the villa- nous pack of 'em, I know what they 're worth in thf game, and have found Upon all the trump-cards the small mar\ at the back of 'em, The Devil's nail-mark, who still cheat* us all round. PAKT II. THE LEGEND OF LORD ROSENCRANTZ. THE lamps in the castle hall burn bright, And the music sounds, and the danccri dance, 242 THE WANDKKKR. And lovely the young Queen looks to- night, But pale is Lord Rosencrantz. Lord Rosencrantz is always pale, . But never more deadly pale than now . . . 0, there is a whisper, an ancient tale, A rumor, . . . but who should know ? He has stepped to the dais. He has taken her hand. And she gives it him with a tender glance. And the hautboys sound, and the dancers stand, And envy Lord Rosencrantz. That jewelled hand to his lips he prest ; And lightly he leads her towards the dance : And the blush on the young Queen's cheek confest Her love for Lord Rosencrantz. The moon at the mullioned window shone ; There a face and a hand in the moon- light glance ; But that face and that hand were seen of none, Save only Lord Rosencrantz. A league aloof in the forest-land There 's a dead black pool, where a man by chance . . . Again, again, that beckoning hand ! And it beckons Lord Rosencrantz. While the young Queen turned to whis- per him, Lord Rosencrantz from the hall was gone ; And the hautboys ceased, and the lamps grew dim, And the castle clock struck One ! It is a bleak December night, And the snow on the highway gleams by fits : But the fire on the cottage-hearth burns bright, Where the little maiden sits. Her spinning-wheel she has luM ;i.-iMr ; And her blue eyes soft in the lin-light glance ; As she leans with love, and she leans with pride, On the breast of Lord Rosencrantz. Mother 's asleep, up stairs in bed : And the black cat, she looks wondrous wise As she licks her paws in the firelight red, And glares with her two green eyes : And the little maiden is half afraid, And closely she clings to Lord Rosen- crantz ; For she has been reading, that little maid, All day, in an old romance, A legend wild of a wicked pool A league aloof in the forest-land, And a crime done there, and a sinful soul, And an awful face and hand. " Our little cottage is bleak and drear," Says the little maid to Lord Rosen- crantz ; "And this is the loneliest time of the year, And oft, when the wind, by chance, "The ivy beats on the window-pane, I wake to the sound' in the gusty nights ; And often, outside, in the drift and rain, There seem to pass strange sights. "And 0, it is dreary here alone ! When mother's asleep, in bed, up stairs, And the black cat, there, to the forest is gone, Look at her, how she glares ! " "Thou little maiden, my heart's own bliss, Have thou no fear, for I love thee well ; And sweetest it is upon nights like this, When the wind, like the blast of hell, "Roars up and down in the chimneys old, And the wolf howls over the distant now, IN HOLLAND. 243 To kiss away both the night and the cold With such kisses as we kiss now." " Ah ! more than life I love thee, dear ! " Says the little maiden with eyes so blue ; " And, when thou art near, I have no fear, Whatever the night may do. "But 0, it is dreary when thou art away ! And in bed all night I pray for thee : Now tell me, thou dearest heart, and say, Dost thou ever pray for me ?" ' ' Thou little maiden, I thank thee much, Arid well I would thou shouldst pray for me ; But I am a sinful man, and such As ill should pray for thee." Hist ! ... was it a face at the window past ? Or was it the ivy leaf, by chance, Tapping the pane in the fitful blast, That startled Lord Rosencrantz ? The little maid, she has seen it plain, For she shrieked, and down she fell in a swoon : Mutely it came, and went again, In the light of the winter moon. The young Queen, 0, but her face was sweet ! She died on the night that she was wed : And they laid her out in her winding- sheet, Stark on her marriage-bed. The little maiden, she went mad ; But her soft blue eyes still smiled the same, With ever that wistful smile they had : Her mother, she died of shame. The black cat lived from house to house, And every night to the forest hied ; And she killed many a rat and mouse Before the day she died. And do you wish that I should de- clare What was the end of Lord Rosen- crantz ? Ah ! look in my heart, you will find it there, The end of the old romance ! PART HI. DAYBREAK. YES, you have guessed it. The wild Rosencrantz, It is I, dear, the wicked one ; who but I, maiden ? My life is a tattered and worn-out ro- mance, And my heart with the curse of the Past hath been laden : For still, where I wander or linger, for- ever Comes a skeleton hand that is beckon- ing for me ; And still, dogging my footsteps, life's long Never-never Pursues me, wherever my footsteps may be : The star of my course hath been long ago set, dear ; And the wind is my pilot, wherever he blows : He cannot blow from me what I would forget, dear, Nor blow to me that which I seek for, repose. What ! if I were the Devil himself, would you cling to me, Bear my ill humors, and share my wild nights ? Crouch by me, fear me not, stay by me, sing to me, While the dark haunts us with sounds and with sights ? Follow me far away, pine not, but smile to me, Never ask questions, and always be gay ? Still the dear eyes meekly turned all the while to me, Watchful the night through, and pa- tient the day ? 244 THE WANDERER. What ! if this hand, that now strays through your tresses, Three years ago had been dabbled in gore ? What ! if this lip, that your lip now can A corpse hud been pressing but three years before ? Well then, behold ! . . . 't is the gray light of morning That breaks o'er the desolate waters . . . and hark ! "T is the first signal shot from my boat gives me warning : The dark moves away : and I follow the lark. On with your hat and your cloak ! you are mine, child, Mine and the fiend'-s that pursues me, henceforth ! We must be far, ere day breaks, o'er the brine, child : It may be south I go, it may be north. What ! really fetching your hat and your cloak, dear ? Sweet little fool. Kiss me quick now, and laugh ! All I have said to you was but a joke, dear : Half was in folly, in wantonness half. PART IV. BREAKFAST. AY, maiden : the whole of my story to you Was but a deception, a silly romance : From the first to the last word, no word of it true ; And my name 's Owen Meredith, not Rosencrantz. I never was loved by a Qneen, I declare : And no little maiden for me has gone mad : I never committed a murder, I swear ; And 1 probably should have been hanged if I had. I never have sold to the Devil my soul ; And but small is the price he would give me, I know : I live much as other folks live, on the whole : And the worst thing in me 's my di- gestion . . . heigh ho ! Let us leave to the night-wind the thoughts which he brings, And leave to the darkness the powers of the dark ; For my hopes o'er the sea lightly flit, like the wings Of the curlews that hover and poise round my bark. Leave the wind and the water to mutter together Their weird metaphysical grief, as of old, For day's business begins, and the/lerk of the weather To the powers of the air doth his pur- pose unfold. Be you sure those dread Titans, what- ever they be, That sport with this ball in the great courts of Time, To play practical jokes upon you, dear, and me, Will never desist from a sport so sub- lime. The old Oligarchy of Greece, now abol- ished, Were idle aristocrats fond of the arts, But though thus refined, all their tastes were so polished, They were turbulent, dissolute gods, without hearts. They neglected their business, they gave themselves airs, Read the poets in Greek, sipped their wine, took their rest, Never troubling their beautiful heads with affairs, And as for their morals, the least said, the best. The scandal grew greater and greater : and then An appeal to the people was formally made. The old gods were displaced by the suf- frage of men, And a popular government formed in their sri-rvl. IN HOLLAND. 