Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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| II. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | CANTO V. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| VI. |
 | Lucile |  |
277
CANTO V.
I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hoursForlorn in her own vacant chamber. Those powers
Of action and thought, the day's sharp exigence
Had maintain'd for a while at a pitch so intense,
Now, when solitude found her, within and without,
Released from the part she had fully play'd out,
Deserted her wholly. Alone, in the gloom,
'Mid the signs of departure, that gave to that room
A dull sense of strangeness,—about to turn back
To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track,—
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat
Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at
The insignia of royalty worn for a night;
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light,
And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks
Of her own meagre, rushlighted chamber, and shrinks
From the chill of the change that awaits her.
II.
From these
Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries,
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair
That led from her room to the garden.
Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries,
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair
That led from her room to the garden.
The air,
With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand,
Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land
Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave:
No sound, save the voice of the long river wave,
And the crickets that sing all the night!
278
Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land
Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave:
No sound, save the voice of the long river wave,
And the crickets that sing all the night!
She stood still,
Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir,
And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.
Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look,
Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-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-reveal'd hope in the skies?
Ay, question, and listen! What answer?
Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir,
And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.
Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look,
Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-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-reveal'd hope in the skies?
Ay, question, and listen! What answer?
The sound
Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound,
And the crickets that sing all the night.
Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound,
And the crickets that sing all the night.
There are hours
Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers,
Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all
That to this race of worms,—stinging creatures, that crawl,
Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,—
Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings.
When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd
Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last;
When she traverses nature and space, till she stands
In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands,
Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd,
And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.
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.
279
Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last;
When she traverses nature and space, till she stands
In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands,
Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd,
And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.
III.
The dark was blanch'd wan, over head. 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.
Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar;
The spirits of change, and of awe, with faint breath,
Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath.
The spirits of awe and of change were around,
And about, and upon her.
A dull muffled sound,
And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise,
And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes
Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seem'd to burn,
And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn
Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade
Of a creature by fancy from solitude made,
And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress
Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.
And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise,
And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes
Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seem'd to burn,
And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn
Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade
Of a creature by fancy from solitude made,
And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress
Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.
IV.
‘At last, then—at last, and alone,—I and thou,
‘Lucile de Nevers, have we met?
‘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. 'Tis well!
‘The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell
‘Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight,
‘When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night,
‘Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly,
‘Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!’
To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream,
She appear'd with a start to awaken.
‘Not for me was the tryst. Never mind! it is mine;
‘And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine,
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‘Is come; and it holds thee and me in its power,
‘As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well!
‘The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell
‘Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight,
‘When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night,
‘Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly,
‘Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!’
To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream,
She appear'd with a start to awaken.
The stream,
When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again,
Like the voices of spirits departing in pain.
‘Continue,’ she answer'd, ‘I listen to hear.’
For a moment he did not reply.
When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again,
Like the voices of spirits departing in pain.
‘Continue,’ she answer'd, ‘I listen to hear.’
For a moment he did not reply.
Through the drear
And dim light between them, she saw that his face
Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace,
With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride
Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide,
Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last
He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast.
‘Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face?
‘Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! Canst thou trace
‘One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll,
‘With thine own name scrawl'd thro' it, defacing a soul?’
In his face there was something so wrathful and wild,
That she could not but shudder.
He saw it, and smiled,
And then turn'd him from her, renewing again
That short restless stride; as though searching in vain
For the point of some purpose within him.
And dim light between them, she saw that his face
Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace,
With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride
Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide,
Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last
He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast.
‘Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face?
‘Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! Canst thou trace
‘One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll,
‘With thine own name scrawl'd thro' it, defacing a soul?’
In his face there was something so wrathful and wild,
That she could not but shudder.
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And then turn'd him from her, renewing again
That short restless stride; as though searching in vain
For the point of some purpose within him.
‘Lucile,
‘You shudder to look in my face: do you feel
‘No reproach when you look in your own heart?’
