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POETICAL     WORKS 


MEREDITH 

(EGBERT,  LOED  LYTTON). 


LUCILE,    THE  APPLE  OP    LIFE,    THE    WANDERER,    CLYTEMNESTRA, 

ETC.,    ETC. 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 


: 


NEW  YORK: 
R.    WORTHINGTON 


CONTENTS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 

LUCILE 7 

THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE 146 

THE  WANDERER. 

DEDICATION.     To  J.  F 153 

PROLOGUE.     PART  1 154 

"    II 159 

"  HI 160 

BOOK  I.    In  Italy. 

The  Magic  Land 164 

Desire 164 

Fatality 166 

A  Vision 166 

Eros 167 

Indian  Love-Song 168 

Morning  and  Meeting 168 

The  Cloud 169 

Root  and  Leaf 169 

Warnings 170 

AFancy 170 

Once 171 

Since 172 

A  Love-Letter 173 

Condemned  Ones 176 

The  Storm 177 

TheVampyre 179 

Change 179 

A  Chain  to  Wear 181 

Silence 181 

News 182 

Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 182 

The  Last  Message 184 

Venice 184 

On  the  Sea 185 

BOOK  II.    IN  FRANCK. 

"  Prensus  in  uEgaeo" 186 

A  1'Entresol 187 

Terra  Incognita 188 

A  Remembrance 189 

Madame  la  Marquise 190 

The  Novel 191 

Aux  Italians 192 

Progress 193 

The  Portrait 194 

Astarte 195 

At  Home  during  the  Ball 196 

At  Home  after  the  Ball 197 

Au  Cafe  *  *  * 198 


PAGE 
The  Chess-Board  .................  203 

Song  .............................  203 

The  Last  Remonstrance  .........  204 

Sorcery.     To  -  ......  .  ........  205 

Adieu,  Mignonne  ma  Belle  .......   205 

To  Mignonne  ....................  206 

Compensation  .  ...............  ...  207 

Translations  from  Peter  Ronsard  : 
"  Voci  le  Bois  que  ma  Saincte 
Angelette  "  ................  207 

"  Cache,  pour  cette  Nuict  ".  .  208 
"PagesuyMoy"  ............  208 

Les  Espices  sont  a  Ceres  "..  208 
"  Ma  Douce  Jouvence  "  ......  208 

BOOK  TTT,    IN  ENGLAND. 

The  Aloe  ........................  209 

"  Medio  de  Fonte  Leporum"  ......  210 

The  Death  of  King  Hacon  ........  210 

"Carpe  Diem"  ..................  211 

The  Fount  of  Truth  .............  211 

Midges  ..........................  213 

The  Last  Time  that  I  met  Lady 

Ruth  214 

Matrimonial  Counsels  ...........  .  215 

See-Saw  .........................  215 

Babylonia  .....................  216 

BOOK  IV.    IN  SWITZERLAND. 
The  Heart  and  Nature 
A  Quiet  Moment  ................  220 

221 


BOOK  V.    IN  HOLLAND. 

Autumn  .........................  222 

Leafless  Hours  ...................  222 

On  my  Twenty-Fourth  Year  .....  222 

Jacqueline  .......................  223 

Macromicros  .....................  224 

Mystery  ..........................  224 

The  Canticle  of  Love  ............  225 

ThePedler  .......................  231 

AGhost  Story  ...................  232 

Small  People  ....................  232 

Metempsychosis  .................  232 

To  the  Queen  of  Serpents  ........  233 

Bluebeard  ........................  233 

Fatima  ..................  .........  23-1 

Going  back  again  ................  233 

The  Castle  of  King  Macbeth  .....  234 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
THE  WANDERER  (continued), 

Death  in-Life 234 

Kin^  Limos 234 

The  Fugitive 235 

The  Shore 235 

The  North  Sea 236 

A  Night  in  the  Fisherman's  Hut : 
Part  I.    The  Fisherman's  Daughter  237 
"    II.    The  Legend  of  Lord  Ros- 

encrantz 238 

"III.    Daybreak 240 

IV.     Breakfast 240 

A  Dream 241 

King  Solomon 242 

Cordelia 243 

"  Ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth  which 

was  crucified  " 244 

To  Cordelia 245 

A  Letter  to  Cordelia 246 

Failure 247 

Misanthropes 247 

BOOK  VI.    PALINGENESIS. 

A  Prayer 249 

Kuthaiiiisia    249 

The  Soul's  Science 253 

A  Psalm  of  Confession 256 

Reauiescat : 257 

Epilogue    Part   1 257 

"    II 258 

"  III 261 

TAXNHAl-SER. 

Tannhauser;   or,  The  Battle  of   the 
Bards 266 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

Clytemnestra , 


297 

Good-Nicht  in  the  Porch 338 

The  Enrl's  Return 343 

A  Soul's  Loss 356 

TheArtist  358 

The  Wife's  Tragedy 361 


PAGK 

MINOR  POEMS. 

The  Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guene- 

vere 369 

A  Sunset  Fancy 374 

Associations 375 

Meeting  Again 375 

Aristocracy 376 

The  Mermaiden 376 

At  Her  Casement 376 

A  Farewell 376 

An  Evening  in  Tuscany 376 

Song 378 

I ..379 

II 379 

The  Summer-Time  that  was 379 

Elayne  Le  Blanc 380 

To 384 

Queen  Guenevere 385 

The  Neglected  Heart 385 

Appearances 385 

How  the  Song  was  Made 385 

Retrospections 386 

Thy  Voice  Across  My  Spirit  Falls. ...  386 

The  Ruined  Palace 386 

A  Vision  of  Virgins 387 

Leoline 388 

Spring  and  Winter. 389 

King  Hermandiaz 390 

Song 390 

The  Swallow 391 

Contraband 391 

Evening 391 

Adon    392 

The  Prophet 392 

Wealth 392 

Want 393 

A  Bird  at  Sunset 393 

In  Travel 393 

Changes 394 

Judicium  Paridis 394 

Night 398 

Song 398 

Forbearance 398 

Helios  Hyperionides 398 

Elisabetta  Sirani 399 

LastWords ..  402 


/ 


LUCILE 


DEDICATION- 
TO     MY    FATHER. 

I  DEDICATE  to  yon  a  work,  which  is  submitted  to  the  public  with  a  diffidence  and  hesi- 
tation proportioned  to  the  novelty  of  the  effort  it  represents.  For  in  this  poem  I  have 
abandoned  those  forms  of  verse  with  which  I  had  most  familiarised  my  thoughts,  and 
have  endeavored  to  follow  a  path  on  which  I  could  discover  no  footprints  before  me, 
either  to  guide  or  to  warn. 

There  is  a  moment  of  profound  discouragement  which  succeeds  to  prolonged  effort ; 
when,  the  labor  which  has  become  a  habit  having  ceased,  we  miss  the  sustaining  sense 
of  its  companionship,  and  stand,  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness  and  embarrassment,  before 
the  abrupt  and  naked  result.  As  regards  myself,  in  the  present  instance,  the  force  of  all 
such  sensations  is  increased  by  the  circumstances  to  which  I  have  referred.  And  in  this 
moment  of  discouragement  and  doubt  my  heart  instinctively  turns  to  you,  from  whom  it 
has  so  often  sought,  from  whom  it  has  never  failed  to  receive,  support. 

I  do  not  inscribe  to  you  this  book  because  it  contains  anything  that  is  worthy  of  the 
beloved  and  honored  name  with  which  I  thus  seek  to  associate  it ;  nor  yet,  because  I 
would  avail  myself  of  a  vulgar  pretext  to  display  in  public  an  affection  that  is  best 
honored  by  the  silence  which  it  renders  sacred. 

Feelings  only  such  as  those  with  which,  in  days  when  there  existed  for  me  no  critic 
less  gentle  than  yourself,  I  brought  to  you  my  childish  manuscripts,  feelings  only 
such  as  those  which  have,  in  later  years,  associated  with  your  heart  all  that  has  moved 
or  occupied  my  own, — lead  me  once  more  to  seek  assurance  from  the  grasp  of  that 
hand  which  has  hitherto  been  my  guide  and  comfort  through  the  life  I  owe  to  you. 

And  as  in  childhhood,  when  existence  had  no  toil  beyond  the  day's  simple  lesson,  no 
ambition  beyond  the  neighboring  approval  of  the  night,  I  brought  to  you  the  morning's 
task  for  the  evening's  sanction,  so  now  I  bring  to  you  this  self-appointed  task-work 
of  maturer  years  ;  less  confident  indeed  of  your  approval,  but  not  less  confident  of 
your  love  ;  and  anxious  only  to  realize  your  presence  between  myself  and  the  public 
and  to  mingle  with  those  severer  voices  to  whose  final  sentence  I  submit  my  work  the 
beloved  and  gracious  accents  of  your  own. 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 


PAKT    I. 


CANTO  I. 


Letter  from  the  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS 
to  LORD  ALFRED  VARGKAVE. 

"  I  HEAR  from  Bigorre  you  are  there. 

I  am  told 
You  are  going  to  marry  Miss  Darcy. 

Of  old, 


So  long  since  you  may  have  forgotten 
it  now, 

(When  we  parted  as  friends,  soon  mere 
strangers  to  grow, ) 

Your  last  words  recorded  a  pledge — 
what  you  will — 

A  promise — the  time  is  now  come  to 
fulfil. 

The  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  re- 
turn, 


I  desire  to  receive  from  your  hand. 


You  discern 


lou  aiscem  _          , 

My  reasons,  which,  therefore,  I  need 

not  explain.  T 

The  distance  to  Serchon  is  short.    J 

remain  ,.,. 

A  month  in  these   mountains.    Miss 

Darcy,  perchance, 
Will  forego  one    brief  page  from  the 

summer  romance 
Of  her  courtship,  and  spare  you  one 

day  from  your  place  . 

At  her  feet,  in  the  light  of  her  fair 

English  face. 
I  desire  nothing  more,  and  I  trust  you 

will  feel 
I  desire  nothing  much. 

"  Your  friend  always, 

"  LUCILE." 

n. 
Now  in  May  Fair,  of  course,— in  the 

fair  month  of  May, — 
When  life  is  abundant,  and  busy,  and 


When  the  markets   of   London   are 
noisy  about 

Young  ladies  and  strawberries,— "on- 
ly just  out": 

Fresh  strawberries  sold  under  all  the 
house-eaves, 

And  young  ladies  on   sale   for   the 
strawberry  leaves : 

When  cards,  invitations,  and   three 
cornered  notes 

Fly  about  like  white  butterflies,— gay 
little  motes 

In  the  sunbeam  of  Fashion  ;  and  even 
Blue  Books 

Take  a  heavy-winged  flight,  and  grow 
busy  as  rooks ; 

And  the   postman    (that  Genius,  in- 
different and  stern, 

Who  shakes  out  even-handed  to  all, 
from  his  urn, 

Those  lots  which  so  often  decide  if 
our  day 

Shall  be  fretful  and  anxious,  or  joy- 
ous and  gay), 

Brings,  eacli  morning,  more  letters  of 
one  sort  or  other 

Than  Cadmus  himself  put  together,  to 
bother 

The  heads  of  Hellenes  ; — I  say,  in  the 
season 

Of  Fair  May,  in  May  Fair,  there  can 
bo  no  reason 


— . 

Why,   when  quietly  munching  your 
dry-toast  and  butter 

Your    nerves     should    be    suddenly 
thrown  in  a  flutter 

At  the  sight  of  a  neat  little  letter,  ad- 
dressed 

In  a  woman's  handwriting,   contain- 
ing, half  guessed, 

An  odor  of  violets  faint  as  the  Spring, 

And  coquettishly  sealed  with  a  small 
signet-ring. 

But  in  Autumn,  the  season  of  sombre 
reflection, 

When  a  damp  day,  at  breakfast,  be- 
gins with  dejection ; 

Far  from  London  and  Paris,  and  ill  at 
one's  ease, 

Away  in  the  heart  of  the  blue  Pyre- 
nees, 

Where  a  call  from  the  doctor,  a  stroll 
to  the  bath, 

A  ride  through  the  hills  on  a  hack  like 
a  lath, 

A  cigar,  a  French  novel,  a  tedious  flir- 
tation, 

Are  all  a  man  finds  for  his  day's  occu- 
pation, 

The  whole  case,  believe  me,  is  totally 
changed, 

And  a  letter  may  alter  the  plans  we 
arranged 

Over-night,  for  the  slaughter  of  Time, 
a  wild  beast, 

Which,  though  classified  yet  by  no 
naturalist, 

Abounds  in  these    mountains,   more 
hard  to  ensnare, 

And  more  mischievous,  too,  than  the 
lynx  or  the  bear, 
in. 

I  marvel  less,  therefore,  that,  having 
already 

Torn  open  this  note,'with  a  hand  most 
unsteady, 

Lord  Alfred  was  startled. 

The  month  is  September ; 

Time,  morn-ing ;  the  scene  at  Bigorre  ; 

(pray  remember 
These  facts,  gentle  reader,  because  I 

intend 

To  fling  all  the  unities  by  at  the  end.) 
He  walked  to  the  window.    The  morn- 
ing was  chill : 
The  brown  woods  were  crisped  in  the 

cold  on  the  hill : 

The  sole  thing  abroad  in  the  streets 
was  the  wind ; 


LUC  ILK. 


And  the  straws  on  the  gust,  like  the 
thoughts  in  his  mind, 

Rose  and  eddied  around  and  around, 
as  though  teasing 

Each  other.  The  prospect,  in  truth, 
was  unpleasing : 

And  Lord  Alfred,  whilst  moodily  gaz- 
ing around  it, 

To  himself  more  than  once  (vexed  in 
soul)  sighed 

"Confound  it!" 

IV. 

What  the  thoughts  were  which  led  to 

this  bad  interjection, 
Sir,  or  Madam,  I  leave  to  your  future 

detection ; 
For  whatever  they  were,   they  were 

burst  in  upon, 

As  the  door  was  burst  through,  by  my 
lord's  Cousin  John. 

COUSIN  JOHN. 

A  fool,  Alfred,  a  fool,  a  most  motley 

fool! 

LORD  ALFRED. 

Who? 
JOHN. 
The  man  who  has  anything  better  to 

do; 
And  yet  so  far  forgets  himself,  so  far 

degrades 
His  position  as  Man  to  this  worst  of 

all  trades, 
Which    even  a  well-brought-up   ape 

were  above, 
To  travel   about  with  a  woman  in 

love, — 
Unless  she's  in  love  with  himself. 

ALFRED. 

Indeed!  why 
Are  you  here  then,  dear  Jack  ? 

JOHN. 

Can't  you  guess  it  ? 
ALFRED. 

Not  I. 
JOHN. 
Because  I  have  nothing  that's  better 

to  do. 
I  had  rather  be  bored,  my  dear  Alfred, 

by  you, 

On  the  whole  (I  must  own),  than  be 
bored  by  myself. 


That  perverse,  imperturbable,  golden-^ 

haired  elf — 
Your  Will-o'-the-wisp — that  has  led 

you  and  me 
Such  a  dance  through  these  hills — 

ALFRED. 

Who,  Matilda? 
JOHN. 

Yes !  she, 
Of  course!  who  but  she  could  contrive 

so  to  keep 
One's  eyes,  and  one's  feet  too,  from 

falling  asleep 

For  even  one  half-hour  of  the  long 
twenty-four  ? 

ALFRED. 
What's  the  matter  ? 

JOHN. 

Why,  she  is — a  matter,  the  more 
I  consider  about  it,  the  more  it  de- 
mands 
An  attention  it  does  not  deserve  ;  and 

expands 
Beyond  the  dimensions  which  even 

crinoline, 
When  possessed  by  a  fair  face  and 

saucy  Eighteen, 
Is  entitled  to  take  in  this  very  small 

star, 
Already  too  crowded,  as  /  think,  by 

far. 

You  read  Malthus  and  Sadler  ? 
ALFRED. 

Of  course. 
JOHN. 

To  what  use, 

When  you  countenance,  calmly,  such 
monstrous  abuse 

Of  one  mere  human  creature's  legiti- 
mate space 

In  this  world  ?  Mars,  Apollo,  Viro- 
rum !  the  case 

Wholly  passes  my  patience. 

ALFRED. 

My  own  is  worse  tried. 
JOHN. 
Yours,  Alfred  ? 

ALFRED. 

Read  this,  if  you  doubt,  and  decide. 

JOHN  (reading  the  letter.') 
"  I  hear  from   Bigorre  you  are  there. 

1  am  told 


10 


LVCILE. 


Toil  are  qoing  to  marry  Miss  Darcy. 

Of  old— " 
What  is  this  T 

ALFRED. 

Read  it  on  to  the  end,  and  you'll 
know. 
JOHN  (continues  reading.) 

"  When  we  parted,  your  last  words  re- 
corded a  vow — 

What  you  will"  .... 

Hang  it!  this  smells  all  over,  I  swear, 

Of  adventures  and  violets.  "Was  it 
your  hair 

You  promised  a  lock  of  ? 

ALFRED. 

Bead  on.    You'll  discern. 
JOHN  (continues). 

11  Tliose  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to 
return."  .  .  . 

Humph !  .  .  .  Letters  .  .  .  the  mat- 
ter is  worse  than  I  guessed j 

t  have  my  misgivings — 

ALFRED. 

Well,  read  out  the  rest, 
And  advise. 

JOHN. 

Eh  ?  ...  Where  was  I  ?  .  .  . 
(Continues.) 

"  Miss  Darcy,  perchance, 
Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the 
tummer  romance 
Of  her  courtship."  .  .  . 

Egad !  a  romance  for  my  part, 
Id  forego  every  page    of,   and  not 
break  my  heart ! 

ALFRED. 
Continue  I 

JOHN  (reading.) 

"  And  spare  you  one  day  from  your 
place 

At  Jnr  feet."  .  .  . 

Pray  forgive  me  the  passing  grimace. 
I  wish  you  had  MY  place  ! 
(Heads.) 

"  I  trust  you  will  feel, 
I  desire  nothing  much.  Your  friend". 

Bless  me!   "  Lucile"  ? 
The  Comtesse  de  Nevers  ? 
ALFRED. 
Yes. 


JOHN. 

What  will  you  do  ? 
ALFRED. 

You  ask  me  just  what  I  would  rather 
ask  you. 

JOHN. 
You  can't  go. 

ALFRED. 
I  must. 
JOHN. 

And  Matilda  ? 
ALFRED. 

O,  that 
You  must  manage ! 

JOHN. 

Must  I  ?  I  decline  it,  though,  flat. 
In  an  hour  the  horses  will  be  at  the 

door, 

And  Matilda  is  now  in  her  habit.   Be- 
fore 
I    have    finished    my   breakfast,    of 

course  I  receive 
A  message  for  "dear  Cousin  John!"  . . . 

I  must  leave 
At  the  jeweller's  the  bracelet  which 

you  broke  last  night ; 
I  must  call  for  the  music.     "Dear 

Alfred  is  right : 
The  black  shawl  looks  best :   will  I 

change  it  ?    Of  course 
I  can  just  stop,  in  passing,  to  order 

the  horse. 

Then  Beau  has  the  mumps,  or  St.  Hu- 
bert knows  what ; 

Will  I  see  the  dog-doctor?"     Hang 
Beau !    I  will  not. 

ALFRED. 

Tush,  tush !  this  is  serious. 
JOHN. 

It  is. 
ALFRED. 

Very  well, 
You  must  think — 

JOHN. 

What  excuse  will  you  make,  though  ? 
ALFRED. 

O,  tell 
Mrs.  Darcy  that  .  .  .  lend    me  your 

wits,  Jack !  .  .  .  the  deuce  ! 
Can  you  not  stretch  your  genius  to  fit 
a  friend's  use  ? 


LUCTLE. 


11 


Excuses    are    clothes    which     when 

asked  unawares, 
Good   Breeding  to  naked   Necessity 

spares. 
You  must  have  a  whole  wardrobe,  no 

doubt. 

JOHN. 

My  dear  fellow  ! 

Matilda    is    jealous    you    know,    as 
Othello. 

ALFRED. 
You  joke. 

JOHN. 
I  am  serious.    Why  go  to  Serchon  ? 

ALFRED. 
Don't  ask  me.    I  have  not  a  choice, 

my  dear  John. 
Besides,  shall  I  own  a  strange  sort  of 

desire, 

Before  I  extinguish  forever  the  fire 
Of  youth  and  romance,  in  whose  shad- 

owy light 
Hope  whispered  her  first  fairy  tales, 

to  excite 
The  last  spark,  till  it  rise,  and  fade 

far  in  the  dawn 
Of  my  days  where  the  twilights  of  life 

were  first  drawn 

By  the  rosy,  reluctant  auroras  of  Love  : 
In  short,  from  the  dead  Past  the  grave- 

stone to  move  ; 
Of  the  years  long  departed  forever  to 

take 
One  last  look,  one  final  farewell;  to 

awake 
The  Heroic  of  youth  from  the  Hades 


And  once  more  be,  though  but  for  an 
hour,  Jack  —  a  boy! 

JOHN. 

You  had  better  go  hang  yourself. 
ALFRED. 

No  !  were  it  but 

To  make  sure  that  the  Past  from  the 
Future  is  shut, 
It  were  worth  the  step  back.     Do  you 

think  we  should  live 
With  the  living  so  lightly,  and  learn 

to  survive 
That  wild   moment  in  which   to  the 

grave  and  its  gloom 
We  consigned  our  heart's  best,  if  the 

doors  of  tomb 


Were  not  locked  with  a  key  which  Fate 


not  locked  witn  a  key 
keeps  for  our  sake  ? 


If  the  dead  could  return,  or  the  corpses 
awake  ? 


Nonsence! 


JOHN. 


ALFEED. 


Not  wholly.     The  man  who  gets  up 
A  filled  guest  from  the  banquet,  and 

drains  off  his  cup, 
Sees  the  last  lamp  extinguished  with 

cheerfulness,  goes 
Well  contented  to  bed  and  enjoys  its 

repose. 
But  he  who  hath  supped  at  the  tables 

of  kings, 

And  yet  starved  in  the  sight  of  luxu- 
rious things ; 
Who  hath  watched  the  wine  flow,  by 

himself  but  half  tasted, 
Heard  the  music,  and  yet  missed  the 

tune ;  who  hath  wasted 
One  part  of  life's  grand  possibilities; — 

friend, 
That  man  will  bear  with  him  be  sure  to 

the  end,  33Ufl3 

A    blighted     experience,    a     rancor 

within : 
You  may  call  it  a  virtue,  I  call  it  a  sin. 

JOHN.] 

I  see  you  remember  the  cynical  story 

Of  that  wicked  old  piece  of  Experi- 
ence,—a  hoary 

Lothario,  whom  dying,  the  priest  by 
his  bed 

(Knowing  well  the  unprincipled  life 
he  had  led, 

And  observing,  with  no  small  amount 
of  surprise, 

Resignation  and  calm  in  the  old  sin- 
ner's eyes) 

Asked  if  he  had  nothing  that  weighed 
on  his  mind : 

"Well,  .  .  .  no,"  .  .  .  says  Lothario, 
"  I  think  not.  I  find 

On  reviewing  my  life,  which  in  most 
things  was  pleasant, 

[  never  neglected,  when  once  it  was 
present, 

An  occasion  of  pleasing  myself.  On 
the  whole, 

!  have  naught  to  regret" ;  .  .  .  and  so, 
smiling,  his  soul 

Took  its  flight  from  this  world.  ^ 


LUCILE. 


ALFRED. 

Well,  Regret  or  Remorse, 
Which  is  best  f 

JOHN. 

Why,  Regret. 
ALFRED. 

No ;  Remorse,  Jack,  of  course ; 
For  the  one  is  related,  be  sure,  to  the 

Regret  is  a  spiteful  old  maid ;  but  her 

brother, 
Ki-inorse,  though  a  widower  certainly, 

yet 

Has  been  wed  to   young   Pleasure. 
Dear  Jack,  hang  Regret ! 

JOHN. 

Href!  you  mean,  then,  to  go  f 
ALFRED. 

Bref  !  I  do. 

JOHN. 

One  word  .  .  .  stay ! 
Are  you  really  in  love  with  Matilda  ? 

ALFRED. 

Love,  eh  ? 

What  a  question !    Of  course. 
JOHN. 

Were  you  really  in  love 
With  Madam  de  Nevers  ? 

ALFRED. 

What ;  Lucile  ?    No,  by  Jove. 
Never  really. 

JOHN. 

She's  pretty  ? 
ALFRED. 

Decidedly  so. 

At  least,  so  she  was,  some  ten  sum- 
mers ago. 
As  soft  and  as  sallow  as  Autumn, — 

with  hair 
Neither  black,  nor  yet  brown,  but  that 

tinge  which  the  air 
Takes  at    eve    in    September,   when 

night  lingers  lone 
Through  a  vineyard,  from  beams  of  a 

slow-sotting  sun. 
Eyes — the  wistful  gazelle's;  the  fine 

foot  of  a  fairy  ; 
And  a  hand  fit  a  fay's  wand  to  wave, — 

white  ami  airy  ; 

A  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune  that 
one  knows. 


Something  in  her  there  was,  set  you 

thinking  of  those 
Strange  backgrounds  of  Raphael .  .  . 

that  hectic  and  deep 
Brief  twilight  in  which  southern  suns 

fall  asleep. 

JOHN. 
Coquette  ? 

ALFRED. 
Not  at  all.   'Twas  her  own  fault.   Not 

she! 
I  had  loved  her  the  better,  had  she 

less  loved  me. 
The  heart  of  a  man 's  like  that  deli- 
cate weed 
Which  requires  to  be  trampled  on, 

boldly  indeed, 
Ere  it  give  forth  the  fragrance  you 

wish  to  extract. 

Tis  a  simile,  trust  me,  if  not  new, 
exact. 

JOHN. 
Women  change  so. 

ALFRED. 

Of  course. 
JOHN. 

And  unless  rumor  errs, 
I  believe  that,  last  year,  the  Comtesse 

de  Nevers* 
Was  at  Baden  the  rage, — held  an  ab- 
solute court 
Of  devoted  adorers,  and  really  made 

sport 
Of  her  subjects. 

ALFRED. 
Indeed ! 


*  O  Shakespeare !    how    couldst   thou  ask 

"  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 

'  Tis  the  devil's  in  it  -when  a  bard  has  to  frame 
English  rhymes  for  alliance  with  names  that 

are  French  ; 
And  in  these  rhymes  of  mine,  well  I  know  that 

I  trench 

All  too  far  on  that  license  which  critics  re- 
fuse 
With  just  right,  to  accord  to  a  well-brought- 

up  Muse. 

Yet.  though  faulty  the  union,  in  many  a  line, 
'Twixt  my  British-born  verse  and  my  French 

heroine. 

Since,  however  auspiciously  wedded  they  be 
There  is  many  a  pair  that  yet  cannot  agree, 
Your  forgiveness  for  this  pair  the  author  in- 
dites, 
Whom  necessity,  not  inclination,  unites. 


LUCILE. 


13 


JOHN. 

When  she  broke  off  with  you 
Her  engagement,  her  heart  did  not 
break  with  it  ? 
ALFRED. 

Pooh ! 

Pray  would  you  have  had  her  dress 
always  in  black, 

And  shut  herself  up  in  a  convent, 
dear  Jack  ? 

Besides,  't  was  my  fault  the  engage- 
ment was  broken. 

JOHN. 

Most  likely.    How  was  it  I 
ALFRED. 

The  tale  is  soon  spoken. 
She  bored  me.    I  showed  it.  She  saw 

it.    What  next? 
She  reproached.  I  retorted.  Of  course 

she  was  vexed. 
I  was  vexed  that  she  was  so.     She 

sulked.     So  did  I. 
If  I  asked  her  to  sing,    she  looked 

ready  to  cry. 

I  was  contrite,  submissive.     She  soft- 
ened.   I  hardened. 
At  noon  I  was  banished.    At  eve  I 

was  pardoned. 
She  said  I  had  no  heart.    I  said  she 

had  no  reason. 
I  swore  she  talked  nonsense.     She 

sobbed  I  talked  treason. 
In  short,  my  dear  fellow,  'twas  time, 

as  you  see, 
Things  should  come  to  a  crisis,  and 

finish.    'Twas  she 
By  whom  to  that  crisis  the  matter  was 

brought. 

She  released  me.     I  lingered.    I  lin- 
gered, she  thought, 
With  too  sullen  an  aspect.     This  gave 

me,  of  course, 
The  occasion  to  fly  in  a  rage,  mount 

my  horse, 
And  declare  myself  uncomprehended. 

And  so 
We  parted.    The  rest  of  the  story  you 

know. 

JOHN. 
No,  indeed. 

ALFRED. 
Well,  we  parted.    Of  course  we  could 

not 
Continue  to  meet,  as  before,  in  one 

spot. 


You  conceive  it  was  awkward?  Even 
Don  Ferdinando 

Can  do,  you  remember,  no  more  than 
he  can  do. 

I  think  that  I  acted  exceedingly  well, 

Considering  the  time  when  this  rup- 
ture befell, 

For  Paris  was  charming  just  then.  It 
deranged 

All  my  plans  for  the  winter.  I  asked 
to  be  changed, — 

Wrote  for  Naples,  then  vacant, — ob- 
tained it, — and  so 

Joined  my  new  post  at  once;  but 
scarce  reached  it,  when  lo ; 

My  first  news  from  Paris  informs  me 
Lucile 

Is  ill  and  in  danger.  Conceive  what  1 
feel. 

I  fly  back.  I  find  her  recovered,  but 
yet 

Looking  pale.  I  am  seized  with  a  con- 
trite regret ; 

I  ask  to  renew  the  engagement. 

JOHN. 

And  she? 

ALFRED. 

Reflects,  but  declines.  We  part, 
swearing  to  be 

Friends  ever,  friends  only.  All  that 
sort  of  thing! 

We  each  keep  our  letters  ...  a  por- 
trait ...  a  ring  .  .  . 

With  a  pledge  to  return  them  when- 
ever the  one 

Or  the  other  shall  call  for  them  back. 

JOHN. 

Pray  go  on. 
ALFRED. 

My  story  is  finished.      Of  course  I 

enjoin 
On  Lucile  all  those  thousand  good 

maxims  we  coin 
To  supply  the  grim  deficit  found  in 

our  days, 
When  Love  leaves    them  bankrupt. 

I  preach.     She  obeys. 
She  goes  out  in  the  world ;  takes  to 

dancing  once  more, — 
A   pleasure    she    rarely  indulged  in 

before. 
I  go  back  to  my  post,  and  collect  (I 

must  own 
'Tis  a  taste  I  had  nerer  before,  my 

dear  John) 


11 


LUCILE. 

Heigh 


Well, 


and  small  Elzevirs 
'ho !  now,  Jack, 
You  know  all. 

JOHN  (after  a  pause). 
You  are  really  resolved  to  go  back  ? 
ALFRED. 

Eh,  where? 

JOHN. 

To  that  worst  of  all  places,— the  past. 
You  remember  Lot's  wife? 
ALFRED. 

'Twas  a  promise  when  last 
We  parted.  My  honor  is  pledged  to  it. 
JOHN. 

What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 
ALFRED. 

You  must  tell 
Matilda,  I  meant  to  have  called— to 

leave  word — 

To  explain — but  the  time  was  so  press- 
ing— 

JOHN. 

My  lord, 

Your  lordship's  obedient !  I  really  can't 
do  ... 

ALFRED. 

You  wish  to  break  off  my  marriage  ? 
JOHN. 

No,  no! 
But  indeed  I  can't  see  why  yourself 

you  need  take 
These  letters. 

ALFRED. 

Not  see  ?    would  you  have  me,  then, 

brt-ak 
A  promise  my  honor  is  pledged  to  ? 

Sown. (humming). 

"  Off,  Off, 
And  aicaij!  said  the  stranger"  .  .  . 

ALFRED. 

O,  good!  O  you  scoff! 
JOHN. 

At  what,  my  dear  Alfred  ? 
ALFRED. 

At  all  things! 


JOHN. 

Indeed? 
ALFRED. 
Yes;  I  see  that  your  heart  is  as  dry  as 

a  reed : 
That  the  dew  of  your  youth  is  rubbed 

off  you:  I  see 
You  have  no  feeling  left  in  you,  even 

for  me ! 
At  honor  you  jest;  you  are  cold  as  a 

stone 

To  the  warm  voice  of  friendship.     Be- 
lief you  have  none ; 
You  have  lost  faith  in  all  things.  You 

carry  a  blight 
About  with  you  everywhere.    Yes,  at 

the  sight 
Of  such  callous  indifference,  who  could 

be  calm? 
I  must  leave  you  at  once,  Jack,  or  else 

the  last  balm 
That  is  left  me  in  Gilead  you'll  turn 

into  gall. 
Heartless,  cold,  unconcerned  .  .  . 

JOHN. 

Have  you  done  ?  Is  that  all? 
Well,  then,  listen  to  me!  I  presume 

when  you  made 
Up  your  mind  to  propose  to  Miss  Dar- 

cy,  you  weighed 
All  the  drawbacks  against  the  equivai 

lent  gains, 
Ere  you  finally  settled  the  point.  What 

remains 
But  to  stick  to  your  choice?  You  want 

money:  'tis  here. 

A  settled  position :  'tis  yours.    A  ca- 
reer: 
You  secure  it.      A  wife,  young,  and 

pretty  as  rich, 
Whom  all  men  will  envy  you.     Why 

must  you  itch 
To  be  running  away,  on  the  eve  of  al] 

this, 
To  a  woman  whom  never  for  once  did 

you  miss 
All  these  years  since  you  left  her! 