245 But these are high matters of state, I and you May be thankful, meanwhile, we have something to eat, And nothing, just now, more important to do, Than to sit down at once, and say grace before meat. You may boil me some coffee, an egg, if it 's handy, The sea 's rolling mountains just now. I shall wait For King Neptune's mollissima tempora fandi, Who will presently lift up his curly white pate, Bid Eurus and Notus to mind their own business, And make me a speech in Hexameters slow ; While 1, by the honor elated to dizziness, Shall yield him my offerings, and make him my bow. A DREAM. I HAD a quiet dream last night : For I dreamed that I was dead ; Wrapped around in my grave-clothes white, With my gravestone at my head. I lay in a land I have not seen, In a place I do not know, And the grass was deathly, deathly green Which over my grave did grow. The place was as still as still could be, With a few stars in the sky, And an ocean whose waves I could not see, Though I heard them moan hard by. There was a bird in a branch of yew, Building a little nest. The stars looked far and very few, And I lay all at rest. There came a footstep through the grass, And a feeling through the mould : And a woman pale did over me pass, With hair like snakes of gold. She read my name upon my grave : She read my name with a smile. A wild moan came from a wandering wave, But the stars smiled all the while. The stars smiled soft. That woman pale Over my grave did move, Singing all to herself a tale Of one that died for love. There came a sparrow-hawk to the tree, The little bird to slay : There came a ship from over the sea, To take that woman away. The little bird I wished to save, To finish his nest so sweet : But so deep I lay within my grave That I could not move my feet. That woman pale I wished to keep To finish the tale I heard : But within my grave I lay so deep That I could not speak a word. KING SOLOMON. KING Solomon stood, in his crown of gold, Between the pillars, before the altar In the House of the Lord. And the King was old, And his strength began to falter, So that he leaned on his ebony staff, Sealed with the seal of the Pentegraph. All of the golden fretted work, Without and within so rich and rare, As high as the nest of the building stork, Those pillars of cedar were : Wrought up to the brazen chapiters Of the Sidonian artificers. And the King stood still as a carven king, The carven cedarn beams below, In his purple robe, with his signet-ring, And his beard as white as snow, And his face to the Oracle, where the hymn Dies under the wing of the cherubim. The wings fold over the Oracle, And cover the heart and eyes of God : 246 THE WANDERER. The Spouse with pomegranate, lily, and bell, Is glorious in her abode ; For with gold of Ophir, and scent of myrrh, And purple of Tyi^ the King clothed her. Bfy the soul of each slum brows instrument Drawn soft through the musical misty air, The stream of the folk that came and went, For worship, and praise, and prayer. Flowed to and fro, and up and down, And round the King in his golden crown. And it came to pass, as the King stood there, And looked on the house he had buiJi, with pride, That the Hand of the Lord came una- ware, And touched him ; so that he died, In his purple robe, with his signet-ring And the crown wherewith they ha<7 j crowned him king. And the stream of the folk that came and went To worship the Lord with prayer and praise, "Went softly ever, in wonderment, For the King stood there always ; And it was solemn and strange to behold That dead king crowned with a crown of gold. For he leaned on his ebony staff upright ; And over his shoulders the purple robe ; And his hair and his beard were both snow-white And the fear of him filled the globe ; So that none dared touch him, though he was dead, He looked so royal about the head. And the moons were changed : and the years rolled on : And the new king reigned in the old king's stead : And men were married and buried anon ; But the King stood, stark and dead ; Leaning upright on his ebony staff ; Preserved by the sign of the Pentegraph. And the stream of life, as it went and came, Ever for worship and pniisc and prayer, Was awed by the face, and the fear, and the fame Of the dead king standing there ; For his hair was so white, and his eyes so cold, That they left him alone with his crown of gold. So King Solomon stood up, dead, in the House Of the Lord, held there by the Pente- graph, Until out from a pillar there ran a red mouse, And gnawed through his ebony staff : Then, flat on his face, the King fell down : And they picked from the dust a golden crown.* CORDELIA. THOUGH thou never hast sought to divine it, Though to know it thou hast not a care, Vet my heart can no longer confine it, Though my lip may be blanched to de- clare That J love thee, revere thee, adore thee, my d*-eam, my desire, my despair ! Though iu Hfe it may never be given To my heart. *o repose upon thine ; Though neither on earth, nor in heaven, May the bliss I hav^ dreamed of be mine ; Yet thou canst uot forbid me, in distance.. And silence, and long icoely years, To love thee, despite thy resistance, And bless thee, despite of my team. Ah me, couldst thou love me ! ... Be- lieve me, How I hang on the tones of thy voice ; How the least sigh thou sighest can grieve me, The least smile then smilest rejoice : * My knowledge of the Rabbinical legend which suggested this Poem is one among the many debts I owe to my friend Robert Browff- ing. I hope these lines may remind him of hours which his society rendered precious and delightful to me, rnd which are among the most pleasant memories of my life. IN HOLLAND. 247 In thy face, how I watch every shade there ; In thine eyes, how I learn every look ; How the least sign thy spirit hath made there My heart reads, and writes in its book ! And each day of my life my love shapes me From the mien that thou wearest, Be- loved. Thou hast not a grace that escapes me, Nor a movement that leaves me unmoved. I live but to see thee, to hear thee ; I count but the hours where thou art ; I ask only ask to be near thee, Albeit so far from thy heart. In my life's lonely galleries never Will be silenced thy lightest footfall : For it lingers, and echoes, forever Unto Memory mourning o'er all. All thy fair little footsteps are bright O'er the dark troubled spirit in me, As the tracks of some sweet water-sprite O'er the heaving and desolate sea. And, though cold and unkind be thine eyes, Yet, unchilled their unkindness below, In my heart all its love for thee lies, Like a violet covered by snow. Little child ! . . . were it mine to watch o'er thee, To guide, and to guard, and to soothe ; To shape the long pathway before thee, And all that was rugged to smooth ; To kneel at one bedside by night, And mingle our souls in one prayer ; And, awaked by the same morning- light, The same daily duties to share ; Until Age with his silver dimmed slowly Those dear golden tresses of thine ; And Memory rendered thrice holy The love in this poor heart of mine ; Ah, never . . . (recalling together, By one hearth, in our life's winter time, Our youth, with its lost summer weather, And our love, in its first golden prime,) Should those loved lips have cause to re- cord One word of unkindness from me, Or my heart cease to bless the least word Of kindness" once spoken by thee ! But, whatever my path, and whatever The future may fashion for thine, Thy life, believe me, can never, My beloved, be indifferent to mine. When far from the sight of thy beauty, Pursuing, unaided, alone, The path of man's difficult duty In the land where my lot may be thrown ; When my steps move no more in the place Where thou art : and the brief days of yore Are forgotten : and even my face In thy life is remembered