‘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.
‘In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke:
‘Not yours!’ she replied.
‘No,’ he mutter'd again,
‘Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then
‘To Despair you say “Act not!”’
‘Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then
‘To Despair you say “Act not!”’
V.
He watch'd 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 loom'd
Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed.
‘Wretched creatures we are! I and thou—one and all!
‘Only able to injure each other, and fall
‘Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare
‘For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are!
‘O heaven! and what has become of them? all
‘Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall:
‘That glorious faith in inherited things:
‘That sense in the soul of the length of her wings!
‘Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human,
‘Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman,
‘Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again,
‘Give me back the young heart that I gave thee ... in vain!’
‘Duke!’ she falter'd.
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 loom'd
Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed.
‘Wretched creatures we are! I and thou—one and all!
‘Only able to injure each other, and fall
‘Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare
‘For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are!
‘O heaven! and what has become of them? all
‘Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall:
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‘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 falter'd.
‘Yes, yes!’ he went on, ‘I was not
‘Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot.’
‘Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot.’
VI.
As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd
Through his voice an emotion that swept every word
Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change,
He continued his monologue, fitful and strange.
‘I remember the time!—for it haunts me even yet
‘Like a ghost, through the Hades of lifelong regret—
‘I remember the time when the spirits of June
‘Led the faint-footed dance of the flowers to the tune
‘That was sung by the sons of the morning of old,
‘When the sun first came forth from his chambers of gold.
‘Then I saw round the rosy horizon of things
‘The omnipotent Hours, in Olympian rings,
‘Charioteering in glory; the world seem'd to glow
‘Where they circled and swept, each a crown on his brow!
‘Then the gods in the twilight descended, and then
‘The yet homely Immortals abided with men.
‘Then the oak flow'd with heaven-colour'd honey, and the lymph
‘Was the dwelling divine of a white-footed nymph:
‘Then all men were bold, and all women were fair:
‘And Love—a light impulse alive on the air,
‘Flitted, folded for aye in his own happy dream,
‘Flitted here, flitted there, like a bee on a beam,
‘Wherever new flowrets, by lawn or by dell,
‘Held on tiptoe for him their divine œnomel!
‘I remember the time, for my spirit was stirr'd,
‘When afar off the voice of the turtle was heard
‘“Arise! come away!” I arose. O despair!
‘Led by what lying star, through what verdurous snare,
‘By what pathway dissembling in falsehood so sweet
‘A peril so fatal to me, did we meet?
‘Oh, could I not take up the parable too,
‘As it fell from your lips, with a scorn all as true?
‘Woe to him, in whose nature, once kindled, the torch
‘Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch!
‘Woe to him that hath kiss'd and caroused cheek by jowl
‘With the harlot Corruption, and drain'd her wild bowl!
‘But shame, shame, and sorrow, O woman, to thee,
‘Whose hand sow'd the first seed of destruction in me!
‘Whose lip taught the first lesson of falsehood to mine!
‘Whose looks first made me doubt lies that look'd so divine!
‘My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep:
‘And if tears I mistrust, 'tis 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 portion among
‘The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys;
‘What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys!
‘Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go,
‘For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow
‘As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing,
‘Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring!
‘Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love 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!
Through his voice an emotion that swept every word
Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change,
He continued his monologue, fitful and strange.
‘I remember the time!—for it haunts me even yet
‘Like a ghost, through the Hades of lifelong regret—
‘I remember the time when the spirits of June
‘Led the faint-footed dance of the flowers to the tune
‘That was sung by the sons of the morning of old,
‘When the sun first came forth from his chambers of gold.
‘Then I saw round the rosy horizon of things
‘The omnipotent Hours, in Olympian rings,
‘Charioteering in glory; the world seem'd to glow
‘Where they circled and swept, each a crown on his brow!
283
‘The yet homely Immortals abided with men.