Who  knows  what  may  hap? 
This  letter — to  me — is  a  palpable  trap. 
The  woman  has  changed  since   you 

knew  her.  Perchance 
She  yet  seeks  to  renew  her  youth's 

broken  romance. 
When  women  begin  to  feel  youth  and 

their  beauty 


LUCILE. 


15 


Slip  from  them,  they  count  it  a  sort  of 
a  duty 

To  let  nothing  else  slip  away  unse- 
cured 

Which  these',  while  they  lasted,  might 
once  have  procured. 

Lucile  ;s  a  coquette  to  the  end  of  her 
fingers, 

I  will  stake  my  last  farthing.  Per- 
haps the  wish  lingers 

To  recall  the  ouce  reckless,  indifferent 
lover 

To  the  feet  he  has  left ;  let  intrigue 
now  recover 

What  truth  could  not  keep.  'Twere  a 
vengeance,  no  doubt — 

A  triumph  ;  but  why  must  you  bring 
it  about  ? 

You  are  risking  the  susbtance  of  all 
that  you  schemed 

To  obtain ;  and  for  what  ?  some  mad 
dream  you  have  dreamed ! 

ALFRED. 

But  there's  nothing  to  risk.  You  ex- 
aggerate, Jack. 

You  mistake.  In  three  days,  at  the 
most,  I  am  back. 

JOHN. 

Ay,  how?  .  .  .  discontented,  unset- 
tled, upset, 

Bearing  with  you  a  comfortless  twinge 
of  regret ; 

Preoccupied,  sulky,  and  likely  enough 

To  make  .your  betrothed  break  off  all 
in  a  hViff. 

Three  days,  do  you  say  ?  But  in  three 
days  who  knows 

What  may  happen  ?    I  don't,  nor  do 

you,  I  suppose. 


v. 


Of  all  the  good  things  in  this  good 

world  around  us, 
The   one  most  abundantly  furnished 

and  found  us, 
And  which,  for  that  reason,  we  least 

care  about, 
•And  can  best  spare   our  friends,   is 

good  counsel,  no  doubt. 
But  advice,  when  'tis  sought  from  a 

friend  (though  civility 
May  forbid  to   avow  it),  means  mere 

liability 
In  the  bill  we  already  have  drawn,  on 

Remorse^ 


Which  we  deem  that  a  true  friend  is 
bound  to  indorse. 

A  mere  lecture  on  debt  from  that 
friend  is  a  bore, 

Thus,  the  better  his  cousin's  advice 
was,  the  more 

Alfred  Vargrave  with  angry  resent- 
ment opposed  it. 

And,  having  the  worst  of  the  contest, 
he  closed  it 

With  so  firm  a  resolve  his  bad  ground 
to  maintain, 

That,  sadly  perceiving  resistance  was 
vain, 

And  argument  fruitless,  the  amiable 
Jack 

Came  to  terms,  and  assisted  his  cou- 
sin to  pack 

A  slender  valise  (the  one  small  con- 
descension 

Which  his  final  remonstrance  ob- 
tained), whose  dimension 

Excluded  large  outfits ;  and,  cursing 
his  stars,  he 

Shook  hands  with  his  friend  and  re- 
turned to  Miss  Darcy. 

VI. 

Lord  Alfred,  when  last  to  the  window 

he  turned, 
Ere  he  locked    up   and    quitted   his 

chamber,  discerned 
Matilda  ride  by,  with  her  cheek  beam- 
ing bright 
In  what  Virgil    has  called  "  Youth's 

purpureal  light" 
(I  like  the  expression,  and  can't  find  a 

better). 
He  sighed  as  he  looked  at  her.     Did 

he  regret  her  ? 
In  her  habit  and  hat,  with  her  glad 

golden  hair, 
As  airy  and  blithe  as  a  blithe  bird  in 

air, 
And  her  arch  rosy  lips,  and  her  eager 

blue  eyes, 
With  their  little  impertinent  look  of 

surprise, 
And  her  round  youthful  figure,  and 

fair  neck  below 
The  dark  drooping  feather,  as  radiant 

as  snow, — 
I  can  only  declare,  that  if  I  had  the 

chance 
Of  passing  three  days  in  the  exquisite 

glance 
Of  those  eyes,  or  caressing  the  hand 

that  now  petted 


16 


LUCILE. 


That  fine  English  mare,  I  should  much 
have  regretted 

Whatever  might  lose  me  one  littl 
half-hour 

Of  a  pastime  so  pleasant,  when  once 
in  my  power. 

For,  if   one  drop  of   milk  from  the 
bright  Milky-Way 

Could  turn  into  a  woman,  it  would 
look,  I  dare  say, 

Not  more  fresh  than  Matilda  was  look- 
ing that  day. 

VII. 
But,    whatever     the     feeling     that 

prompted  the  sigh 
With   which   Alfred    Vargrave   now 

watched  her  ride  by, 
I  can  only  affirm  that,  in  watching 

her  ride, 
As  he  turned  from  the  window,  he 

certainly  sighed. 


CANTO  H. 
I. 

Letter  from  LORD  ALFRED  VARGRAVE 

to  the  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS. 

"BlQORRE,  Tuesday. 

"  Your  note,  Madame,  reached  me  to- 
day, at  Bigorre, 

And  commands  (need  I  add?)  my 'obe- 
dience.   Before 
The  night  I  shall  be  at  Serchon,— 

where  a  line, 

If  sent  to  Duval's,  where  I  dine, 
Will  find  me,  awaiting  your  orders.  Ee- 

ceive 
My  respects. 

•'  Yours  sincerely, 

"A  VARGRAVE. 

"I  leave 
In  an  hour." 

n. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  he  wrote  this, 

Alfred  Vargrave,  in  tracking  a  moun- 
tain abyss, 

Gave  the  rein  to  his  steed  and  his 
thoughts,  and  pursued, 

In  pursuing  his   course  through  the 
blue  solitude, 

The  reflections  that  journey  gave  rise 
to. 

And  here 

(Because  without  some  such  precau 
tion,  I  fear 


You  might  fail  to  distinguish  them 

each  from  the  rest 
Of  the  world  they  belong  to ;  whose 

captives  are  drest, 
A.S  our  convicts,  precisely  the  same 

one  and  all, 
While  the  coat  cut  for  Peter  is  passed 

on  to  Paul) 
resolve,  one  by  one,  when  I  pick 

from  the  mass 
The  persons  I  want,   as  before  you 

they  pass, 
["o  label  them  broadly  in  plain  black 

and  white 
On  the  backs  of   them.      Therefore 

whilst  yet  he 's  in  sight, 
first  label  my  hero, 
in. 

The  age  is  gone  o'er 
When  a  man  may  in  all  things  be  all. 

We  have  more 
Painters,  poets,   musicians,  and  art- 

ists,  no  doubt, 
Than  the  great  Cinquecento  gave  birth. 

to ;  but  out 
Of  a  million  of  mere  dilettanti,  when, 

when 

Will  a  new  Leonardo  ariseon  our  ken? 
Se  is  gone  with  the  age  which  begat 

him.    Our  own 
[s  too  vast,  and  too  complex,  for  one 

man  alone 
To  embody  its  purpose,  and  hold  it 

shut  close 
In  the  palm  of  his  hand.     There  were 

giants  in  those 
Irreclaimable  days;  but  in  these  days 

of  ours, 
In  dividing  the  work,  we  distribute 

the  powers. 
Yet  a  dwarf  on  a  dead  giant's  shoulxU 

ers  sees  more 
Than  the  'live  giant's  eyesight  availed 

to  explore ; 
And   in   life's    lengthened    alphabet 

what  used  to  be 

To  our  sires  X  Y  Z  is  to  us  A  B  C. 
A   Vanini  is   roasted    alive  for  his 

pains, 
But  a  Bacon  comes  after  and  picka 

tip  his  brains. 
A   Bruno   is  angrily  seized  by  the 

throttle 
And  hunted  about  by  thy  ghost,  Aris. 

totle, 
Till  a  More  or  Lavater  step  into  hit 


LUCILE. 


17 


Then  tho  world  turns  and  makes  an 

admiring  grimace. 
Once  the  men  were  so  great  and  so 

few,  they  appear, 

Through  a  distant   Olympian  atmos- 
phere, 
Like  vast    Caryatids   upholding   the 

age. 
Now  the  men  are  so  many  and  small, 

disengage 
One  man  from  the   million  to  mark 

him,  next  moment 
The  crowds  sweeps  him  hurriedly  out 

of  your  comment ; 
And  since  we  seek  vainly  (to  praise 

in  our  songs) 
'Mid  our  fellows  the   size  which  to 

heroes  belongs, 
We  take  the  whole  age  for  a  hero,  in 

want 
Of  a  better;    and  still,  in  its  favor, 

descant 
On  the  strength  and  the  beauty  which, 

failing  to  find 

In  any  one  man,  we  ascribe  to  man- 
kind. 

IV. 
Alfred  Vargrave    was  one  of    those 

men  who  achieve 
So  little,  because   of  the  much  they 

conceive. 
With  irresolute  finger  he  knocked  at 

each  one 
Of  the  doorways  of  life,  and  abided 

in  none. 
His  course,  by  each  star  that  would 

cross  it,  was  set, 
And  whatever  he  did  ho  was  sure  to 

regret. 

That  target,   discussed  by  the  trav- 
ellers of  old, 
Which  to  one  appeared  argent,  to  one 

appeared  gold, 
To  him,    ever   lingering    on  Doubt's 

dizzy  margent, 
Appeared  in  one  moment  both  golden 

and  argent. 
The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  life, 

and  but  one, 
May  hope  to  achieve  it  before  life  be 

done; 
But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wherever 

he  goes, 
Only  reaps    from    the    hopes    which 

around  him  he  sows 
A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.     And  the 

worm 


That  crawls  on  in  the  dust  to  the  def- 
inite term 

Of  its  creeping  existence,  and  sees 
nothing  more 

Than  the  path  it  pursues  till  its  creep- 
ing be  o'er, 

In  its  limited  vision,  is  happier  far 

Than  the  Half-Sage,  whose  course,  • 
fixed  by  no  friendly  star, 

Is  by  each  star  distracted  in  turn,  and 
who  knows 

Each  will  still  be  as  distant  wherever 
he  goes. 

v. 

Both  brilliant  and  brittle,  both  bold 
and  unstable, 

Indecisive  yet  keen,  Alfred  Yargrave 
seemed  able 

To  dazzle,  but  not  to  illumine  man- 
kind. 

A  vigorous,  various,  versatile  mind; 

A  character  wavering,  fitful,  un- 
certain, 

As  the  shadow  that  shakes  o'er  a  lu- 
minous curtain 

Vague,  flitting,  but  on  it  forever  im- 
pressing 

The  shape  of  some  substance  at  which 
you  stand  guessing : 

When  you  said,  "All  is  worthless  and 
weak  here,"  behold! 

Into  sight  on  a  sudden  there  seemed 
to  unfold 

Great  outlines  of  strenuous  truth  in 
the  man : 

When  you  said,  "This  is  genius,"  the 
outlines  grew  wan. 

And  his  life,  though  in  all  things  so 
gifted  and  skilled, 

Was  at  best,  but  a  promise  which 
nothing  fulfilled 


VI. 

In  the  budding  of  youth,  ere  wild 
winds  can  deflower 

The  shut  leaves  of  man's  life,  round 
the  germ  of  his  power 

Yet  folded,  his  life  had  been  earnest. 
Alas! 

In  that  life  one  occasion,  one  moment, 
there  was 

When  this  earnestness  might,  with 
the  life-sap  of  youth. 

Lusty  fruitage  have  borne  in  his  man- 
hood's full  growth ; 


LUCILE. 


But  it  found  him  too  soon,  when  his 

nature  was  still 

The  delicate  toy  of  too  pliant  a  will, 
The  boisterous  wind  of  the  world  to 

resist, 

Or  the  frost  of  the  world's  wintry  wis- 
dom. 

He  missed 

That  occasion,  too  rathe  in  its  advent. 

Since  then, 

He  had  made  it  a  law,  in  his  commerce 

with  men, 
That  intensity  in  him,  which  only  left 

sore 
The  heart  it  disturbed,  to  repel  and 

ignore. 

And  thus,  as  some  Prince  by  his  sub- 
jects deposed, 
Whose  strength  he,  by  seeking  to  crush 

it,  disclosed 
In    resigning  the  power    he    lacked 

power  to  support 
Turns  his  back  upon  courts,  with  a 

sneer  at  the  court, 

In  his  converse  this  man  for  self-com- 
fort appealed 

To  a  cynic  denial  of  all  he  concealed 
In  the  instincts  and  feelings  belied 

by  his  words. 
Words,  however,  are  things;  and  the 

man  who  accords 
To  his  language  the  license  to  outrage 

his  soul 
Is  controlled  by  the  words  he  disdains 

to  control. 
And, therefore, he  seemed  in  the  deeds 

of  each  day, 
The  light  code  proclaimed  on  his  lips 

lips  to  obey ; 
And,  the  slave  of  each  whim,  followed 

wilfully  aught 
That  perchance  fooled  the  fancy,  or 

flattered  the  thought. 
Yet,   indeed,  deep  within   him,   the 

spirits  of  truth, 
Vast,  vague   aspirations,  the  powers 

of  his  youth, 

Lived  and  breathed, and  made  moan 

stirred  themsehes— strove  to  start 

Into  deeds— though  deposed,  in 

that  Hades,  his  heart, 
Like  those  antique  Theogonies  ruined 

and  hurled 

Under  clefts  of  the  hills,  which,  con- 
vulsing the  world, 
Heaved    in  earthquake,  their  heads 

the  rent  caverns  above, 


To  trouble  at  times  in  the  light  court 
of  Jove 

All  its  frivolous  gods,  with  an  unde- 
fined awe, 

Of  wronged  rebel  powers  that  owned 
not  their  law. 

For  his  sake, I  am  fain  to  believe  that, 
if  born 

To  some  lowlier  rank  (from  the  world's 
languid  scorn 

Secured  by  the  world's  stern  resist- 
ance), where  strife, 

Strife  and  toil,  and  not  pleasure,  gave 
purpose  to  life, 

He  possibly  might  have  contrived  to 
attain 

Not  eminence  only,  but  worth.     So, 
again, 

Had  he  been  of  his  own  house  the 
firstborn,  each  gift 

Of  a  mind  many-gifted  had  gone  to 
uplift 

A  great  name  by  a  name's  greatest 
uses. 

But  there 

He  stood  isolated,  opposed,  as  it  were, 

To  life's  great  realities;  part  of  no 
f  plan; 

And  if  ever  a  nobler  and  happier  man 

He  might  hope  to  become,  that  alone 
could  be  when 

With  all  that  is  real  in  life  and  in  men 

What  was  real  in  him  should  have 
been  reconciled; 

When  each  influence  now  from  expe- 
rience exiled 

Should  have  seized  on  his  being,  com- 
bined with  his  nature, 

And  formed,  as  by  fusion,  a  new  hu- 
man creature: 

As  when  those  airy  elements  viewless 
to  sight 

(The  amalgam  of  which,  if  our  science 
be  right, 

The  germ  of  this  populous  planet  doth 
fold) 

Unite  in  the  glass  of  the  chemist,  be- 
hold! 

Where  a  void  seemed  before  there  a 
substance  appears, 

From   the  fusion  of    forces  whence 
issued  the  spheres! 

VII. 
But  the  permanent  cause  why  his  life 

failed  and  missed, 
The  full  value  of  life  was, — where  man 

should  resist 


LUCILE. 


19 


The  world,  which  man's  genius  is  called 

to  command, 
He  gave  way,  less  from  lack  of  the 

powe/to  withstand, 
Than  from"  lack  of  the  resolute  will  to 

retain 
Those  strongholds  of  life  which  the 

world  strives  to  gain. 
Let  this  character  go  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned way, 
With  the  moral  thereof  tightly  tacked 

to  it.     Say— 
"Let  any  man  once  show  the  world 

that  he  feels 
Afraid  of  its  bark,  and  'twill  fly  at  his 

heels : 
Let  him  fearlessly  face  it,  'twill  leave 

him  alone : 
But 'twill  fall  at  his  feet  if  he  flings  it 

a  bone." 

VIII. 

The  moon  of  September,  now  half  at 

the  full, 
Was  unfolding    from    darkness   and 

dreamland  the  lull 
Of  the  quiet  blue  air, where  the  many- 
faced  hills 
Watched,    well    pleased,    their    fair 

slaves,   the    light   foam-footed 

rills 
Dance  and  sing  down  the  steep  marble 

stairs  of  their  courts, 
And    gracefully  fashion  a  thousand 

sweet  sports. 
Lord  Alfred  (by  this  on  his  journeying 

far) 

Was  pensively  puffing  his  Lopez  cigar, 
And  brokenly  humming  an  old  opera 

strain, 
And    thinking,   perchance,   of    those 

castles  in' Spain 
Which   that  long  rocky  barrier  hid 

from  his  sight; 

When  suddenly,  out  of  the  neighbor- 
ing night, 
A  horseman  emerged  from  a  fold  of 

the  hill, 
And  so  startled  his  steed,  that  was 

winding  at  will, 
Up  the  thin  dizzy  strip  of  a  pathway 

which  led 
O'er  the  mountain — the  reins  on  its 

neck,  and  its  head 
Hanging  lazily  forward— that,  but  for 

a  hand 
Light  and  ready,  yet  firm,  in  familiar 

command, 


Both  rider  and  horse  might  have  been 

in  a  trice 
Hurled  horribly  over  the  grim 

precipice. 

IX. 

As  soon  as  the  moment's  alarm  had 
subsided, 

And  the  oath  with  which  nothing  can 
find  unprovided 

A  thoroughbred  Englishman,  safely- 
exploded, 

Lord  Alfred  unbent  (as  Apollo  his 
bow  did 

Now  and  then)  his  erectness;  and 
looking,  not  ruder, 

Than  such  inroad  would  warrant,  sur- 
veyed the  intruder, 

Whose  arrival  so  nearly  cut  short  in 
his  glory 

My  hero,  and  finished  abruptly  this 
story. 

X. 

The  stranger,  a  man  of  his  own  age  or 

less, 
Well    mounted    and    simple    though 

rich  in  his  dress, 
Wore  his  beard  and  mustache  in  the 

fashion  of  France. 
His  face  which  was  pale,   gathered 

force  from  the  glance 
Of  a  pair  of  dark,  vivid,  and  eloquent 

eyes. 
With  a  gest  of  apology,  touched  with 

surprise, 

He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  and  courte- 
ously made 
Some  excuse  in  such  well-cadenced 

French  as  betrayed, 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke,  the  Pari- 
sian. 

XI. 

I  swear 
I  have  wandered  about  in  the  world 

everywhere  ; 
From    many    strange    mouths    have 

heard  many  strange  tongues; 
Strained  with  many  strange  idioms 

my  lips  and  my  lungs ; 
Walked  in  many  a  far  land,  regretting 

my  own ; 
In  many  a  language  groaned  many  a 

groan  ; 
And  have  often  had  reason  to  curse 

those  wild  fellows 
Who  built  the  high  house  at  which 

Heaven  turned  jealous, 


LUCILE. 


Making  human  audacity  stnmble  and 

stammer 
When  seized  by  the  throat  in  the  hard 

gripe  of  Grammar. 
But  the  languge  of  languages  dearest 

tome 
Is  that  in  which    once,  0  ma  toute 

chcrc. 
When,  together,    we  "bent  o'er  your 

nosegay  for  hours, 
You  explained  what  was  silently  said 

by  the  flowers, 
And,  selecting  the  sweetest  of  all,  sent 

a  flame 
Through  my  heart,    as,  in  laughing, 

you  murmured,  Je  t'aime. 


In  the  horseman  a  man  one    might 

meet  after  dark 
I  Without  fear. 

And   thus,    not    disagreeably   im- 
pressed, 
As  it  seemed,  with  each  other,  the 

two  men  abreast 
Rode  on  slowly  a  moment. 

XIV. 

STRANGER. 


A  smoker. 


I  see,  Sir,  you  are 
Allow  me ! 


XII. 

The  Italians   have   voices  like  pea- 
cocks; the  Spanish 
Smell  I  fancy,  of  garlic ;  the  Swedish 

and  Danish 
Have  something  too  Runic,  too  rough 

and  unshod,  in 
Their  accent  for  mouths  not  descend 

ed  from  Odin. 
German  gives  me  a  cold  in  the  head, 

sets  me  wheezing 
And  coughing ;  and  Russian  is  noth 

ing  but  sneezing ; 
But  by  Belus  and  Babel !  I  never  have 

heard, 
And  I  never  shall  hear  (I  well  know 

it),  one  word 
Of  that  delicate  idiom  of  Paris  with 

out 
Feeling  morally  sure,  beyond  question 

or  doubt, 
By  the  wild  way  in  which  my  heart 

inwardly  fluttered 
That  my  heart's  native  tongue  to  my 

heart  had  been  uttered. 
And  when'er  I  hear  French  spoken  as 

I  approve, 
I  feel  myself  quietly  falling  in  love. 

XIII. 

Lord  Alfred,  on  hearing  the  stranger 

appeased 
By  a  something,  an  accent,  a  cadence, 

which  pleased 
His  ear  with  'that    pledge  of  good 

breeding  which  tells 


glad  to 


ALFRED. 

Pray  take  a  cigar. 
STRANGER. 

Many  thanks !  .  .  .   Such  cigars  are  a 

luxury  here. 
Do  you  go  to  Serchon  ? 

ALFRED. 

Yes  ;  and  you  f 
STRANGER. 

Yes.    I  fear, 
bmce  our  road  is  the  same,  that  our 

journey  must  be 

Somewhat  closer  than  is  our  acquain- 
tance.   You  see 

How  narrow  the  path  is.   I'm  tempted 
to  ask 

Your  permission  to  finish  (no  difficult 

task!) 
The  cigar  you  have  given  me  (really 

a  prize!) 
In  your  company. 

ALFRED. 

Charmed,  Sir,  to  find  your  road  lies 
In  the  way  of  my  own  inclinations! 

Indeed 
The  dream  of  your  nation  I  find  in 

this  weed. 
In  the  distant  savannas  a  talisman 

grows 
That  makes  all  men  brothers  that  use 

it  ...  who  knows  ? 
That  blaze  which  erewhile  from  the 

Boulevart  outbroke, 
It  has  ended  where  wisdom  begins 

Sir,— in  smoke. 

Messieurs  Lopez  (whatever  your  pub- 
licists write) 
Have  done  more  in  their  way  human 

kind  to  unite, 
Perchance,  than  ten  Proudhons. 


LUCILE. 


STRANGER. 

Yes.    Ah,  what  a  scene ! 
ALFRED. 

Humph!  Nature  is  here  too  preten- 
tious. Her  mien 

Is  too  haughty.  One  likes  to  be 
coaxed,  not  compelled, 

To  the  notice  such  beauty  resents  if 
withheld. 

She  seems  to  be  saying  too  plainly, 
" Admire  me!" 

And  I  answer,  "Yes,  madam,  I  do: 
but  you  tire  me." 

STRANGER. 

That  sunset,  just  now,  though  .  .  . 
ALFRED. 

A  very  old  trick ! 
One  would  think  that  the  sun  by  this 

time  must  be  sick 
Of  blushing  at  what,  by  this  time,  he 

must  know 

Too  well  to  be  shocked  by — this 
world. 

STRANGER. 

Ah,  'tis  so 
With  us  all.    'Tis  the  sinner  that  best 

knew  the  world 
At  twenty,  whose  lip  is,  at  sixty,  most 

curled 
With  disdain  of  its  follies.    You  stay 

at  Serchon? 

ALFRED. 
A  day  or  two  only. 

STRANGER. 

The  season  is  done. 
ALFRED. 
Already? 

STRANGER. 
'Twas  shorter  this  year  than  the 

last, 
Folly  soon  wears  her  shoes  out.     She 

dances  so  fast, 
We  are  all  of  us  tired. 

ALFRED. 
You  know  the  place  well  ? 

STRANGER. 

I  have  been  there  two  seasons. 
ALFRED. 
Pray  who  is  the  Belle 


Of  the  Baths  at  this  moment  ? 
STRANGER. 

The  same  who  has  been 
The  belle  of  all  places  in  which  she  is 

seen; 
The  belle  of  all  Paris  last  winter;  last 

spring 
The  belle  of  all  Baden. 

ALFRED. 

An  uncommon  thing. 
STRANGER. 

Sir,  an  uncommon  beauty !  .  .  .  I  ra- 
ther should  say, 

An  uncommon  character.  Truly,  each 
day 

One  meets  women  whose^  beauty  is 
equal  to  hers, 

But  none  with  the  charm  of  Lucile  de 
Nevers. 

ALFRED. 
Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

STRANGER. 
Do  you  know  her  ? 
ALFRED. 

I  know, 
Or,  rather  I  knew  her — a  long  time 

ago. 
I  almost  forget  .  .  . 

STRANGER. 

What  a  wit !  what  a  grace 
In  her    language !    her   movements  ! 

what  play  in  her  face ! 
And  yet  what  a  sadness  she  seems  to 

conceal ! 

ALFRED. 

You  speak  like  a  lover. 
STRANGER. 

I  speak  as  I  feel, 
But  not  like  a  lover.     What  interests 

me  so 
In  Lucile,  at  the  same  time  forbids 

me,  I  know, 
To  give  to  that  interest,  what'er  the 

sensation, 
The  name  we  men  give  to  an  hour's 

admiration, 
A  night's  passing  passion,  an  actress's 

eyes, 
A  dancing  girl's  ankles,  a  fine  lady's 

sighs, 


LUCILE. 


ALFRED. 

Yes,  I  qnite  comprehend.     But  this 

sadness — this  shade 
Which  you  speak  of  T .  .  .it  almost 

would  make  me  afraid 
Your  gay  countrymen,  Sir,  less  adroit 

must  have  grown, 
Since  when  as  a  stripling,  at  Paris,  I 

own 

I  found  in  them  terrible  rivals, — if  yet 
They  have  all  lacked  the  skill  to  con- 
sole this  regret 
(If  regret  be  the  word  I  should  use),  or 

fulfil 
This  desire  (if  desire  be  the  the  word) 

which  seems  still 
To  endure  unappeased.    For  I  take  it 

for  granted, 

From  all  that  you  say,  that  the  will 
was  not  wanted. 

XV. 

The  stranger  replied,  not  without  irri 

tation : 
"I  have  heard  that  an  Englishman — 

one  of  your  nation, 
I  presume — and  if  so,  I  must  beg  you, 

indeed, 

To  excuse  the  contempt  which  I ... 
ALFRED. 

Pray,  Sir,  proceed 

With  your  tale.  My  compatriot,  what 
was  his  crime  ? 

STRANGER. 

0,  nothing!  his  folly  was  not  so  sub- 
lime 

As  to  merit  that  term.  If  I  blamed  him 
just  now, 

It  was  not  for  the  sin,  but  the  silliness. 
ALFRED. 

How? 
STRANGER. 

I  own  I  hate  Bontay.    Still,  I .      .ad- 
mit, 
Although  I  myself  have  no  pasion  for 

It, 

And  do  not  understand,  yet  I  cannot 

despise 
The  cold  man  of  science,  who  walks 

with  his  eyes 
All  alert  through  a  garden  of  flowers 

and  strips 
The  lillies' 'gold  tongues,  and  the  roses' 

red  lips, 


With  a  ruthless  dissection;  since  he,  I 

suppose, 
Has  some  purpose  beyond  the  mere 

mischief  he  does. 
But  the  stupid  and  mischievous  boy, 

that  uproots 
The  exotics,  and  tramples  the  tender 

young  shoots, 
For  a  boy's  brutal  pastime,  and  only 

because 

He  knows  no  distinction  'twixt  hearts- 
ease and  haws, — 
One  would  wish,  for  the  sake  of  each 

nursling  so  nipped 
To  catch  the  young  rascal,  and  have 

him  well  whipped  1 

ALFRED. 

Some  compatriot  of  mine,  do  I  then 

understand, 
With  a  cold  Northern  heart,  and  a 

rude  English  hand, 
Has  injured  your  Eosebud  of  France? 

STRANGER. 

Sir,  I  know, 
But  little  or  nothing.   Yet  some  faces 

show 

The  last  act  of  a  tragedy  in  their  re- 
gard: 
Though  the  first  scenes  be  wanting,  it 

yet  is  not  hard 
To  divine,  more  or  less,  what  the  plot 

may  have  been, 
And  what  sort  of  actors  have  passed 

o'er  the  scene. 
And  whenever  I  gaze  on  the  face  of 

Lucile, 

With  its  pensive  and  passionless  lan- 
guor, I  feel 
That  some  feeling  hath  burnt  there 

.  .  .  burnt  out,  and  burnt  up 
Health  and  hope.     So  you  feel  when 

you  gaze  down'  the  cup 
Of  extinguished  volcanoes  :  you  judge 

of  the  fire 
Once  there,  by  the  ravage  you  see  ;— 

the  desire, 
By  the  apathy  left  in  its  wake,  and 

that  sense 

Of  a  moral,  immovable,  mute  impo- 
tence. 

ALFRED. 
Humph  !  .  .  I  see  you  have  finished, 

at  last,  your  cigar. 
Can  I  offer  another  ? 


LUC1L& 


STRANGER. 

No,  thank  you.    We  are 
Not  two  miles  from  Serchon. 

ALFRED. 

You  know  the  road  well  ? 
STRANGER. 
I  have  often  been  over  it. 

XVI. 

Here  a  pause  fell 
On  their  converse.   Still  musingly  on, 

side  by  side, 

In  the  moonlight,  the  two  men  con- 
tinued to  ride 
Down  the    dim  mountain    pathway. 

But  each,  for  the  rest 
Of  their  journey,  although  they  still 

rode  on  abreast, 
Continued  to  follow  in    silence  the 

train 
Of  the  different  feelings  that  haunted 

his  brain ; 
As  each,   as  though  roused  from  a 

deep  revery, 

Almost  shouted,  descending  the  moun- 
tain, to  see 
Burst  at  once  on  the  moonlight  the 

silvery  Baths, 
The  long  lime-tree  alley,   the  dark 

gleaming  paths, 
With  the  lamps    twinkling   through 

them — the  quaint  wooden  roofs, 
The  little  white  houses. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs, 
And  the  music  of  wandering  bands, 

up  the  walls 
Of  the   steep  hanging  hill,  at  remote 

intervals 
Keached  them,  crossed  by  the  sound 

of  the  clacking  of  whips, 
And  here  and  there,  faintly,  through 

serpentine  slips 

Of  verdant  rose-gardens,   deep-shel- 
tered with  screens 

Of  airy  acacias  and  dark  evergreens, 
They  could  mark  the  white  dresses, 

and  catch  the  light  songs, 
Of  the  lovely  Parisians  that  wandered 

in  throngs, 
Led  by  Laughter  and  Love  through 

the  cold  eventide 
Down  the  dream-haunted  valley,  or 

up  the  hillside. 


XVII. 

At  length,  at  the  door  of  the  inn  P- 
HERISSON, 

(Pray  go  there,  if  ever  you  go  to  Ser- 
chon !) 

The  two  horsemen,  well  pleased  to 
have  reached  it,  alighted 

And  exchanged  their  last  greetings. 

The  Frenchman  invited 

Lord  Alfred  to  dinner.    Lord  Alfred 
declined. 

He  had  letters  to  write,  and  felt  tired. 
So  he  dined 

In  his  own  rooms  that  night. 

With  an  unquiet  eye 

He  watched  his  companion  depart ; 
nor  knew  why, 

Beyond    all   accountable    reason    or 
measure, 

He  felt  in  iris  breast  such  a  sovran 
displeasure 

"The  fellow 's  good-looking,"  he  mur- 
mured at  last, 

"And  yet  not  a  coxcomb."     Some 
ghost  of  the  past 

Vexed  him  still. 

"  If  he  loves  her,"  he  thought,  "  let 
him  win  her." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  future — and 
ordered  his  dinner. 

XVIII. 

O  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  blessed 

upon  earth, 
Blessed  hour  of  our  dinners ! 

The  land  of  his  birth ; 
The  face  of  his  first  love;  the  bills 

that  he  owes ; 
The  twaddle  of  friends  and  the  venom 

of  foes ; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church 

he  last  went; 
The  money  he  borrowed,  the  money 

he  spent ; — 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe 

may  forget, 
And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting ; 

but  yet 

Never,  never,  O  never !  earth's  lucki- 
est sinner 
Hath  unpunished  forgotten  the  hour 

of  his  dinner ! 
Indigestion,  that  conscience  of  every 

bad  stomach, 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue 

him  with  some  ache 


LUCILE. 


Or  some  pain;  and  trouble,  remorse 

less,  liis  best  ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  slee] 

Orestes. 

XIX. 

We  may  live  without  poetry,  music 

and  art; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  an 

live  without  heart; 
We  may  live  without  friends;  we  may 

live  without  books ; 
But  civilized  man  cannot  live  withou 

cooks. 
He  may  live  without  books, — what  is 

knowledge  but  grieving  ? 
He  may  live  without  hope, — what  is 

hope  but  deceiving  ? 
He  may  live  without  love,— what  is 

passion  but  pining  ? 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live 

without  dining  ? 

xx. 

Lord  Alfred  found,  waiting  his  coming 
a  note 

From  Lucile. 

"Your  last  letter  has  reached  me,' 
she  wrote. 