no more ; Yet in my life will live thy least feature ; I shall mourn the lost light of thine eyes ; And on earth there will yet be one nature That must yearn after thine till it dies. "YE SEEK JESUS OF NAZARETH WHICH WAS CRUCIFIED: HE IS RISEN : HE IS NOT HERE." MARK xvi. 6. IF Jesus came to earth again, And walked, and talked, in field and street, Who would not lay his human pain Low at those heavenly feet ? And leave the loom, and leave the lute, And leave the volume on the shelf, To follow Him, unquestioning, mute, If 't were the Lord himself ? How many a brow with care o'erworn, How many a heart with grief o'erladen, How many a youth with love forlorn, How many a mourning maiden, Would leave the baffling earthly prize Which fails the earthly, weak en- deavor, To gaze into those holy eyes, And drink content forever ! The mortal hope, I ask with tears Of Heaven, to soothe this mortal ' pain, The dream of all my darkened years, I should not cling to then. The pride that prompts the bitter jest (Sharp styptic of a bleeding heart ! ) Would fail, and humbly leave confest The sin that brought the smart, 248 THE WANDERER. If I might crouch within the fold Of that white robe (a wounded bird) ; The 1'aee that Mary saw Ix-huld, And hear the words she heard. I would not ask one word of all That now my nature yearns to know ; The legend of the ancient Fall ; The source of human woe : What hopes in other worlds may hide ; What griefs yet unexplored in this ; How fares the spirit within the wide Waste tract of that abyss Which scares the heart (since all we know Of life is only conscious sorrow) Lest novel life be novel woe In death's undawned to-morrow ; I would not ask one word of this, If I might only hide my head On that beloved breast, and kiss The wounds where Jesus bled. And I, where'er He went, would go, Nor question where the path might lead, Enough to know that, here below, I walked with God indeed ! His sheep along the cool, the shade, By the still watercourse He leads, His lambs upon His breast are laid, His hungry ones He feeds. Safe in His bosom I should lie, Hearing, where'er His steps might be, Calm waters, murmuring, murmuring by, To meet the mighty sea. If this be thus, Lord of mine, In absence is Thy love forgot ? And must I, when- 1 walk, repine Because I see thee not ? If this be thus, if this be thus, And our poor prayers yet reach Thee, Lord, Since we are weak, once more to us Reveal the Living Word ! Yet is my heart, indeed, so weak My course alone I dare not trace ? Alas ! I know my heart must break Before I see Thy face. I loved, with all my human soul, A human creature, here below, Ami, though thou bad'st thy sea to roll Forever twixt us two*, And though her form I may not see Through all my long and lonely life, And though she never now may be My helpmate and my wife, Yet in my dreams her dear eyes shine, Yet in my heart her face I bear, And yet each holiest thought of mine I seem with her to share. But, Lord, Thy face I never saw, Nor ever heard Thy human voice : My life, beneath an iron law, Moves on without my choice. No memory of a happier time, When in Thine arms, perchance, I slept, In some lost ante-natal clime, My mortal frame hath kept : And all is dark before behind. I cannot reach Thee, where Thou art, I cannot bring Thee to my mind, Nor clasp Thee to my heart. And this is why, by night and day, Still with so many an unseen tear These lonely lips have learned to pray That God would spare me here, While yet my doubtful course I go Along the vale of mortal years, By Life's dull stream, that will not flow As fast as flow my tears, One human hand, my hand to take : One human heart, my own to raise : One loving human voice, to break The silence of my days. Saviour, if this wild prayer be wrong, And what I seek I may not find, 0, make more hard, and stern, and strong, The framework of my mind ! Or, nearer to me, in the dark Of life's low hours, one moment stand, And give me keener eyes to mark The moving of Thy hand. IN HOLLAND. 249 TO CORDELIA. I DO not blame thee, that ray life Is lonelier now than even before ; For hadst thou been, indeed, my wife, (Vain dream that cheats no more !) The fate, which from my earliest years Hath made so dark the path I tread, Had taught thee too, perchance, such tears As I have learned to shed. And that fixed gloom, which souls like mine Are schooled to wear with stubborn pride, Had cast too dark a shade o'er thine, Hadst thou been by my side. I blame thee not, that thou shouldst flee From paths where only weeds have sprung, Though loss of thee is loss to me Of all that made youth young. For 't is not mine, and 't was not thine, To shape our course as first we strove : And powers which I could not combine Divide me from thy love. Alas ! we cannot choose our lives, We can but bear the burthen given. In vain the feverish spirit strives With unrelenting heaven. For who can bid those tyrant stars The injustice of their laws repeal ? Why ask who makes our prison bars, Since they are made of steel ? The star that rules my darkened hour Is fixt in reachless spheres on high : The curse which foils my baffled power Is scrawled across the sky. My heart knows all it felt, and feels : But more than this I shall not know, Till He that made the heart reveals Why mine must suffer so. I only know that, never yet, My life hath found what others find, That peace of heart which will not fret The fibres of the mind. I only know that not for me The human love, the clasp, the kiss ; My love in other worlds must be, Why was I born in this ? The bee is framed to find her food In every wayside flower and bell, And build within the hollow wood Her own ambrosial cell : The spider hath not learned her art, A home in ruined towers to spin ; But what it seeks, my heart, my heart Is all unskilled to win. The world was filled, ere I was born, With man and maid, with bower and brake, And nothing but the barren thorn Remained for me to take : I took the thorn, I wove it round, I made a piercing crown to wear : My own sad hands myself have crowned, Lord of my own despair. That which we are, we are. 'T were vain* To plant with toil what will not grow. The cloud will break, and bring the rain, Whether we reap or sow. I cannot turn the thunder-blast, Nor pluck the levin's lurid root ; I cannot change the changeless past, Nor make the ocean mute. And if the bolt of death must fall Where, bare of head, I walk my way, Why let it fall ! I will not call To bid the Thunderer stay. 'T is much to know, whate'er betide The pilgrim path I pace alone, Thou wilt not miss me from thy side When its brief course is done. Hadst thou been mine, when skies were drear And waves were rough, for thy sweet sake I should have found in all some fear My inmost breast to shake : But now, his fill the blast may blow, The sea may rage, the thunder roll, For every path by which I go Will reach the self-same goal. 250 THE WANDERER. Too proud to fly, too weak to cope, I yet will wait, nor bow my head. Those who have nothing left to hope, Have nothing left to dread. A LETTER TO CORDELIA. PERCHANCE, on earth, I shall not see thee ever Ever again : and my unwritten years Are signed out by that desolating " Never," And blurred with tears. 'T is hard, so young so young as I am still, To feel forevermore from life depart All that can flatter the poor human will, Or fill the heart. Yet there was nothing in that sweet, and brief, , And perisht intercourse, now closed for me, To add one thought unto my bitterest grief Upbraiding thee. 