‘Then the oak flow'd with heaven-colour'd honey, and the lymph
‘Was the dwelling divine of a white-footed nymph:
‘Then all men were bold, and all women were fair:
‘And Love—a light impulse alive on the air,
‘Flitted, folded for aye in his own happy dream,
‘Flitted here, flitted there, like a bee on a beam,
‘Wherever new flowrets, by lawn or by dell,
‘Held on tiptoe for him their divine œnomel!
‘I remember the time, for my spirit was stirr'd,
‘When afar off the voice of the turtle was heard
‘“Arise! come away!” I arose. O despair!
‘Led by what lying star, through what verdurous snare,
‘By what pathway dissembling in falsehood so sweet
‘A peril so fatal to me, did we meet?
‘Oh, could I not take up the parable too,
‘As it fell from your lips, with a scorn all as true?
‘Woe to him, in whose nature, once kindled, the torch
‘Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch!
‘Woe to him that hath kiss'd and caroused cheek by jowl
‘With the harlot Corruption, and drain'd her wild bowl!
‘But shame, shame, and sorrow, O woman, to thee,
‘Whose hand sow'd the first seed of destruction in me!
‘Whose lip taught the first lesson of falsehood to mine!
‘Whose looks first made me doubt lies that look'd so divine!
‘My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep:
‘And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep!
284
‘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 portion among
‘The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys;
‘What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys!
‘Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go,
‘For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow
‘As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing,
‘Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring!
‘Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love 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!
‘Since the bird of the wood flits and sings round the nest
‘Where lie broken the eggs she once warm'd with her breast;
‘Since the flower of the field, newly born yesterday,
‘When to-morrow a new bud hath burst on the spray,
‘Folds, and falls in the night, unrepining, unseen;
‘Since aloof in the forests, when forests are green,
‘You may hear through the silence the dead wood that cracks,
‘Since man, where his course throughout nature he tracks,
‘In all things one science to soothe him may find,
‘To walk on, and look forward, and never behind,
‘—What to me, O my heart, is thy joy or thy sorrow?
‘What the tears of to-day or the sneers of to-morrow?
‘What is life? what is death? what the false? what the true?
‘And what is the harm that one woman can do?”
‘Where lie broken the eggs she once warm'd with her breast;
‘Since the flower of the field, newly born yesterday,
‘When to-morrow a new bud hath burst on the spray,
‘Folds, and falls in the night, unrepining, unseen;
‘Since aloof in the forests, when forests are green,
‘You may hear through the silence the dead wood that cracks,
‘Since man, where his course throughout nature he tracks,
285
‘To walk on, and look forward, and never behind,
‘—What to me, O my heart, is thy joy or thy sorrow?
‘What the tears of to-day or the sneers of to-morrow?
‘What is life? what is death? what the false? what the true?
‘And what is the harm that one woman can do?”
‘Vain! all vain!... For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff,
‘I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh.
‘Through the revel it was but the old song I heard,
‘Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd,
‘In the night wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even,
‘In the ardours 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 dreaming or waking,
‘It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking,
‘The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold
‘All my days were become as a tale that is told.
‘And I said to my sight, “No good thing shalt thou see,
‘For the noonday is turnèd 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!’
‘I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh.
‘Through the revel it was but the old song I heard,
‘Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd,
‘In the night wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even,
‘In the ardours 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 dreaming or waking,
‘It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking,
‘The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold
‘All my days were become as a tale that is told.
‘And I said to my sight, “No good thing shalt thou see,
‘For the noonday is turnèd 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!’
286
VII.
He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night,
And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light
A voice clear, and tender, and pure, with a tone
Of ineffable pity replied to his own.
‘And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life?
‘Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife
‘By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone
‘For the love in your nature a lie in my own,
‘Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse?
‘Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse,
‘For I then should have wrong'd you!’