"  This  evening,  alas !  I  must  go  to  the 
ball, 

And  shall  not  be  at  home  till  to  late 
for  your  call  ; 

But  to-morrow  at  any  rate,  sansfaute, 
at  One 

You  will  find  me  at  home,    and  will 
find  me  alone. 

Meanwhile,  let  me  thank  you  sincere- 
ly, milord, 

For  the  honor  with  which  you  adhere 
to  your  word. 

Yes,  I  thank  you,  Lord  Alfred!    To- 
morrow, then. 

XXI. 

I  find  myself  terribly  puzzled  to  tell 
The  feelings  with  which  Alfred  Var- 

grave  flung  down 
This  note,  as  he  poured  out  his  wine. 

I  must  own 
That  I  think  he  himself  could  have 

hardly  explained 
Those  feelings  exactly. 

Tl,*    i          "Ye8.  yes,  "as  he  drained 
The  glass  down,  he  muttered/4  Jack's 

right,  after  all. 
The  coquette!" 


"Does  milord  mean  to  go  to  the 

ball  r 
Asked  the  waiter,  who  lingered. 

"  Perhaps.     I  don't  know. 
You  may  keep  me  a  ticket,  in  case  I 
should  go." 


XXII. 

0,  better,  no  doubt,  is  a  dinner  of 

herbs, 
When  seasoned   by  love,   which  no 

rancor  d^turbs, 
And  sweetened  by  all  that  is  sweetest 

in  life, 
Than  turbot,  bisque,  ortolans,  eaten 

in  strife ! 
But  if,  out  of    humor,  and  hungry, 

alone, 
A  man  should  sit  down  to  a  dinner, 

each  one 
Of    the   dishes    of    which    the    cook 

chooses  to  spoil 
With  a  horrible  mixture  of  garlic  and 

oil, 
The  chances  are  ten  against  one,  I 

must  own, 
He  gets  up  as  ill-tempered  as  when  he 

sat  down. 
And  if  any  reader  this  fact  to*dispute 

is  disposed,  I  say  .  .  .   "Allium 

cdat  cicutis  Nocentins!" 

Over  the  fruit  and  the  wine 
Undisturbed  the  wasp  settled.      The 

evening  was  fine. 

Lord  Alfred  his  chair  by  the  window- 
had  set, 

And  languidly  lighted  his  small  cigar- 
ette, 
The  window  was  open.  The  •warm  air 

without 
Waved  the  flame  of  the  candles.    The 

moths  were  about. 
In  the  gloom  he  sat  gloomy. 

XXIII. 

Gay  sounds  from  below 
Floated  up  like  faint  echoes  of  joys 

long  ago, 
And  night  deepened  apace;  through 

the  dark  avenues 
'he  lamps  twinkled  bright;   and  by 

threes,  and  and  by  twos, 
'he  idlers  of  Serchon  were  strolling  at 

will, 
LS  Lord  Alfred  could  see  from  the 

cool  window-sill, 

Where    his    gaze,   as    he    languidly 
turned  it,  fell  o'er 


LVCILE. 


25 


His  late  travelling  companion,  now 
passing  before 

The  iuii,  at  the  window  of  which  he 
still  sat, 

In  full  toilet,— boots  varnished,  and 
snowy  cravat, 

Gayly  smoothing  and  buttoning  a  yel- 
low kid  glove, 

As  he  turned  down  the  avenue. 

Watching  above, 

From  his  window,  the  stranger,  who 
stopped  as  he  walked 

To  mix  with  those  groups,  and  now 
nodded,  now  talked, 

To  the  young  Paris  dandies,  Lord  Al- 
fred discerned, 

By  the    way  hats    were  lifted,   and 
glances  were  turned, 

That  this  unknown  acquaintance,  now 
bound  for  the  ball, 

Was  a  person  of  rank  or  of  fashion ; 
for  all 

Whom  he  bowed  to  in  passing,  or 
stopped  with  and  chattered, 

Walked  on  with  a  look  which  implied 
...  "Ifeelflatterd!" 

XXIV. 

His  form  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance 
and  gloom. 

xxv. 

Lord  Alfred  still  sat  by  himself  in  his 

room. 
He  had  finished,  one  after  the  other 

a  dozen 
Or  more  cigarettes.     He  had  thought 

of  his  cousin  : 
He    had    thought    of    Matilda,   and 

thought  of  Lucile : 
He  had  thought  about  many  things  : 

thought  a  great  deal 
Of  himself :  of  his  past  life,  his  future, 

his  present : 
He  had  thought  of  the  moon,  neither 

full  moon  nor  crescent : 
Of    the  gay  world,    so   sad!  life,   so 

sweet  and  so  sour ! 
He  had  thought,   too,    of  glory,  and 

fortune,  and  power : 
Thought  of  love,  and  the  country,  and 

sympathy,  and 
A  poet's  asylum  in  some  far  distant 

land : 
Thought  of  man  in  the  abstract,  and 

woman,  no  doubt, 
In  particular  ;    also  he  had  thought 

much  about 


His  digestion,  his  debts,  and  his  din- 
ner ;  and  last, 

He  thought  that  the  night  would  be 
stupidly  passed, 

If  he  thought  any  more  of  such  mat- 
ters at  all : 

So  he  rose,  and  resolved  to  set  out 
for  the  ball. 

XXVI. 

I  believe,   ere  he  finished  his  tardy 

toilet, 
That  Lord  Alfred  had  spoiled  and  flung 

by  in  a  pet, 
Half  a  dozen  white  neckcloths,  and 

looked  for  the  nonce 
Twenty  times  in  the  glass,  if  he  looked 

in  it  once. 
I  believe  that  he  split  up,  in  drawing 

them  on, 
Three  pair  of  pale  lavender  gloves, 

one  by  one. 
And  this  is  the  reason,  no  doubt,  that 

at  last, 
When  lie  reached  the  Casino,  although 

he  walked  fast, 
He  heai-d  as  he  hurriedly  entered  the 

door, 
The  church-clock  strike  Twelve. 

XXVII. 

The  last  waltz  was  just  o'er 
The  chaperons  and  dancers  were  all 

in  a  flutter. 
A  crowd  blocked  the  door;  and  abuzz 

and  a  mutter 
Went  about  in  the  room  as  a  young 

roan,  whose  face 
Lord  Alfred  had  seen  ere  he  entered 

that  place, 
But  a  few  hours  before,  through  the 

perfumed  and  warm 
Flowery  porch,  with  a  lady  that  leaned 

on  his  arm 
Like  a  queen  in  a  fable  of  old  fairy 

days, 
Left  the  ballroom. 

XXVIII. 

The  hubbub  of  comment  and 
praise 

Reached  Lord  Alfred  as  just  then  he 
entered. 

' '  Mai  Foi !" 
Said  a  Frenchman  beside  him,  .  .  . 

"  That  lucky  Luvois 
Has  obtained  all  the  gifts  of  the  gods 
,  ,  ,  rank  and  wealth, 


LVC1LE. 


And  good  looks,  and  then  such  ine 

haustible  health ! 
He  that  hath  shall  have  more;  an 

this  truth,  I  surmise, 
Is  the  cause  why,  to-night,  by  th 

beautiful  eyes 
Of  la  dun-manic  Lucilc  more  distin 

guished  than  all, 
He  so  gaily  goes  off  with  the  belle  o 

the  ball. 
"Is  it  true,"  asked  a  lady,  aggres 

sively  fat, 
Who,  fierce  as  a  female  Leviathan,  sa 
By  another  that  looked  like  a  needle 

all  steel 
And  tenuity, — "Luvois  willmarrv  Lu 

cille  t" 
The  needle  seemed  jerked  by  a  viru 

lent  twitch, 
As  though  it  were  bent  upon  driving 

a  stitch 
Through  somebody's  character. 

"  Madam,"  replied 
Interposing,    a   young  man  who   sai 

by  their  side, 
And  was   languidly  fanning  his  face 

with  his  hat, 
"I  am  ready  to  bet  my  new  Tilbury 

that, 
If  Luvois  has   proposed,    the   Com- 

tesse  has  refused." 
The  fat  and  thin  ladies  were  highly 

amused. 
"Refused  !  .  .  .  what!  a  young  Duke, 

not  thirty,  my  dear, 
With  at  least  half  a  million  (what  is 

it?)  a  year!" 
"  That  may  be,"  said  the  third  :  " 

I  know  some  time  since 
Castelmarwas  refused, though  as  rich 

and  a  Prince. 
But  Luvois,  who  was  never  before  in 

his  life 
In  love  with  a  woman  who  was  not  a 

wife, 
Is  now  certainly  serious." 

XXIX. 

The  music  once  more 
Recommenced. 

Wv 

Said 


'yet 


And  returned  to  the  inn,  somewhat 

worse  than  before. 
_  xxxi. 

There,  whilst  musing  ho  leaned  the 

dark  valley  above, 


Through  the  warm  land  were  wander- 
ing the  spirits  of  love. 
A  soft   breeze  in   the  white  window 

drapery  stirred : 
In  the    blossomed    acacia    the    lone 

cricket  chirred  ; 
The  scent  of  the  roses  fell  faint  o'er 

the  night, 
And  the  moon  on  the  mountain  was 

dreaming  in  light. 

Repose,  and  yet  rapture!  that  pen- 
sive wild  nature 
Impregnate    with    passion    in    each 

breathing  feature! 
A  stoiie's-throw  from  thence,  through 

the  large  lime-trees  peeped, 
In  a  garden  of  roses,  a  white  chalet 

steeped 
In  the   moonbeams.      The  windows 

oped  down  to  the  lawn  ; 
The  casements  were  open;  the   cur- 
tains were  drawn ; 
ights  streamed  from  the  inside  ;  and 

with  them  the  sound 
Of  music  and  song.     In  the  garden 

around 
A  table  with  fruits,  wine,  tea,  ices, 

there  set, 
Half  a  dozen  young  men  and  young 

women  were  met. 
Light,     laughter,     and    voices,     and 

music,  all  streamed 
Through  the  quiet-leaved  limes.     At 

the  window  there  seemed 
For  one  moment  the  outline,  familiar 

and  fair, 
>f  a  white  dress,  a  white  neck,  and 

soft  dusky  hair, 
WMoh  Lord  Alfred  remembered  .  . 

a  moment  or  so 
:  hovered,  then  passed  into  shadow ; 

and  slow 
'he  soft  notes,  from  a  tender  piano 

iipflung, 

loated  forth,  and  a  voice   unforgot- 
ten.  thus  sung : 

Hear  a  song  that  was  born  in  the 

land  of  my  birth  ! 
The  anchors  are  lifted,  the  fair  ship 

is  free, 
nd  the  shout  of  the  mariners  floats 

in  its  mirth 
'Twixt  the  light  in  the  sky  and  the 

light  on  the  sea. 

And  this    ship   is  a  world.     She  is 
freighted  with  souls, 


LUCILE. 


27 


She  is  freighted  with  merchandise : 

Proudly  she  sails 
With  the  Labor  that  stores,  and  the 

Will  that  controls 
The  gold  in  the'  ingots,  the  silk  in  the 

bales. 

"From  the  gardens  of  Pleasure,  where 

reddens  the  rose, 
And  the  scent  of  the  cedar  is  faint 

on  the  air, 
Past  the  harbors  of  Traffic,  sublimely 

she  goes, 
Man's  hopes  o'er  the  world  of  the 

waters  to  bear! 
Where  the  cheer  from  the  harbors  of 

Traffic  is  heard, 
Where  the  gardens  of  Pleasure  fade 

fast  on  the  sight, 
O'er  the  rose,  o'er  the  cedar,  there 

passes  a  bird ; 

'Tis  a  paradise  bird,  never  known  to 
alight. 

"And  that  bird,  bright  and  bold  as  a 

Poet's  desire, 
Roams  her  own  native  heavens, 

the  realms  of  her  birth. 
There  she  soars  like  a  seraph,  she 

shines  like  a  fire, 
And  her  plumage  has  never  been 
sullied  by  earth. 

"And  the  mariners  greet  her;  there's 

song  on  each  lip, 
For  that  bird  of  good  omen,  and 

joy  in  each  eye. 
And  the  ship  and  the  bird,  and  the 

bird  and  the  ship, 
Together  go  forth  over  ocean  and 
sky. 

"Fast,  fast  fades  the  land!    far  the 

rose-gardens  flee, 
And  far  fleet   the  harbors.      In 

regions  unknown 

The  ship  is  alone  on  a  desert  of  sea, 
And  the  bird  in  a  desert  of  sky  is 
alone. 

"  In  those  regions  unknown,  o'er  that 

desert  of  air, 

Down  the  desert  of  waters — tre- 
mendous in  wrath — 
The    storm -wind  Euroclydon    leaps 

from  his  lair, 

And  cleaves,  through  the  waves 
of  the  ocean,  his  path. 

"  And  the  bird  in  the  cloud,  and  the 
ship  on  the  wave, 


Overtaken,  are  beaten  about  by 
wild  gales : 

And  the  mariners  all  rush  their  car- 
go to  save, 

Of  the  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in 
the  bales. 

"Lo!  a  wonder,  which  never  before 

hath  been  heard, 
For  it  never  before  hath  been  given 

to  sight ; 

The  Paradise  Bird,  never  known 
to  alight ! 

"The    bird     which     the    mariner's 

blessed,  when  each  lip 
Had  a  song  for  each  omen  that  glad- 
dened each  eye ; 
The  bright  bird  for  shelter  hath  flown 

to  the  ship 

From  the  wrath  on  the  sea  and 
the  wrath  in  the  sky. 

"  But  the  mariners  heed  not  the  bird 

any  more. 
They  are  felling  the  masts, — they 

are  cutting  the  sails  ; 
Some  are  working,  some  weeping, 

and  some  wrangling  o'er 
Their  gold   in   the  ingots,  their 
silk  in  the  bales. 

"  Souls  of  men  are  on  board ;  wealth 

of  man  in  the  hold  ; 
And  the  storm-wind  Euroclydon 

sweeps  to  bis  prey 
And  who  heeds  the  bird  1  '  Save  the 

silk  and  the  gold !' 
And  the  bird  from  her  shelter  the 
gust  sweeps  away ! 

"Poor  Paradise  Bird!    on  her  lone 

flight  once  more 
Back  again  in  the  wake  of  the 

wind  she  is  driven, — 
To  be  'whelmed  in  the  storm,  or 

above  it  to  soar, 

And,  if  rescued  from  ocean,  to 
vanish  in  heaven ! 

"And  the  ship  rides  the  waters,  and 

weathers  the  gales : 
From   the  haven  she  nears  the 

rejoicing  is  heard. 
All  hands  are  at  work  on  the  ingots, 

'the  bales, 
Save   a    child,    sitting    lonely,    who 

misses — the  Bird  I n 


LUC1LE. 


CANTO  III. 
I. 

With  stout  iron  shoes  be  my  Pegasus 

shod! 
For  my  road  is  a  rough  one:  flint, 

stubble,  and  clod, 

Blue  clay,  and  black  quagmire,  bram- 
bles no  few, 
And  I  gallop  up-hill,  now. 

There's  terror  that's  true 
In  that  tale  of  a  youth  who,  one  night 

at  a  revel, 
Amidst  music  and  mirth  lured  and 

wiled  by  some  devil, 
Followed  ever  one  mask  through  the 

mad  masquerade, 

Till,  pursued  to  some  chamber  desert- 
ed ('t  is  said), 
He  unmasked,  with  a  kiss,  the  strange 

lady,  and  stood 
Face  to  face  with  a  Thing  not  of  flesh 

nor  of  blood. 
In  this  Masque  of  the  Passions,  called 

Life,  there's  no  human 
Emotion,  though  masked,  or  in  man 

or  in  woman, 
But,   when  faced  and  unmasked,  it 

will  leave  us  at  last 
Struck  by  some  supernatural  aspect 

aghast.  [seen 

For  truth  is  appalling  and  eldrich,  as 
By  this  world's  artificial  lamp-lights, 

and  we  screen 
From  our  sight  the  strange  vision  that 

troubles  our  life. 

Alas !  why  is  Genius  forever  at  strife 
With  the  world,  which,  despite  the 

world's  self,  it  nobles  ? 
Why  is  it  that  Genius  perplexes  and 

troubles 
And  offends  the  effete  life  it  comes  to 

renew? 
'T  is  the  terror  of  truth!  't  is  that 

Genius  is  true ! 

II. 

Lucile  de  Nevers  (if  her  riddle  I  read) 

Was  a  woman  of  genius :  whose  gen- 
ius, indeed, 

With  her  life  was  at  war.  Once,  but 
once,  in  her  life 

The  chance  had  been  hers  to  escape 
from  this  strife 

In  herself  ;  finding  peace  in  the  life 
of  another 


From  the  passionate  wants  she,   in 

hers,  failed  to  smother. 
But  the  chance  fell  too  soon,  when 

the  crude  restless  power 
Which  had  been    to  her  nature  so 

fatal  a  dower, 
Only  wearied  the  man  it  yet  haunted 

and  thralled ; 
And   that    moment,   once    lost,   had 

been  never  recalled. 
Yet  it  left  her  heart  sore  :  and,  to 

shelter  her  heart 
From  approach,  she  then  sought,  in 

that  delicate  art 
Of  concealment,  those  thousand  adroit 

strategies 
Of  feminine  wit,  which  repel  while 

they  please, 
A  weapon,  at  once,  and  a  shield,  to 

-conceal 

And  defend  all  that  women  can  earn- 
estly feel. 
Thus,  striving  her  instincts  to  hide 

and  repress, 
She  felt  frightened  at  times  by  her 

very  success : 
She  pined  for  the  hill-tops,  the  clouds 

and  the  stars: 
Golden  wires  may  annoy  us  as  much 

as  steel  bars 

If  they  keep  us  behind  prison-win- 
dows :  impassioned 
Her  heart  rose  and  burst  the  light 

cage  she  had  fashioned 
Out  of  glittering  trifles  around  it. 

Unknown 
To  herself,  all  her  instincts,  without 

hesitation, 
Embraced  the  idea  of   self-immola- 
tion. 
The  strong  spirit  in  her,  had  her  life 

but  been  blended 
With  some  man  whose  heart  had  her 

own  comprehended, 
All  its  wealth  at  his  feet  would  have 

lavishly  thrown. 
For  him  she  had  struggled  and  striven 

alone  ; 
For  him  had  inspired;  in  him  had 

transfused 

All  the  gladness  and  grace  of  her  na- 
ture, and  used 
For  him  only  the  spells  of  its  delicate 

power : 
Like  the  ministering  fairy  that  brings 

from  her  bower 
To  some  mage  all  the  treasures,  whose 

use  the  fond  elf, 


LUCILE. 


More  enriched  by  her  love,  disregards 

for  herself. 
But  standing  apart,  as  she  ever  had 

done, 
And  her  genius,  which  needed  a  vent, 

finding  none 
In  the  broad  fields  of  action  thrown 

wide  to  man's  power, 
She  unconsciously  made  it  her  bul- 
wark and  tower, 
And  built  in  it  -har  refuge,  whence 

lightly  she  hurled 
Her  contempt  at   the   fashions  and 

forms  of  the  world. 

And  the  permanent  cause  why  she 
now  missed  and  failed 

That  firm  hold  upon  life  she  so  keenly 
assailed, 

Was,  in  all  those  diurnal  occasions 
that  place 

Say — the  world  and  the  woman  op- 
posed face  to  face, 

Where  the  woman  must  yield,  she, 
refusing  to  stir, 

Offended  the  world,  which  in  turn 
wounded  her. 

As  before,  in  the  old-fashioned  man- 
ner, I  fit 

To  this  character,  also,  its  moral :  to 
wit, 

Say — the  world  is  a  nettle ;  disturb  it, 
it  stings : 

Grasp  it  firmly,  it  stings  not.  On  one 
of  two  things, 

If  you  would  not  be  stung,  it  be- 
hooves you  to  settle ; 

Avoid  it,  or  crush  it.  She  crushed  not 
the  nettle ; 

For  she  could  not;  nor  would  she 
avoid  it :  she  tried 

With  the  weak  hand  of  woman  to 
thrust  it  aside, 

And  it  stung  her.  A  woman  is  too 
slight  a  thing 

To  trample  the  world  without  feeling 
its  sting. 

III. 

One  lodges  but  simply  at  Serchon ; 

yet,  thanks 
To  the   season  that  changes  forever 

the  banks 
Of    the  blossoming   mountains,   and 

shifts  the  light  cloud 
O'er  the  valley,  and  hushes  or  rouses 

the  loud 


Wind    that    wails  in    the    pines,   or 

creeps  murmuring  down 
The    dark    evergreen    slopes  to    the 

slumbering  town, 
And  the   torrent    that  falls,   faintly 

heard  from  afar, 
And    the   bluebells  that   purple  the 

dapple-gray  scaur, 
One  sees  with   each    month    of  the 

many-faced  year 
A  thousand  sweet  changes  of  beauty 

appear. 
The  chalet  where  dwelt  the  Comtesse 

de  Nevers 
Bested  half  up  the  base  of  a  moun- 
tain of  firs, 
In  a  garden  of  roses,  revealed  to  the 

road, 
Yet  withdrawn  from  its  noise  ;  't  was 

a  peaceful  abode. 
And  the  walls,  and  the  roofs,  with 

their  gables  like  hoods 
Which  the  monks  wear,  were  built  of 

sweet  resinous  woods, 
The  sunlight  of  noon,  as  Lord  Alfred 

ascended 
The  steep  garden  paths,  every  odor 

had  blended 
Of  the  ardent  carnations,  and  faint 

heliotropes, 
With  the  balms  floated  down  from  the 

dark  wooded  slopes : 
A  light  breeze  at  the  windows  was 

playing  about, 
And  the  white  curtains  floated,  now 

in  and  now  out. 
The  house  was  all  hushed  when  he 

rang  at  the  door, 

Which  was  opened  to  him  in  a  mo- 
ment or  more, 
By  an  old   nodding  negress,   whose 

sable  head  shined 
In  the  sun  like  a  cocoanut  polished  in 

Ind, 
'Neaththe  snowy  foulard  which  about 

it  was  wound. 

IV. 

Lord  Alfred  sprang  forward  at  once, 
with  a  bound. 

He  remembered  the  nurse  of  Lucile. 
The  old  dame, 

Whose  teeth  and  whose  eyes  used  to 
beam  when  he  came, 

With  a  boy's  eager  atep,  in  the  blithe 
days  of  yore, 

To  pass  unannounced  her  young  mis- 
tress's door. 


LUCILE. 


The  old  woman  had  fondled  Lucile  on 
her  knee 

When  she  left,  as  an  infant,  far  over 
the  sea, 

In  India,  the  tomb  of  a  mother,  un- 
known, 

To  pine,  a  pale  floweret,  in  great  Paris 
town. 

She  had  soothed  the  child's  sobs  on  her 
breast,  when  she  read 

The  letter  that  told  her  her  father  was 
dead. 

An  astute,  shrewd  adventurer,  who, 
like  Ulysses, 

Had  studied  men,  cities,  laws,  wars, 
the  abysses 

Of  Statecraft,  with  varying  fortunes, 
was  he. 

He  had  wandered  the  world  through, 
by  land  and  by  sea, 

And  knew  it  in  most  of  its  phases. 
Strong  will 

Subtle  tact,  and  soft    manners,  had 
given  him  skill 

To  conciliate  Fortune,  and  courage  to 
brave 

Her  displeasure.    Thrice  shipwrecked 
and  cast  by  the  wave 

On  his  own  quick  resources,  they  rare- 
ly had  failed. 

His  command:    often  baffled,  he  ever 
prevailed, 

In  his  combat  with  fate :  to-day  nat- 
tered and  fed 

By  monarchs,  to-morrow  in  search  of 
mere  bread. 

The  offspring  of  times  trouble-haunt- 
ed, he  came 

Of  a  family  ruined,  yet  noble  in  name. 

He  lost  sight  of  his  fortune  at  twenty, 
in  France; 

And  half  statesman,  half  soldier,  and 
wholly  Free-  lance, 

Had  wandered  in  search  of  it,  over  the 
world, 

Into  India. 

But  scarce  had  the  nomad  un- 
furled 

His  wandering  tent  at  Mysore,  in  the 
smile 

Of  a  Rajah  (whose  court  he  controlled 
for  a  while, 

And  whose  council  he  prompted  and 
governed  by  stealth); 

Scarce,  indeed,  had  he  wedded  an  In- 
dian of  wealth, 

Who  died  giving  birth  to  this  daugh- 
ter, before 


He  was  borne  to  the  tomb  of  his  wife 
at  Mysore, 

His  fortune,  which  fell  to  his  orphan, 
perchance, 

Had  secured  her  a  home  "with  his  sis- 
ter in  France, 

A  lone  woman,  the  last  of  the  race 
left.  Lucile 

Neither  felt,  nor  affected,  the  wish  to 
conceal 

The  half-Eastern  blood,  which  ap- 
peared to  bequeath 

(Revealed  now  and  then,  though  but 
rarely,  beneath 

That  outward  repose  that  concealed  it 
in  her) 

A  something  half  wild  to  lier  strange 
character. 

The  nurse  with  the  orphan,  awhile 
broken-hearted, 

At  the  door  of  a  convent  in  Paris  had 
parted. 

But  later,  once  more,  with  her  mis- 
tress she  tarried, 

When  the  girl,  by  that  grim  maiden 
aunt,  had  been  married 

To  a  dreary  old  Count,  who  had  sullen- 
ly died, 

With  no  claim  011  her  tears, — she  had 
wept  as  a  bride. 

Said  Lord  Alfred,  "Your  mistress  ex- 
pects me." 

The  crone 

Oped  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
there  left  him  alone. 

V. 

O'er  the  soft  atmosphere  of  this 
temple  of  grace 

Rested  silence  and  perfume.  No 
sound  reached  the  place.  [JtJOOE 

In  the  white  curtains  wavered  the 
delicate  shade 

Of  the  heaving  acacias,  through  which 
the  breeze  played. 

O'er  the  smooth  wooden  floor,  polished 
dark  as  a  glass, 

Fragrant  white  Indian  matting  allow- 
ed you  to  pass. 

In  light  olive  baskets  by  window  and 
door, 

Some  hung  from  the  ceiling,  some 
crowding  the  floor, 

Rich  wild  flowers  plucked  by  Lucile 
from  the  hill, 

Seemed  the  room  with  their  passion- 
ate presence  to  fill : 


LUCILE. 


Blue  aconite,  hid  in  white  roses,  re- 
posed ; 

The  deep  belladonna  its  vermeil  dis- 
closed; 

And  the  frail  saponaire,  and  the  ten- 
der bluebell, 

And  the  purple  valerian, — each  child 
of  the  fell 

And  the  solitude  flourished,  fed  fair 
from  the  source 

Of  waters  the  huntsman  scarce  heeds 
in  his  course, 

Where  the  chamois  and  izard,  with 
delicate  hoof, 

Pause  or  flit  through  the  pinnacled 
silence  aloof. 

VI. 

Here  you  felt,   by  the  sense  of  its 

beauty  reposed, 
That  you  stood  in  a  shrine  of  sweet 

thoughts.     Half  unclosed 
In  the  light  slept  the  flowers :  all  was 

pure  and  at  rest ; 
All  peaceful ;  all  modest :  all  seemed 

self-possessed, 
And  aware  of  the  silence.     No  vestige 

nor  trace 
Of  a  young  woman's  coquetry  troubled 

the  place. 
He  stood  by  the  wrindow.     A  cloud 

passed  the  sun. 
A  light  breeze  uplifted  the  leaves  one 

by  one. 
Just  then  Lucile  entered  the   room, 

undiscerned 
By  Lord  Alfred,  whose  face  to  the 

window  was  turned, 
In  a  strange  revery. 

The  time  was,  when  Lucile, 
In  beholding  that  man  could  not  help 

but  reveal 
The  rapture,  the  fear,  which  wrenched 

out  every  nerve 
In  the  heart  of    the  girl    from  the 

woman's  reserve. 
And  now — she  gazed  at  him,   calm, 

smiling, — perchance 
Indifferent. 

VII. 

Indifferently  turning  his  glance, 
Alfred    Vargrave    encountered    that 

gaze  unaware. 
O'er  a  bodice  snow-white  streamed  her 

soft  dusky  hair ; 
A  rose-bud  half  blown  in  her  hand ;  in 

her  eyes 


A  half -pensive  smile. 

A  sharp  cry  of  surprise 

Escaped  from  his  lips :  some  unknown 
agitation, 

An  invincible  trouble,  a  strange  pal- 
pitation, 

Confused  his  ingenious  and  frivolous 
wit: 

Overtook,  and  entangled,  and  paral* 
yzed  it. 

That  wit  so  complacent  and  docile, 
that  ever 

Lightly  came  at  the  call  of  the  light- 
est endeavor, 

Ready  coined,  and  availably  current 
as  gold, 

Which,  secured  of  its  value,  so  fluent- 
ly rolled 

In  free  circulation  from  hand  on  to 
hand 

For  the  usage  of  all,  at  a  moment's 
command ; 

For  once  it  rebelled,  it  was  mute  and 
unstirred, 

And  he  looked  at  Lucile  without 
speaking  a  word. 

VIII. 

Perhaps  what  so  troubled  him  was, 
that  the  face 

On  whose  features  he  gazed  had  no 
more  than  a  trace 

Of  the  face  his  remembrance  had  im- 
aged for  years. 

Yes !  the  face  he  remembered  was 
faded  with  tears : 

Grief  had  famished  the  figure,  and 
dimmed  the  dark  eyes, 

And  starved  the  pale  lips,  too  ac- 
quainted with  sighs. 

And  that  tender,  and  gracious,  and 
fond  coqnettcrie 

Of  a  woman  who  knows  her  least  rib- 
bon to  be 

Something  dear  to  the  lips  that  so 
warmly  caress 

Every  sacred  detail  of  her  exquisite 
dress, 

In  the  careless  toilet  of  Lucile, — then 
too  sad 

To  care  aught  to  her  changeable 
beauty  to  add, — 

Lord  Alfred  had  never  admired  be- 
fore! 

Alas  !  poor  Lucile,  in  those  weak  days 
of  yore,  4!ll(JH 

Had  neglected  herself,  never  heeding, 
nor  thinking 


LUC  ILK 


(While  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  her 

beauty  were  shrinking) 
That  sorrow  can  beautify  only  the 

heart- 
Not  the  face— of  a  woman;  and  can 

but  impart 

Its  endearment  to  one  that  has  suf- 
fered. In  truth 

Grief  hath  beauty  for  grief ;  but  gay 
youth  loves  gay  youth. 

IX. 

The  woman  that  now  met,  unshrink- 
ing, his  gaze, 

Seemed  to  bask  in  the  silent  but 
sumptuous  haze 

Of  that  soft  second  summer,  more 
ripe  than  the  first, 

Which  returns  when  the  bud  to  the 
blossom  hath  burst 

In  despite  of  the  stormiest  April. 
Lucile 

Had  acquired  that  matchless  uncon- 
scious appeal 

To  the  homage  which  none  but  a  churl 
would  withhold — 

That  caressing  and  exquisite  grace- 
never  bold, 

Ever  present  —  which  just  a  few 
women  possess. 

From  a  healthful  repose,  undisturbed 
by  the  stress 

Of  unquiet  emotions,  her  soft  cheek 


A  freshness  as  pure  as  the  twilight  of 

dawn. 
Her  figure,  though  slight,  had  revived 

everywhere 
The  luxurious  proportions  of  youth; 

and  her  hair — 
Once  shorn  as  an  offering  to  pa'ssion- 

ate  love — 
Now    floated    or    rested    redundant 

above 
Her  airy  pure  forehead  and  throat : 

gathered  loose 
Under  which,  by  one  violet  knot,  the 

profuse 

Milk-white  folds  of  a  cool  modest  gar- 
ment reposed. 
Bippled  faint  by  the  breast  they  half 

hid,  half  disclosed, 
And   her  simple  attire  thus    in    all 

things  revealed 
The  fine    art  which    so  artfully  all 

things  concealed. 


Lord   Alfred,  who   never  conceived, 
that  Lucile 

Could  have  looked  so  enchanting,  felt 
tempted  to  kneel 

At  her  feet,  and  her  pardon  with  pas- 
sion implore ; 

But  the  calm  smile  that  met  him  suf- 
ficed to  restore 

The  pride  and  the  bitterness  needed 
to  meet 

The  occasion  with  dignity  due  and 
discreet. 

XL 

"  Madam, "—thus   he  began  with   a 
voice  reassured, — 

"You  see  that  your  latest  command 
has  secured 

My  immediate  obedience,— presuming 
I  may 

Consider  my  freedom  restored  from 
this  day."— 

"I  had  thought,"  said  Lucile,  with  a 
smile  gay  yet  sad, 

"That  your  freedom  from  me  not  a 
fetter  has  had. 

Indeed !  .  .  .in  my  chains  have  you 
rested  till  now  ? 

I  had  not  so  flattered  myself ,  I  avow!" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Madam,"  Lord 
Alfred  replied, 

"Do  not  jest !  has  the  moment  no  sad- 
ness ?"  he  sighed. 

"JT  is  an  ancient  tradition,"  she  an- 
swered, "a  tale 

Often  told,— a  position  too  sure  to 
prevail 

In  the  end  of  all  legends  of  love.    If 
we  wrote, 

When  we  first  love,   forseeing  that 
hour  yet  remote, 

Wherein  of  necessity  each  would  re- 
call 

From  the  other  the  poor  foolish  re- 
cords of  all 

Those  emotions,   whose  pain,   when 
recorded,  seemed  bliss, 

Should  we  write  as  we  wrote?    But 
one  thinks  not  of  this ! 