'T is somewhat to have known, albeit in vain, One woman in this sorrowful bad earth, Whose very loss can yet bequeathe to pain New faith in worth. If I have overrated, in the wild Blind heat of hope, the sense of aught which hath From the lost vision of thy beauty smiled On my lone path, My retribution is, that to the last I have o'errated, too, my power to cope With this fierce thought . . . that life must all be past Without life's hope ; And I would bless the chance which let me see Once more the comfort of thy face, although It were with beauty never born for me That face should glow. To see thee all thou wilt be loved and loving Even though another's in the years to come To watch, once more, thy gracious sweet- ness moving Through its pure home, Even this would seem less desolate, less drear, Than never, never to behold thee more Never on those belove'd lips to hear The voice of yore ! These weak words, my friend, fell not more fast Than the weak scalding tears that with them fell. Nor tears, nor words came, when I saw thee last . . . Enough ! . . . Farewell. Farewell. If that dread Power which fashioned man To till this planet, free to search and find The secret of his source as best he can, In his own mind, Hath any care, apart from that which moves Earth's myriads through Time's ages as they roll, For any single human life, or loves One separate soul, May He, whose wisdom portions out for me The moonless, changeless midnight of the heart, Still all his softest sunshine save for thee, Where'er thou art : And if, indeed, not any human eyes From human tears be free, may Sor- row bring Only to thee her April-rain, whose sighs Soothe flowers in Spring. FAILURE. I HAVE seen those that wore Heaven's armor worsted : I have heard Truth lie : IN HOLLAND. 251 Seen Life, beside the founts for which it thirsted, Curse God and die : I have felt the hand, whose touch was rapture, braiding Among my hair Love's choicest flowerets, and have found how fading Those garlands were : 1 have watched my first and holiest hopes depart, One after one : I have held the hand of Death upon my heart, And made no moan : I have seen her whom life's whole sacrifice AVas made to keep, Pass coldly by me with a stranger's eyes, Yet did not weep : Now even my body fails me ; and my brow Aches night and day : I am weak with over-work : how can I now Go forth and play ? What ! now that Youth's forgotten as- pirations Are all no more, Rest there, indeed, all Youth's glad rec- reations, An untried store ? Alas, what skills this heart of sad expe- rience, This frame o'erwrought, This memory with life 's motion all at variance, This aching thought ? How shall I come, with these, to follow pleasure Where others find it ? Will not their sad steps mar the merriest measure, Or lag behind it ? Still must the man move sadlier for the dreams That mocked the boy ; And, having failed to achieve, must still, it seems, Fail to enjoy. It is no common failure, to have failed Where man hath given A whole life's effort to the task assailed Spent earth on heaven. If error and if failure enter here, What helps repentance ? Remember this, Lord, in thy severe Last sentence ! MISANTHROPOS. (cows teal iravra. ye\w /cat iravra TO /j.r)8ei>. DAY'S last light is dying out. All the place grows dim and drear : See ! the grisly bat 's about. There is nothing left to fear ' Little left to doubt. Not a note of music flits O'er the slackened harpstrings yonder From the skeleton that sits By the broken harp, to ponder (While the spider knits Webs iu each black socket-hole) Where is all the music fled. Music, hath it, then, a goal ? . . . Broken harp, and brainless head ! Silent song and soul ! Not a light in yonder sky, Save that single wicked star, Leering with its wanton eye Through the shattered window-bar ; Come to see me die ! All, save this, the monstrous night Hath erased and blotted bare As the fool's brain . . . God's last light Winking at the Fiend's work there, -~ Wrong made worse by right ! Gone the voice, the face, of yore ! Gone the dream of golden hair ! Gone the garb that Falsehood wore ! Gone the shame of being bare ! We may close the door. All the guests are slunk away. Not a footstep on the stairs ! Not a friend here, left to say "Amen " to a sinner's prayers, If he cared to pray ! 252 TIIK WANDERER Gone is Friendship's friendliness, After I,o\v'> fidelity : Gone is Honor in tin- mess, Spat upon by Charity : Faith has fled Distress. Tho*? grim tipstaves at the gate Freely may their work begin. Let them in ! they shall not wait. There is little now within Left for Scorn and Hate. 0, no doubt the air is foul ! "T is the last lamp spits and stinks, Shuddering downward in the bowl Of the socket, from the brinks. What 's a burned-out soul ? Let them all go, un reproved ! For the source of tears is dried. What! . . . One rests? . . . hath nothing moved That pale woman from my side, Whom 1 never loved ? You, with those dim eyes of yours, Sadder than all eyes save mine ! That dim forehead which immures Such faint helpless griefs, that pine For such hopeless cures ! Must you love me, spite of loathing ? Can't you leave me where I 'm lying ? 0, ... you wait for our betrothing ? I escape you, though, by dying ! Lay out my death-clothing. Well I would that your white face Were abolisht out of sight, With the glory and the grace Swallowed long ago in night, Gone, without a trace ! Reach me down my golden harp. Set it here, beside my knee. Never fear that I shall warp All the chords of ecstasy, Striking them too sharp ! Crown me with my crown of flowers. Faded roses every one ! Pluckt in those long-perisht bowers, By the nightshade overrun, Fit for brows like ours ! Fill me, now, my golden cup. Pour the black wine to the brim I Till within me, while I sup, All the fires, long quenched and dim, Flare, one moment, up. I will sing you a last song. I will pledge you a last health . . . Here 's to Weakness seeming strong ! Here 's to Want that follows Wealth ! Here 's to Right gone wrong ! Curse me now the Oppressor's rod, And the meanness of the weak ; And the fool that apes the nod ; And the world at hide and seek With the wrath of God. Dreams of man's unvalued good, By mankind's unholy means ! Curse the people in their mud ! And the wicked Kings and Queens, Lying by the Rood. Fill ! to every plague . . . and first, Love, that breeds its own decay ; Rotten, ere the blossom burst. Next, the friend that slinks away, When you need him worst. the world's inhuman ways ! And the heartless social lie ! And the coward, cheapening praise ! And the patience of the sky, Lighting such bad days ! Cursed be the heritage Of the sins we have not sinned ! Cursed be this boasting age, And the blind that lead the blind O'er its creaking stage ! O the vice within the blood, And the sin within the sense ! And the fallen angelhood, With its yearnings, too immense To be understood ! Curse the hound with beaten hide, When he turns and licks the hand. Curse this woman at my side ! And the memory of the land Where my first love died. Cursed be the next and most (With whatever curse most kills), Me . . . the man whose soul is lost ; Fouled by each of all these ills, Filled with death and dust ! PALINGENESIS. 