And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light
A voice clear, and tender, and pure, with a tone
Of ineffable pity replied to his own.
‘And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life?
‘Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife
‘By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone
‘For the love in your nature a lie in my own,
‘Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse?
‘Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse,
‘For I then should have wrong'd you!’
‘Wrong'd! ah, is it so?
‘You could never have loved me?’
‘You could never have loved me?’
‘Duke!’
‘Never? oh no!’
(He broke into a fierce angry laugh, as he said)
‘Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led
‘My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour,
‘All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power
‘Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well?
‘But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell
‘Which has grown in my heart. Oh that man, first and last
‘He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast
‘His shadow 'twixt me and the sun ... let it pass!
‘My hate yet may find him!’
(He broke into a fierce angry laugh, as he said)
‘Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led
‘My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour,
‘All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power
‘Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well?
‘But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell
‘Which has grown in my heart. Oh that man, first and last
‘He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast
‘His shadow 'twixt me and the sun ... let it pass!
‘My hate yet may find him!’
She murmur'd, ‘Alas!
‘These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply.
‘Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try
‘To forget every word I have heard, every sight
‘That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night
‘Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke,
‘Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke
‘Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had!
‘Adieu!’
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‘Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try
‘To forget every word I have heard, every sight
‘That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night
‘Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke,
‘Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke
‘Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had!
‘Adieu!’
‘Stay, Lucile, stay!'... he groan'd,... ‘I am mad,
‘Brutalised, blind with pain! I know not what I said.
‘I meant it not. But' (he moan'd, drooping his head)
‘I suffer, and pain is perchance all unjust;
‘'Tis the worm trodden down that yet stings in the dust.
‘Forgive me! I—have I so wrong'd you, Lucile?
‘I ... have I ... forgive me, forgive me!’
‘Brutalised, blind with pain! I know not what I said.
‘I meant it not. But' (he moan'd, drooping his head)
‘I suffer, and pain is perchance all unjust;
‘'Tis the worm trodden down that yet stings in the dust.
‘Forgive me! I—have I so wrong'd you, Lucile?
‘I ... have I ... forgive me, forgive me!’
‘I feel
‘Only sad, very sad to the soul,’ she said, ‘far,
‘Far too sad for resentment.’
‘Only sad, very sad to the soul,’ she said, ‘far,
‘Far too sad for resentment.’
‘Yet stand as you are
‘One moment,’ he murmur'd. ‘I think, could I gaze
‘Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days
‘Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart
‘Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart
‘Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink,
‘Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think.
‘Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will,
‘Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still.
‘Do not fear I should justify aught I have done.
‘I feel I have sinn'd. Yet this night you have won
‘A great battle from me. Teach, O teach me to bear
‘The defeat I have merited! Teach my despair
‘Some retributive penance to purge this foul past
‘And work out life's penal redemption at last!’
‘One moment,’ he murmur'd. ‘I think, could I gaze
‘Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days
‘Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart
‘Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart
‘Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink,
‘Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think.
‘Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will,
‘Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still.
‘Do not fear I should justify aught I have done.
‘I feel I have sinn'd. Yet this night you have won
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‘The defeat I have merited! Teach my despair
‘Some retributive penance to purge this foul past
‘And work out life's penal redemption at last!’
‘Only speak!’
‘Could I help you,’ she murmur'd, ‘my heart
‘Would bless heaven indeed if before we thus part
‘I could rescue from out the wild work of this night
‘One holier memory, one gleam of light
‘Out of this hour of darkness! But what can I say?
‘This deep sense of pity seems utterless!’
‘Could I help you,’ she murmur'd, ‘my heart
‘Would bless heaven indeed if before we thus part
‘I could rescue from out the wild work of this night
‘One holier memory, one gleam of light
‘Out of this hour of darkness! But what can I say?
‘This deep sense of pity seems utterless!’
‘Nay,
‘I have suffer'd,’ he answer'd, ‘but yet do not think
‘That, whatever my fate, I have shrunk, or do shrink.