At  Twenty  (who  does  not  at  Twenty?) 
we  write 

Believing  eternal  the  frail  vows  we 
plight ; 

And  we  smile  with  a  confident  pity, 
above 

The  vulgar  results  of  all  poor  human 
lovej 


LUCILE. 


For  we  deem,  with  that  vanity  com- 
mon to  youth, 

Because  what  we  feel  in  our  bosoms, 
in  truth, 

Is  novel  to  us — that  ;t  is  novel  to 
earth, 

And  will  prove  the  exception,  in  dur- 
ance and  worth 

To  the  great  law  to  which  all  on  earth 
must  incline. 

The  error  was  noble,  the  vanity  fine ! 

Shall  we  blame  it  because  we  survive 
it  ?  ah,  no  ; 

'T  was  the  youth  of  our  youth,  my 
lord,  is  it  not  so  I" 

XII. 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute.  He  remem- 
bered her  yet 

A  child,— the  weak  sport  of  each  mo- 
ment'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  trem- 
ulous toy 

Of  each  transient  emotion  of  grief  or 
of  joy 

But  to  watch  her  pronounce  the  death- 
warrant  of  all 

The  illusions  of  life, — lift,  unflinch- 
ing, the  pall 

From  the  bier  of  the  dead  Past, — that 
woman  so  fair, 

And  so  young,  yet  her  own  self-sur- 
vivor ;  who  there 

Traced  her  life's  epitaph  with  a  finger 
so  cold! 

'T  was  a  picture  that  pained  his  self- 
love  to  behold. 

He  himself  knew — none  better — the 
things  to  be  said 

Upon  subjects  like  this.  Yet  he  bow- 
ed down  his  head : 

And  as  thus,  with  a  trouble  he  could 
not  command, 

He  paused,  crumpling  the  letters  he 
held  in  his  hand, 

"You  know  me  enough,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  or  what 

I  would  say  is,  you  yet  recollect  (do 
you  not, 

Lord  Alfred?)  enough  of  my  nature 
to  know 

That  these  pledges  of  what  was  per- 
haps long  ago 


A  foolish  affection,  I  do  not  recall 

From  those  motives  of  prudence  which 
actuate  all 

Or  most  women  when  their  love  ceas- 
es.   Indeed, 

If  you  have  such  a  doubt,  to  dispel  it 
I  need 

But  remind  you  that  ten  years  these 
letters  have  rested 

Unreclaimed  in  your  hands."    A  re- 
proach seemed  suggested 

By  these  words.     To  meet  it  Lord  Al- 
fred looked  up. 

(His  gaze  had  been  fixed  on  a  blue 
Sevres  cup 

With  a  look  of  profound  connoisseur- 
ship, — a  smile 

Of  singular  interest  and  care,  all  this 
while.) 

He  looked  up,  and  looked  long  in  the 
face  of  Lucile, 

To  mark  if  that  face  by  a  sign  would 
reveal 

At  the  thought  of  MissDarcy  the  least 
jealous  pain. 

He  looked  keenly  and  long,  yet  he 
looked  there  in  vain. 

"You  are  generous,  Madam,"  he  mur- 
mured at  last, 

And   into    his   voice    a   light   irony 
passed. 

He  had  looked  for  reproaches,  and 
fully  arranged 

His  forces.    But  straightway  the  en- 
emy changed 

The  position. 

XIII. 

"Come!"  gayly  Lucile  interposed, 
With  a    smile  whose  divinely  deep 

sweetness  disclosed 
Some  depth  in  her  nature  he  never 

had  known, 
While  she  tenderly  laid  her  light  hand 

on  his  own, 
Do  not  think  I  abuse  the  occasion. 

We  gain 
Justice,    judgment,    with    years,   or 

else  years  are  in  vain. 
From  me  not  a  single  reproach  can 

you  hear. 
I    have    sinned    to    myself, — to    the 

world, — nay,  I  fear 
To  you  chiefly.  The  woman  who  loves 

should,  indeed, 
Be  the  friend  of  the  man  that  she 

loves.    She  should  heed 


LUCILE. 


Not  her  selfish  and  often  mistaken  de 

sires, 
But  his  interest  whose  fate  her  own 

interest  inspires ; 
And,  rather  than  seek  to  allure,  for 

her  sake, 
His  life  down  the  turbulent,  fanciful 

wake 

Of  impossible  destinies,  use  all  her  art 
That  his  place  in  the  world  find  its 

place  in  her  heart. 
I,  alas  ! — I  perceived  not  this  truth  till 

too  late ; 
I  tormented  your  youth,  I  have  dark 

ened  your  fate. 
Forgive  me  the  ill  I  have  done  for  the 


Of  its  long  expiation !" 


Lord  Alfred,  awake, 

Seemed  to  wander  from  dream  on  to 
dream.  In  that  seat 

Where  he  sat  as  a  criminal,  ready  to 
meet 

His  accuser,  he  found  himself  turned 
by  some  change, 

As  surprising  and  all  unexpected  as 
strange, 

To  the  judge  from  whose  mercy  indul- 
gence was  sought. 

All  the  world's  foolish  pride  in  that 
moment  was  naught ; 

He   felt   all    his    plausible    theories 

And,  thrilled  by  the  beauty  of  nature 

disclosed 
In  the  pathos  of  all  he  had  witnessed, 

his  head 
He  bowed,  and  faint  words  self-re- 

proachfully  said, 
As  he  lifted  her  hand  to    his  lips. 

'Twas  a  hand 

White,  delicate,  dimpled,  warm,  lan- 
guid, 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  crossed  the  life-line 

in  the  palm  ? 

xv. 

The  more  that  he  looked,  that  he  list- 
ened, the  more 


He  discovered  perfections  unnoticed 

before. 
Less   salient  than  once,  less  poetic, 

perchance, 
This  woman  who  thus  had  survived 

the  romance 
That  had  made    him    its  hero,   and 

breathed  him  its  sighs, 
Seemed  more   charming  a  thousand 

times  o'er  to  his  eyes. 
Together  they  talked    of    the  years 

since  when  last 
They  parted,  contrasting  the  present, 

the  past. 
Yet  no   memory  marred  their  light 

converse.     Lucile 
Questioned  much,  with  the  interest  a 

sister  might  feel, 
Of  Lord  Alfred's  new  life,— of  Miss 

Darcy, — her  face, 
Her  temper,  accomplishments, — paus- 
ing to  trace 
The  advantage  derived  from  a  hymen 

so  fit. 
Of  herself  she  recounted  with  humor 

and  wit 
Her  journeys,  her  daily  employments, 

the  lands 
She  had  seen,  and  the  bo'oks  she  had 

read,  and  the  hands 
She  had  shaken. 

In  all  that  she  said  there  appeared 
An    amiable    irony.     Laughing,    she 

reared 
The  temple  of  reason,   with  ever  a 

touch 
Of  light  scorn  at  her  work,  revealed 

only  so  much 
A.S  there  gleams,  in  the  thyrsus  that 

Bacchanals  bear, 
Through  the  blooms  of  a  garland  the 

point  of  a  spear. 
3ut  above,  and  beneath,  and  beyond 

all  of  this, 
To  that  soul,  whose  experience  had 

paralyzed  bliss, 
A  benignant  indulgence,  to  all  things 

resigned, 
A  justice,  a  sweetness,  a  meekness  of 

mind, 
Gave  a  luminous  beauty,  as  tender 

and  faint 

And  serene  as  the  halo  encircling  a 
saint. 

XVI. 

Jnobserved  by  Lord  Alfred  the  time 
fleeted  by. 


LUCILE. 


33 


To  each  novel    sensation    spontane- 
ously 

He  abandoned  himself  with  that  ardor 
so  strange 

Which  bekmgs  to  a  mind  grown  ac- 
customed to  change. 

He  sought,   with  well-practised  and 
delicate  art, 

To    surprise    from    Lucile    the  true 
state  of  her  heart ; 

But  his   efforts  were  vain,  and  the 
woman,  as  ever, 

More  adroit  than   the  man,   baffled 
every  endeavor. 

When  he  deemed  he  had  touched  on 
some  chord  in  her  being, 

At  the  touch  it  dissolved,   and  was 
gone.     Ever  fleeing 

As  ever  he  near  it  advanced,  when  he 
thought 

To  have  seized,  and  proceeded  to  an- 
alyze aught 

Of  the  moral  existence,  the  absolute 
soul, 

Light  as  vapor  the  phantom  escaped 
his  control. 

XVII. 

From  the  hall,  on  a  sudden,  a  sharp 
ring  was  heard. 

In  the  passage  without  a  quick  foot- 
step there  stirred. 

At  the  door  knocked  the  negress,  and 
thrust  in  her  head, 

"  The  Duke  de  Luvois  had  just  enter- 
ed," she  said 

"  And  insisted"— 

"The  Duke!"  cried  Lucile  (as  she 
spoke 

The  Duke's  step,  approaching,  a  light 
echo  woke). 

'•  Say  I  do  not  receive  till  the  evening. 
Explain," 

As  she  glanced  afe  Lord  Alfred,  she 
added  again, 

"I  have  business  of  private  import- 
ance."   There  came 

O'er  Lord  Alfred  at  once  at  the  sound 
of  that  name, 

An  invincible  sense  of  vexation.     He 
turned 

To  Lucile,  and  he  fancied  he  faintly 
discerned 

On  her  face  an  indefinite  look  of  con- 
fusion. 

On  his  mind  instantaneously  flashed 
the  conclusion, 

That  his  presence  had  caused  it. 


He  said  with  a  sneer, 

Which  he  could  not  repress,  "  Let  not 
me  interfere 

With  the  claims  on  your  time,  lady ! 
when  you  are  free 

From  more  pleasant  engagements,  al- 
low me  to  see 

And  to  wait  on  you  later." 

The  words  were  not  said 

Ere  he  wished  to  recall  them.  He  bit- 
terly read 

The  mistake  he  had  made  in  Lucile's 
flashing  eye. 

Inclining  her  head  as  in  haughty  re- 
More  reproachful  perchance  than  all 
uttered  rebuke, 

She  said  merely,  resuming  her  seat, 
"  Tell  the  Duke 

He  may  enter." 
And  vexed  with  his  own  words  and 
hers, 

Alfred  Vargrave  bowed  low  to  Lucile 
de  Nevers, 

Passed  the  casement  and  entered  the 
garden.    Before 

His  shadow  was  fled  the  Duke  stood 
at  the  door. 

XVIII. 

When  left  to  his  thoughts  in  the  gar- 
den alone, 
Alfred  Vargrave    stood,    strange   to 

himself.     With  dull  tone 
Of  importance,  through  cities  of  rose 

and  carnation, 
Went  the  bee   on  his  business  from 

station  to  station. 
The  minute    mirth  of   summer  was 

shrill  all  around ; 
Its  incessant  small  voices  like  stings 

seemed  to  sound 
On  his  sore  angry  sense.     He  stood 

grieving  the  hot 
Solid  sun  with  his  shadow,  nor  stirred 

from  the  spot. 
The  last  look  of  Lucile  still  bewil- 
dered, perplexed, 
And  reproached  him.      The  Duke's 

visit  goaded  and  vexed. 
He  had  not    yet    given  the  letters. 

Again 
He  must  visit  Lucile.    He  resolved 

to  remain 
Where  he  was  till  the  Duke  went.    In 

short,  he  would  stay, 


LUCILE. 


Were  it  only  to  know  when  the  Duke 

went  away. 
But  just  as  he  formed  this  resolve,  he 

perceived 
Approaching  towards    him,   between 

the  thick- leaved 
And  luxuriant  laurels,  Lucile  and  the 

Duke. 
Thus  surprised,  his  first  thought  was 

to  seek  for  some  nook 
Whence  he  might,  unobserved,  from 

the  garden  retreat. 
They  had  not  yet  seen  him.      The 

sound  of  their  feet 
And  their  voices  had  warned  him  in 

time.     They  were  walking 
Towards  him.      The  Duke    (a   true 

Frenchman)  was  talking 
With  the  action  of  Talma.    He  saw 

at  a  glance 
That  they  barred  the  sole  path  to  the 

gateway.     No  chance 
Of  escape  save  in   instant  conceal- 
ment !    Deep-dipped 
In  thick  foliage,  an  arbor  stood  near. 

In  he  slipped, 
Saved  from  sight,  as  in  front  of  that 

ambush  they  passed, 
Still  conversing.     Beneath  a   labur- 
num at  last 
They  paused,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 

in  the  shade, 
So  close  that  he  could  not  but  hear 

what  they  said. 

XIX. 

LUCILE. 

Duke  I  scarcely  conceive  .  .  . 
Luvois. 

Ah,  forgive  I  .  .  I  desired 

So  deeply  to  see  you  to-day,  You  re- 
tired 

So  early  last  night  from  the  ball  .  .  . 
this  whole  week 

I  have  seen  you  pale,  silent,  preoccu- 
pied .  .  .  speak, 

Speak,  Lucile,  and  forgive  me !  .  .  .  I 
know  that  I  am 

A  rash  fool — but  I  love  you !  I  love 
you,  Madame, 

More  than  language  can  say !  Do  not 
deem,  O  Lucile, 

That  the  love  I  no  longer  have 
strength  to  conceal 

la  a  passing  caprice !  It  is  strange 
to  my  nature, 


It  has  made  me,  unknown  to  myself 

a  new  creature. 
I  implore  you  to  sanction  and  save 

the  new  life 
Which  1  lay  at  your  feet  with  this 

prayer — Be  my  wife ; 
Stoop,  and  raise  me! 

Lord  Alfred  could  scarcely  restrain 
The  sudden,  acute  pang  of  anger  and 

pain 
With  which  he  had  heard  this.     As 

though  to  some  wind 
The  leaves   of  the  hushed  windless 

laurels  behind 

The  two  thus  in  converse  were  sud- 
denly stirred. 
The  sound  half  betrayed  him.     They 

started.     He  heard 
The  low  voice  of  Lucile ;  but  so  faint 

was  its  tone 
That  her  answer  escaped  him. 

Luvois  hurried  on, 
As  though  in  remonstrance  with  what 

had  been  spoken. 
"  Nay,  I  know  it,  Lucile  !    but  your 

heart  was  not  broken 
By  the  trial  in  which   all  its  fibres 

were  proved. 
Love,  perchance,   you  mistrust,   yet 

you  need  to  be  loved. 
You  mistake  your   own  feelings.    I 

fear  you  mistake 
What  so  ill  I  interpret,  those  feelings 

which  make 
Words  like  these  vague  and  feeble. 

Whatever  your  heart 
May  have  suffered  of  yore,  this  can 

only  impart 
A  pity  profound  to  the  love  which  I 

feel. 
Hush!    hush!    I  know  all.     Tell  me 

nothing,  Lucile." 

"You  know  all,   Duke?"  she   said: 

well  then,  know  that,  in  truth, 

I  have  learned  from  the  rude  lesson 

taught  to  my  youth 
From  my  own  heart  to  shelter  my 

life ;  to  mistrust 
The  heart  of  another.     We  are  what 

we  must, 
And  not  what  we  would  be.     I  know 

that  one  hour 
Assures  not  another.     The  will  and 

the  power 
Are  diverse." 

"O  madam!"  ho  answered,  "you 

fence 


LUCILE. 


37 


With  a  feeling  you  know  to  be  true 

and  intense. 
'T  is  not  my  life,  Lucile,  that  I  plead 

for  alone : 
If  your  nature  I  know,  't  is  no  less  for 

your  own. 
That  nature  will  prey  on  itself ;  it  was 

made 
To  influence  others.     Consider,"  he 

said, 
"That  genius  craves    power, — what 

scope  for  it  here  ? 
Gifts  less  noble  to  me  give  command 

of  that  sphere 
In  which  genius  is  power.     Such  gifts 

you  despise  ? 
But  you  do  not  disdain  what  such  gifts 

realize ! 

I  offer  you,   Lady,  a  name  not  un- 
known— 
A  fortune  which  worthless,  without 

you,  is  grown — 
All  my  life  at  your  feet  I  lay  down — 

at  your  feet 
A  heart  which  for  you,  and  you  only, 

can  beat." 

LUCILE. 

That  heart ;  Duke,  that  life — I  respect 

both.     The  name 
And  position  you  offer,  and  all  that 

you  claim 
In  behalf  of  their  nobler  employment 

I  feel 
To  deserve  what,  in  turn,  I  now  ask 

you— 

Luvois. 

Lucile ! 
LUCILE. 

I  ask  you  to  leave  me — 
Luvois. 

You  do  not  reject  ? 
LUCILE. 

I  ask  you  to  leave  me  the  time  to  re- 
flect. 

Luvois. 
You  ask  me  ? — 

LUCILE. 

— The  time  to  reflect. 
Luvois. 

— Say — One  word  ! 
May  I  hope  ? 

The  reply  of  Lucilo  was  not  heard 


By  Lord  Alfred  ;  for  just  then  she  rose 

and  moved  on. 
The  Duke  bowed    his  lips  o'er  her 

hand,  and  was  gone. 

xx. 

Not  a  sound  save    the  birds  in  the 

bushes.     And  when 
Alfred  Vargrave  reeled  forth  to  the 

sunlight  again, 
He  just  saw  the  white  robe  of  the 

woman  recede 
As  she  entered  the  house. 

Scarcely  conscious  indeed 
Of  his  steps,  he  too  followed,  and  en- 

tered. 

XXI. 

He  entered 
Unnoticed  ;  Lucile  never  stirred  :  so 

concentred 
And  wholly  absorbed  in  her  thoughts 

she  appeared. 
Her  back  to  the  window  was  turned. 

As  he  neared 
The  sofa,  her  face  from  the  glass  was 

reflected. 
Her   dark   eyes  were    fixed    on    the 

ground.     Pale,  dejected, 
And  lost  in  profound  meditation  she 

seemed. 
Softly,    silently,    over    her    drooped 

shoulders  streamed 
The  afternoon  sunlight.     The  cry  of 

alarm 
And  surprise  which  escaped  her,  as 

now  on  her  arm 
Alfred  Vargrave  let  fall  a  hand  icily 

cold 
And  clammy  as  death,  all  too  cruelly 

told 
How    far    he    had    been    from    her 

thoughts. 

XXII. 

All  his  cheek 
Was  disturbed  with  the  effort  it  cost 

him  to  speak. 
"It  was  not  my  fault.     I  have  hean] 

all,"  he  said. 
"Now  the  letters  —  and  farewell,  Lu. 

cile  !    When  you  wed 
May—" 

The  sentence  broke    short,   like  a 

weapon  that  snaps 
When  the  weight  of  a  man  is  upon  it 


"  Per 


pon     . 
haps," 


LUCILE. 


Said  Lucile  (her  sole  answer  revealed 
in  the  flush 

Of  quick  color  which  up  to  her  brows 
seemed  to  rush 

In  reply  to  those  few  broken  words), 
"this  fare  well 

Is  our  last,  Alfred  Vargrave,  in  life. 
Who  can  tell? 

Let  us  part  without  bitterness.  Here 
are  your  letters. 

Be  assured  I  retain  you  no  more  in  my 
fetters  !"— 

She  laughed,  as  she  said  this,  a  little 
sad  laugh, 

And  stretched  out  her  hand  with  the 
letters.  And  half 

Wroth  to  feel  his  wrath  rise,  and  una- 
ble to  trust 

His  own  powers  of  restraint,  in  his 
bosom  he  thrust 

The  packet  she  gave,  with  a  short  an- 
gry sigh. 

Bowed  his  head,  and  departed  with- 
out a  reply. 

XXIII. 

And  Lucile  was  alone.    And  the  men 

of  the  world 
Were  gone  back  to  the  world.    And 

the  world's  self  was  furled 
Far    away    from    the  heart    of   the 

woman.     Her  hand 
Drooped,  and  from  it,  unloosed  from 

their  frail  silken  band, 
Fell  those  early  love-letters,  strewn, 

scattered,  and  shed 
At  her  feet — life's  lost  blossoms !    De- 
jected, her  head 
On  her  bosom  was  bowed.    Her  gaze 

vainly  strayed  o'er 
Those  strewn  records  of  passionate 

moments  no  more. 
From  each  page  to  her  sight  leapt 

some  word  that  belied 
The  composure  with  which  she  that 

day  had  denied 
Every  claim  on  her  heart  to  those 

poor  perished  years. 
They  avenged  themselves  now,   and 

she  burst  into  tears 


CANTO  IV. 
I. 

Letter  from  COUSIN  JOHN  to  COUSIN 
ALFRED.          f..,.^:--!^ 

"  BIGOERE,  Thursday. 
"  Time  up,  you  rascal!    Come  back, 

or  be  hanged. 
Matilda  grows  peevish.     Her  mother 

harangued 
For  a  whole  hour  this  morning  about 

you.     The  deuce ! 
What  on  earth  can  I  say  to  you  ?— 

Nothing 's  of  use. 
And  the  blame  of  the  whole  of  your 

shocking  behavior 
Falls  on  me,   sir!     Come  back, — do 

you  hear? — or  I  leave  your 
Affairs,   and     abjure     you     forever. 

Come  back 

To  your  anxious  betrothed;  and  per- 
plexed 

"  COUSIN  JACK," 

II. 

Alfred  needed,  in  truth,  no  entreaties 

from  John 
To  increase  his  impatience  to  fly  from 

Serchon. 
All  the  place  was  now  fraught  with 

sensations  of  pain 
Which,   whilst   in    it,   he    strove    to 

escape  from  in  vain. 
A  wild  instinct  warned  him  to  fly 

from  a  place 
Where  he  felt  that  some  fatal  event, 

swift  of  pace, 
Was  approaching  his  life.    In  despite 

his  endeavor 
To  think  of  Matilda,  her  image  for- 
ever 
Was  effaced  from  his  fancy  by  that  of 

Lucile. 
From  the  ground  which  he  stood  on 

he  felt  himself  reel. 
Scared,  alarmed  by  those  feelings  to 

which,  on  the  day 
Just  before,  all  his  heart  had  so  soon 

given  way, 
When  he  caught,  with  a  strange  sense 

of  fear,  for  assistance, 
At  what  was,  till  then,  the  great  fact 

in  existence, 
T  was  a  phantom  he  grasped. 

in. 
Having  sent  for  his  guide 


LUCILE. 


39 


He  ordered  his  horse,  and  determined 
to  ride 

Back  forwith  to  Bigorre.0 

Then,  the  guide,  who  well  knew 

Every  haunt  .of  those  hills,  said  the 
wild  lake  of  Oo 

Lay  a  league  from  Serchon  ;  and  sug- 
gested a  track 

By  the  lake  to  Bigorre,  which,  trans- 
versing  the  back 

Of  the  mountain,  avoided  a  circuit  be- 
tween 

Two  long  valleys  :  and  thinking,  "per- 
chance change  of  scene 

May  create  change  of  thought,"  Alfred 
Vargrave  agreed, 

Mounted  horse,  and  set  forth  to  Bi- 
gorre at  full  speed. 

IV. 
His  guide  rode  beside  him. 

The  king  of  the  guides  ! 
The  gallant  Bernard!  ever  boldly  he 

rides, 
Ever  gayly  he  sings !  For  to  him,  from 

The  hills  have  confided  their  secrets, 

and  told 
Where  the  white  partridge  lies,  and 

the  cock  o'  the  wood  ; 
"Where  the  izard  flits  fine  through  the 

cold  solitudes ; 
Where  the  bear  lurks  perdu ;  and  the 

lynx  on  his  prey 
At    nightfall    descends,    when    the 

mountains  are  gray ; 
Where  the  sassafras  blooms,  and  the 

bluebell  is  born. 

And  the  wild  rhododendron  first  red- 
dens at  morn ; 
Where  the  source  of  the  waters  is  fine 

as  a  thread ; 
How  the  storm  on  the  wild  Maladetta 

is  spread ; 
Where  the  thunder  is  hoarded,  the 

snows  lie  asleep, 
Whence  the  torrents  are  fed,  and  the 

cataracts  leap  ; 
And,  familiarly  known  in  the  hamlets, 

the  vales 

Have  whispered  to  him  all  their  thou- 
sand love-tales ; 
He  has  laughed  with  the  girls,  he  has 

leaped  with  the  boys ; 
Ever  blithe,  ever  bold,  ever  boon,  he 

enjoys 
An  existence  untroubled  by  envy  or 

strife, 


While  he  feeds  on  the  dews  and  the 

juices  of  life. 
And  so  lightly  he  sings,  and  so  gayly 

he  rides, 
For  BERNARD  LE  SAUTEUR  is  the  king 

of  all  guides ! 


But  Bernard  found,  that  day,  neither 

song  nor  love-tale, 
Nor    adventure,    nor    laughter,    nor 

legend  avail 
To  arouse  from  his  deep  and  profound 

revery 
Him  that  silent  beside  him  rode  fast 

as  could  be. 

VI. 

Ascending  the  mountain  they  slack- 
ened their  pace, 

And  the    marvellous    prospect  each 
moment  changed  face. 

The  breezy  and  pure  inspirations  of 
morn 

Breathed  about  them.     The  scarped 
ravaged  mountains,  all  worn 

By  the  torrents,  whose  course  they 
watched  faintly  meander, 

Were  alive  with  the  diamonded  shy 
salamander. 

They  paused  o'er  the  bosom  of  purple 
abysses, 

And  wound  through  a  region  of  green 
wildernesses ; 

The  waters  went  wirbling  above  and 
around, 

The    forests    hung   heaped    in  their 
shadows  profound. 

Here  the  Larboust,  and  there  Aven- 
tin,  Castellon, 

Which  the  Demon  of  Tempest,  de- 
scending upon, 

Had  wasted  with  fire,  and  the  peace-, 
ful  Cazeaux 

They  marked ;  and  far  down  in  the 
sunshine  below, 

Half  dipped  in  a  valley  of  airiest  blue, 

The  white  happy  homes  of  the  village 
of  Oo, 

Where  the  age  is  yet  golden. 

And  high  overhead 

The  wrecks  of  the  combat  of  Titans 
were  spread. 

Red  granite  and  quartz,  in  the  alchem- 
ic sun, 

Fused  their  splendors  of  crimson  and 
crystal  in  one ; 


40 


LUC  ILK 


And  deep  in  the  moss  gleamed  the 

delicate  shells, 
And  the  dew  lingered  fresh  in  the 

heavy  harebells ; 

The  large  violet  burned ;  the  campan- 
ula blue ; 
And  Autumn's  own  flower,  the  saffron, 

peered  through 
The  red-berried  brambles  and  thick 

sassafras ; 

And  fragrant  with  thyme  was  the  del- 
icate grass ; 
And  high  up,  and  higher,  and  highest 

of  all, 
The  secular  phantom  of  snow ! 

O'er  the  wall 
Of  a  gray  sunless  glen  gaping  drowsy 

below, 
That  aerial  spectre,  revealed  in  the 

glow 
Of  the    great    golden    dawn,   hovers 

faint  on  the  eye, 
And  appears  to  grow  in,  and  grow  out 

of,  the  sky, 
And  plays  with  the  fancy,  and  baffles 

the  sight. 
Only  reached  by  the  vast  rosy  ripple 

of  light, 
And  the  cool  star  of  eve,  the  Imperial 

Thing, 
Half  unreal,  like  some  mythological 

king 

That  dominates  all  in  a  fable  of  old, 
Takes  command  of  a  valley  as  fair  to 

behold 
As  aught  in  old  fables  ;  and,  seen  or 

unseen, 
Dwells  aloof  over  all,  in  the  vast  and 

serene 
Sacred  sky,  where  the  footsteps  of 

spirits  are  furled 
'Mid  the  clouds  beyond  which  spreads 

the  infinite  world 
Of  man's  last  aspirations,  unfathomed, 

untrod, 

Save  by  Even  and  Morn,  and  the  an- 
gels of  God. 

VII. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  journeyed,  that 
serpentine  road, 

Now  abruptly  reversed,  unexpectedly 
showed 

A  gay  cavalcade  some  few  feet  in  ad- 
vance. 

Alfred  Vargrave's  heart  beat ;  for  he 
saw  at  a  glance 


The  slight  form  of  Lucile  in  the  midst. 
His  next  look 

Showed  him,  joyously  ambling  beside 
her,  the  Duke. 

The  rest  of  the  troop  which  had  thus 
caught  his  ken 

He  knew  not  nor  noticed  them  (women 
and  men). 

They  were  laiighing  and  talking  to- 
gether. Soon  after 

His  sudden  appearance  suspended 
their  laughter. 

VIII. 

"  You  here !  ...  I  imagined  you  far 
on  your  way 

To  Bigorre!"  .  .  .  said  Lucile.  "What 
has  caused  you  to  stay?" 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  Bigorre,"  he  re- 
plied, 

"  But,  since  my  way  would  seem  to  be 
yours,  let  me  ride 

For  one  moment  beside  you."  And 
then,  with  a  stoop, 

At  her  ear,  ..."  and  forgive  me  !" 

IX. 

By  this  time  the  troop 
Had  regathered  its  numbers. 

Lucile  was  as  pale 
As  the  cloud  'neath  their  feet,  on  its 

way  to  the  vale. 
The  Duke  had  observed  it,  nor  quitted 

her  side, 
For  even  one  moment,  the  whole  of 

the  ride. 
Alfred  smiled,  as  he  thought,  "he  is 

jealous  of  her !" 
And  the  thought  of  this  jealousy  add- 
ed a  spur 
To  his  firm  .resolution  and  effort  to 

please. 
He  talked  much ;  was  witty,  and  quite 

at  his  ease. 

x. 

After  noontide,  the  clouds,  which  had 
traversed  the  east 

Half  the  day,  gathered  closer,  and 
rose  and  increased. 

The  air  changed  and  chilled.  As 
though  out  of  the  ground, 

Then  ran  up  the  trees  a  confused  hiss- 
ing sound, 

And  the  wind  rose.  The  guides  sniffed, 
like  chamois,  the  air, 

And  looked  at  each  other,  and  halted, 
and  there 


LTJCILE. 


41 


Unbuckled  the  cloaks  from  the  saddle. 
The  white 

Aspens  rustled,  and  turned  up  their 
frail  leaves  in  fright. 

All  announced  the  approach  of  the 
tempest. 

Erelong, 

Thick  darkness  descended  the  moun- 
tains among; 

And  a  vivid,  vindictive,  and  serpen- 
tine flash 

Gored   the    darkness,   and    shore    it 
across  with  a  gash. 

The  rain  fell  in  large  heavy  drops. 
And  anon 

Broke  the  thunder. 

The  horses  took  fright,  every  one 

The  Duke's  in  a  moment  was  far  out 
of  sight. 

The  guides  whooped.     The  band  was 
obliged  to  alight : 

And,  dispersed  up  the  perilous  path- 
way, walked  blind 

To  the  darkness  before  from  the  dark- 
ness behind. 

XI. 

And  the  Storm  is  abroad  in  the  moun- 
tains! 

He  fills 

The    crouched   hollows  and    all  the 
oracular  hills 

With  dread  voices  of  power.  Aroused 
million  or  more 

Of  wild  echoes  reluctantly  rise  from 
their  hoar 

Immemorial  ambush,  and  roll  in  the 
wake 

Of  the  cloud,  whose  reflection  leaves 
vivid  the  lake. 

And  the  wind,  that  wild  robber,  for 
plunder  descends 

From  invisible  lands,  o'er  those  black 
mountain  ends ;' 

He  howls  as  he  hounds  down  his  prey ; 
and  his  lash 

Tears  the  hair  of  the  timorous  wan 
mountain-ash, 

That  clings  to  the  rocks,   with  her 
garments  all  torn, 

Like  a  woman  in  fear ;  then  he  blows 
his  hoarse  horn, 

And  is  off,  the  fierce  guide    of  de- 
struction and  terror. 

Up  the  desolate  heights,  'mid  an  in- 
tricate error 

Of  mountain  and  mist. 


XII. 

There  is  war  in  the  skies ! 

Lo !  the  black-winged  legions  of  tem- 
pest arise 

O'er  those  sharp-splintered  rocks  that 
are  gleaming  below 

In  the  soft  light,  so  fair  and  so  fatal, 
as  though 

Some  seraph  burned  through  them, 
the  thunder-bolt  searching 

Which  the  black  cloud  unbosomed 
just  now.  Lo !  the  lurching 

And  shivering  pine-trees,  like  phan- 
toms, that  seem 

To  waver  above,  in  the  dark  ;  and  yon 
stream, 

How  it  hurries  and  roars,  on  its  way 
to  the  white 

And  paralyzed  lake  there,  appalled 
at  the  sight 

Of  the  things  seen  in  heaven ! 

XIII. 

Through  the  darkness  and  awe 
That  had  gathered  around  him,  Lord 

Alfred  now  saw, 
Revealed  in  the  fierce  and  evanishing 

glare 
Of    the    lightning     that    momently 

pulsed  through  the  air, 
A  woman  alone  on  a  shelf  of  the  hill, 
With  her  cheek  coldly  propped  on  her 

hand, — and  as  still  H> 

As  the  rock  that  she  sat  on,  which 

beetled  above 
The  black  lake  beneath  her. 

All  terror,  all  love, 
Added  speed    to    the    instinct  with 

which  he  rushed  on. 
For  one  moment  the  blue  lightning 

swathed  the  whole  stone 
In  its  lurid  embrace :  like  the  sleek 

dazzling  snake 
That  encircles  a  sorceress,  charmed 

for  her  sake 
And  lulled  by  her  loveliness  ;  fawning 

it  played 
And    caressingly  twined    round   the 

feet  and  the  head 

Of    the    woman    who    sat  there,  un- 
daunted and  calm 
As  the  soul  of  that  solitude,  listing 

the  psalm 
Of  the  plangent  and  laboring  tempest 

roll  slow 
From  the  caldron  of    midnight  and 

vapor  below. 


