 | Lucile |  |
XVII.
Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told
With such broken, passionate words, as unfold
In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Thro' 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-roof
At intervals wirbled. And when all was said,
The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head,
And fell into a feverish slumber.
With such broken, passionate words, as unfold
In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Thro' 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-roof
At intervals wirbled. And when all was said,
The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head,
And fell into a feverish slumber.
Long while
Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile
That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face
And make it like heaven, was fled from its place
In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care,
As low to herself she sigh'd...
Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile
That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face
And make it like heaven, was fled from its place
In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care,
As low to herself she sigh'd...
‘Hath it, Eugène,
‘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?’
‘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?’
| Lucile | |