253 Take away the harp of gold, And the empty wine-cup too. Lay me out : for I grow cold. There is something dim in view, Which must pass untold : Something dim, and something vast, Out of reach of all I say. Language ceases . . . hasht, aghast. What am I, to curse or pray ? God succeeds at last ! BOOK YI. -PALINGENESIS. A PRAYER. MY Saviour, dare I come to Thee, Who let the little children come ? But I ? . . . my soul is faint in me ! I come from wandering to and fro This weary world. There still his round The Accuser goes : but Thee I found Not anywhere. Both joy and woe Have passed me by. I am too weak To grieve or smile. And yet I know That tears lie deep in all 1 do. The homeless that are sick for home Are not so wretched. Ere it break, Receive my heart ; and for the sake, Not of my sorrows, but of Thine, Bend down Thy holy eyes on mine, Which are too full of misery To see Thee clearly, though they seek. Yet, if I heard Thy voice say . . . "Come," So might I, dying, die near Thee. It shames me not, to have passed by The temple-doors in every street Where men profaned Thee : but that I Have left neglected, choked with weeds, Defrauded of its incense sweet From holy thoughts and loyal deeds, The fane Thou gavest me to enshrine Thee in, this wretched heart of mine. The Satyr there hath entered in ; The Owl that loves the darkened hour ; And obscene shapes of night and sin Still haunt, where God designed a bower For angels. Yet I will not say How oft I have aspired in vain, How toiled along the rugged way, And held my faith above my pain, For this Thou knowest. Thou knowest when I faltered, and when I was strong ; A nd how from that of other men My fate was different ; all the wrong Which devastated hope in me : The ravaged years ; the excited heart, That found in pain its only part Of love : the master misery That shattered all my early years, From which, in vain, I sought to flee : Thou knowest the long repentant tears, Thou heard'st me cry against the spheres, So sharp my anguish seemed to be ! All this Thou knowest. Though I should keep Silence, Thou knowest my hands were free From sin, when all things cried to me To sin. Thou knowest that, had I rolled My soul in hell-flame fifty-fold, My sorrow could not be more deep. Lord ! tli ere is nothing hid from Thee. EUTHANASIA. (WRITTEN AFTER A SEVERE ILLNESS.) SPRING to the world, and strength to me, returns ; And flowers return, but not the flowers I knew. I live : the fire of life within me burns ; But all my life is dead. The land I view I know not ; nor the life which I regain. Within the hollow of the hand of death I have lain so long, that now I draw the breath Of life as unfamiliar, and with pain. Of life : but not the life which is no more ; That tender, tearful, warm, and pas- sionate thing ; That wayward, restless, wistful life of yore ; Which now lies, cold, beneath the clasp of Spring, 254 THE WANDERER. As last year's leaves : but such a life as seems A strange new-comer, coy and all- afraid. No motion heaves the heart where it is laid, Save when the past returns to me in dreams. In dreams, like memories of another world : The beauty, and the passion, and the pain, The wizardry by which my youth was whirled Round vain desires, so violent, yet so vain ! The love which desolated life, yet made So dear its desolation : and the creeds Which, one by one, snapped in my hold like reeds, Beneath the weight of need upon them laid! For each man deems his own sand-house secure While life's wild waves are lulled ; yet who can say, If yet his faith's foundations do endure, It is not that no wind hath blown that way ? Must we, even for their beauty's sake, keep furled Our fairest creeds, lest earth should sully them, And take what ruder help chance sends, to stem The rubs and wrenchings of this boister- ous world ? Alas ! 't is not the creed that saves the man : It is the man that justifies the creed : And eachmust save hisown soul as hecan, Since each is burthened with a differ- ent need. Round each the bandit passions lurk ; and, fast And furious, swarm to strip the pil- grim bare ; Then, oft, in lonely places unaware, Fall on him, and do murder him at last. And oft the light of truth, which through the dark We fetched such toilful compass to detect, Glares through the broken cloud on the lost Iciik, And shows the rock too late, whrn all is wrecked ! Not from one watch-tower o'er the deep, alone, It streams, but lightens there and lightens here With lights so numberless (like heav- en's eighth sphere) That all their myriad splendors seem bat Time was, when it seemed possible to be (Then, when this shatter^ prow first felt the foam) Columbus to some far Philosophy, And bring, perchance, the golden In- dies home. siren isles of the enchanted main Through which I lingered ! altars, 1 0711] iles, groves, Whelmed in the salt sea wave, that rolls and roves Around each desolated lost domain ! Over all these hath passed the deluge. And, Saved from the sea, forlornly face to face With the gaunt ruin of a world, I sttind. But two alone of all that perisht race Survive to share with me my wanderings ; Doubt and Experience. These mj steps attend, Ever ; and oft above my harp they bend, And, weeping with me, weep among ita strings. Yet, saved, though in a land uncon- secrate By any memory, it seems good to me To build an altar to the Lord ; and wait Some token, either from the land orsea, To point me to my rest, which should be near. Rude is the work, and simple is my skill ; Yet, if the hand could answer to the will, This pile should lack not incense. Father, hear My cry unto thee. Make thy covenant Fast with my spirit. Bind within Thy bow 'FOR EACH MAN DEEMS HIS OWN SAND-HOUSE SECURE." Page 254. PALINGENESIS. 255 The whole horizon of my tears. I pant For Thy refreshing. Bid Thy foun- tains flow In this dry desert, where no springs I see. Before I venture in an unknown land, Here will I clear the ground on which I stand, And justify the hope Thou gavest me. I cannot make quite clear what comes and goes In fitful light, by waning gleams de- scried. The Spirit, blowing where it listeth, blows Only at times, some single fold aside Of that great veil which hangs o'er the Unknown : Yet do the feeble, fleeting lights that fall, Reveal enough, in part, for hope in all : And that seems surest which the least is shown. God is a spirit. It is also said Man is a spirit. Can I therefore deem The two in nature separate ? The made Hath in it of the Maker. Hence I A step towards light ; since 't is the property Of spirit to possess itself in all It is possest by ; halved yet integral ; One person, various personality. To say the Infinite is that which lies Beyond the Finite, . . . were it not to set A border mark to the immensities ? Far as these mortal senses measure yet Their little region of the mighty plan, Through valves of birth and death are heard forever The finite steps of infinite endeavor Moving through Nature and the mind of man. If man, the finite spirit, in infinity Alone can find the truth of his ideal, Dare I not deem that infinite Divinity Within the finite must assume the real ? Forwhat so feverish fancy, reckless hurled Through a ruined brain, did ever yet descry A symbol sad enough to signify The conscious God of an unconscious world ? Wherefore, thus much perceived, to rec- ' ognize In God, the infinite spirit of Unity, In man, the finite spirit, here implies An interchanged perception ; -Deity Within humanity made manifest : Not here man lonely, there a lonely God; But, in all paths by human nature trod, Infinity in Fiuity exprest. This interchange, upon man's part, I call Religion : revelation on the part Of Deity : wherefrom there seems to fall 'Tis consequence (the point from which I start) If God and man be one (a unity Of which religion is the human side) This must in man's religion be descried, A consciousness and a reality. Whilst man in nature dwells, his God is still In nature ; thence, in time, there in- tervenes The Law : he learns to fortify his will Against his passions, by external means : And God becomes the Lawgiver : but when Corruption in the natural state we see, And in the legal hopeless tyranny, We seem to need (if needed not till then) That which doth uplift nature, and yet makes More light the heavy letter of the law. Then for the Perfect the Imperfect aches, Till love is born upon the deeps of awe. Yet what of this, . . . that God in man may be, And man, though mortal, of a race divine, If no assurance lives which may incline The heart of man to man's divinity ? " There is no God "... the Fool saith to his Jieart, Yet shapes a godhead from his intellect. Is mind than heart less human, . . . that we part Thought from affection, and from mind erect A deity merely intellectual ? If God there be, devoid of sympathy For man, he is not man's divinity. A God unloving were no God at all. 256 THK WANDF.i; HI.. This felt, ... I ask not ..." What