‘When the peasant, at nightfall, regaining the door
‘Of his hut, finds the tempest hath been there before;
‘That the thunder hath wasted the harvest he sow'd,
‘And the lightning to ashes consumed his abode;
‘The wild fact to his senses one moment may seem
‘Like a haggard, confused, and unnatural dream:
‘The vast night is sombre all round him; the earth
‘Smoulders lurid and angry; he stands on his hearth
‘And looks round for the welcome of old, and the place
‘Where his wife used to sit with the smile on her face:
‘A heap of red ashes lies strewn on the heath.
‘But in darkness of night, and with silence of death,
‘He sits down, and already reflects on the morrow.
‘So I, in the night of my life, with my sorrow!
‘Ah! but henceforth in vain shall I till that wild field.
‘It is blasted: no harvest these furrows will yield.
‘True! 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 labour, 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 perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition?
‘Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition.
‘Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great
‘Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State?
‘I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw
‘From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois
‘To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art?
‘But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart,
‘Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly 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 dispute,
‘I am what I am!’
‘I have suffer'd,’ he answer'd, ‘but yet do not think
‘That, whatever my fate, I have shrunk, or do shrink.
‘When the peasant, at nightfall, regaining the door
‘Of his hut, finds the tempest hath been there before;
‘That the thunder hath wasted the harvest he sow'd,
‘And the lightning to ashes consumed his abode;
‘The wild fact to his senses one moment may seem
‘Like a haggard, confused, and unnatural dream:
‘The vast night is sombre all round him; the earth
‘Smoulders lurid and angry; he stands on his hearth
‘And looks round for the welcome of old, and the place
‘Where his wife used to sit with the smile on her face:
‘A heap of red ashes lies strewn on the heath.
‘But in darkness of night, and with silence of death,
‘He sits down, and already reflects on the morrow.
‘So I, in the night of my life, with my sorrow!
289
‘It is blasted: no harvest these furrows will yield.
‘True! 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 labour, 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 perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition?
‘Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition.
‘Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great
‘Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State?
‘I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw
‘From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois
‘To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art?
‘But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart,
‘Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly 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
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‘I am what I am!’
VIII.
For a while she was mute.
Then she answer'd, ‘We are our own fates. Our own deeds
‘Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds,
‘But men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might say
‘That all life attests, that “the will makes the way.”
‘I might say, in a world full of lips that lack bread
‘And of souls that lack light, there are mouths to be fed,
‘There are wounds to be heal'd, there is work to be done,
‘And life can withhold love and duty from none.
‘Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth,
‘Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth
‘Our upholding, because the white lily no more
‘Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore?
‘Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance
‘Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France
‘Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugène
‘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 fail'd to express
‘Just the one note the great final harmony needs.
‘And what best proves there's life in a heart?—that it bleeds!
‘Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain,
‘Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain!
‘Cease the sin with the sorrow! See morning begin!
‘Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin.
‘There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light.
‘Let hate and despondency die with the night!’
Then she answer'd, ‘We are our own fates. Our own deeds
‘Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds,
‘But men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might say
‘That all life attests, that “the will makes the way.”
‘I might say, in a world full of lips that lack bread
‘And of souls that lack light, there are mouths to be fed,
‘There are wounds to be heal'd, there is work to be done,
‘And life can withhold love and duty from none.
‘Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth,
‘Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth
‘Our upholding, because the white lily no more
‘Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore?
‘Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance
‘Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France
‘Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugène
‘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,
291
‘Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express
‘Just the one note the great final harmony needs.
‘And what best proves there's life in a heart?—that it bleeds!
‘Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain,
‘Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain!
‘Cease the sin with the sorrow! See morning begin!
‘Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin.
‘There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light.
‘Let hate and despondency die with the night!’
