Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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| XV. |
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| XVII. |
| XVIII. | XVIII. |
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| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
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| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
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 | Lucile |  |
XVIII.
‘No, no!’ answer'd she;
‘When you knew me, I was not what now I may be.
‘Could the past be transferr'd, were I now to receive
‘The love of a man whom the world loves, believe’—
‘When you knew me, I was not what now I may be.
‘Could the past be transferr'd, were I now to receive
‘The love of a man whom the world loves, believe’—
(Thought Alfred,—‘O hypocrite! loved and adored
‘By a duke, a grand seigneur, the fashion's gay lord!’)
‘By a duke, a grand seigneur, the fashion's gay lord!’)
‘Believe,’ she resumed, ‘if I had to dispose
‘Of his life in the world where his fame should repose,
‘I think I should know how to help his career,
‘And to add to its happiness—not, as I fear
‘I once sought, to destroy it.’
‘Of his life in the world where his fame should repose,
‘I think I should know how to help his career,
‘And to add to its happiness—not, as I fear
‘I once sought, to destroy it.’
‘Is this an advance?’
Thought Lord Alfred, and raised with a passionate glance
The hand of Lucile to his lips.
Thought Lord Alfred, and raised with a passionate glance
The hand of Lucile to his lips.
80
'Twas a hand
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.
The hand of a woman is often, in youth,
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth;
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,
Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm?
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.
The hand of a woman is often, in youth,
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth;
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,
Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm?
| Lucile | |