is God ? " but " What Are my relations with Him ? " this alone Concerns me now : since, if I know this not, Though I should know the sources of the sun, Or what within the hot heart of the earth Lulls the soft spirit of the fire, although The ma'ndate of the thunder I should know, To me my knowledge would be nothing worth. What message, or what messenger to man ? Whereby shall revelation reach the soul ? For who, by searching, finds out God ? How can My utmost steps, unguided, gain the goal Of necessary knowledge ? It is clear I cannot reach the gates of heaven, and knock And enter : though I stood upon the rock Like Moses, God must speak ere I can hear, And touch me ere I feel him. He must come To me (I cannot join Him in the cloud), Stand at the dim doors of my mortal home ; Lift the low latch of life ; and enter, bowed Unto this earthly roof ; and sit within The circle of the senses ; at the hearth Of the affections ; be my guest on earth, Loving my love, and sorrowing in my sin. e, though I stripped Divinity, in thought, From passion, which is personality, My God would still be human : though I sought In the bird's wing or in the insect's eve, Rather than in this broken heart of mine, His presence, human still : human would be All human thought conceives. Hu- manity, Being lew human, is not more divine. The soul, then, cannot stipulate or refuse Tin- I'ii.-hion of the heavenly eml Since God is here the speaker, He must choose The words He wills. Already I descry That God and man arc. one, divid, ; Yet reconcilable. One doubt survive. There is a dread condition to n\<-n\ lives : We die : and, from its death, it would appear Our nature is not one with the divine. Not so. The Man-God dies ; and by his death Doth with his own immortal lifecombiin' The spirit pining in thismortiil breath. Who from himself himself did .alienate That he, returning to himself, might pave A pathway hence, to heaven from the grave, For man to follow through the heav- enly gate. Wert thou, my Christ, not ignorant of grief? A man of sorrows ? Not for sorrow's sak e (Lord, 1 believe : helpthoumineunbelief !) Beneath the thorns did thy pure fore- head ache : But that in sorrow only, unto sorrow, Can comfort come ; in manhood only, man Perceive man's destiny. In Nature's plan Our path is over Midnight to To-morrow. And so the Prince of Life, in dying, gave Undying life to mortals. Once he stood Among his fellows, on this side the grave, A man, perceptible to flesh and blood : Now, taken from our sight, he dwells no teH Within our mortal memory and thought ; The mystery of all hewas, and wrought, Is made a part of general consciousness. And in this consciousness I reach repose. Spent with the howling main and desert sand Almost too faint to pluck the unfading rose Of peace, that bows its beauty to my hapd. PALINGENESIS. 257 Here Reason fails, and leaves me ; my pale guide Across the wilderness by a stern command, Shut out, like Moses, from the Prom- ist Land. Touching its own achievement, it hath died. Ah yet ! I have but wrung the victory From Thought ! Not passionless will be iny path. Yet on my life's pale forehead I can see The flush of squandered fires. Passion hath Yet, in the purpose of my days, its place. But changed in aspect : turned unto the East, Whence grows the dayspring from on high, at least A finer fervor trembles on its face. THE SOUL'S SCIENCE. CAN History prove the truth which hath Its record in the silent soul ? Or Mathematics mete the path Whereby the spirit seeks its goal ? Can Love of aught but Love inherit The blessing which is born of Love ? The spirit knoweth of the spirit : The soul alone the soul can prove. The eye to see : the ear to hear : The working hand to help the will : To every sense his separate sphere : And unto each his several skill. The ear to sight, the eye to sound, Is callous : unto each is given His lorddom in his proper bound. The soul, the soul to find out heaven ! There is a glory veiled to sight ; A voice which never ear hath heard ; There is a law no hand can write, Yet stronger than the written word. And hast thou tidings for my soul, teacher ? to my soul intrust Alone the purport of thy scroll : Or vex me not with learned dust. 17 A PSALM OF CONFESSION. FULL soon doth Sorrow make her cove- nant With Life ; and leave her shadow in the door : And all those future days, for which we pant, Do come in mourning for the days of yore. Still through the world gleams Memory seeking Love, Pale as the torch which grieving Ceres bore, Seeking Proserpina, on that dark shore Where only phantoms through the twi- light move. The more we change, the more is all the same, Our last grief was a tale of other years Quite outworn, till to our own ( hearts it came. Wishes are pilgrims to the Vale of Tears. Our brightest joys are but as airy shapes Of cloud, that fade on evening's glim- mering slope ; And disappointment hawks the hover- ing hope Forever pecking at the painted grapes. Why can we not one moment pause, and cherish Love, though love turn to tears ? or for hope's sake Bless hope, albeit the thing we hope may perish ? For happiness is not in what we take, But what we give. What matter though the thing We cling to most should fail us ? dust to dust, It is the feeling for the thing, the trust In beauty somewhere, to which souls should cling. My youth has failed, if failure lies in aught The warm heart dreams, or which the working hand Is set to do. I have failed in aidless thought, And steadfast purpose, and in command. 258 THE WANDERER. I have failed in hope, in health, in love : failed in the word, And in the deed too I have failed. Ah yet, Albeit with eyes from recent weepings wet, Sing thou, my Soul, thy psalm unto the Lord! The burthen of the desert and the sea ! The burthen of the vision in the vale ! My threshing-floor, my threshing-floor ! ah me, Thy wind hath strewn my corn, and spoiled the flail ! The burthen of Dumah and of Dedanim ! What of the night, watchman, of the night ? The glory of Kedar faileth : and the might Of mighty men is minished and dim. The morning cometh, and the night, he cries. The watchman cries the morning, too, is nigher. And, if ye would inquire, lift up your eyes, Inquire of the Lord, return, inquire ! I stand upon the watchtower all day long: And all the night long I am set in ward. Is it thy feet upon the mountains, Lord? I sing against the darkness : hear my song ! The majesty of Kedar hath been spoiled : Bound are the arrows : broken is the bow. I come before the Lord with garments soiled. The nshes of my life are on my brow. Take thou thy harp, and go arxJut the city. daughter of Desire, with garments torn : Sing many songs, make melody, and mourn, That thou may'st be remembered unto pity. Just, awful Cod ! here at thy feet I lay My life'* most precious offering : dearly bought, Thou knowest with what toil by night and day : Thou knowest the pain, the passion, and the thought. I bring thee my youth's failure. I have spent My youth upon it. All I have is here. Were it worth all it is not, price more dear Could I have paid for its accomplishment ? Yet it is much. If I could say to thee, "Acquit me, Judge ; for I am thus, and thus ; And have achieved even so much," should I be Thus wholly fearless and impetuous To rush into thy presence ? I might weigh The little done against the undone much : My merit with thy mercy : and, as such, Haggle with pardon for a price to pay. But now the fulness of its failure makes My spirit fearless ; and despair grows bold. My brow, beneath its sad self-knowledge, aches. Life's presence passes Thine a thou. sand -fold In contemplated terror. Can I lose Aught by that desperate temerity Which leaves no choice but to surren- der Thee My life without condition ? Could I choose A stipulated sentence, I might ask For ceded dalliance to some cherisht vice : Or half-remission of some desperate task : Now, all