He was 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 thro' the caged lattice a once well-known strain,
Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until
The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill
With music and memory, and, as it were,
The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware
Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thing
It once sought,—the poor idiot who pass'd for a king,
Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'd
A madman more painfully mad than the rest,—
So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er
His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore
The forces of thought: he recaptured the whole
Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul
Reflected on his: he appear'd to awake
From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake:
His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him:
He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim.
But he murmur'd...
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 thro' the caged lattice a once well-known strain,
Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until
The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill
With music and memory, and, as it were,
The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware
Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thing
It once sought,—the poor idiot who pass'd for a king,
Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'd
A madman more painfully mad than the rest,—
So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er
His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore
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Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul
Reflected on his: he appear'd to awake
From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake:
His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him:
He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim.
But he murmur'd...
‘Lucile, not for me that sun's light
‘Which reveals—not restores—the wild havoc of night.
‘There are some creatures born for the night, not the day.
‘Brokenhearted the nightingale hides in the spray,
‘And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower
‘Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower.
‘Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes
‘Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognise
‘Enough desolation.’
‘Which reveals—not restores—the wild havoc of night.
‘There are some creatures born for the night, not the day.
‘Brokenhearted the nightingale hides in the spray,
‘And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower
‘Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower.
‘Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes
‘Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognise
‘Enough desolation.’
‘Take comfort,’ she said,
‘Above all,—that in mercy, this night, I was led
‘To save you, in saving another! Oh yet,
‘Thank heaven that you have not quite barter'd regret
‘For remorse, nor the sad self-redemptions of grief
‘For a self-retribution beyond all relief!’
‘Above all,—that in mercy, this night, I was led
‘To save you, in saving another! Oh yet,
‘Thank heaven that you have not quite barter'd regret
‘For remorse, nor the sad self-redemptions of grief
‘For a self-retribution beyond all relief!’
IX.
‘Retribution!’ he falter'd. ‘Ah, that work begins.
‘Could you see but the process! Whatever my sins,
‘I will live on myself to avenge them, Lucile.
‘And if aught on this darkness now gleams, 'tis the steel
‘That executes judgment. My own hand lays bare
‘The axe that awaits me!’
‘Could you see but the process! Whatever my sins,
‘I will live on myself to avenge them, Lucile.
‘And if aught on this darkness now gleams, 'tis the steel
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‘The axe that awaits me!’
‘Alas, Duke, beware!
‘There is a remorse which is sin crowning sin.
‘There is a humility which is akin
‘To the pride of perdition. 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. Leave heaven's work to heaven!
‘Let us pray, not indeed to be judged, but forgiven;
‘Pray for pardon, not penance. Eugène de Luvois,
‘Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law.
‘Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all
‘His own executioner. Man's pride must fall
‘When it stands up in judgment. Then kneel, Eugène, kneel,
‘And hope, kneeling and praying!’ she murmur'd.
‘There is a remorse which is sin crowning sin.
‘There is a humility which is akin
‘To the pride of perdition. 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. Leave heaven's work to heaven!
‘Let us pray, not indeed to be judged, but forgiven;
‘Pray for pardon, not penance. Eugène de Luvois,
‘Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law.
‘Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all
‘His own executioner. Man's pride must fall
‘When it stands up in judgment. Then kneel, Eugène, kneel,
‘And hope, kneeling and praying!’ she murmur'd.
‘Lucile,’
He exclaim'd, and unconsciously sank on his knees,
Overawed by her look.
He exclaim'd, and unconsciously sank on his knees,
Overawed by her look.
Then, by solemn degrees,
There crept on the midnight within him a cold
Keen gleam of spiritual light. Fold by fold,
The films of his self-gather'd blindness, in part
Were breath'd bare, and the dawn shudder'd into his heart.
She was silent. At length he look'd upward, and saw
That sad serene countenance, mournful as law
And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him: and heard
In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird.
The dawn, and the dews of the dawn!... To his eyes,
Tears, he felt them, youth's long-lost familiars, arise!