42 


LUCILE. 


Next  moment  from  bastion  to  bas- 
tion, all  round, 

Of  the  siege-circled  mountains,  there 
tumbled  the  sound 

Of  the  battering  thunder's  indefinite 
peal, 

And  Lord  Alfred  had  sprung  to  the 
feet  of  Lucile. 

XIV. 

She  started.      Once    more,   with  its 

flickering  wand, 
The   lightning   approached  her.      In 

terror,  her  hand 
Alfred  Vargrave    had  seized  within 

his  ;  and  he  felt 
The  light  fingers  that  coldly  and  lin- 

geringly  dwelt 
In  the    grasp  of    his  own,   tremble 

faintly. 

" See!  see! 
Where  the  whirlwind  hath   stricken 

and  strangled  yon  tree  !" 
She  exclaimed,  .  .  .    "like  the  pas- 
sion that  brings  on  its  breath, 
To  the  being  it  embraces,  destruction 

and  death ! 
Alfred    Vargrave,    the    lightning    is 

round  you !" 

"Lucile! 
I  hear — I  see — naught  but  yourself. 

I  can  feel 
Nothing  here  but  your  presence.     My 

pride  fights  in  vain 
With  truth  that  leaps  from  me.    We 

two  meet  again 
'Neath    yon  terrible  heaven  that  is 

watching  above 
To  avenge  if  I  lie  when  I  swear  that 

I  love, — 
And  beneath  yonder  terrible  heaven, 

at  your  feet, 
I  humble  my  head  and  my  heart.     I 

entreat 
Your  pardon,  Lucile,  for  the  past, — I 

implore 
For  the  future  your  mercy, — implore 

it  with  more 
Of  passion  than  prayer  ever  breathed. 

By  the  power 
Which  invisibly  touches  us  both  in 

this  hour, 
By  the  rights  I  have  o'er  you,  Lucile, 

I  demand" — 

"The  rights!"  .  .  .  said  Lucile,  and 
drew  from  him  her  hand. 


"Yes,  the  rights!  for  what  greater  to 

man  may  belong 
Than  the  right  to  repair  in  the  future 

the  wrong 
To  the  past?  and  the  wrong  I  have 

done  you,  of  yore, 
Hath  bequeathed  to  me  all  the  sad 

right  to  restore, 
To  retrieve,  to  amend !  I,  who  injured 

your  life, 
Urge  the  right  to  repair  it,  Lucilo ! 

Be  my  wife, 
My  guide,  my  good  angel,  my  all  upon 

earth, 
And  accept,  for  the  sake  of  what  yet 

may  give  worth 
To  my  life,  its  contrition!" 

xv. 

He  paused,  for  there  came 

O'er  the  cheek  of  Lucile  a  swift  flush 
like  the  flame 

That  illumined  at  moments  the  dark- 
ness o'erhead.  . 

With  a  voice  faint  and  marred  by 
emotion,  she  said, 

"LAnd  your  pledge  to  another?" 

XVI. 

"Hush,  hush!"  he  exclaimed, 
"  My  honor  will  live  where  my  love 

lives,  unshamed. 
'T  were  poor  honor  indeed,  to  another 

to  give 
That  life  of  which  you  keep  the  heart. 

Could  I  live 

In  the  light  of  those  young  eyes,  sup- 
pressing a  lie  ? 
Alas,  no !  your  hand  holds  my  whole 

destiny. 
I  can  never  recall  what  my  lips  have 

avowed ; 
In  your  love  lies  whatever  can  render 

me  proud. 

For  the  great  crime  of  all  my  exist- 
ence hath  been 
To  have  known  you  in  vajn.     And  the 

duty  best  seen, 
And  most  hallowed, — the  duty  most 

sacred  and  sweet, 
Is  that  which  hath  led  me,  Lucile,  to 

your  feet. 
O  speak !  and  restore  me  the  blessing 

I  lost 
When  I  lost  you, — my  pearl  of  all 

pearls  beyond  cost ! 
And    restore    to   your    own   life    its 

youth,  and  restore 


LUCILE. 


43 


The  vision,  the  rapture,  the  passion 

of  yore ! 
Ere  our  brows  had  been  dimmed  in 

the  dust  of  the  world, 
When  our  souls  their  white  wings  yet 

exulting  unfurled! 

For  your  eyes  rest  no  more  on  the  un- 
quiet man, 
The  wild  star  of  whose  course  its  pale 

orbit  outran, 
Whom  the  formless  indefinite  future 

of  youth, 
With  its  lying  allurements  distracted. 

In  truth 
I  have  wearily  wandered  the  world, 

and  I  feel 
That  the  least  of  your  lovely  regards, 

O  Lucile, 
Is  worth  all  the  world  can  afford,  and 

the  dream 

Which,  though  followed  forever,  for- 
ever doth  seem 
As  fleeting,  and  distant,  and  dim,  as 

of  yore 
When  it  brooded  in  twilight,  at  dawn, 

on  the  shore 
Of  life's  untraversed  ocean  !  I  know 

the  sole  path 
To  repose,  which  my  desolate  destiny 

hath, 
Is  the  path  by  whose  course  to  your 

feet  I  return. 
And  who  else,  O  Lucile,  will  so  truly 

discern, 

And  so  deeply  revere,  all  the  passion- 
ate strength, 
The  sublimity  in  you,  as  he  whom  at 

length 
These  have  saved  from  himself,  for 

the  truth  they  reveal 
To  his  worship  ?" 

XVII. 

She  spoke  not ;  but  Alfred  could  feel 
The  light  hand  and  arm,  that  upon 

him  reposed, 
Thrill  and  tremble.     Those  dark  eyes 

of  hers  were  half  closed ; 
But,  under  their  languid  mysterious 

fringe, 
A  passionate  softness  was  beaming. 

One  tinge 

Of  faint  inward  fire  flushed  transpar- 
ently through 
The  delicate,  pallid,  and  pure  olive 

hue 
Of    the    cheek,     half    averted     and 

drooped.    The  rich  bosom 


Heaved,  as  when  in  the  heart  of  a 

ruffled  rose-blossom 
A  bee  is  imprisoned  and  struggles. 
XVIII. 

Meanwhile 
The  sun,  in  his  setting,  sent  up  the 

last  smile 
Of  his  power,  to  baffle  the  storm.  And, 

behold ! 
O'er   the  mountains    embattled,  his 

armies,  all  gold, 
Rose  and  rested ;  while  far  up  the  dim 

airy  crags, 
Its  artillery   silenced,  its  banners  in 

rags, 

The  rear  of  the  tempest  its  sullen  re- 
treat 
Drew  off  slowly,  receding  in  silence, 

to  meet 
The  powers  of  the  night,  which,  now 

gathering  afar, 
Had  already  sent  forward  one  bright, 

signal  star. 
The  curls  of  her  soft  and  luxuriant 

hair, 
From    the    dark    riding    hat,    which 

Lucile  used  to  wear, 
Had  escaped ;  and  Lord  Alfred  now 

covered  with  kisses 
The  redolent  warmth  of  those  long 

falling  tresses. 
Neither  he,  nor  Lucile,  felt  the  rain, 

which  not  yet 

Had    ceased    falling    around    them; 

when,  splashed,  drenched  and  wet, 

The  Due  de  Luvois  down  the  rough 

mountain  course 
Approached  them  as  fast  as  the  road, 

and  the  horse, 
Which  was  limping, would  suffer.  The 

beast  had  just  now 
Lost  his  footing,  and  over  the  peril- 
ous brow 
Of  the   storm-haunted  mountain  his 

master  had  thrown ; 
But    the  Duke,  who  was  agile,  had 

leaped  to  a  stone, 
And  the  horse  being  bred  to  the  in- 
stinct which  fills 
The  breast  of   the  wild  mountaineer 

in  these  hills, 
Had  scrambled  again  to  his  feet ;  and 

now  master 
And  horse  bore  about  them  the  signs 

of  disaster, 
As    they  heavily  footed   their    way 

through  the  mist, 


44 


LUCILE. 


The    horse    with    his    shoulder,    the 

Duke  with  his  wrist, 
Bruised  and  bleeding. 

XIX. 

If  ever  your  feet,  like  my  own, 

0  reader,  have  traversed  these  moun- 
tains alone, 

Have  you  felt  your  identity  shrink 
and  contract 

At  the  sound  of  the  distant  and  dim 
cataract, 

In  the  presence  of  nature's  immensi- 
ties ?  Say, 

Have  you  hung  o'er  the  torrent,  be- 
dewed with  its  spray, 

And,  leaving  the  rock-way,  contorted 
and  rolled, 

Like  a  huge  couchant  Typhon,  fold 
heaped  over  fold, 

Tracked  the  summits,  from  which 
every  step  that  you  tread 

Rolls  the  loose  stones,  with  thunder 
below,  to  the  bed 

Of  invisible  waters,  whose  mystical 
sound 

Fills  with  awful  suggestions  the  dizzy 
profound  ? 

And,  laboring  onwards,  at  last  through 
a  break 

la  the  walls  of  the  world,  burst  at 
once  on  the  lake  ? 

If  you  have,  this  description  I  might 
have  withheld. 

You  remember  how  strangely  your 
bosom  has  swelled 

As  the  vision  revealed.  On  the  over- 
worked soil 

On  this  planet,  enjoyment  is  sharp- 
ened by  toil ; 

And  one  seems,  by  the  pain  of  ascend- 
ing the  height, 

To  have  conquered  a  claim  to  that 
wonderful  sight. 

xx. 

Hail,  virginal  daughter  of    cold  Es- 

pingo ! 
Hail,  Naiad,  whose  realm  is  the  cloud 

and  the  snow ; 
For  o'er  thee  the  angels  have  whitened 

their  wings, 
And   the   thirst  of    the    seraphs    is 

quenched  at  thy  springs. 
What  hand  hath,  in  heaven,  upheld 

thine  expanse  ? 


Whdh  the  breath  of  creation  first 
fashioned  fair  France, 

Did  the  Spirit  of  111,  in  his  downthrow 
appalling, 

Bruise  the  world,  and  thus  hollow  thy 

basin  while  falling  ? 
Ere  the    mammoth  was    born    hath 

some  monster  unnamed 
The  base  of  thy  mountainous  pedestal 

framed  ? 
And  later,   when    Power  to  Beauty 

was  wed, 
Did  some  delicate  fairy  embroider  thy 

bed 
With  the    fragile    valerian    and  the 

wild  columbine  ? 

XXI. 

But  thy  secret  thou  keepest,  and  I 

will  keep  mine ; 
For  once  gazing  on  thee,  it  flashed  on 

my  soul. 
All  that  secret !    I  saw  in  a  vision  the 

whole 
Vast  design  of  the  .ages]  what  was 

and  shall  be ! 
Hands  unseen  raised  the  veil  of  a 

great  mystery 
For  one  moment.  I  saw,  and  I  heard ; 

and  my  heart 

Bore  witness  within  me  to  infinite  art, 
In  infinite  power  proving  infinite  love; 
Caught  the  great  choral  chant, 
marked  the  dread  pageant  move — 
The  divine  Whence  and  Whither  of 

life!    But,  O  daughter 
Of  Oo,  riot  more  safe  in  the  deep  si- 
lent water 
Is  thy  secret,  than  mine  in  my  heart. 

Even  so. 
What  I  then  saw  and  heard,  the  world 

never  shall  know. 

XXII. 

The  dimness  of  eve  o'er  the  valleys 
had  closed, 

The  rain  had  ceased  falling,  the 
mountains  reposed. 

The  stars  had  enkindled  in  luminous 
courses 

Their  slow-sliding  lamps,  when,  re- 
mounting their  horses, 

The  riders  retraversed  that  mighty 
serration 

Of  rock-work.  Thus  left  to  its  own 
desolation, 


LUCILE. 


45 


The    lake,    from  whose    glimmering 

limits  the  last 
Transient  pomp  of  the  pageants  of 

sunset  had  passed, 
Drew  into  its  bosom  the  darkness,  and. 

only 
Admitted   within   it    one  image,— a 

lonely 
And  tremulous  phantom  of  nickering 

light 
That    followed   the    mystical   moon 

through  the  night. 

XXII. 

It  was  late  when  o'er  Serchon  at  last 
they  descended. 

To  her  chalet,  in  silence,  Lord  Alfred 
attended 

Lucile.  As  they  parted  she  whisper- 
ed him  low, 

"  You  have  made  to  me,  Alfred,  an 
offer  I  know 

All  the  worth  of,  believe  me.  I  can- 
not reply 

Without  time  for  reflection.  Good 
night !— not  good  by." 

' '  Alas !  ?t  is  the  very  same  answer 
you  made 

To  the  Due  de  Luvois  but  a  day 
since,"  he  said. 

"No  Alfred !  the  very  same,  no,"  she 
replied. 

Her  voice  shook.  "If  you  love  me, 
obey  me. 

Abide  my  answer,  to-morrrow." 

xxiv. 

Alas,  Cousin  Jack ! 
You  Cassandra  in  breeches  and  boots ! 

turn  your  back 
To  the  ruins  of  Troy.     Prophet,  seek 

not  for  glory 
Amongst  thine  own  people. 

I  follow  my  story. 


UP  !— forth  again,  Pegasus ! — "Many's 
the  slip," 

Hath  the  proverb  well  said,  " 'twixt 
the  cup  and  the  lip  !" 

How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often 
concieved, 

Had  we  really  achieved  what  we  near- 
ly achieved! 


We  but  catch  at  the  skirts  of  the 
thing  we  would  be, 

And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false 
destiny. 

So  it  will  be,  so  has  been,  since  this 
world  began ! 

And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best 
part  of  man 

Is  the  part  which  he  never  hath  fully 
played  out : 

For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's 
volume  is — Doubt. 

The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision 
allowed 

Is  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  in 
the  crowd. 

The  thought  that  most  thrills  our  ex- 
istence is  one 

Which,  before  we  can  frame  it  in  lan- 
guage, is  gone. 

0  Horace  !  the  rustic  still  rests  by  the 

river, 
But  the  river  flows  on,  and  flows  past 

him  forever ! 
Who  can  sit    down,    and    say,  .  .  . 

"  What  I  will  be,  I  will"? 
Who  stand  up,  and  affirm  .  .  .  "What 

I  was,  I  am  still"? 
Who  is  it  that  must  not,  if  questioned, 

say,  .  .  .  "What 

1  would  have  remained,  or  become,  I 

am  not"  ?  [side 

We  are  ever  behind,  or  beyond,  or  be- 
Our    intrinsic  existence.     Forever  at 

hide 
And  seek  with  our   souls.      Not  in 

Hades  alone 
Doth  Sisyphus  roll,  ever  frustrate,  the 

stone, 
Do  the  Danaids  ply,  ever  vainly,  the 

sieve. 

Tasks  as  futile  does  earth  to  its  deni- 
zens give. 
Yet    there's  none   so  unhappy,    but 

what  he  hath  been 
Just  about  to  be  happy,  at  some  time, 

I  ween ; 
And  none  so  beguiled  and  defrauded 

by  chance, 

But  what  once,  in  his  life,  some  min- 
ute circumstance 
Would  have  fully  sufficed  to  secure 

him  the  bliss 
Which,  missing  it  then,   he  forever 

must  miss.; 
And  to  most  of  us,  ere  we  go  down  to 

the  grave, 


46 


LUCILE. 


Life,  relenting,  accords  the  good  gift 
we  would  have  ; 

But,  as  though  by  some  strange  im- 
perfection in  fate, 

The  good  gift,  when  it  comes,  comes 
a  moment  too  late. 

The  Future's  great  veil  our  breath  fit- 
fully flaps, 

And  behind  it  broods  ever  the  mighty 
Perhaps. 

Yet !  there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup 
and  the  lip : 

But  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beak- 
er I  dip, 

Though  the  cup  may  next  moment  be 
shattered,  the  wine 

Spilt,  one  deep  health  I'll  pledge,  and 
that  health  shall  be  thine, 

O  being  of  beauty  and  bliss!  seen  and 
known 

In  the  deeps  of  my  soul,  and  possess- 
ed there  alone ! 

My  days  knew  thee  not ;  and  my  lips 
name  thee  never. 

Thy  place  in  my  poor  life  is  vacant 
forever. 

We  have  met:  we  have  parted.  No 
more  is  recorded 

In  my  annals  on  earth.  This  alone 
was  afforded 

To  the  mau  whom  men  knew  me,  or 
deem  me,  to  be. 

But,  far  down,  in  the  depth  of  my 
life's  mystery, 

(Like  the  siren  that  under  the  deep 
ocean  dwells, 

Whom  the  wind  as  it  wails,  and  the 
wave  as  it  swells, 

Cannot  stir  in  the  calm  of  her  coral- 
line halls, 

'Mid  the  world's  adamantine  and  dim 
pedestals ; 

At  whose  feet  sit  the  sylphs  and  sea 
fairies ;  for  whom 

The  almondine  glimmers,  the  soft 
samphires  bloom) — 

Thou  abidest  and  reiguest  forever,  O 
Queen 

Of  that  better  world  which  thou  sway- 
est  unseen ! 

My  one  perfect  mistress !  my  all 
things  in  all ! 

Thee  by  no  vulgar  name  known  to 
men  do  I  call ; 

For  the  seraphs  have  named  thee  to 
me  in  my  sleep, 

And  that  name  is  a  secret  I  sacredly 
keep. 


But,  wherever  this  nature  of  mine  is 

most  fair, 

And  its  thoughts  are  the  purest— be- 
loved, thou  art  there ! 
And  whatever  is  noblest  in  aught  that 

I  do,' 
Is  done  to  exalt  and  to  worship  thee 

too. 
The  world  gave  thee  not  to  me,  no ! 

and  the  world 
Cannot  take  thee  away  from  me  now. 

I  have  furled 
The  wings  of  my  spirit  about    thy 

bright  head ; 

At  thy  feet  are  my  soul's  immortali- 
ties spread. 
Thou  mightest  have  been  to  me  much. 

Thou  art  more. 
And  in  silence  I  worship,  in  darkness 

adore. 
If  life  be  not  that  which  without  us 

we  find — 
Chance,  accident,  merely — but  rather 

the  mind, 
And  the  soul  which,  within  us,  sur- 

viveth  these  things, 
If  our  real  existence  have  truly  its 

springs 
Less  in  that  which  we  do  than  in  that 

which  we  feel, 
Not  in  vain  do  I  worship,  not  hopeless 

I  kneel! 
For  then,   though  I  name  thee  not 

mistress  or  wife, 
Thou  art  mine — and  mine  only, — O 

life  of  my  life! 
And  though  many's  the  .slip  'twixt  the 

cup  and  the  lip, 
Yet  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beak- 
er I  dip, 
While   there's  life   on  the  lip,  while 

there's  warmth  in  the  wine, 
One  deep  health  I  '11  pledge,  and  that 

health  shall  be  thine ! 

n. 
This  world  on  whose  peaceable  breast 

we  repose 
Unconvulsed  by  alarm,  once  confused 

in  the  throes 
Of    a  tumult  divine,   sea  and  land, 

moist  and  dry, 
And  in  fiery  fusion  commixed  earth 

and  sky. 
Time  cooled  it  and  calmed  it,   and 

taught  it  to  go 
The  round  of  its  orbit  in  peace,  long 

ago. 


LUCILE. 


47 


The  wind  ehangeth  and  whirleth  con- 
tinually : 

All  the  rivers  run  down  and  run  into 
the  sea: 

The  wind  whirleth  about,  and  is  pres- 
ently stilled  : 

All  the  rivers  run  down,  yet  the  sea  is 
not  filled ; 

The  sun  goeth  forth  from  his  cham- 
bers :  the  sun 

Ariseth,  and  lo  !  he  descendeth  anon. 

All  returns  to  its  place.  Use  and 
Habit  are  powers 

Far  stronger  than  Passion,  in  this 
world  of  ours. 

The  great  laws  of  life  readjust  their 
infraction, 

And  to  every  emotion  appoint  a  re- 
action. 

in. 

Alfred  Vargrave  had  time,  after  leav- 
ing Lucile, 

To  review  the  rash  step  he  had  taken, 
and  feel 

What  the  world  would  have  called 
"  his  erroneous  position." 

Thought  obtruded  its  claim,  and  en- 
forced recognition: 

Like  a  creditor  who,  when  the  gloss 
is  worn  out 

On  the  coat  which  we  once  wore  with 
pleasure,  no  doubt, 

Sends  us  in  his  account  for  the  gar- 
ment we  bought. 

Every  spendthrift  to  passion  is  debtor 
to  thought. 

IV. 

He  felt  ill  at  ease  with  himself.  He 
could  feel 

Little  doubt  what  the  answer  would 
be  from  Lucile. 

Her  eyes,  when  they  parted,— her 
voice,  when  they  met, 

Still  enraptured  his  heart,  which  they 
haunted.  And  yet, 

Though  exulting,  he  deemed  himself 
loved,  where  he  loved, 

Through  his  mind  a  vague  self -accusa- 
tion there  moved. 

O'er  his  fancy,  when  fancy  was  fair- 
est, would  rise 

The  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with 
eyes 

So  sad, so  reproachful,  so  cruelly  kind, 

That  his  heart  failed  within  him,  In 
vain  did  he  find 


A  thousand  just  reasons  for  what  he 

had  done  : 
The  vision  that  troubled  him  would 

not  be  gone. 
In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  and 

with  truth, 
"  Matilda   has  beauty,   and  fortune, 

and  youth ; 
And  her  heart  is  too  young  to  have 

deeply  involved 
All  its  hopes  in  the  tie  which  must 

now  be  dissolved. 
'T  were  a  false  sense  of  honor  in  me  to 

suppress 
The  sad  truth  which  I  owe  it  to  her  to 

confess. 
And  what  reason  have  I  to  presume 

this  poor  life 

Of  my  own,  with  its  languid  and  friv- 
olous strife, 
And  without  what  alone  might  endear 

it  to  her, 
Were  a  boon   all  so  precioup,  indeed 

to  confer, 
Its  withdrawal  can  wrong  her  ? 

"It  is  not  as  though 
I  were  boTind  to   some  poor  village 

maiden,  I  know, 
Unto  whose  simple  heart  mine  were 

all  upon  earth, 
Or  to  whose  simple  fortunes  my  own 

could  give  worth. 
Matilda,  in  all  the  world's  gifts,  will 

not  miss 
Aught  that  I  could  procure  her.     'Tis 

best  as  it  is  ?" 

v. 

In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  "When 
I  came 

To  this  fatal  spot,  I  had  nothing  to 
blame 

Or  reproach  myself  for,  in  the  thoughts 
of  my  heart. 

I  could  not  forsee  that  its  pulses 
would  start 

Into  such  strange  emotion  on  seeing 
once  more 

A  woman  I  left  with  indifference  be- 
fore. 

I  believed,  and  with  honest  conviction 
believed, 

In  my  love  for  Matilda.  I  never  con- 
ceived 

That  another  could  shake  it.  I  deem- 
ed I  had  done 

With  the  wild  heart  of  youth,  and 
looked  hopefully  on 


4S 


LUCILE. 


To  the  soberer  manhood,  the  worthier 

life, 

Which  I  sought  in  the  love  that  I  vow- 
ed to  my  wife. 
Poor  child!  she  shall  learn  the  whole 

truth.     She  shall  know 
What  I  knew  not  myself  but  a  few 

days  ago. 
The  world  will  console  her,— her  pride 

will  support, — 
Her  youth  will  renew  its  emotions.  In 

short, 
There  is  nothing  in  me  that  Matilda 

will  miss 
When  once  we  have  parted.  'T  is  best 

as  it  is !" 

VI. 

But  in  vain  did  he  reason  and  argue. 
Alas! 

He  yet  felt  unconvinced  that  't  was 
best  as  it  was. 

Out  of  reach  of  all  reason,  forever 
would  rise 

That  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with 
eyes 

So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly 
kind, 

That  they  harrowed  his  heart  and  dis- 
tracted his  mind. 

VII. 
And  then,  when  he  turned  from  these 

thoughts  to  Lucile, 
Though  his  heart  rose  enraptured,  he 

could  not  but  feel 
A  vague  sense  of  awe  of  her  nature. 

Behind 
All  the  beauty  of  heart,  and  the  graces 

of  mind, 
Which  he  saw  and  revered  in  her, 

something  unknown 
And  unseen  in  that  nature  still  troub- 
led his  own. 
He  felt  that  Lucile  penetrated  and 

prized 
Whatever    was    noblest    and    best, 

though  disguised, 
In  himself ;  but  he  did  not  feel  sure 

that  he  knew, 
Or  completely  possessed,  what,  half 

hidden  from  view, 
Remained  lofty  and  lonely  in  lier. 

Then,  her  life, 
So  untamed,  and  so  free!  would  she 

yield  as  a  wife, 
Independence,    long    ciaimed    as    a 

woman  ?    Her  name, 


So  linked  by  the  world  with  that  spur- 
ious fame 
Which  the  beauty  and  wit  of  a  woman 

assert, 
In  some  measure,   alas!  to  her  own 

loss  and  hurt 
In  the  serious  thoughts  of  a  man !  .  .  . 

This  reflection 
O'er  the  love  which  he  felt  cast  a 

shade  of  dejection, 
From  which  he  forever  escaped  to  the 

thought 
Doubt  could  reach  not.  .  .  .  "  I  love 

her,  and  all  else  is  naught !" 

VIII. 

His  hand  trembled  strangely  .in  break- 
ing the  seal 

Of  the  letter  which  reached  him  at 
last  from  Lucile. 

At  the  sight  of  the  very  first  word  that 
he  read, 

That  letter  dropped  down  from  his 
hand  like  the  dead 

Leaf  in  autumn,  that,  falling,  leaves 
naked  and  bare 

A  desolate  tree  in  a  wide  wintry  air. 

He  passed  his  hand  hurriedly  over  his 
eyes, 

Bewildered,  incredulous.  Angry  sur- 
prise 

And  dismay,  in  one  sharp  moan,  broke 
from  Mm.  Anon 

He  picked  up  the  page,  and  read  rap- 
idly on. 

IX. 

The  COMTESS-E  DE  NEVERS  to  LORD 
ALFRED  VARGRAVE. 

"  No  Alfred! 

"  If  over  the  present,  when  last 
We  two  met,  rose  the  glamour  and 

mist  of  the  past, 
It  hath  now  rolled  away,  and  our  two 

paths  are  plain, 
And  those  two  paths  divide  us. 

"  That  hand  which  again 
Mine  one  moment  has  clasped  as  the 

hand  of  a  brother, 
That    hand     and     your    honor    are 

pledged  to  another ! 
Forgive,    Alfred   Vargrave,    forgive 

me,  if  yet 
For  that  moment  (now  past !)  I  have 

made  you  forget 
What  was  due  to  yourself  and  that 

other  one.    Yes, 


LUCILE. 


49 


Mine  the  fault,  and  be  mine  the  re- 
pentance !    Not  less, 
In  now  owning  this  fault,  Alfred,  let 

me  own,  too, 

I  foresaw  not  the  sorrow  involved  in  it. 

"True, 
That  meeting,  which    had   "been   so 

fatal,  I  sought, 
I  alone !    But    O,   deem  not  it  was 

with  the  thought 
Or  your  heart  to  regain,  or  the  past 

to  rewaken. 
No !  believe  me,  it  was  the  firm  and 

unshaken 
Conviction,  at  least,  that  our  meeting 

would  be 
Without  peril  to  you,  although  haply 

to  me 
The  salvation  of  all  my  existence. 

"  I  own, 
When  the  rumor  first  reached  me, 

which  lightly  made  known 
To  the  world   your  engagement,  my 

heart  and  my  mind 
Suffered  torture  intense.  It  was  cruel 

to  find 
That  so  much  of  the  life  of  my  life, 

half  unknown 
To  myself,  had  been  silently  settled 

on  one 
Upon  whom  but  to  think  it  would 

soon  be  a  crime. 
Then  I  said  to  myself,    'From  the 

thraldom  which  time 
Hath  not  weakened  there  rests  but 

one  hope  of  escape. 
That  image  which  Fancy  seems  ever 

to  shape 
From  the  solitude  left  round  the  ruins 

of  yore 
Is  a  phantom.     The  Being  I  loved  is 

no  more. 
What  I  hear  in  the  silence  and  see  in 

the  lone 
Void  of  life,  is  the  young  hero  born  of 

my  own 

Perished  youth ;  and  his  image,  se- 
rene and  sublime, 
In  my    heart    rests    unconscious    of 

change  and  of  time. 
Could  I  see  it  but  once  more,  as  time 

and  as  change 
Have  made  it,  a  thing  unfamiliar  and 

strange, 
See,  indeed,  that  the  Being  I  loved  in 

my  youth 
Is  no  more,  and  what  rests  now  is 

only,  in  truth, 


The  hard  pupil  of  life  and  the  world : 
then,  O,  then, 

I  should  wake  from  a  dream,  and  my 
life  be  again 

Reconciled  to  the  world ;  and,  releas- 
ed from  regret, 

Take  the  lot  fate  accords  to  my 
choice.'  "  So  we  met. 

But  the  danger  I  did  not  foresee  has 
occurred : 

The  danger,  alas,  to  yourself!  I  have 
erred. 

But  happy  for  both  that  this  error 
hath  been 

Discovered  as  soon  as  the  danger  was 
seen ! 

We  meet,  Alfred  Vargrave,  no  more. 
I,  indeed, 

Shall  be  far  from  Serchon  when  this 
letter  you  read. 

My  course  is  decided ;  my  path  I  dis- 
cern : 

Doubt  is  over ;  my  future  is  fixed  now. 
"Return, 

0  return  to  the  young  living  love! 

whence,  alas! 
If,  one  moment,  you  wandered,  think 

only  it  was 
More  deeply  to  bury  the  past  love. 

"And,  oh! 
Believe,     Alfred    Vargrave,    that   I, 

where  I  go 
On  my  far  distant  pathway  through 

life,  shall  rejoice 
To  treasure  in  memory  all  that  your 

voice 
Has  avowed  to  me,  all  in  which  others 

have  clothed 
To  my  fancy  with  beauty  and  worth 

your  betrothed ! 
In  the  fair  morning  light,  in  the  orient 

dew 
Of  that  young  life,   now  yours,  can 

you  fail  to  renew 
All  the  noble  and  pure  aspirations, 

the  truth, 
The  freshness,  the  faith,  of  your  own 

earnest  youth  ? 
Yes !  you  will  be  happy.     I,  too,   in 

the  bliss 

1  foresee  for  you,  I  shall  be  happy. 

And  this 
Proves  me  worthy  your  friendship. 

And  so — let  it  prove 
That  I  cannot— I  do  not— respond  to 

your  love. 
Yes,    indeed  ?  be    convinced    that  I 

could  not  (no,  no, 


Never,   never!)    have    rendered   you 
happy.     And  sq, 

Kest  assured  that,  if  false  to  the  vows 
you  have  plighted, 

You  would  have  endured,  when  the 
first  brief,  excited 

Emotion  was  o'er,  not  alone  the  re- 
morse 

Of  honor,  but  also  (to  render  it  worse) 

Disappointed  affection. 

"  Yes,  Alfred  ;  you  start  ? 

But  think !  if  the  world  was  too  much 
in  your  heart, 

And  too  little  in  mine,  when  we  part- 
ed ten  years 

Ere  this  last  fatal  meeting,  that  time 
(ay,  and  tears !) 

Have  but  deepened  the  old  demarca- 
tions which  then 

Placed  our  natures  asunder ;  and  we 
two  again, 

As  we  then  were,  would  still  have 
been  strangely  at  strife. 

In  that  self-independence  which  is  to 
my  life 

Its  necessity  now,  as  it  once  was  its 
pride, 

Had  our    course  through  the  world 
been  henceforth  side  by  side, 

I  should  have  revolted  forever,  and 
shocked, 

Your  respect  for  the  world's  plausi- 
bilities, mocked, 

Without  meaning  to  do  so,  and  out- 
raged, all  those 

Social  creeds  which  you  live  by. 

"Oh !  do  not  suppose 

That  I  blame  you.    Perhaps  it  is  you 
that  are  right. 

Best,  then,  all  as  it  is ! 

"  Deem  these  words  life's  Good-night 

To  the  hope  of  a  moment :  no  more ! 
If  there  fell 

Any    tear    on    this    page,   't  was    a 
friend's. 

"  So  farewell 

To  the  past— and  to  you,  Alfred  Var- 
grave. 

"LUCILE." 
X. 

So  ended  that  letter. 

The  room  seemed  to  reel 
Round  and  round  in  the  mist  that  was 

scorching  his  eyes 
With  a  fiery  dew.    Grief,  resentment, 

surprise,  .  _^__ 


Half  choked  him ;  each  word  he  had 

read,  as  it  smote 
Down  some  hope,  rose  and  grasped 

like  a  hand  at  his  throat, 
To  stifle  and  strangle  him. 