I have is hateful. What ia the price ? Speak, Lord ! I hear the Fiend's hand at the door. Hell's slavery or heaven's service is it the choice ? How can I palter with the terms ? voice, Whence do I hear thee ..." Go : and sin no more " ? No more, no more ? But I have kist dead white The cheek of Vice. No more th harlot hides PALINGENESIS. Her loathsomeness of lineament from my sight. No more within my bosom there abides Her poisoned perfume. O, the witch's mice Have eat her scarlet robe and diaper, And she fares naked ! Part from her from her ? Is this the price, Lord, is this the price ? Yet, though her web be broken, bonds, I know, Slow custom frames in the strong forge of time, Which outlast love, and will not wear with woe, . Nor break beneath the cognizance of crime. The witch goes bare. But he, the father fiend, That roams the unthrifty furrows of my days, Yet walks the field of life ; and, where he strays, The husbandry of heaven for hell is Lulls are there in man's life which are not peace. Tumults which are not triumphs. Do I take The pause of passion for the fiend's de- cease ? This frost of grief hath numbed the drowsing snake ; Which yet may wake, and sting me in the heat Of new emotions. What shall bar the door Against the old familiar, that of yore Came without call, and sat within my seat ? When evening brings its dim grim hour again, And hell lets loose its dusky brood awhile, Shall I not find him in the darkness then ? The same subservient and yet insolent smile ? The same indifferent ignominious face ? The same old sense of household hor- ror, come Like a tame creature, back into its home ? Meeting me, haply, in my wonted place, With the loathed freedom of an unloved mate, Or crouching on my pillow as of old ? Knowing I hate him, impotent in hate ! Therefore more subtle, strenuous, and bold. Thus ancient habit will usurp young will, And each new effort rivet the old thrall. / No matter ! those who climb must count to fall, But each new fall will prove them climb- ing still. wretched man ! the body of this death Which, groaning in the spirit, I yet bear On to the end (so that I breathe the breath Of its corruption, even though breath- ing prayer), What shall take from me ? Must I drag forever The cold corpse of the life which I have killed But cannot bury ? Must my heart be filled With the dry dust of every dead en- deavor ? For often, at the mid of the long night, Some devil enters into the dead clay, And gives it life unnatural in my sight. The dead man rises up ; and roams away, Back to the mouldered mansions of the Past : And lights a lurid revel in the halls Of vacant years ; and lifts his voice, and calls, Till troops of phantoms gather round him fast. Frail gold-haired corpses, in whose eyes there lives A strange regret too wild to let them rest : Crowds of pale maidens, who were never wives And infants that all died upon the breast That suckled them. And these make revelry Mingled with wailing all the midnight through, Till the sad day doth with stern light renew The toiling land, and the complaining sea. 260 THE WANDERER. Full well I know-that in tliis world of ours The dreadful Commonplace succeeds all change ; We catch at times a gleam of il yin<; powers That pass in storm some windy moun- tain range : But, while we gaze, the cloud returns o'er all. And each, to guide him up the devious height, Must take, and bless, whatever earthly light From household hearths, or shepherd fires, may fall. This wave, that groans and writhes upon the beach, To-morrow will submit itself to calm ; That wind that rushes, moaning, out of reach, Will die anon beneath some breathless palm ; These tears, these sighs, these motions of the soul, This inexpressible pining of the mind, The stem indifferent laws of life shall bind, And fix forever in their old control. Behold this half- tamed universe of things ! That cannot break, nor wholly bear, its chain. Its heart by fits grows wild : it leaps, it springs ; Then the chain galls, and kennels it again. If man were formed with all his faculties For sorrow, I should sorrow for him less. Considering a life so brief, the stress Of its short passion I might well despise : But all man's faculties are for delight ; But all man's life, is compassed with what seems Framed for enjoyment : but from all that sight And sense reveal a magic murmur streams Into man's heart, which says, or seems to say, " Be happy ! " . . . and the heart of man replies, " Leave happiness to brutes : I would be wise : Give me, not peace, but science, glory, art" Therefore, ago, sickness, and mortality Are but the lightest portion of his pain : Therefore, shutout from joy, in'-e.s.yuntlv Death finds him toiling at a task that "s vain. I weep the want of all he pines to have : I weep the loss of all he leaves be- hind : Contentment, and repose, and peace of mind, Pawned for the purchase of a little grave : I weep the hundred centuries of time ; I weep the millions that have squan- dered them In error, doubt, anxiety, and crime, Here, where the free birds sing from leaf and stem : I weep . . . but what are tears ? What I deplore I knew not, half a hundred years ago : And half a hundred years from hence, I know That what I weep for I shall know no more. The spirit of that wide and leafless wind That wanders o'er the uncompanioned sea, Searching for what it never seems to find, Stirred in my hair, and moved my 'heart in me, To follow it, far over land and main : And everywhere over this earth's scarred face The footsteps of a God I seemed to trace ; But everywhere steps ol a God in pain. If, haply, he that made this heart of mine, Himself in sorrow walked the world erewhile, What then am I, to marvel or repine That I go mourning ever in the smile Of universal nature, searching ever The phantom of a joy which here I miss? My heart inhabits other worlds than this, Therefore my search is here a vain en- deavor. Methought, ... (it was the midnight of my soul, Dead midnight) that I stood on Cal- vary : PALINGENESIS. 261 I found the cross, but not the Christ. The whole Of heaven was dark : and I went bit- terly Weeping, because I found him not. Methought, . . . (It was the twilight of the dawn and mist) I stood before the sepulchre of Christ : The sepulchre was vacant, void of aught Saving the cere-clothes of the grave, which were Upfolden straight and empty : bitterly "Weeping I stood, because not even there I found him. Then a voice spake unto me, " Whom seekest thou ? Why is thy heart dismayed ? Jesus of Nazareth, he is not here : Behold, the Lord is risen. Be of cheer : Approach, behold the place where he was laid." And while he spake, the sunrise smote the world. " Go forth, and tell thy brethren," spake the voice ; "The Lord is risen." Suddenly un- furled, The whole unclouded Orient did re- joice In glory. Wherefore should I mourn that here My heart feels vacant of what most it needs ? Christ is arisen ! . . . the cere-clothes and the weeds That wrapped him lying in this sepul- chre Of earth, he hath abandoned ; being gone Back into heaven, where we too must turn Our gaze to find him. Pour, risen Sun Of Righteousness, the light for which I yearn Upon the darkness of this mortal hour, This tract of night in which I walk forlorn : Behold the night is now far spent. The morn Breaks, breaking from afar through a night shower. REQUIESCAT. I SOUGHT to build a deathless monument To my dead love. Therein I meant to place All precious things, and rare : as Nature blent All single sweetnesses in one sweet face. I could not build it worthy her mute merit, Nor worthy her white brows and holy eyes, Nor worthy of her perfect and pure spirit, Nor of my own immortal memories. But, as some rapt artificer of old, To enshrine the ashes of a virgin saint, Might scheme to work with ivory, and fine gold, And carven gems, and legended and quaint Seraphic heraldries ; searching far