There crept on the midnight within him a cold
Keen gleam of spiritual light. Fold by fold,
The films of his self-gather'd blindness, in part
Were breath'd bare, and the dawn shudder'd into his heart.
She was silent. At length he look'd upward, and saw
That sad serene countenance, mournful as law
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In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird.
The dawn, and the dews of the dawn!... To his eyes,
Tears, he felt them, youth's long-lost familiars, arise!
X.
‘O Lucile! my predestined, inscrutable fate!‘Thou hast forced me to weep, but the tears flow too late.
‘Why, I know not! they cannot extinguish the fire
‘That consumes me. Leave, leave me the scorn and the ire
‘Which are all that can yet give me strength to resign
‘Those gentler emotions which might have been mine.’
XI.
‘Scorn and Ire are but shadows that stand at the gate
‘Of the Heavenly Land,’ she replied. ‘Scorn and hate
‘Have no life in themselves. They are devil-born things—
‘'Tis our cowardice only that gives to them stings.
‘They may scare the rash fool, but they cannot dismay
‘The hero predestin'd to conquer his way.
‘From the eye that hath courage to look in their face
‘They shrink into darkness, and leave not a trace
‘On the soul, save the sense of a solemn thanksgiving
‘For the danger subdued, and the strength found in striving,
‘When she enters the calm that is conquer'd from strife,
‘Self-conscious, and sings in the sabbath of life!
‘Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly.
‘Of the Heavenly Land,’ she replied. ‘Scorn and hate
‘Have no life in themselves. They are devil-born things—
‘'Tis our cowardice only that gives to them stings.
‘They may scare the rash fool, but they cannot dismay
‘The hero predestin'd to conquer his way.
‘From the eye that hath courage to look in their face
‘They shrink into darkness, and leave not a trace
‘On the soul, save the sense of a solemn thanksgiving
‘For the danger subdued, and the strength found in striving,
‘When she enters the calm that is conquer'd from strife,
‘Self-conscious, and sings in the sabbath of life!
‘Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly.
‘Eugène
‘De Luvois, in this life we have met once again,
‘And once more life parts us. Yon day-spring for me
‘Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be
‘We shall meet never more. Grant, oh grant to me yet
‘The belief that it is not in vain we have met!
‘I plead for the future. A new horoscope
‘I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a hope:
‘I plead for a memory; yours, yours alone,
‘To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own,
‘Be the memory mine.
‘De Luvois, in this life we have met once again,
295
‘Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be
‘We shall meet never more. Grant, oh grant to me yet
‘The belief that it is not in vain we have met!
‘I plead for the future. A new horoscope
‘I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a hope:
‘I plead for a memory; yours, yours alone,
‘To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own,
‘Be the memory mine.
‘Once of yore, when for man
‘Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began,
‘Men, aroused to the knowledge of evil, 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! oh think not of me,
‘But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny:
‘I plead for your life, with its duties undone,
‘With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon;
‘And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead
‘For all that you miss, and for all that you need.’
‘Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard 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! oh think not of me,
‘But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny:
‘I plead for your life, with its duties undone,
‘With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon;
‘And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead
‘For all that you miss, and for all that you need.’
XII.
Thro' the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke,A clear chilly chime from a church-turret broke;
And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell
On his ear, where he kneel'd, softly, soothingly fell.
All within him was wild and confused, as within
A chamber deserted in some roadside inn,
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To quaff and carouse; in its socket each light
Is extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wall
With wild ribald ballads: serenely o'er all,
For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faint
Thro' the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint
Seen thro' some broken frame appears noting meanwhile
The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile.
And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn
Oped behind her; and pure as the pure light of dawn
She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyes
From their sight to be melting away in the skies
That expanded around her.
XIII.
There pass'd thro' his headA 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; 'twas hers;
And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers,
‘O soul, to its sources departing away!