Gasping  already 

For  relief  from  himself,  with  a  foot- 
step unsteady, 
He  passed  from  his  chamber.    He  felt 

both  oppressed 
And  excited.     The  letter  he  thrust  in 

his  breast, 

And,  in  search  of  fresh  air  and  of  sol- 
itude, passed 
The  long  lime-trees  of  Serchon.    His 

footsteps  at  last 
Reached  a  bare  narrow  heath  by  the 

skirts  of  a  wood : 
It  was  sombre  and  silent,  and  suited 

his  mood. 
By  a  mineral    spring,  long  unused, 

now  unknown, 
Stood  a  small   ruined   abbey.      He 

reached  it,  sat  down 
On  a  fragment  of  stone,  'mid  the  wild 

weed  and  thistle, 
And  read  over  again  that  perplexing 

epistle. 

XI. 
In  re-reading  that  letter,  there  rolled 

from  his  mind 
The  raw  mist  of  resentment  which 

first  made  him  blind 
To  the  pathos  breathed  through  it. 

Tears  rose  in  his  eyes, 
And  a  hope  sweet  and  strange  in  his 

heai-t  seemed  to  rise. 
The  truth  which  he  saw  not  the  first 

time  he  read 
That  letter,  he  now  saw, — that  each 

word  betrayed 
The  love  which  the  writer  had  sought 

to  conceal. 
His  love  was  received  not,  he  could 

not  but  feel, 
For  one  reason  alone, — that  his  love 

was  not  free, 
True  !  free  yet  he  was  not :  but  could 

he  not  be 
Free  ere  long,  free  as  air  to  revoke 

that  farewell. 
And  to  sanction  his  own  hopes  ?  he 

had  but  to  tell 
The  truth  to  Matilda,  and  she  were 

the  first 
To  release  him:  he  had  but  to  wait 

at  the  worst. 


LUCILE. 


51 


Matilda's    relations  would    probably 

snatch 
Any  pretext,  with  pleasure,  to  break 

off  a  match 
In  which  they  had  yielded,  alone  at 

the  whim 

Of  their  spoiled  child,  a  languid  ap- 
proval to  him. 
She  herself,  careless  child!  was  her 

love  for  him  aught 

Save  the  first  joyous  fancy  succeed- 
ing the  thought 
She  last  gave  to  her  doll?  was  she 

able  to  feel 
Such  a  love  as  the  love  he  divined  in 

Lucile  ? 
He  would  seek  her,  obtain  his  release, 

and,  oh !  then  , 

He  had  but  to  fly  to  Lucile,  and  again 
Claim  the  love  which  his  heart  would 

be  free  to  command. 
But  to  press  on  Lucile  any  claim  to 

her  hand, 

Or  even  to  seek,  or  to  see  her,  before 
He    could    say,    "I  am    free!    free, 

Lucile,  to  implore 
That  great  blessing  on  life  you  alone 

can  confer,' 
'T  were  dishonor  in  him,  'twould  be 

insult  to  her. 
Thus  still  with  the  letter  outspread 

on  his  knee 

He  followed  so  fondly  his  own  re  very, 
That  he  felt  not  the  angry  regard  of 

a  man 
Fixed  upon  him ;    he  saw  not  a  face 

stern  and  wan 
Turned  towards  him  ;  he  heard  not  a 

footstep  that  passed 
And  repassed  the  lone  spot  where  he 

stood,  till  at  last 
A  hoarse  voice  aroused  him. 

He  looked  up  and  saw, 
On  the  bare  heath  before  him,   the 

Due  de  Luvois. 

XII. 

With  aggressive  ironical  tones,  and  a 
look 

Of  concentrated  insolent  challenge, 
the  Duke 

Addressed  to  Lord  Alfred  some  sneer- 
ing allusion 

To  "  the  doubtless  sublime  reveries 
his  intrusion 

Had,  he  feared,  interrupted.  Milord 
would  do  better, 


He  fancied,   however,    to  fold  up  a 

letter 
The  writing  of  which  was  too  well 

known,  in  fact, 
His  remark  as    he    passed    to  have 

failed  to  attract." 

XIII. 

It  was  obvious  to  Alfred  the  French' 
man  was  bent 

Upon  picking  a  quarrel  !  and  doubt- 
less 't  was  meant 

From  1dm  to  provoke  it  by  sneers 
such  as  these. 

A  moment  sufficed  his  quick  instinct 
to  seize 

The  position.    He  felt  that  he  could 
not  expose 

His  own  name,   or  Lucile's,  or  Ma- 
tilda's, to  those 

Idle  tongues  that  would  bring  down 
upon  him  the  ban 

Of  the  world,  if  he  now  were  to  fight 
with  this  man. 

And  indeed,  when  he  looked  in  the 
Duke's  haggard  face, 

He  was  pained  by  the  change  there 
he  could  not  but  trace. 

And  he  almost  felt  pity. 

He  therefore  put  by 

Each   remark    from    the  Duke  with 
some  careless  reply, 

And  coldly,  but  courteously,  waving 
away 

The  ill-humor  the  Duke  seemed  re- 
solved to  display, 

Rose,  and  turned,  with  a  stern  saluta- 
tion, aside. 

XIV. 
Then  the  Duke  put  himself  in  the 

path,  made  one  stride 
In  advance,  raised  a  hand,  fixed  upon 

him  his  eyes, 
And  said  .  .  . 

"Hold,  Lord  Alfred!    Away  with 

disguise, 
I  will  own  that  I  sought  you  a  moment 

ago, 
To  fix  on  you  a  quarrel.  I  still  can  do 

so 
Upon    any    excuse.     I  prefer   to  be 

frank. 

I  admit  not  a  rival  in  fortune  or  rank 
To  the  hand  of  a  woman,  whatever  be 

hers 
Or  her  suitor's.     I  love  the  Comtesse 

de  Nevers. 


LUCILE. 


I  "believed,  ere  you  crossed  me,  and 
still  have  the  right 

To  believe,  that  she  would  have  been 
mine.     To  her  sight 

You  return,  and  the  woman  is  sudden- 
ly changed. 

You  step  in  between  us :  her  heart  is 
estranged. 

You !  who  are  now  betrothed  to  anoth- 
er, I  know : 

You!  whose  name  with  Lucile's  near- 
ly ten  years  ago 

Was  coupled  by  ties  which  you  broke : 
you !  the  man 

I  reproached  on  the  day  our  acquaint- 
ance began : 

You !  that  left  her  so  lightly, — I  can- 
not believe 

That  you  love,  as  I  love,  her;  nor  can 
I  conceive 

You,  indeed,  have  the  right  so  to  love 
her. 

"Milord 

I  will  not  thus   tamely  concede,  at 
your  word, 

What,  a  few  days  ago,  I  believed  to 
be  mine ! 

I  shall  yet  persevere :  I  shall  yet  be, 
in  fine, 

A  rival  you  dare  not  despise.    It  is 
plain 

That  to  settle  this  contest  there  can 
but  remain 

One  way— need  I  say  what  it  is  ?" 
XV. 

Not  unmoved 

With  regretful  respect  for  the  earnest- 
ness proved 

By  the  speech  he  had  heard,  Alfred 
Vargrave  replied 

In  words  which  he  trusted  might  yet 
turn  aside 

The  quarrel  from  which  he  felt  bound 
to  abstain, 

And,  with  stately  urbanity,  strove  to 

explain 
To  the  Duke  that  he  too  (a  fair  rival 

at  worst !) 
Had  not  been  accepted.     . 

XVI. 

"Accepted!  say  first 
Are  you  free  to  have  offered  ?" 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute. 

XVII. 

"Ah,  you  dare  not  reply  !"  cried  the 
Duke.     "Why  dispute, 


Why  palter  with  me  ?    You  are  silent! 

and  why  ? 
Because,  in  your  conscience,  you  can- 
not deny 
T  was  from  vanity,  wanton  and  cruel 

withal, 
And  the  wish  an  ascendency  lost  to 

recall, 
That  you  stepped  in  between  me  and 

her.     If,  milord, 
You  be  really  sincere,  I  ask  only  one 

word. 
Say  at  once  you  renounce  her.    At 

once,  on  my  part, 
I  will  ask  your  forgiveness  with  all 

truth  of  heart, 
And  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between 

us.     Say  on !" 
Lord  Alfred  grew  galled  and  impatient 

This  tone 
Koused  a  strong  irritation  he  could 

not  repress. 
"You  have  not  the  right,  sir,"  he 

said,  "  and  still  less 
The  power,  to  make  terms  and  condi- 
tions with  me. 
I  refuse  to  reply." 

XVIII. 

As  diviners  may  see 

Fates  they  cannot  avert  in  some  fig- 
ure "occult, 

He  saw  in  a  moment  each  evil  result 

Of  the  quarrel  now  imminent. 

There,  face  to  face, 

'Mid  the  ruins  and  tombs  of  a  long- 
perished  race, 

With,  for  witness,  the  stern  Autumn 
Sky  overhead, 

And   beneath  them,    unnoticed,    the 
graves,  and  the  dead, 

Those  two  men  had  met,  as  it  were  on 
the  ridge 

Of    that    perilous,   narrow,   invisible 
bridge 

Dividing  the  Past  from  the  Future,  so 
small 

That,    if  one  should  pass   over,   the 
other  must  fall. 

XIX. 
On  the  ear,  at  that  moment,  the  soxmd 

of  a  hoof, 
Urged  with  speed,  sharply  smote  ;  and 

from  under  the  roof 
Of  the  forest  in  view,  where  the  skirts 

of  it  verged 


LUCILE. 


53 


On  the  heath  where  they  stood,  at  full 

gallop  emerged 
A  horseman. 

A  guide  he  appeared,  by  the  sash 
Of  red  silk  round  the  waist,  and  the 

long  leathern  lash 
With  the  short  wooden  handle,  slung 

crosswise  behind 
The  short  jacket ;    the  loose  canvas 

trouser,  confined 
By  the  long  boots ;  the  woolen  capote ; 

and  the  rein, 
A  mere  hempen  cord  on  a  curb. 

Up  the  plain 
He  wheeled  his  horse,  white  with  the 

foam  on  his  flank, 
Leaped    the     rivulet    Ightly,    turned 

sharp  from  the  bank, 
And,   approaching  the  Duke,  raised 

his  woolen  capote, 
Bowed  low  in  the  selle,  and  delivered 

a  note. 

xx. 

The  two  stood  astonished.  The  Duke, 

with  a  gest 
Of    apology,     turned,    stretched    his 

hand,  and  possessed 
Himself  of  the  letter,  changed  color 

and  tore 
The  page  open,  and  read. 

Ere  a  moment  was  o'er 
His  whole  aspect  changed.    A  light 

rose  to  his  eyes, 
And  a  smile  to  his  lips.      While  with 

startled  surprise 
Lord   Alfred    yet  watched    him,   he 

turned  on  his  heel, 
And  said  gayly,  "A  pressing  request 

from  Lucile ! 
You  are  quite  right,  Lord  Alfred !  fair 

rivals  at  worst, 
Our  relative  place  may  perchance  be 

reversed. 
You  are  not    accepted— nor  free  to 

propose  ! 
I,  perchance,  am  accepted  already; 

who  knows  ? 
I  had  warned  you,  milord,  I  should 

still  persevere. 
This  letter— but  stay!  you  can  read 

it— look  here !" 

xxi.  • 

It  was  now  Alfred's  turn  to  feel  roused 

and  enraged. 
But  Lucile  to  himself  was  not  pledged 

or  engaged 


By  aught  that  could  sanction  resent- 
ment. 
He  said 

Not  a  word,  but  turned  round,  took 
the  letter,  and  read  .  .  . 

The  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS  to  the  Due 

DE  LUVOIS. 

"SAINT  SAVIOUR. 
''Your    letter,    which    followed    me 

here,  makes  me  stay 
Till  I  see  you  again.      With  no  mo- 
ment's delay 
I  entreat,  I  conjure  you,  by  all  that 

you  feel 

Or  profess,  to  come  to  me  directly. 
"  LUCILE." 

xxn. 

"  Your  letter !"    He  then   had  been 
writing  to  her ! 

Coldly  shrugging  his  shoulders,  Lord 
Alfred  said,  "Sir, 

Do  not  let  me  detain  you !" 

The  Duke  smiled  and  bowed; 

Placed  the  note  in  his  bosom;  ad- 
dressed, half  aloud, 

A  few  words  to  the  messenger :  .  .  . 
"  Say  your  despatch 

Will  be  answered  ere  nightfall"  ;  then 
glanced  at  his  watch, 

And  turned  back  to  the  Baths. 

XXIII. 

Alfred  Vargrave  stood  still, 
Torn,  distracted  in  heart,  and  divided 

in  will. 
He  turned  to  Lucile's  farewell  letter 

to  him, 
And  read  over  her  words ;  rising  teara 

made  them  dim ; 
Doubt  is  over:  my  future  is  fixed 

noiv,"  they  said, 
' '  My  course  is  decided."    Her  course  ? 

what !  to  wed 
With  this  insolent  rival !    With  that 

thought  there  shot 
Through  his  heart  an  acute  jealous 

anguish.     But  not 
Even    this    could  his    clear  worldly 

sense  quite  excuse 
Those   strange  words  to   the  Duke. 

She  was  free  to  refuse 
Himself,  free  the  Duke  to  accept,  it 

was  true  : 
Even  then,   though,  this    eager  and 

strange  rendezvous 


//  rn  r. 


How    inipnid.-nU    To   some   unfre- 

tpienled  lone  inn, 
And  so  liil-    i  IW  Hi--   ni"l'l  wiiH  about 

In    begin) 

She,  companionlesB  there!— had  who 
hidden  Mint,  man  f 

A  fear,  \  ;i •  n.tiil    formless,  and  hor- 

niilo  ran 

Thioii'di   lur.  heart. 

XXIV. 

Al,  that  moment,  1m  looked  up,    and 
IW 

l';i:  I.    Ihron.di     the    forest,    the 
I  >uc  do  Luvois, 
Who  waved  Ills  Irnml  to  him,  and  HpCll 

out-  of  ni^lil.. 

Tin'    <l;iy     \v:i:;    descending,        llo     f«'ll. 

'(would  be  ni"!il 
Kre  tlisil.  111:111   reached   .Saint  S:ivioiir. 

XXV. 

He  walked  on,  but  not 
Hark  l««w. -ml    Serchon  :    In-  walked  oil, 

IMI!   know  not  in  what 
Direction,    nor  yd    with  what  object, 

indeed, 
][o  WHH  walking;  but  still  ho  walked 

on  without  heed. 

XXVI. 

Thedi,;  I •  M.I  boon  milieu;  but,  towards 

In:,  d.-.'lino, 
Tlir  sun  sent  :i.  stream  of  wild  light 

up  the  pine. 
Darkly  denting  the  red  li;dil  revealed 

':it  its  back, 
The  old  ruined  abboy  rOHO  roollessand 

blMk, 

Tho  H])ring  that  yt>t  oo/.ed  through  tho 

moss  pa  ven  lluor 
H:i«l,     suggested,     no    doubt,    to    tho 

monk:.  I  here,  of  yore, 
The  silo  of  that  refuse  \\here,  bark  to 

its  (iod 
How  many  a  heart,  now  at  rost  'noath 

the  sod, 
Had    borne    from    the    \\orld    all    tho 

BlUno  wild  unrest 
That  now  preyed  on  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

I'.y    the  I  houghfs  in  his  breast 
\Vilh    varying     iinpuls(<    divided    and 

torn, 

He    i  r;i  \ersrd    tho    scant     he:ith,    and 
:ird  I  he  forlorn 


Autumn  woodland,  in  which  but  a 
short  whilo  ago 

He  had  seen  the  Duke  rapidly  enter ; 

and'  80 

He  too   entered.    The  light   waned 

around    him,  and  passed 
Into    darkness.     The    wrathful,    rod 
Occident  cast 

One  glare  of  vindictive  inquiry  be- 
hind, 

As  the  last,  light  of  day  from  the  high 
w 1  declined, 

And  tho  groat  forest  sighed  its   f.-u-e 

well  to  the  beam. 
And  far  off  on  the  stillness  tho  voico 

of  tho  8  ream 
Foil  faintly. 

XXVIII. 

()  N.'ilnre,  how   fair  is  thy  f:ice. 
And  how  light  is  thy  heart,  and  how 

friend  IOHH  thy  grace! 
Thou    false     mistress   of    mini  I    thou 

dost  sport  with  him  lightly 
In  his  hours  of   ease   and    enjoyment  : 

and   brightly 
Dost  thou  fmile  to  his  smile;  to  his 

joys  thou  inclinest, 
But  his  sorrows,  thou  knowest  thorn 

not,  nor  divinest. 
While  he  woos,  thou  arc  wanton  ;  thou 

Idlest,  him    love  thee  ; 
I'.uf   limn  art    not    his    friend,    for  his 

.-•.rid'  ca  nnot   move  tllOO  ; 
And  at   las! ,  \\  hen  he  sickens  and  dies 

w  ha!    dost   thou  T 

All  as  gay  aro  thy  garments,  as  caro- 

less  I  hy   brow, 
And    thou    laughest    and    toyesl    with 

any  now  comer, 
Not  ft   tear  more   for  winter,  a  smilo 

less  for  summer! 
Hast  thou  never  an   anguish  to  heavo 

the  heart   under 

Thai    fair  breast  of  thine,  ()  thou  fem- 
inine wonder  ! 
For  all  those,  the  young,  and  tho  fair, 

and  the  strong, 
Who  have  loved    thee,  and  lived  with 

t  hee  ga  \  I  v  and  long, 
And  who  now  on  thy  bosom  Ho  dead  f 

and  t  heir  deeds 
And  their  da \s  are  forgotten!  O,  hast 

t  itou  no  weeds 
And  not   one  year  of  mourning, — ono 

out  of  liio  many 
That  deck  ihy  new  bridals  forover, — 

nor  any 


/./  r //./:. 


55 


is  for  lliylost  loves,  c<)ii(M'!ilc<l 

from  I  ho  new, 
()  thou  widow  of  earth's  generations  f 

(Jo  to! 
Iflhn  .sea,  Mini  the  night  wind  know 

alight  of  these  !  lungs, 
They  do   not,   reyeal    it.      \Vo  tll'O    Hot 

tliy  kings. 


CANTO  VI, 
I. 

"TilK  himNman  has  ridden  too  far  on 

the  chase. 
And  eldrich,  :ui<l  <  eric,  JI.IM!  HtrangO  is 

tlio  place ! 
Tim  castle  betokens  a  date  long  gone 

by. 

Ho  crosses  the  court-yard  \\illi  Cliri- 
ious  oyo : 

II"  wanders  from  chamber  to  cham- 
ber, and  yet 

From  strangeness  to  strangeness  his 
footsteps  are  sot ; 

Ami  the  whole  place  grows  wilder  and 
wilder,  and  loss 

Like  aught  soon  before.  Each  in  ob- 
solete dress, 

SI  run  go  portraits  regard  him  with 
look  ..I'  surprise, 

Strungo  forms  from  tho  arra.s  start 
I'orlli  to  his  cy<-s  ; 

Strange  epigraphs,  blu/.oned,  burn 
out  of  tlio  wall  : 

Tlio  spell  of  a  wi/.ard  is  over  il,  all. 

In  her  chamber,  em-hunted,  tlio  Prin- 
cess is  sleeping 

TllO    slee|>     wllirh      for     centuries     she 

has  been  keepm:-;. 
If  she  smile    in    her   sleep,  it  must  bo 

to  some  lover 
Whoso    lost    golden     locks    tlio    long 

grasses  cover  : 
If  she  moan  in  her  dream,  it  must  bo 

to  deplore 

Some  grief  which  tho  world  cares  to 

hear  of  no  more. 
Hut    how    fair    is    her    forehead,  how 

calm  seems  her  cheek! 
And  how  sweet,  must  I  hat  voico  bo,  if 

once  she  would   speak  ! 
He  looks  and  he  loves  her  ;  bnl,  knows 

ho  (not  he  !) 

The  dew  lo  unravel  this  old  mystery? 
And  he  stoops  to  those  shut,  lips.     The 

shapes  on  tho  wall, 


Tho  mute  men   in   armor  around  him, 

and  all 
The   weird    figures    frown,  as    though 

striving  to  say, 
'Hull!   inradi-   not  /ho  Past,  reckless 

child  of  To-dat/ 1 
And  i/ivc  not,  ()  )>i<i(iin((n  !  the  heart  in 

(hi/  hrrast 
I'o  K  i>ltanto>n,  i ho  soul  of  whose  sense 

in  possessed 

fly  an  Ayo  not  thine  own!' 

"  But  unconscious  is  he, 
And  ho  hoods  not  tho  warning,  he 

cares  not  to  see 
Aught  but  owe  form  before  him  I 

"  Hash,  wild  words  aro  o'er; 
And    tho    vision    is    vanished    from 

,-;i;dit  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  recap- 
ture a  dream. 

Lost  to  life  and  its  uses,  withdrawn 
from  tho  schemo 

Of  man's  waking  existence,  ho  wan- 
ders 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  tho  old,  hoard 
with  smiles  by  tho  young. 

And  tho  tale  to  each  heart  unto  which 
it  is  known 

Has  a  different  sense.  It  has  puzzled 
iny  own. 

II. 

Eugono  de  Luvois  was  a  man  who,  in 

part 
From  Ktrongphysical  health,  and  that 

vigor  of  heart 
Which    physical    health    gives,    and 

partly,  perchance, 
From  a    generous    vanity  native  to 

I'Yance, 
With  the  heart  of  a  hunter,  whatever 

tho  quarry, 
Pursued   it,    too  hotly   impatient   to 

tarry 
(  >r  turn,  till  he  took  it.     His  trophies 

were  trifles: 
But   triller    he    was  not.      When   roso- 

loaves  it   rifles, 


f>G 


LUC  ILK 


No  less  than  when  oak  trees  it  ruins, 

the  wind  mind. 

Its  pleasure  pursues  with  impetuous 
Both  Eugene  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Al- 

fred had  been 
Men  of  pleasure  :  but  men's  pleasant 

vices,  which,  seen 
Floating  faint,  in  the  sunshine  of  Al- 

fred's soft  mood, 
Seemed  amiable  foibles,   by  Luvois 

pursued 
With  impetuous  passion,  seemed  semi- 

Satanic. 
Half  pleased  you  see  brooks  play  with 

pebbles  ;  in  panic 
You  watched  them  whirled  down  by 

the  torrent. 

In  truth, 
To  the  sacred  political  creed  of  his 

youth 
The  century  which  he  was  born  to 

denied 

All  realization.     Its  generous  pride 
To  degenerate  protest  on  all  things 

was  sunk; 
Its  principles  each   to    a    prejudice 

shrunk. 
Down  the  path  of  a  life  that  led  no- 

where he  trod, 
Where  his  whims  were  his  guides,  and 

his  will  was  his  god, 
And  his  pastime  his  purpose. 


From  boyhood  possessed 
,  he  had  l 


learned  to 


Of  inherited  wealth 

invest 
Both  his  wealth  and  those  passions 

wealth  frees  from  the  cage 
Which  penury  locks,  in  each  vice  of 

an  age 
All  the  virtues  of  which,  by  the  creed 

he  revered, 
Were  to  him  illegitimate. 

Thus,  he  appeared 
To  the  world  what  the  world  chose  to 

have  him  appear,  — 
The  frivolous  tyrant  of  Fashion,  a  mere 
Kef  ormer  in  coats,  cards  and  carriages! 

Still 
'T  was  this  vigor  of  nature,  and  ten- 

sion of  will, 
That  found  for  the  first  time  —  per- 

chance for  the  last  — 
In  Lucile  what  they  lacked  yet  to  free 

from  the  Past, 
Force,  and  faith,  in  the  Future. 

And  so,  in  his  mind, 
To  the  anguish  of  losing  the  woman 

was  joined 


The  terror  of  missing  his  life's  desti- 
nation, 

Which  .in  her  hand  had  its  mystical 
representation. 

III. 

And  truly,  the  thought  of  it,  scaring 
him,  passed 

O'er  his  heart,  while  he  now  through 
the  twilight  rode  fast. 

As  a  shade  from  the  wing  of  some 
great  bird  obscene 

In  a  wide  silent  land  may  be  sudden- 
ly seen, 

Darkening  over  the  sands,  where  it 
startles  and  scares 

Some  traveller  strayed  in  the  waste 
unawares, 

So  that  thought  more  than  once  dark- 
ened over  his  heart 

For  a  moment,  and  rapidly  seemed  to 
depart. 

Fast  and  furious  he  rode  through  the 
thickets  which  rose 

Up  the  shaggy  hillside :  and  the  quar- 
relling crows 

Clanged  above  him,  and  clustering 
down  the  dim  air 

Dropped  into  the  dark  woods.  By  fits 
here  and  there 

Shepherd  fires  faintly  gleamed  from 
the  valleys.  O,  how 

He  envied  the  wings  of  each  wild 
bird,  as  now 

He  urged  the  steed  over  the  dizzy  as- 
cent 

Of  the  mountain !  Behind  him  a  mur- 
mur was  sent 

From  the  torrent, — before  him  a 
sound  from  the  tracts 

Of  the  woodlands  that  waved  o'er  the 
wild  cataracts, 

And  the  loose  earth  and  loose  stones 
rolled  momently  clown 

From  the  hoofs  of  his  steed  to  abysses 
unknown. 

The  red  day  had  fallen  beneath  the 
black  woods, 

And  the  Powers  of  the  night  through 
the  vast  solitudes 

Walked  aboard  and  conversed  with 
each  other.  The  trees 

Were  in  sound  and  in  motion,  and 
muttered  like  seas 

In  Elfland.  The  road  through  the  for- 
est was  hollowed. 

On  he  sped  through  the  darkness,  as 
though  he  were  followed 


LUCILE. 


57 


Fast,  fast  by  the  Erl  King! 

The  wild  wizard-work 

Of  the  forest  at  last  opened  sharp, 
o'er  the  fork 

Of  a  savage  ravine,  and  behind  the 
black  stems 

Of  the  last  trees,  whose  leaves  in  the 
light  gleamed  like  gems, 

Broke  the  broad  moon  above  the  vol- 
uminous 

Kock-chaos, — the  Hecate  of  that  Tar- 
tarus ! 

With  his  horse  reeking  white,  he  at 
last  reached  the  door 

Of  a  small  mountain  inn,  on  the  brow 
of  a  hoar 

Craggy  promontory,  o'er  a  fissure  as 
grim, 

Through  which,  ever  roaring,  there 
leaped  o'er  the  limb 

Of  the  rent  rock  a  torrent  of  water, 
from  sight, 

Into  pools  that  were  feeding  the  roots 
of  the  night. 

A  balcony  hung  o'er  the  water.  Above 

In  a  glimmering  easement  a  shade 
seemed  to  move. 

At  the  door  the  old  negress  was  nod- 
ding her  head 

As  he  reached  it.  "  My  mistress 
awaits  you,"  she  said. 

And  up  the  rude  stairway  of  creaking 
pine  rafter 

He  followed  her  silent.  A  few  mo- 
ments after, 

His  heart  almost  stunned  him,  his 
head  seemed  to  reel, 

For  a  door  closed — Luvois  was  alone 
with  Lucile. 

IV. 

In  a  gray  travelling  dress,  her  dark 
hair  unconfined 

Streaming  o'er  it,  and  tossed  now  and 
then  by  the  wind 

From  the  lattice,  that  waved  the  dull 
flame  in  a  spire 

From  a  brass  lamp  before  her,— a 
faint  hectic  fire 

On  her  cheek,  to  her  eyes  lent  the 
lustre  of  fever. 

They  seemed  to  have  wept  them- 
selves wider  than  ever, 

Those    dark    eyes,— so  dark  and   so 


"You  relent? 
And  your  plans  have  been  changed  by 
the  letter  I  sent  ?" 


There  his  voice  sank,  borne  down  by 
a  strong  inward  strife. 

LUCILE. 

Your    letter!    yes,     Duke.      For   it 

threatens  man's  life, — 
Woman's  honor. 

Luvois. 

The  last,  madam,  not ! 
LUCILE. 

Both.     I  glance 
At  your  own  words  ;  blush,  son  of  the 

knighthood  of  France, 
As  I  read  them !    You  say  in  this  let- 
ter ... 

I  know 
Wliy  now  you  refuse  me  ;  't  is  (is  it  not 

so?) 
For  the  man  who  has  trifled  before, 

wantonly, 
And  now  trifles  again  with  the  heart 

you  deny 
To  myself .  But  he  shall  not !  By  man's 

last  wild  law, 
I  will  seize  on  the  right  (the  right,  Due 

de  Luvois !) 
To  avenge  for  you,  woman,  the  past, 

and  to  give 
To  the  future  its  freedom.    TJiat  man 

shall  not  live 
To  make  you  as  ivretched  as  you  have 

made  me !" 

Luvois. 

Well,  madam,  in  those  words  what 

word  do  you  see 
That  threatens  the  honor  of  woman  ? 

LUCILE. 

See !  .  .  .  what, 
What  word,  do  you  ask  ?  Every  word ! 

would  you  not, 
Had  I  taken  your  hand  thus,  have  felt 

that  your  name 
Was  soiled  and  dishonored  by  more 

than  mere  shame 
If  the  woman  that  bore  it  had  first 

been  the  cause 
Of  the  crime  which  in  these  words  is 

menaced  ?    You  pause  ! 
Woman's  honor,  you  ask  ?    Is  there, 

sir,  no  dishonor 
In  the  smile  of  a  woman,  when  men, 

gazing  on  her, 
Can  shudder,  and  say,  "  In  that  smile 

is  a  grave ;  ? 


58 


LUCILK 


No!  you  can  have  no  cause,  Duke, 

for  no  right  you  have 
In   the    contest   you  menace.    That 

contest  but  "draws 
Every  right  into  ruin.    By  all  human 

laws 

Of  man's  heart  I  forbid  it,  by  all  sanc- 
tities 
Of  man's  social  honor ! 

The  Duke  dropped  his  eyes. 
"I  obey   you,"    he    said,    "but    let 

woman  beware 
How  she  plays  fast  and  loose  thus 

with  human  despair, 
And  the  storm  in  man's  heart.     Mad- 
am, yours  was  the  right, 
When  you  saw  that  I  hoped,  to  ex- 
tinguish hope  quite, 
But  you  should  from  the  first  have 

done  this,  for  I  feel 
That  you  knew  from  the  first  that  I 

loved  you." 

Lueile 
This    sudden    reproach    seemed    to 

startle. 

She  raised 
slow,  wistful  regard  to  his  features, 

and  gazed 
On  them  silent  awhile.  His  own  looks 

were  downcast. 
Through  her  heart,  whence  its  first 

wild  alarm  was  now  passed, 
Pity  crept,   and  perchance   o'er  her 

conscience  a  tear, 
Falling  softly  awoke  it. 

However  severe, 
Were  they  unjust,  these  sudden  up- 

braidings,  to  her  ? 
Had    she  lightly   misconstrued   this 

man's  character, 
Which  had  seemed,  even  when  most 

impassioned  it  seemed, 
Too  self-conscious  to  lose  all  in  love  ? 

Had  she  deemed 
That  this  airy,  gay,  insolent  man  of 

the  world, 
So  proud  of  the  place  the  world  gave 

him,  held  furled 
In  his  bosom  no  passion  which  once 

shaken  wide 
Might  tug,  till  it  snapped  that  erect 

lofty  pride  ? 
Were  those  elements  in  him,  which 

once  roused  to  strife 
Overthrow  a  whole  nature,  and  change 

a  whole  life  ? 
There  are  two  kinds  of  strength.  One, 

the  strength  of  the  river 


Which  through  continents  pushes  its 

pathway  forever 
To  fling  its  fond  heart  in  the  sea ;  if 

it  lose 
This,  the  aim  of  its  life,  it  is  lost  to 

its  use, 
It  goes  mad,  is  diffused  into  deluge, 

and  dies. 
The  other,  the  strength  of  the  sea; 

which  supplies 
Its  deep  life  from  mysterious  sources, 

and  draws 
The  river's  life  into  its  own  life,  by 

laws 
Which  it  heeds  not.     The  difference 

in  each  case  is  this  : 
The  river  is  lost,  if  the  ocean  it  miss ; 
If  the  sea  miss  the  river,  what  matter? 

The  sea 
Is  the    sea  still,   forever.    Its    deep 

heart  will  be 
Self-sufficing,  unconscious  of  loss  as 

of  yore ; 
Its  sources  are  infinate ;  still  to  the 

shore, 
With  no  diminution  of  pride,  it  will 

say, 
"I  am  here:  I,  the  sea!  stand  aside, 

and  make  way!" 
Was  his  love,  then,  the  love  of  the 

river?  and  she, 
Had  she  taken  that  love  for  the  love 

of  the  sea  ? 

V. 

At   that  thought,    from   her   aspect 

whatever  had  been 
Stern    or   haughty    departed ;     and, 

humbled  in  mein, 
She   approached  him,   and  brokenly 

murmured,  as  though 
To  herself  more  than  him,    "Was  I 

wrong  ?  is  it  so  ? 
Hear  me,  Duke  !  you  must  feel  that, 

whatever  you  deem 
Your  right  to  reproach  me  in  this, 

yotir  esteem 
I  may  claim  on  one  ground,— I  at 

least  am  sincere. 
You  say  that  to  me  from  the  first  it 

was  clear 
That  you  loved  me.     But  what  if  this 

knowledge  were  known 
At  a  moment  in  life  when  I  felt  most 

alone, 
And  least  able  to  be  so  ?    A  moment, 

in  fact, 


LUCILE. 