lands, Orient and Occident, for all things rare, To consecrate the toil of reverent hands, And make his labor, like her virtue, fair ; Knowing no beauty beautiful as she, And all his labor void, but to beguile A sacred sorrow ; so I worked. Ah, see Here are the fragments of my shattered pile ! I keep them, and the flowers that sprang between Their broken workmanship the flow- ers and weeds ! Sleep soft among the violets, my Queen, Lie calm among my ruined thoughts and deeds. EPILOGUE. PART I. CHANGE without term, and strife without result, Persons that pass, and shadows that remain, One strange, impenetrable, and occult Suggestion of a hope, that 's hoped in vain, Behold the world man reigns in ! His delight Deceives ; his power fatigues ; hia strength is brief; 262 THE WANDERER. i:\vn his religion presupposes grief, His morning is not certain of the night. I have beheld, without regret, the trunk, Which propped three hundred sum- mers on its boughs, Which housed, of old, the merry bird, and drunk The divine dews of air, and gave ca- rouse To the free winds of heaven, lie over- thrown Amidst the trees which its own fruitage bore. Its promise is fulfilled. It is no more, But it hath been. Its destiny is done. But the wild ash, that springs above the marsh ! Strong and superb it rises o'er the wild. Vain energy of being ! For the harsh And fetid ooze already hath defiled The roots whose sap it lives by. Heaven doth give No blessing to its boughs. The humid wind Rots them. The vapors warp them. All declined, Its life hath ceased, ere it hath ceased to live. Child of the waste, and nursling of the pest ! A kindred fate hath watched and wept thine own. Thine epitaph is written in my breast. Years change. Day treads out day. For me alone Xo change is nurst within the brooding bud. Satiety I have not known, and yet, I wither in the void of life, and fret A futile time, with an unpeaceful blood. The days are all too long, the nights too fair, And too much redness satiates the rose. blissful season ! blest and balmy air ! Waves ! moonlight ! silence ! years of lost repose ! Bowers and shades that echoed to the tread Of young Romance ! birds that, from woodland bars, Sang, serenading forth the timid stars ! Youth ! beauty ! passion ! whither are ye fled? I wait, and long have waited, and yet wait Tin' ((lining of the footsteps which ye told My heart to watch for. Yet the hour is late, And ye have left me. Did they lie, of old, Your thousand voices prophesying bliss ? That troubled all the current of a fate Which else might have been peaceful ! I await The thing I have not found, yet would not miss. To face out childhood, and grow up to man, To make a noise, and question all one sees, The astral orbit of a world to span, And, after a few days, to take one's ease Under the graveyard grasses, this, my friend, Appears to me a thing too strange but what I wish to know its meaning. I would not Depart before I have perceived the end. And I would know what, here below the sun, He is, and what his place, that being which seems The end of all means, yet the means of none ; Who searches and combines, aspires and dreams ; Seeking new things with ever the same hope, Seeking new hopes in ever the same thing ; A king without the powers of a king, A beggar with a kingdom in his scope ; Who only sees in what he hath attained The means whereby he may attain to more ; Who only finds in that which he hath gained The want of what he did not want be- fore ; Whom weakness strengthens ; who is soothed by strife ; Who seeks new joys to prize the ab- sent most ; Still from illusion to illusion tost, Himself the great illusion of his life ! PALINGENESIS. 263 Why is it, all deep emotion makes us sigh To quit this world ? What better thing than death Can follow after rapture ? ' ' Let us die ! " This is the last wish on the lover's breath. If thou wouldst live, content thee. To enjoy Is to begin to perish. What is bliss, But transit to some other state from this? That which we live for must our life destroy. Hast thou not ever longed for death ? If not, Not yet thy life's experience is at- tained. But if thy days be favored, if thy lot Be easy, if hope's summit thou hast gained, Die ! Death is the sole future left to thee. The knowledge of this life is bound, for each, By his own powers. Death lies be- tween our reach And all which, living, we have lived to be. Death is no evil, since it comes to all. For evil is the exception, not the law. What is it in the tempest that doth call Our spirits down its pathways ? or the awe Of that abyss and solitude beneath High mountain passes, which doth aye attract Such strange desire ? or in the cata- ract? ^he sea ? It is the sentiment of death. If life no more than a mere seeming be, Away with the imposture ! If it tend To nothing, and to have lived seemingly Prove to be vain and futile in the end, Then let us die, that we may really live, Or cease to feign to live. Let us possess Lasting delight, or lasting quietness. What life desires, death, only death, can give. Where are the violets of vanisht years ? The sunsets Rachel watched by La- ban's well ? Where is Fidele's face ? where Juliet's tears ? There comes no answer. There is none to tell What we go questioning, till our mouths are stopt By a clod of earth. Ask of the plan- gent sea, The wild wind wailing through the leafless tree, Ask of the meteor from the midnight dropt ! Come, Death, and bring the beauty back to all! I do not seek thee, but I will not shun. And let thy coming be. at even-fall, Thy pathway through the setting of the sun. And let us go together, I with thee, What time the lamps in Eden bowers are lit, And Melancholy, all alone, doth sit By the wide marge of some neglected sea. PART II. ONE hour of English twilight once again ! Lo ! in the rosy regions of the dew The confines of the world begin to wane, And Hesper doth his trembling lamp renew. Now is the inauguration of the night ! Nature's release to wearied earth and skies ! Sweet truce of Care ! Labor's brief armistice ! Best, loveliest interlude of dark and light! The rookery, babbling in the sunken wood ; The watchdog, barking from the dis- tant farm, The dim light fading from the horned flood, That winds the woodland in its silver arm ; The massed and immemorial oaks, whose leaves Are husht in yonder heathy dells be- low ; The fragrance of the meadows that I know ; The bat, that now his wavering circle weaves 264 T1IK WANDEKER. Around these antique towers, and case- ments deep That glimmer, through the ivy and the rose, To the faint moon, which doth begin to creep Out of the inmost heart o' the heavens' repose, To wander, all night v long, without a sound, Above the fields my feet oft wandered once ; The larches tall and dark, which do ensconce The little churchyard, in whose hallowed ground Sleep half the simple friends my child- hood knew : All, all the sounds and sights of this blest hour, Sinking within my heart of hearts, like dew, Revive that so long parcht and droop- ing flower Of youth, the world's hot breath for many years Hath burned and withered ; till once more, once more, The revelation and the dream of yore Return to solace these sad eyes with tears ! Where now, alone, a solitary man, I pace once more the pathways of my home, Light-hearted, and together, once we ran, 1, and the infant guide that used to roam With me, the meads and meadow-banks among, At dusk and dawn. How light those little feet Danced through the dancing grass and waving wheat, Where'er, far off, we heard the cuckoo's song ! I know now, little Ella, what the flow- ers Said to you then, to make your cheek so pale ; And why the blackbird in our laurel bowers Spake to you, only ; and the poor, pink snail Feared less your steps than those of tlie May-shower. It was not strange these creatures loved you so, And told you all. T was not so Ion;,' ago You were, yourself, a bird, or