Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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XIII.
She look'd at Lord Alfred. No word he replied;He was startled, and felt stunn'd, scared, stupefied.
This cold, keen philosophy, trenchant as steel,
On the lips of a woman so young as Lucile,
Appall'd him. He seem'd to remember her yet
A child—the weak sport of each moment's regret,
Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life,
The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the strife
And the tumult of passion; the tremulous toy
Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy.
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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!
'Twas a picture that touch'd him with pain to behold.
He himself knew—none better—the things to be said
Upon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd down his head:
He had not the courage, he dared not decide
To aid that frail hand to the heart's suicide.
![]() | Lucile | ![]() |