Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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 | Lucile |  |
I.
‘The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase,
‘And eltrich, and eerie, and strange is the place!
‘The castle betokens a date long gone by.
‘He crosses the courtyard with curious eye:
‘He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet
‘From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set;
‘And the whole place grows wilder, and wilder, and less
‘Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress,
‘Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise;
‘Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes;
‘Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall:
‘The spell of a wizard is over it all.
‘In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping
‘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 clue to unravel this old mystery?
‘And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall,
‘The mute men in armour around him, and all
‘The weird figures frown, as tho’ striving to say,
‘“ Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day!
‘“And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breast
‘“To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'd
‘“By an Age not thine own!”
‘And eltrich, and eerie, and strange is the place!
‘The castle betokens a date long gone by.
‘He crosses the courtyard with curious eye:
‘He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet
‘From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set;
‘And the whole place grows wilder, and wilder, and less
‘Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress,
‘Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise;
‘Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes;
‘Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall:
‘The spell of a wizard is over it all.
‘In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping
‘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!
129
‘The clue to unravel this old mystery?
‘And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall,
‘The mute men in armour around him, and all
‘The weird figures frown, as tho’ striving to say,
‘“ Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day!
‘“And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breast
‘“To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'd
‘“By an Age not thine own!”
‘But unconscious is he,
‘And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see
‘Aught but one form before him!
‘And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see
‘Aught but one form before him!
‘Rash, wild words are o'er;
‘And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore!
‘And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves
‘O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves
‘Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream.
‘Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme
‘Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart.’
And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart.
It is told in all lands, in a different tongue;
Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young.
And the tale to each heart unto which it is known
Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own.
‘And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore!
‘And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves
‘O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves
‘Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream.
‘Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme
‘Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart.’
And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart.
It is told in all lands, in a different tongue;
Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young.
And the tale to each heart unto which it is known
Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own.
| Lucile | |