‘Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray.
‘I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power,
‘One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour
‘I name not my heart, and 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,
297
‘Lo, above us, the dayspring beginning to break!
‘Something wakens within me, and warms to the beam.
‘Is it hope that awakens? or do I but dream?
‘I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark
‘Of a new light within me to solace the dark
‘Unto which I return; or perchance it may be
‘The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me.
‘I know not. Thou goest thy way: I my own:
‘For good or for evil, I know not. Alone
‘This I know: my heart softens. The ghosts of old years
‘Seem appeased for a moment. Just now I shed tears;
‘And for those tears I thank thee. I should have sinn'd less,
‘Suffer'd less, if I could have wept more. I would bless
‘(I whose heart sought to curse thee!)—would bless thee, Lucile.
‘But what were my curse, or my blessing? I feel
‘This alone; we are parting. I wish'd to say more,
‘But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er.
‘Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the pain
‘For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again.
‘I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove
‘Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not love,
‘That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done.
‘Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone.
‘I was madden'd, delirious! I saw you return
‘To him—not to me; and I felt my heart burn
298
‘Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas!
‘Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose
‘'Tis to meet never more. 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!’
XIV.
And again, clearer far than the chime of the bell,That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell.
‘Our two paths must part us, Eugène; for my own
‘Seems no more through that world in which henceforth alone
‘You must work out (as now I believe that you will)
‘The hope which you speak of. That work I shall still
‘(If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away.
‘Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I say,
‘That the great mortal combat between human life
‘And each human soul must be single. The strife
‘None can share, tho' 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,
‘I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet
‘By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street,
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‘Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugène.
‘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 shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war,
‘You falter and hesitate, if from afar
‘I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be)
‘O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see
‘That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide,
‘In the hour of that need I shall be at your side,
‘To warn, if you will, or incite, or control;
‘And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!’
XV.
The voice ceased.
He uplifted his eyes.
All alone
He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone,
Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night,
Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light.
And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise! It rose
In its sumptuous splendour and solemn repose,
The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold,
Realms of rose, in the Orient! And breathless, and bold,
While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one,
The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun!
Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began
In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man.
The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere!
Light! silence! the fresh renovations of air!
O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze
Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees.
Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp rippled stream,
Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream,
Around the brown meadows, adown the hill slope,
The spirits of morning were whispering ‘Hope!’
He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone,
Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night,
Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light.
And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise! It rose
In its sumptuous splendour and solemn repose,
The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold,
Realms of rose, in the Orient! And breathless, and bold,
300
The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun!
Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began
In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man.
The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere!
Light! silence! the fresh renovations of air!
O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze
Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees.
Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp rippled stream,
Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream,
Around the brown meadows, adown the hill slope,
The spirits of morning were whispering ‘Hope!’
XVI.
He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood
But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood
Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold,
In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold
Of his own golden youth. Such a youth as that night
He had painted it to her. There rose on his sight
A vision of knightly forefathers, of fame,
Of ancestral ambition; and France by the name
Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light
That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright
And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be
Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he
Had once dwelt, a native!
But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood
Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold,
In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold
Of his own golden youth. Such a youth as that night
He had painted it to her. There rose on his sight
A vision of knightly forefathers, of fame,
Of ancestral ambition; and France by the name
Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light
That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright
And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be
Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he
Had once dwelt, a native!
There, rooted and bound
To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around
The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone
Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone;
And he—as the body may yearn for the soul,
So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole
Heart arose to regain it.
To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around
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Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone;
And he—as the body may yearn for the soul,
So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole
Heart arose to regain it.
‘And is it too late?’
No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate.
Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain.
For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain
The pure source of spirit, there is no Too late.
As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate
In the fountain arises, the spirit in him
Arose to that image. The image waned dim
Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt
As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt
With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense—awed, amazed—
Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.
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.
| Lucile | |