When  I  strove  from  one  haunting  re- 
gret to  retract 
And  emancipate  life,  and  once  more 

to  fulfil 
Woman's,  destinies,  duties,  and  hopes? 

would  you  still 
So  bitterly  blame  me,  Eugene  de  Lu- 

rois, 
If  I  hoped  to  see  all  this,  or  deemed 

that  I  saw 
For  a  moment  the  promise  of  this,  in 

the  plighted 

Affection  of  one  who,  in  nature,  uni- 
ted, 
So  much  that  from  others  affection 

might  claim, 
If  only  affection  were  free  ?    Do  you 

blame 
The  hope  of  that  moment  ?    I  deemed 

my  heart  free 
From  all,  saving  sorrow,      I  deemed 

that  in  me 
There  was   yet  strength  to  mould  it 

once  more  to  my  will, 
To  uplift  it  once  more  to  my  hope. 

Do  you  still 
Blame  me,  Duke,  that  I  did  not  then 

bid  you  refrain 
From  hope  ?  alas !  I  too  then  hoped ! " 

Luvois. 

O,  again, 
Yet  again,    say  that  thrice  -  blessed 

word!  say,  Lucile, 
That  you  then  deigned  to  hope — 

LUCILE. 

Yes!  to  hope  I  could  feel, 

And  could  give  to  you  that  without 
which,  all  else  given 

Were  but  to  deceive  and  to  injure 
you  even : — 

A  heart  free  from  thoughts  of  anoth- 
er. Say,  then, 

Do  you  blame  that  one  hope  ? 

Luvois. 

O  Lucile ! 

"Say  again," 
She  resumed,  gazing  down,  and  with 

faltering  tone, 
"  Do  you  blame  me  that,  when  I  at 

last  had  to  own.  [ished  was  o'er 
To  my  heart  that  the  hope  it  had  cher- 
And  forever,  I  said  to  you  then, 

'Hope  no  more '? 
I  myself  hoped  no  more  "  •' 


With  but  ill-suppressed  wrath 
The  Duke  answered  .  .  .  "  What,  then! 

he  recrosses  your  path 
This  man,  and  you  have  but  to  see 

him,  despite 
Of  his  troth  to  another,  to  take  back 

that  light 
Worthless  heart  to  your  own,  which 

he  wronged  years  ago !" 
Lucile  faintly,   brokenly  murmured, 

.  .  .  "No!  no! 

'T  is  not  that— but  alas!— but  I  can- 
not conceal 
That  I  have  not  forgotten  the  past — 

but  I  feel 
That  I  cannot  accept  all  these  gifts 

on  your  part, — 
In  return  for  what .  .  .  ah,  Duke,  what 

is  it  ?  ...  a  heart 
Which  is  only  a  ruin !" 

With  words  warm  and  wild, 
' '  Though  a  ruin  it  be,  trust  me  yet  to 

rebuild 
And     restore    it,"     Luvois     cried; 

"  though  ruined  it  be, 
Since  so  dear  is  that  ruin,  ah,  yield  it 

to  me !" 
He  approached  her.     She  shrank  back 

The  grief  in  her  eyes 
Answered,  "  No !" 

An  emotion  more  fierce  seemed  to  rise 
And  to  break  into  flame,  as  though 

fired  by  the  light 

Of  that  look,  in  his  heart.    He  ex- 
claimed, "  Am  I  right  ? 
You  reject  me  !  accept  hint  /" 

"  I  have  not  done  so," 
She  said  firmly.   He  hoarsely  resumed 

"Not  yet,— no! 
But  can   you    with   accents  as  firm 

promise  me 
That  you  will  not  accept  him  ?" 

"Accept?    Is  he  free? 
Free  to  offer  f "  she  said. 

"  You  evade  me,  Lucile," 
He  replied;  "ah,  you  will  not  avow 

what  you  feel! 
He  might  make  himself  free?    O,  you 

blush,— turn  away! 
Dare    you   openly  look  in  my  face, 

lady,  say! 

While  you  deign  to  reply  to  one  ques- 
tion from  me  ? 
I  may  hope  not,  you  tell  me  :  but  tell 

me.  may  he  ? 
What!  silent'?   I  alter  my  question. 

If  quite 


LUCILE. 


Freed  in  faith  from  this  troth,  might 
he  hope  then  ?" 

"He  might," 
She  said  softly. 

VI. 

Those   two  whispered  words,  in  his 
breast, 

As  he  heard  them,  in  one  maddening 
moment  releast 

All  that's  evil  and  fierce  in  man's  na- 
ture, to  crush 

And    extinguish    in    man    all    that's 
good.     In  the  rush 

Of  wild  jealousy,  all  the  fierce  pas- 
sions that  waste 

And  darken  and  devastate  intellect, 
chased 

From  its  realm  human  reason.     The 
wild  animal 

In  the  bosom  of  man  was  set  free. 
And  of  all 

Human  passions  the  fiercest,   fierce 
jealousy,  fierce 

As  the  fire,  and  more  wild  than  the 
whirlwind,  to  pierce 

And  to  rend,  rushed  upon  him ;  fierce 
jealousy,  swelled 

By  all  passion's  bred  from  it,  and  ever 
impelled 

To  involve  all  things  else  in  the  an- 
guish within  it, 

And  on  others  inflict  its  own  pangs  ! 
At  that  minute 

What  passed  through  his  mind,  who 
shall  say?  who  may  tell 

The   dark  thoughts   of  man's  heart, 
which  the  red  glare  of  hell 

Can  illumine  alone  ? 

He  stared  wildly  around 
,  That  lone  place,  so  lonely !    That  si- 
lence !  no  sound 

Reached  that  room,  through  the  dark 
evening  air,  save  the  drear 

Drip  and  roar  of  the  cataract  cease- 
less and  near! 

It  was  midnight  all  round    on    the 
weird  silent  weather; 

Deep  midnight  in  him  \     They  two,— 
lone  and  together, 

Himself,  and  that  woman  defenceless 
before  him ! 

The  triumph  and  bliss  of  his  rival 
flashed  o'er  him. 

The  abyss  of  his  own  black  despair 
seemed  to  ope 

At  his  feet,  with  that  awful  exclusion 
of  hope 


Which  Dante  read  over  the  city  of 
doom. 

All  the,Tarquin  passed  into  his  soul 
in  the  gloom, 

And,  uttering  words  he  dared  never 
recall, 

Words  of  insult  and  menace,  he  thun- 
dered down  all 

The  brewed  storm-cloud  within  him : 
its  flashes  scorched  blind 

His  own  senses.  His  spirit  was  driv- 
en on  the  wind 

Of  a  reckless  emotion  beyond  his  con- 
trol; 

A  torrent  seemed  loosened  within  him. 
His  soul 

Surged  up  from  that  caldron  of  pas' 
sioii  that  hissed 

And  seethed  in  his  heart. 

VII. 

He  had  thrown,  and  had  missed 
His  last  stake. 

VIII. 

For,  transfigured,  she  rose  from  the 
place 

Where  he  rested  o'erawed:  a  saint's 
scorn  on  her  face  ; 

Such  a  dread  vade  retro  was  written 
in  light 

On  her  forehead,  the  fiend  would  him- 
self, at  that  sight 

Have  sunk  back  abashed  to  perdition. 
I  know 

If  Lucretia  at  Tarquin  but  once  had 
looked  so, 

She  had  needed  no  dagger  next  morn- 
ing. She  rose 

And  swept  to  the  door,  like  that 
phantom  the  snows 

Feel  at  nightfall  sweep  o'er  them, 
when  daylight  is  gone, 

And  Caucasus  is  with  the  moon  all 
alone, 

There  she  paused ;  and  as  though 
from  immeasurable, 

Insurpassable  distance,  she  nmr-. 
mured — 

"Farewell! 

We,  alas !  have  mistaken  each  other. 
Once  more 

Illusion,  to-night,  in  my  lifetime  is 
o'er. 

Due  de  Luvois,  adieu  !" 

From  the  heart-breaking  gloom 

Of  that  vacant,  reproachful,  and  des- 
olate room, 


LUCILE. 


He  felt  she  was  gone, — gone  forever! 

IX. 

No  word, 
The  sharpest  that  ever  was    edged 

like  a  sword, 
Could  have  pierced  to  his  heart  with 

such  keen  accusation 
As  the  silence,  the  sudden  profound 

isolation, 
In  which  he  remained. 

" O,  return;  I  repent !" 
He  exclaimed  ;  but  no  sound  through 

the  stillness  was  sent, 
Save  the  roar  of  the  water,  in  answer 

to  him, 
And   the  beetle  that,    sleeping,   yet 

hummed  her  night-hymn : 
An  indistinct  anthem,  that  troubled 

the  air 
With  a  searching,   and  wistful,  and 

questioning  prayer. 
"  Return,"  sung  the  wandering  insect. 

The  roar 
Of  the  waters  replied,  "  Nevermore! 

nevermore !" 
He  walked  to  the  window.   The  spray 

on  his  brow 
Was  flung  cool  from  the  whirlpools  of 

water  below ; 
The  frail  wooden  balcony  shook  in 

the  sound 

Of  the  torrent.  The  mountains  gloom- 
ed sullenly  round. 

A  candle  one  ray  from  a  closed  case- 
ment flung. 
O'er  the  dim  balustrade  all  bewildered 

he  hung, 
Vaguely  watching   the    broken    and 

shimmering  blink. 

Of  the  stars  on  the  veering  and  vit- 
reous brink 
Of  that  snake-like  prone  column    of 

water :  and  listing 
Aloof  o'er  the  langors  of  air  the  per- 
sisting 
Sharp  horn  of  the  gray  gnat.     Before 

he  relinquished 
His    unconscious   employment,    that 

light  was  extinguished. 
Wheels,  at  last,   from  the  inn  door 

aroused  him.     He  ran 
Down  the  stairs ;  reached  the  door — 

just  to  see  her  depart. 
Down  the  mountain  the  carriage  was 

speeding. 


His  heart 

Pealed  the  knell  of  its  last  hope.  He 
rushed  on  ;  but  whither 

He  knew  not — on,  into  the  dark 
cloudy  weather — 

The  midnight — the  mountains — on, 
over  the  shelf 

Of  the  precipice — on,  still — away  from 
himself ! 

Till,  exhausted,  he  sank 'mid  the  dead 
leaves  and  moss 

At  the  mouth  of  the  forest.  A  glim- 
mering cross 

Of  gray  stone  stood  for  prayer  by  the 
woodside.  He  sank 

Prayerless,  powerless,  down  at  its 
base,  'mid  the  dank 

Weeds  and  grasses ;  his  face  hid 
amongst  them.  He  knew 

That  the  night  had  divided  his  whole 
life  in  two. 

Behind  him  a  Past  that  was  over  for- 
ever; 

Before  him  a  Future  devoid  of  en- 
deavor 

And  purpose.  He  felt  a  remorse  for 
the  one 

Of  the  other  a  fear.  What  remained 
to  be  done  ? 

Whither  now  should  he  turn  ?  Turn 
again,  as  before, 

To  his  old  easy,  careless  existence  of 


yore 
He  could  not. 


He  felt  that  for  better 


or  worse 
A  change  had  passed  o'er  him ;   an 

angry  remorse 
Of  his  own  frantic  failure. and  error 

had  marred 
Such  a  refuge  forever.     The  future 

seemed  barred 
By  the  corpse  of  a  dead  hope  o'er 

which  he  must  tread 
To  attain  it.     Life's  wilderness  round 

him  was  spread. 
What  clew  there  to  cling  by  ? 

He  clung  by  a  name 
To  a  dynasty  fallen  forever.  He  came 
Of  an  old  princely  house,  true  through 

change  to  the  race 
And  the    sword  of    Saint  Louis, — a 

faith  't  were  disgrace 
To  relinquish,  and  folly  to  live  for! 

Nor  less 
Was  his  ancient  religion  (once  potent 

to  bless 


LUCILE. 


Or  to  ban  ;  and  the  crozier  his  ancest- 
ors kneeled 

To  adore,  when  they  fought  for  the 
Cross,  in  hard  field, 

With  the  Crescent)  become,  ere  it 
reached  him,  tradition  ; 

A  mere  faded  badge  of  a  social  posi- 
tion ; 

A  thing  to  retain  and  say  nothing 
about, 

Lest,  if  used,  it  should  draw  degrada- 
tion from  doubt. 

Thus,  the  first  time  he  sought  them, 
the  creeds  of  his  youth 

Wholly  failed  the  strong  needs  of  his 
manhood,  in  truth ! 

And  beyond  them,  what  region  of 
refuge  ?  what  field 

For  employment,  this  civilized  age, 
did  it  yield, 

In  that  civilized  land  ?  or  to  thought  ? 
or  to  action  ? 

Blind  deliriums,  bewildered  and  end- 
less distraction ! 

Not  even  a  desert,  not  even  the  cell 

Of  a  hermit  to  flee  to,  wherein  he 
might  quell 

The  wild  devil-instincts  which  not  un- 
represt, 

Ran  riot  through  that  ruined  world  in 
his  breast. 

XI. 

So  he  lay  there  like  Lucifer,  fresh 
from  the  sight 

Of  a  heaven  scaled  and  lost ;  in  the 
wide  arms  of  night 

O'er  the  fowling  abysses  of  nothing- 
ness. There 

As  he  lay,  Nature's  deep  voice  was 
teaching  him  prayer  : 

But  what  had  he  to  pray  to  ? 

The  winds  in  the  woods 

The  voices  abroad  o'er  those  vast  sol- 
itudes, 

Were  in  commune  all  around  with  the 
invisible  Power 

That  walked  the  dim  world  by  Him- 
self at  that  hour. 

But  their  language  he  had  not  yet 
learned — in  despite 

Of  the  much  he  had  learned — or  for- 
gotten it  quite, 

With  its  once  native  accents.  Alas  ! 
what  had  he 

To  add  to  that  deep-toned  sublime 
symphony 


Of  thanksgiving  ?  .  .  .  A  fiery  finger 
was  still 

Scorching  into  his  heart  some  dread 
sentence.     His  will, 

Like  a  wind  that  is  put  to  no  purpose, 
was  wild 

At  its  work   of    destruction    within 
him.     The  child 

Of  an  infidel  age,   he  had  been  his 
own  god, 

His  own  devil. 

He  sat  on  the  damp  mountain  sod, 

And  stared  sullenly  up  at  the  dark 
sky.     The  clouds 

Had  heaped  themselves  over  the  bare 
west  in  crowds 

Of  misshapen,  incongruous  portents. 
A  green 

Streak    of    dreary,    cold,    luminous 
ether,  between 

The  base  of  their  black  barricades, 
and  the  ridge 

Of  the  grim  world,  gleamed  ghastly, 
as  under  some  bridge, 

Cyclop-sized,  in  a  city  of  ruins  o'er- 
thrown 

By  sieges  forgotten,  some  river,  un- 
known 

And  unnamed,  widens  on  into  deso- 
late lands. 

While  he  gazed,  that  cloud-city  invis- 
ible hands 

Dismantled  and  rent;  and  revealed, 
through  a  loop 

In  the  breached  dark,  the  blemished 
and  half-broken  hoop 

Of    the  moon,    which    soon    silently 
sank  ;  and  anon 

The  whole  supernatural  pageant  was 
gone. 

The  wide  night,   discomforted,   con- 
scious of  loss, 

Darkened   around  him.     One   object 
alone — that  gray  cross — 

Glimmered  faint  on  the  dark.     Gazing 
up,  he  descried 

Through    the  void  air,   its    desolate 
arms  outstretched  wide, 

As  though  to  embrace  him. 

He  turned  from  the  sight, 

Set  his  face  to  the  darkness,  and  fled. 


When  the  light 

Of  the  dawn  grayly  flickered  and  glar- 
ed 011  the  spent 


LUCILE. 


G3 


Wearied  ends  of  the  night,   like    a 
hope  that  is  sent 

To  the  need  of  some  grief  when  its 
need  is  the  sorest, 

He  was    sullenly  riding    across    the 
dark  forest 

Toward  Serchon. 

Thus  riding,  with  eyes  of  defiance 

Set  against  the   young  day,    as  dis- 
claiming alliance 

With  aught  that  the  day  brings  to 
man,  he  perceived 

Faintly,  suddenly,  fleetingly,  through 
the  damp-leaved 

Autumn    branches    that    put    forth 
gaunt  arms  on  his  way, 

The  face  of  a  man  pale  and  wistful, 
and  gray 

With  the  gray  glare  of  morning.     Eu- 
gene de  Luvois, 

With  the  sense  of  a  strange  second- 
sight,  when  he  saw 

That  phantom-like  face,  could  at  once 
recognize, 

By  the  sole  instinct  now  left  to  guide 
him,  the  eyes 

Of  his  rival,  though  fleeting  the  vision 
and  dim, 

With  a  stern  sad  inquiry  fixed  keenly 
on  him. 

And,  to  meet  it,  a  lie  leaped  at  once 
to  his  own ; 

A  lie  born  of  that  lying  darkness  now 
grown 

Over  all  in  his  nature  !    He  answered 
that  gaze 

Witli  a  look  which,  if  ever  a  man's 
look  conveys 

More  intensely  than  words  what  a 
man  means,  conveyed 

Beyond  doubt  in  its  smile  an  announce- 
ment which  said, 

"  I  have  triumphed.    The  question  your 
eyes  would  imply 

Comes  too  late,  Alfred  Varc/rave !" 

And  so  he  rode  by, 

And  rode  on,  and  rode  gayly,  and  rode 
out  of  sight, 

Leaving 'that    look    behind   him    to 
rankle  and  bite. 

XIII. 

And  it  bit,  and  it  rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  scarce  knowing, 
Or  choosing,  or  heeding  the  way  he 
was  going, 


By  one  wild  hope  impelled,  by  one 
wild  fear  pursued, 

And  led  by  one  instinct,  which  seem- 
ed to  exclude 

From  his  mind  every  human  sensa- 
tion, save  one — 

The  torture  of  doubt — had  strayed 
moodily  on, 

Down  the  highway  deserted,  that  eve- 
ning in  which 

With  the  Duke  he  had  parted ;  stray- 
ed on,  through  the  rich 

Haze  of  sunset,  or  into  the  gradual 
night, 

Which  darkened,  unnoticed,  the  land 
from  his  sight, 

Toward  Saint  Saviour ;  nor  did  the 
changed  aspect  of  all  [recall 

The  wild  scenery  around  him  avail  to 

To  his  senses  their  normal  percep- 
tions, until. 

As  he  stood  on  the  black  shaggy  brow 
of  the  hill 

At  the  mouth  of  the  forest,  the  moon, 
which  had  hung 

Two  dark  hours  in  a  cloud,  slipped 
on  fire  from  among 

The  rent  vapors,  and  sunk  o'er  the 
ridge  of  the  world. 

Then  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw 
round  him  unfurled, 

In  one  moment  of  splendor,  the 
leagues  of  dark  trees, 

And  the  long  rocky  line  of  the  wild 
Pyrenees. 

And  he  knew  by  the  milestone  scored 
rough  on  the  face 

Of  the  bare  rock,  he  was  but  two 
hours  from  the  place 

Where  Lucile  and  Luvois  must  have 
met.  This  same  track 

The  Duke  must  have  traversed,  pre- 
force,  to  get  back 

To  Serehon  ;  not  yet  then  the  Duke 
had  returned ! 

He  listened,  he  looked  up  the  dark, 
but  discerned 

Not  a  trace,  not  a  sound  of  a  horse 
by  the  way. 

He  knew  that  the  king  was  approach- 
ing to-day. 

He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Saint  Sa- 
viour. The  morn 

Which,  at  last,  through  the  forest 
broke  chill  and  forlorn, 

Revealed  to  him,  riding  toward  Ser- 
ehon, the  Duke. 


64 


LUCILE. 


'Twas  then    that    the  two  men  ex- 
changed look  for  look. 


And  the  Duke's  rankled  in  him. 

XVI. 

'He  rushed  on.     He  tore 

His  path  through  the  thicket.  He 
reached  the  inn  door, 

Eoused  the  yet  drowsing  porter,  re- 
luctant to  rise, 

And  inquired  for  the  Countess.  The 
man  rubbed  his  eyes. 

The  Countess  was  gone.  And  the 
Duke? 

The  man  stared 

A  sleepy  inquiry. 

With  accents  that  scared 

The  man's  dull  sense  awake,  "  He, 
the  stranger,"  he  cried, 

"Who  had  been  here  that  night !" 

The  man  grinned  and  replied, 

With  a  vacant  intelligence,  "  He, 
O  ay,  ay! 

He  went  after  the  lady." 

No  further  reply 

Could  he  give.  Alfred  Vargrave  de- 
manded no  more, 

Flung  a  coin  to    the    man,   and  so 
turned  from  the  door. 

"What!  the  Duke  then  the  night  in 
that  lone  inn  had  passed  ? 

In  that  lone  inn— with  her!"  Was 
that  look  he  had  cast 

When  they  met  in  the  forest,  that 
look  which  remained 

On  his  mind  with  its  terrible  smile, 
thus  explained  ? 

XVII 

The  day  was  half  turned  to  the  eve- 
ning before 

He  re-entered  Serchon,  with  a  neart 
sick  and  sore. 

In  the  midst  of  a  light  crowd  of  bab- 
blers, his  look, 

By  their  voices  attracted,  distin- 
guished the  Duke, 

Gay,  insolent,  noisy,  with  eyes  spark- 
ling bright, 

With  laughter,  shrill,  airy  continuous. 

Right 

Through  the  throng  Alfred  Vargrave, 
with  swift  sombre  stride, 

Glided  on.  The  Duke  noticed  him, 
turned,  stepped  aside,  t-_ 


And,    cordially    grasping   his    hand, 

whispered  low, 
"  O,  ho w  right  have  you  been !    There 

can  never  be — no ! 
Never — any  more  contest  between  us ! 

Milord, 
Let  us  henceforth  be  friends !" 

Having  uttered  that  word, 
He  turned   lightly  round  on  his  heel, 

and  again 
His  gay  laughter  was  heard,  echoed 

loud  by  that  train 
Of  his  young  imitators. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  still, 
Rooted,  stunned  to  the  spot.    He  felt 

weary  and  ill, 
Out  of  heart  with  his  own  heart,  and 

sick  to  the  soul, 
With  a  dull,  stifling  anguish  which  he 

could  not  control. 
Does  he  hear  in  a  dream  through  the 

buzz  of  the  crowd, 

The  Duke's    blithe   associates,   bab- 
bling aloud 
Some  comment  upon  his  gay  humor 

that  day  ?  [so  gay  ? 

He  never  was  gayer:  what  makes  him 
;Tis,  no  doubt,  say  the  flatterers,  flat- 
tering in  tune, 
Some  vestal  whose  virtue  no  tongue 

can  impugn 
Has  at  last  found  a  Mars, — who,  of 

course,  shall  be  nameless, 
The  vestal  that  yields  to  Mars  only  is 

blameless ! 
Hark!  hears   he   a  name  which,  thus 

syllabled,  stirs 
All  his  heart  into  tumult  ?  .  .  .  Lucile 

de  Nevers 
With  the  Duke's  coupled  gayly,  in 

some  laughing,  light, 
Free  allusion  ?    Not  so  as  might  giv» 

him  the  right 
To  turn  fiercely  round  on  the  speaker 

but  yet 
To  a  trite  and  irreverent  compliment 

set! 

XVIII. 
Slowly,  slowly,  usurping  that  piace 

in  his  soul 

Where  the  thought  of  Lucile  was  en- 
shrined, did  there  roll 
Back  again,  back  again,  on  its  smooth 

downwai'd  course 

O'er  his  nature,  with  gathered  mo- 
mentum and  force, 
THE  WORLD. 


LUCILE. 


65 


XIX. 

"No!"    he    muttered,    "she    cannot 
have  sinned ! 

True !  women  there  are  (self -named 
women  .of  mind!) 

Who  love  rather  liberty— liberty,  yes! 

To  choose  and  to  leave — than  the  le- 
galized stress 

Of  the  lovingest  marriage.   But  she — 
is  she  so? 

I  will  not  b  elieve  it.     Lucile  ?    O  no, 
no! 

Not  Lucile ! 

"But  the  world?  and,  ah,  what 
would  it  say? 

O  the  look  of  that  man,  and  his  laugh- 
ter, to-day ! 

The  gossip's  light  question  !  the  slan- 
derous jest ! 

She  is  right !  no,  we  could  not  be  hap- 
py.    'T  is  best 

As  it  is.    I  will  write  to  her, — write, 
O  my  heart! 

And  accept  her  farewell.     Our  fare- 
well! must  we  part, — 

Part  thus,  then, — forever,  Lucile  ?  Is 
it  so? 

Yes !  I  feel  it.     We  could  not  be  hap- 
py, I  know. 

'T  was  a  dream !  we  must  waken !" 

xx. 
With  head  bowed,  as  though 

By  the  weight  of  the  heart's  resigna- 
tion, and  slow 

Moody  footsteps,  he  turned  to  his  inn. 
Drawn  apart 

From  the  gate,  in  the  court-yard,  and 
ready  to  start, 

Postboys      mounted,      portmanteaus 
packed  up  and  made  fast, 

A  travelling-carriage,  unnoticed,  he 
passed. 

He  ordered  his  horse  to  be  ready  anon : 

Sent,  and  .paid,  for  the  reckoning,  and 
slowly  passed  on, 

And  ascended  the  staircase,  and  en- 
tered his  room. 

It  was  twilight.     The  chamber  was 
dark  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  evening.    He  listlessly  kindled 
a  light, 

On  the  mantel-piece ;    there  a  large 
card  caught  his  sight, — 

A  large  card,  a  stout  card,  well  print- 
ed and  plain, 

Nothing  flourishing,  flimsy,  affected, 


It  gave  a  respectable  look  to  the  slab 
That  it  lay  on.     The  name  was — 


Sm  RIDLEY  MACNAB. 


Full  familiar  to  him  was  the  name 
that  he  saw, 

For  't  was  that  of  his  own  future 
uncle-in-law, 

Mrs.  Darcy's  rich  brother,  the  bank- 
er, well  known 

As  wearing  the  longest-phylacteried 
gown 

Of  all  the  rich  Pharisees  England  can 
boast  of ; 

A  shrewd  Puritan  Scot,  whose  sharp 
wits  made  him  the  most  of 

This  world  and  the  next;  having 
largely  invested 

Not  only  where  treasure  is  never  mo- 
lested 

By  thieves,  moths,  or  rust;  but  on  this 
earthly  ball 

Where  interest  was  high,  and  securi- 
ty small, 

Of  mankind  there  was  never  a  theory 
yet 

Not  by  some  individual  instance  upset : 

And  so  to  that  sorrowful  verse  of  the 
Psalm 

Which  declares  that  the  wicked  ex- 
pand like  the  palm 

In  a  world  where  the  righteous  are 
stunted  and  pent, 

A  cheering  exception  did  Bidley  pre- 
sent. 

Like  the  worthy  of  Uz,  Heaven  pros- 
pered his  piety. 

The  leader  of  every  religious  society, 

Christian  knowledge  he  labored 
through  life  to  promote 

With  personal  profit,  and  knew  how 
to  quote 

Both  the  Stocks  and  the  Scripture, 
with  equal  advantage 

To  himself  and  admiring  friends,  in 
this  Cant-Age. 


LUCILE. 


XXI. 
Whilst  over  this  card  Alfred  vacantly 

brooded, 

A  waiter  his  head  through  the  door- 
way protruded ; 
"Sir    Ridley    McNab    with    Milord 

wished  to  speak." 
Alfred  Vargrave  could  feel  there  were 

tears  on  his  cheek  ; 
He  brushed  them  away  with  a  gesture 

of  pride. 
He  glanced  at  the  glass;  when  his 

own  face  he  eyed, 

He  was  scared  by  its  pallor.    Inclin- 
ing his  head, 
He  with  tones  calm,  unshaken,  and 

silvery,  said, 
"  Sir  Ridley  may  enter." 

In  three  minutes  more 
That  benign  apparition  appeared  at 

the  door. 
Sir  Ridley,  released  for  a  while  from 

the  cares 
Of  business,  and  minded  to  breathe 

the  pure  airs 
Of  the  blue  Pyrenees,  and  enjoy  his 

release, 
In  company  there  with  his  sister  and 

niece, 
Found    himself    now    at    Serchon,— 

distributing  tracts, 
Sowing  seed  by  the  way,  and  collect- 
new  facts 
For  Exter  Hall ;  he  was  starting  that 

night 
For  Bigorre;    he  had  heard,  to  his 

cordial  delight, 
That  Lord    Alfred  was  there,   and, 

himself,  setting  out 
For  the  same  destination :  impatient, 

no  doubt ! 
Here  some  commonplace  compliments 

as  to  "  the  marriage" 
Through  his   speech  trickled  softly, 

like  honey :  his  carriage 
Was    ready.    A    storm    seemed    to 

threaten  the  weather : 
If  his  young  friend  agreed,  why  not 

travel  together  f 

With  a  footstep  uncertain  and  rest- 
less, a  frown 

Of  perplexity,  during  this  speech,  up 
and  down 

Alfred  Vargrave  was  striding;  but, 
after  a  pause 

And  a  slight  hesitation,  the  which 
seemed  to  cause 


Some  surprise  to  Sir  Ridley,  he  an- 
swered,—" My  dear 

Sir  Ridley,  allow  me  a  few  moments 
here — 

Half  an  hour  at  the  most — to  conclude 
an  affair 

Of  a  nature  so  urgent  as  hardly  to 
spare 

My  presence  (which  brought  me,  in- 
deed, to  this  spot), 

Before  I  accept  your  kind  offer." 

"Why  not?" 

Said  Sir  Ridley,  and  smiled.    Alfred 
Vargrave,  before 

Sir  Ridley   observed  it,  had  passed 
through  the  door. 

A  few  moments  later,  with  footsteps 
revealing 

Intense      agitation    of    uncontrolled 
feeling, 

He  was  rapidly  pacing  the  garden  be- 
low. 

What  passed  through  his  mind  then  is 
more  than  I  know. 

But  before    one  half-hour  into  dark- 
ness had  fled, 

In  the  courtyard  he  stood  with  Sir 
Ridley.     His  tread 

Was  firm  and  composed.     Not  a  sign 
on  his  face 

Betrayed  there    the  least  agitation. 
*"  The  place 

You  so  kindly  have  offered,"  he  said, 
"I  accept." 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand.     The 
two  travellers  stepped 

Smiling  into  the  carriage. 

And  thus,  out  of  sight, 

They  drove  down  the  dark  road,  and 
into  the  night. 
XXII. 

Sir  Ridley  was  one  of  those  wise  men 
who,  so  far 

As  their  power  of  saying   it  goes,  say 
with  Zophar, 

"We,  no  doubt,  are    the  people,  and 
wisdom  shall  die  with  us !" 

Though  of  wisdom  like   theirs  there 
is  no  small  supply  with  us. 

Side  by  side  in  the  carriage  ensconced, 
the  two  men 

Began  to  converse,  somewhat  drowsi- 
ly, when 

Alfred  suddenly  thought, — "Here's  a 
man  of  ripe  age, 

At  my  side,  by  his  fellows  reputed  as 
sage, 


LUCILE. 


67 


Who  looks  happy,  and  therefore  who 

must  have  been  wise  : 
Suppose  I  with  caution  reveal  to  his 

eyes 
Some  few  of  the  reasons  which  make 

me  believe 
That  I  neither  am  happy  nor  wise  ?  't 

would  relieve 
And  enlighten,    perchance,   my  own 

darkness  and  doubt." 
For  which  purpose  a  feeler  he  softly 

put  out. 
It  was  snapped  up  at  once. 

"  What  is  truth  T"  jesting  Pilate 
Asked,  and  passed  from  the  question 

at  once  with  a  smile  at 
Its  utter  futility.  Had  he  addressed  it 
To  Ridley  MacNab,  he  at  least  had 

confessed  it 
Admitted  discussion!    and  certainly 

no  man 
Could  more  promptly  have  answered 

the  sceptical  Roman 
Than    Ridley.      Hear     some     street 

astronomer  talk ! 
Grant  him  two   or  three  hearers,  a 

morsel  of  chalk, 
And  forthwith  on  the  pavement  he'll 

sketch  you  the  scheme 
Of  the  heavens.     Then  hear  him  en- 
large on  his  theme  !  [he, 
Not  afraid  of  La  Place,  nor  of  Arago, 
He'll  prove  you   the   whole  plan  in. 

plain  ABC. 
Here's  your  sun, — call  him  A;  B'S  the 

moon  ;  it  is  clear 
How  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  brings 

up  the  rear 
Of  the  planets.     Now  ask  Arago,  ask 

La  Place, 
(You    sages,    who    speak    with    the 

heavens  face  to  face  !) 
Their  science  in  plain  A  B  c  to  accord 
To    your    point-blank     inquiry,    my 

friends!  not  a  word 
Will  you  get  for  your  pains  from  their 

sad  lips.     Alas ! 
Not  a  drop  from  the  bottle  that's  quite 

full  will  pass. 
'Tis  the  half-empty  vessel  that  freest 

emits 
The  water  that's  in  it.     'Tis  thus  with 

men's  wits ; 
Or  at  least  with  their  knowledge.     A 

man's  capability 
Of  imparting  to  others  a  truth  with 

facility 


Is  proportioned  forever  with  painful 
exactness 

To  the  portable  nature,  the  vulgar 
compactness, 

The  minuteness  in  size,  or  the  light- 
ness in  weight 

Of  the  truth  he  imparts.    So  small 
coins  circulate 

More  freely  than  large  ones.    A  beg- 
gar asks  alms, 

And  we  fling  him  a  sixpence,  nor  feel 
any  qualms ; 

But  if  every  street  charity  shook  an 
investment, 

Or  each  beggar  to  clothe  we  must 
strip  off  a  vestment, 

The  length  of  the  process  would  limit 
the  act ; 

And  therefore  the  truth  that's  summed 
up  in  a  tract 

Is  most  lightly  dispensed. 

As  for  Alfred,  indeed, 

On  what  spoonfuls  of  truth  he  was 
suffered  to  feed 

By4Sir  Ridley,  I  know  not.     This  only 
I  know, 

That  the  two  men  thus  talking  con- 
tinued to  go 

Onward  somehow,  together,— on  into 
the  night, — 

The  midnight,— in  which  they  escape 
from  our  sight. 
XXIII. 

And    meanwhile  a  world  had   been 

changed  in  its  pace, 
And  those  glittering  chains  that  o'er 

blue  balmy  space 
Hang  the  blessing  of  darkness,  had 

drawn  out  of  sight 
To  solace    unseen  hemispheres,   the 

soft  night ; 

And  the  dew  of  the  dayspring  benign- 
ly descended, 
And  the  fair  morn  to  all  things  new 

sanction  extended 
In  the  smile  of  the  East.    And  the 

lark  soaring  on, 
Lost  in  light,  shook  the  dawn  with  a 

song  from  the  sun. 
And  the  world  laughed. 

It  wanted  but  two  rosy  hours 

From    the    noon,   when  they    passed 

through  the  thick  passion-flowers 

Of  the  little  wild  garden  that  dimpled 

before 
The  small  house  where  their  carriage 

now  stopped,  at  Bigorre. 


68 


LUCILE. 


And  more  fair  than  the  flowers,  more 

fresh  than  the  dew, 
With  her  white  morning  robe  flitting 

joyously  through 
The  dark  shrubs  with  which  the  soft 

hillside  was  clothed, 
Alfred  Vargrave  perceived,  where  he 

paused,  his  betrothed. 
Matilda  sprang  to  him,  at  once,  with 

a  face 

Of  such  sunny  sweetness,  such  glad- 
ness, such  grace, 

And  radiant  confidence,  childlike  de- 
light, 
That  his  whole  heart  upbraided  itself 

at  that  sight. 
And  he  murmured,  or  sighed,    "  0, 

how  could  I  have  strayed 
From  this  sweet  child,  or  suffered  in 

aught  to  invade 
Her  young  claim  on  my  life,  though 

it  were  for  an  hour, 
The  thought  of  another  ?" 

"Look  up  my  sweet  flower !" 
He  whispered  her  softly,  "  my  heart 

unto  thee 
Is  returned,  as  returns  to  the  rose  the 

wild  bee!" 
"And  will  wander  no  more  ?"  laughed 

Matilda. 

"No  more," 
He  repeated.     And,  low  to  himself, 

"Yes,  'tis  o'er! 
My  course,   too,   is  decided,   Lucile ! 

Was  I  blind 
To  have  dreamed  that  these  clever 

Frenchwomen  of  mind 
Could  satisfy  simply  a  plain  English 

heart, 
Or  sympathize  with  it  ?" 


And  here  the  first  part 
Of  this  drama  is  over.     The  curtain 

falls  furled 
On  the  actors  within  it, — the  Heart 

and  the  World. 
Wooed  and  wooer  have  played  with 

the  riddle  of  life,— 
Have  they  solved  it  ? 
Appear !  answer,  Husband  and  Wife ! 

xxv. 

Yet,  ere  bidding  farewell  to  Lucile  de 

Nevers, 
Hear  her  own  heart's  farewell  in  this 

letter  of  hers. 


The  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS  to  a  FRIEND 
IN  INDIA. 

"Once  more,  O  my  friend,  to  your 
arms  and  your  heart, 

And  the  places  of  old  .  .  .  never,  nev- 
er to  part ! 

Once  more  to  the  palm  and  the  foun- 
tain !  Once  more 

To  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the  deep 
skies  of  yore ! 

From  the  cities  of  Europe,  pursued 
by  the  fret 

Of  their  turmoil  wherever  my  foot- 
steps are  set; 

From  the  children  that  cry  for  the 
birth,  and  behold, 

There  is  no  strength  to  bear  them, — 
old  Time  is  so  old  ! 

From  the  world's  weary  masters,  that 
come  upon  earth 

Sapped  and  mined  by  the  fever  they 
bear  from  their  birth ; 

From  the  men  of  small  stature,  mere 
parts  of  a  crowd, 

Born  too  late,  when  the  strength  of 
the  world  hath  been  bowed; 

Back, — back  to  the  Orient,  from  whose 
sunbright  womb 

Sprang  the  giants  which  now  are  no 
more,  in  the  bloom 

And  the  beauty  of  times  that  are  fad- 
ed forever ! 

To  the  palms !  to  the  tombs !  to  the 
still  Sacred  River! 

Where  I  too,  the  child  of  a  day  that  is 
done, 

First  leapt  into  life,  and  looked  up  at 
the  sun. 

Back  again,  back  again,  to  the  hill- 
tops of  home 

I  come,  O  my  friend,  my  consoler,  I 
come ! 

Are  the  three  intense  stars,  that  we 
watched  night  by  night 

Burning  broad  on  the  band  of  Orion, 
as  bright  ? 

Are  the  large  Indian  moons  as  serene 
as  of  old, 

When,  as  children,  we  gathered  the 
moonbeams  for  gold  ? 

Do  you  yet  recollect  me,  my  friend  ? 
Do  you  still 

Remember  the  free  games  we  play- 
ed on  the  hill, 

7Mid  those  huge  stones  upheaped, 
where  we  recklessly  trod 


LUCILE. 


O'er  the  old  ruined  fane  of  the  old 
ruined  god  ? 

How  he  frowued,  while  around  him 
we  carelessly  played ! 

That  frown  on  my  life  ever  after  hath 
stayed, 

Like  the  shade  of  a  solemn  experience 
upcast 

From  some  vague  supernatural  grief 
in  the  past, 

For  the  poor  god,  in  pain,  more  than 
anger,  he  frowned, 

To  perceive  that  our  youth,  though  so 
fleeting,  had  found, 

In  its  transient  and  ignorant  glad- 
ness, the  bliss 

Which  his  science  divine  seemed  di- 
vinely to  miss. 

Alas  !  you  may  haply  remember  me  yet 

The  free  child,  whose  glad  childhood 
myself  I  forget. 

I  come — a  sad  woman,  defrauded  of 
rest: 

I  bear  to  you  only  a  laboring  breast: 

My  heart  is  a  storm-beaten  ark,  wild- 
ly hurled 

O'er  the  whirlpools  of  time,  with  the 
wrecks  of  a  world  : 

The  dove  from  my  bosom  hath  flown 
far  away : 

It  is  flown,  and  returns  not,  though 
many  a  day 

Have  I  watched  from  the  windows  of 
life  for  its  coming. 

Friend,  I  sigh  for  repose,  I  am  weary 
of  roaming. 

I  know  not  what  Ararat  rises  for  me 

Far  away,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  wan- 
dering sea ; 

I  know  not  what  rainbow  may  yet, 
from  far  hills, 

Lift  the  promise  of  hope,  the  cessation 
of  ills : 

But  a  voice,  like  the  voice  of  my 
youth,  in  my  breast 

Wakes  and  whispers  me  on — to  the 
East!  to  the  East! 

Shall  I  find  the  child's  heart  that  I 
left  there  ?  or  find 

The  lost  youth  I  recall  with  its  pure 
peace  of  mind  ? 

Alas  !  who  shall  number  the  drops  of 
the  rain? 

Or  give  to  the  dead  leaves  their  green- 
ness again? 

Who  shall  seal  up  the  caverns  the 
earthquake  hath  rent  ? 


Who  shall  bring  forth  the  winds  that 

within  them  are  pent  ? 
To  a  voice  who  shall  render  an  image? 

or  who 
From  the  heats  of  the  noontide  shall 

gather  the  dew  ? 
I  have  burned  out  within  me  the  fuel 

of  life 
Wherefore  lingers  the  flame  ?    Best  is 

sweet  after  strife 
I    would  sleep  for  a    while.    I    am 

weary. 

"My  friend, 
I  had  meant  in  these  lines  to  regathei 

and  send 
To  our  old  home,  my  life's  scattered 

links.     But 't  is  vain ! 
Each  attempt  seems  to  shatter  the 

chaplet  again ; 
Only  fit  for  fingers  like  mine  to  run 

o'er, 

Who  return,  a  recluse,  to  those  clois- 
ters of  yore 
Whence  too  far  I  have  wandered. 

"How  many  long  years 
Does  it  seem  to  me  now  since  the 

quick,  scorching  tears, 
While  I  wrote  to  you,  splashed  out  a 

girl's  premature 

Moans  of  pain  at  what  women  in  si- 
lence endure ! 
To  your  eyes,  friend  of  mine,  and  to 

your  eyes  alone, 
That  now  long-faded  page  of  my  life 

hath  been  shown 
Which  recorded  my  heart's  birth,  and 

death,  as  you  know, 
Many  years  since, — how  many ! 

"  A  few  months  ago 
I  seemed  reading  it  backward,  that 

page !     Why  explain 
Whence  or  how?    The  old  dream  of 

my  life  rose  again. 

The  old  superstition  !  the  idol  of  old! 
It  is  over.     The  leaf  trodden  down  in 

the  mould  [me 

Is  not  to  the  forest  more  lost  than  to 
That  emotion.     I  bury  it  here  by^the 

sea 
Which  will  bear  me  anon  far  away 

from  the  shore 
Of  a  land  which  my  footsteps  shall 

visit  no  more. 
And  a    heart's  requiescat  I  write  on 

that  grave. 
Hark!  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  and  the 

sound  of  the  wave, 


70 


L  UCILE. 


Seem  like  voices  of  spirits  that  whisp- 
er me  home ! 
I  come,  O  you  whispering  voices,  I 

come  ! 
My  friend,  ask  me  nothing. 

"Receive  me  alone 
As  a  Santon  receives  to  his  dwelling 

of  stone 
In  silence  some  pilgrim  the  midnight 

may  bring: 

It  may  be  an  angel  that,  weary  of  wing 
Hath  paused  in  his  flight  from  some 

city  of  doom,  [gloom. 

Or   only   a  wayfarer  strayed    in   the 
This  only  I  know :  that  in  Europe  at 

least 
Lives  the  craft  or  the  power  that  must 

master  our  East. 
"Wherefore    strive    where    the    gods 

must  themselves  yield  at  last  ? 


Both  they  and  their  altars  pass  by 

with  the  Past. 
The    gods    of    the    household    Time 

thrusts  from  the  shelf ; 
And  I  seem  as  unreal  and  weird  to 

myself 
As  those  idols  of  old. 

"Other  times,  other  men, 
Other  men,  other  passions ! 

"So  be  it!  yet  again 
I  turn    to  my  birthplace,  the  birth- 
place of  morn. 
And  the  light  of  those  lands  where 

the  great  sun  is  born! 
Spread  your  arms,  O  my  friend!  on 

your  breast  let  me  feel 
The  repose  which  hath  fled  from  my 

own. 

"Your  LUCILE." 


LUCILE. 


71 


PAKT    II. 


CANTO  I. 


i. 


HAIL,  Muse!    But  each  Muse  by  this 

time  has,  I  know, 
Been  used  up,  and  Apollo  has  bent 

his  own  bow 
All  too  long ;  so  I  leave  unassaulted 

the  portal 
Of  Olympus,  and  only  invoke  here  a 

mortal. 

Hail,      Murray ;— not     Lindley,— but 

Murray  and  Son. 
Hail,    omniscient,   beneficent,    great 

Two-in-One ! 
In  Albemarle  Street  may  thy  temple 

long  stand! 
Long  enlightened  and  led  by  thine 

erudite  hand, 
May  each  novice  in  science  nomadic 

unravel 

Statistical  mazes  of  modernized  travel 
May  each  inn-keeping  knave  long  thy 

judgments  revere, 
And  the  postboys  of  Europe  regard 

thee  with  fear ; 
While    they  feel,   in  the  silence   of 

baffled  extortion, 
That    knowledge    is    power !     Long, 

long,  like  that  portion 
Of  the  national  soil  which  the  Greek 

exile  took 
In  his  baggage  wherever  he   went 

may  thy  book 
Cheer  each  poor  British  pilgrim,  who 

trusts  to  thy  wit 
Not  to  pay  through  his  nose  just  for 

following  it ! 
Mayst  thou  long,  O  instructor !  pre- 
side o'er  his  way, 
And  to  teach  him  alike  what  to  praise 

and  to  pay ! 
Thee,  pursuing  this  pathway  of  song 

once  again 
I  invoke,    lest,   unskilled,   I    shoulc 

wander  in  vain. 

To  my  call  be  propitious,  nor,  churl 
ish,  refuse 


Thy  great  accents  to  lend  to  the  lips 

of  my  Muse ; 
For  I  sing  of  the  Naiads  who  dwell 

'mid  the  stems 
Of   the    green    linden-trees   by    the 

waters  of  Ems. 
Yes !  thy  spirit  descends  upon  mine, 

O*  John  Murray ! 
And  I  start — with  thy  book— for  the 

Baths  in  a  hurry. 


ii. 


At    Coblentz    a    bridge    of    boats 
crosses  the  Rhine ; 

And  from  thence  the  road,  winding 
by  Ehrenbreitstein, 

Passes  over  the  frontier  of  Nassau. 
("N.  B. 

No  custom-house  here  since  the  Zoll- 
verein."    See 

Murray,  paragraph  30.) 

"  The  route,  at  each  turn, 

Here  the  lover   of  nature  allows  to 
discern, 

In  varying  prospect,  a  rich  wooded 
dale  : 

The  vine  and  acacia-tree  mostly  pre- 
vail 

In  the  foliage  observable  here  ;  and, 
moreover, 

The  soil  is  carbonic.     The  road  under 
cover 

Of  the  grape-clad  and  mountainous 
upland  that  hems 

Round  this  beautiful  spot,  brings  the 
traveller  to  —  "  EMS. 

A  schnellpost  from  Frankfort  arrives 
every  day. 

At  the  Kurh aus  (the  old  Ducal  man- 
sion) you  pay 

Eight  florins  for  lodgings.     A  Res- 
taurateur 

Is  attached  to  the  place;  but  most 
travellers  prefer 

(Including,  indeed,   many  persons  of 
note) 

To    dine    at  the    usual-priced    table 
d'hote. 

Through  the  town  runs  the  Lahn,  the 
steep  green  banks  of  which 


LUCILE. 


Two  rows  of  white  picturesque  houses 
enrich ; 

And  between  the  high  road  and  the 
river  is  laid 

Out  a  sort  of  a  garden,  called  t  THE 
Promenade.' 

Female  visitors  here,  who  make  up 
their  mind 

To  ascend  to  the  top'of  these  moun- 
tains, will  find 

On  the  banks  of  the  stream,  saddled 
all  the  day  long, 

Troops  of  donkeys  —  sure-footed  — 
proverbially  strong" ; 

And  the  traveller  at  Ems  may  re- 
mark, as  he  passes, 

Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  women  run 
after  the  asses. 

in. 

'Mid  the  world's  weary  denizens 
bound  for  these  springs 

In  the  month  when  the  merle  on  the 
maple-bough  sings, 

Pursued  to  the  place  from  dissimilar 
paths 

By  a  similar  sickness,  there  came  to 
the  baths 

Four  sufferers, — each  stricken  deep 
through  the  heart. 

Or  the  head,  by  the  self-same  invisi- 
ble dart  [the  noon, 

Of  the  arrow  that  flieth  unheard  in 

From  the  sickness  that  walketh  un- 
seen in  the  moon,  [wherein  each 

Through  this  great  lazaretto  of  life 

Infects  with  his  own  sores  the  next 
within  reach. 

First  of  these  were  a  young  English 
husband  and  wife, 

Grown  weary  ere  half  through  the 
journey  of  life. 

O  Nature,  say  where,  thou  gray 
mother  of  earth, 

Is  the  strength  of  thy  youth  ?  that 
thy  womb  brings  to  birth 

Only  old  men  to-day !  On  the  winds, 
as  of  old, 

Thy  voice  in  its  accent  is  joyous  and 
bold; 

Thy  forests  are  green  as  of  yore ;  anu 
thine  oceans 

Yet  move  in  the  might  of  their  an- 
cient emotions: 

But  man — thy  last  birth  and  thy  best 
— is  no  more 


Life's    free    lord,  that  looked  up  to 
the  starlight  of  yore, 

With  the  faith  on  the  brow,  and  the 
fire  in  the  eyes, 

The  firm  foot  on  the  earth,  the  high 
heart  in  the  skies  : 

But  a  gray-headed  infant  defrauded  of 
youth, 

Born  too  late  or  too  early. 

The  lady,  in  truth, 

Was  young,  fair,  and  gentle  ;  and  nev- 
er was  given 

To  more  heavenly  eyes  the  pure  azure 
of  heaven. 

Never  yet  did  the  sun  touch  to  ripples 
of  gold 

Tresses    brighter  than  those  which 
her  soft  hand  unrolled 

From  her  noble  and  innocent  brow, 
when  she  rose, 

An  Aurora,  at  dawn,  from  her  balmy 
repose, 

And  into  the  mirror  the  bloom  and 
the  blush 

Of  her  beauty  broke,  glowing;  like 
light  in  a  gush 

From  the  sunrise  in  summer. 

Love,  roaming,  shall  meet 

But  rarely  a  nature  more  sound  or 
more  sweet — 

Eyes  brighter— brows  whiter— a  fig- 
ure more  fair 

Or  lovelier  lengths  of  more  radiant 
hair — 

Than  thine,  Lady  Alfred !  And  here  I 
aver 

(May  those  that  have  seen  thee  de- 
clare if  I  err)  [contain 

That  not  all  the   oysters  in  Britain 

A  pearl  pure  as  thou  art. 

Let  some  one  explain, — 

Who  may  know  more  than  I  of  the 
intimate  life 

Of  the  pearl  with  the  oyster,— why 
yet  in  his  wife, 

In  despite  of  her  beauty — and  most 
when  he  felt 

Ilis  soul  to  the  sense  of  her  loveliness 
melt — 

Lord   Alfred   missed    something   he 
sought  for :  indeed, 

The  more  that  he  missed  it  the  great- 
er the  need ; 

Till  it  scorned  to  himself  he   could 
willingly  spare 

All  the  charms  that  he  found  for  the 
.one  charm  not  there, 


LUCiLfi. 


73 


IV. 

For  the  blessings  Life  lends  us,  it 
strictly  demands 

The  worth  of  their  full  usufruct  at 
our  hands. 

And  the  value  of  all  things  exists,  not 
indeed 

In  themselves,  but  man's  use  of  them, 
feeding  man's  need. 

Alfred  Vargrave,  in  wedding  with 
beauty  and  youth, 

Had  embraced  both  Ambition  and 
Wealth.  Yet  in  truth 

Unfulfilled  the  ambition,  and  sterile 
the  wealth 

(In  a  life  paralyzed  by  a  moral  ill- 
health), 

Had  remained,  while  the  beauty  and 
youth,  unredeemed 

From  a  vague  disappointment  at  all 
things,  but  seemed 

Day  by  day  to  reproach  him  in  silence 
for  all 

That  lost  youth  in  himself  they  had 
failed  to  recall. 

No  career  had  he  followed,  no  object 
obtained 

In  the  world  by  those  worldly  advant- 
ages gained 

From  nuptials  beyond  which  once 
seemed  to  appear, 

Lit  by  love,  the  broad  path  of  a  bril- 
liant career. 

All  that  glittered  and  gleamed  through 
the  moonlight  of  youth 

With  a  glory  so  fair,  now  that  man- 
hood in  truth 

Grasped  and  gathered  it,  seemed  like 
that  false  fairy  gold 

Which  leaves  in  the  hand  only  moss, 
leaves,  and  mould ! 

V. 

Fairy  gold!  moss  and  leaves!  and  the 

young  Fairy  Bride  ? 
Lived  there  yet  fairy  lands  in  the  face 

at  his  side  ? 
Say,  O  friend,  if  at  evening  thou  ever 

hast  watched 

Some  pale  and  impalpable  vapor,  de- 
tached 
From  the  dim  and  disconsolate  earth, 

rise  and  fall 
O'er  the  light  of  a  sweet  serene  star, 

until  all 
The    chilled     splendor     reluctantly 

waned  in  the  deep 


Of  its  own  native  heaven  ?    Even  so 

seemed  to  creep 
O'er  that  fair  and  ethereal  face,  day 

by  day, 
While  the  radiant  vermeil,  subsiding 

away, 
Hid  its  light  in  the  heart,  the  faint 

gradual  veil 
Of  a  sadness  unconscious. 

The  lady  grew  pale 
As  silent  her  lord  grew  :  and  both,  as 

they  eyed 
Each  the  other  askance,  turned,  and 

secretly  sighed. 

Ah,  wise  friend,  what  avails  all  ex- 
perience can  give  I 
True,    we  know  what  life  is  —  but, 

alas  !  do  we  live  ? 
The  grammar  of  life  we  have  gotten 

by  heart, 
But  life's  self  we  have  made  a  dead 

language, — an  art, 
Not  a  voice.    Could  we  speak  it,  but 

once,  as  'twas  spoken 
When  the  silence  of  passion  the  first 

time  was  broken ! 
Cuvier  knew  the  world  better  than 

Adam,  no  doubt: 
But  the  last  man,  at  best,  was  but 

learned  about 

What  the  first,  without  learning,  en- 
joyed.   What  art  thou 
To  the  man  of  to-day,  O  Leviathan, 

now? 
A  science.      What  art  thou  to  him 

that  from  ocean 

First  beheld  thee  appear?     A  sur- 
prise,— an  emotion! 
When  life  leaps  in  the  veins,  when  it 

beats  in  the  heart, 

When  it  thrills  as  it  fills  every  ani- 
mate part, 
Where  lurks  it  ?  how  works  it  ?  .  .  . 

wo  scarcely  detect  it. 
But  life  goes:  the  heart  dies:  haste, 

O  leech,  and  dissect  it! 
This  accursed  aesthetical,  ethical  age 
Hath  so  fingered  life's  hornbook,  so 

blured  every  page, 
That  the  old  glad  romance,  the  gay 

chivalrous  story, 
With  its  fables  of  faery,  its  legends 

of  glory, 
Is  turned  to  a  tedious  instruction,  not 

new 
To  tLe  children  that  read  it  insipidly 

through. 


74 


LUCILE. 


We  know  too  much  of  Love  ere  we 
love.     We  can  trace 

Nothing  new,  unexpected,  or  strange 
in  his  face 

When  we   see  it  at    last.     'Tis  the 
same  little  Cupid, 

With  the  same  dimpled  cheek,  and 
the  smile  almost  stupid, 

We  have  seen  in  our  pictures,  and 
stuck  on  our  shelves, 

And  copied  a    hundred  times  over, 
ourselves. 

And  wherever  we  turn,  and  whatever 
we  do, 

Still,  that  horrible  sense  of  the  dejd 
connu  ! 

VI. 

Perchance  'twas  the  fault  of  the  life 
that  they  led; 

Perchance  'twas  the  fault  of  the  nov- 
els they  read ; 

Perchance'  twas  a  fault  in  themselves ; 
>I  am  bound  not 

To  say :  this  I  know— that  these  two 
creatures  found  not 

In  each  other  some  sign  they  expected 
to  find 

Of  a  something  unnamed  in  the  heart 
or  the  mind ; 

And,  missing  it,  each  felt  a  right  to 
complain 

Of  a  sadness  which  each  found  no 
word  to  explain. 

Whatever  it  was,  the  world  noticed 
not  it 

In  the  light-hearted  beauty,  the  light- 
hearted  wit. 

Still,   as    once    with    the    actors    in 
Greece,  't  is  the  case, 

Each  must  speak  to  the  crown  with  a 
mask  on  his  face. 

Praise  followed  Matilda  wherever  she 
went. 

She  was  flattered.    Can  flattery  pur- 
chase content  ? 

Yes.    While  to   its  voice,  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  listened, 

The  young  cheek  still  bloomed,  and 
the  soft  eye  still  glistened  ; 

And  her  lord,  when,  like  one  of  those 
light  vivid  things 

That  glide  down  the  gauzes  of  sum- 
mer with  wings 

Of   rapturous  radiance,   unconscious 
she  moved 

Through  that  buzz  of  inferior  crea- 
tures, which  proved 


Her  beauty  their  envy,  one  moment 

fdrgot 
'Mid  the  many  charms  there,  the  one 

charm  that  was  not : 
And  when  o'er  her  beauty  enraptured 

he  bowed, 
(As  they  turned  to  each  other,  each 

flushed  from  the  crowd,) 
And  murmured   those  praises  which 

yet  seemed  more  dear 
Than  the  praises  of  others  had  grown 

to  her  ear, 
She,  too,  ceased  awhile  her  own  fate 

to  regret : 
"Yes!.  .  .  he  loves  me,"  she  sighed ; 

"  this  is  love,  then, — and — yet!" 

VII. 

Ah,  that  yet  I   fatal  word !  't  is  the 

moral  of  all 
Thought  and  felt,  seen  or  done,   in 

this  world,  since  the  Fall ! 
It  stands  at  the  end  of  each  sentence 

we  learn ; 

It  flits  in  the  vista  of  all  we  discern  ; 
It  leads  us,  for  ever  and  ever,  away 
To  find  in  to-morrow  what  flies  with 

to-day. 

'T  was  this  same  little  fatal  and  mys- 
tical word 
That  now,  like  a  mirage,  led  my  lady 

and  lord 
To  the  waters  of  Ems  from  the  waters 

of  Marah ; 
Drooping  pilgrims  in  Fashion's  blank, 

arid  Sahara! 

VIII. 

At  the  same  time,  pursued  by  a  spell 
much  the  same, 

To  these  waters  two  other  worn  pil- 
grims there  came : 

One  a  man,  one  a  woman;  just  now, 
at  the  latter, 

As  the  Reader  I  mean  by  and  by  to 
look  at  her 

And  judge  for  himself,  I  will  not  even 
glance. 


Of  the  self-crowned  young  kings  of 
the  Fashion  in  France 

Whose  resplendent  regalia  so  dazzled 
the  sight, 

Whose  horse  was  so  perfect,  whose 
boots  were  so  bright, 

Who  so  hailed  in  the  salon,  so  mark- 
in  the  Bois, 


LUCILE. 


75 


Who  so  welcomed  by  all,  as  Eugene 

de  Luvois  ? 
Of  all  the  smooth-browed  premature 

debauchees 

In  that  town  of  all  towns,  where  De- 
bauchery sees 
On  the  forehead  of  youth  her  mark 

everywhere  graven, — 
In  Paris  I  mean, — where  the  streets 

are  all  paven 
By  those    two  fiends    whom    Milton 

saw  bridging  the  way 
From     Hell     to    this    planet, — who, 

haughty  and  gay, 
TJhe  free  rebel  of  life,  bound  or  led  by 

no  law, 

Walked  that  causeway  as  bold  as  Eu- 
gene de  Luvois  ? 
Yes !  he  marched  through  the  great 

masquerade,  loud  of  tongue, 
Bold  of    brew :    but   the    motley  he 

masked  in,  it  hung 
So  loose,  trailed  so  wide,  and  appear- 
ed to  impede 
So  strangely  at  time  the  vexed  effort 

at  speed, 
That  a  keen  eye  might  guess  it  was 

made — not  for  him, 
But  some  brawler  more  stalwart  of 

stature  and  limb. 
That  it  irked  him,  in  truth,  you  at 

times  could  divine, 
For  when  low  was  the  music,  and 

spilt  was  the  wine, 
He  would  clutch  at  the  garment,  as 

though  it  oppressed 
And  stifled  some  impulse  that  choked 

in  his  breast. 


What!  he,  .  .  .  the  light  sport  of  his 
frivolous  ease! 

Was  he,  too,  a  prey  to  a  mortal  dis- 
ease 

My  friend,  hear  a  parable :  ponder  it 
well: 

For  a  moral  there  is  in  the  tale  that  I 
tell. 

One  evening  I  sat  in  the  Palais  Royal, 

And  there,  while  I  laughed  at  Grassot 
and  Arnal, 

My  eye  fell  on  the  face  of  a  man  at 
my  side : 

Every  time  that  he  laughed  I  observ- 
ed that  he  sighed. 

As  though  vexed  to  be  pleased.  I  re- 
marked that  he  sat 


111  at  ease  on  his  seat,  and  kept  twirl- 
ing his  hat 
In  his  hand,  with  a  look  of  unquiet 

abstraction. 

I  inquired  the  cause  of  his  dissatis- 
faction. 
"Sir,"  he  said,  "if  what  vexes  me 

here  you  would  know, 
Learn  that,    passing  this  way  some 

few  half-hours  ago, 
I  walked  into  the  Frangais,  to  look  at 

Rachel. 

(Sir,  that  woman  in  Phedre  is  a  mira- 
cle !)— Well, 
I  asked  for  a  box :  they  were  occupied 

all: 
For  a  seat  in  the  balcony :  all  taken ! 

a  stall : 
Taken  too :  the  whole  house  was  as 

full  as  could  be, — 
Not  a  hole  for  a  rat !  I  had  just  time 

to  see 

The  lady  I  love  tete-a-tete  with  a  friend 
In  a  box  out  of  reach  at  the  opposite 

end: 
Then  the  crowd  pushed  me  out.  What 

was  left  me  to  do  ? 
I  tried  for  the  tragedy  .  .  .  que  vou- 

Iczvous  ? 
Every  place  for  the  tragedy  booked! 

.  .  .  mon  ami, 
The  farce  was  close  by :  .  .at  the 

me  void  ! 
The  piece  is  a  new  one  :  and  Grassot 

plays  well : 
There  is  drollery,  too,  in  that  fellow 

Ravel : 
And  Hyacinth's  nose  is  superb !  .  .  . 

Yet  I  meant 
My  evening  elsewhere,  and  not  thus, 

to  have  spent. 
Fate  orders  these  things  by  her  will, 

not  by  ours! 
Sir,  mankind  is  the  sport  of  invisible 

powers." 


I  once  met  the  Due  de  Luvois  for  a 
moment; 

And  I  marked,  when  his  features  I 
fixed  in  my  comment, 

O'er  those  features  the  same  vague 
disquietude  stray 

I  had  seen  on  the  face  of  my  friend  at 
the  plav ; 

And  I  thought  that  he  too, very  proba- 
bly, spent 


76 


LUCILE. 


I  W 

His  evenings  not  wholly  as  first  he 
had  meant. 

XI. 

O    source    of    the    holiest    joys  we 

inherit, 
O    Sorrow,    thou    solemn,    invisible 

spirit ! 
Ill  fares  it  with  man  when,  through 

life's  desert  sand, 
Grown    impatient  too    soon  for  the 

long-promised  land 
He  turns  from  the  worship  of  thee,  as 

thou  art, 
An  expressless  and  imageless  truth  in 

the  heart, 
And  takes  of  the  jewels  of  Egypt,  the 

pelf 
And  the  gold  of  the  Godless,  to  make 

to  himself 

A  gaudy,  idolatrous  image  of  thee, 
And  then  bows  to  the  sound  of  the 

cymbal  the  knee. 
The  sorrows  we  make  to  ourselves  are 

false  gods : 

Like  the  prophets  of   Baal,  our  bo- 
soms with  rods 
We  may  smite,  we  may  gash  at  our 

hearts  till  they  bleed, 
But  these  idols  are  blind,  deaf  and 

dumb  to  our  need. 
The  land  is  athirst,  and  cries  out !  ... 

Jt  is  in  vain ; 

The  great    blessing   of   Heaven    de- 
scends not  in  rain. 

XII. 

It  was  night ;  and  the  lamps  were  be- 
ginning to  gleam 
Through  the  long  linden-trees,  folded 

each  in  his  dream, 
From  that  building  which  looks  like  a 

temple  .  .  .  and  is 
The  temple   of— Health?      Nay,  but 

enter !     I  wis 

That  never  the  rosy-hued  deity  knew 
One  votary  out  of  that  sallow-cheeked 

crew 
Of     Courlanders,     Wallacs,    Greeks, 

affable  Russians, 
Explosive      Parisians,     potato -faced 

Prussians ; 
Jews  —  Hamburghers  chiefly ; — pure 

patriots,— Suabians  ;— 
"Cappadocians  and  Elamites,  Cretes 

Arabians, 

And  the  dwellers  in  Pontus"  .  .  .  - 
muse  will  not  weary 


More  lines  with  the  list  of  them  .  .  . 

cur  fremeure  f 
What  is  it  they  murmur,  and  mutter, 

and  hum  ? 
Into  what  Pandemonium  is  Pentecost 

come  ? 
0,  what  is  the  name  of  the  god  at 

whose  fane 
Every  nation  is  mixed  in  so  motley  a 

train  ? 
What  weird    Kabala    lies    on  those 

tables  outspread  ? 
To  what  oracle  turns  with  attention 

each  head? 
What  holds  these  pale  worshippers 

each  so  devout, 
And    what    are    those    hierophants 

busied  about  ? 


XIII. 


to 


Here  passes,   repasses,   and  flits 
and  fro, 

And  rolls  without  ceasing  the  great 
Yes  and  No ; 

Round  this  altar  alternate  the  weird 
Passions  dance, 

And  the  God  worshipped  here  is  the 
old  God  of  Chance. 

Through  the  wide-open  doors  of  the 
distant  saloon 

Flute,  hautboy,  and  fiddle  are  squeak- 
ing in  tune ; 

And  an  indistinct  music  forever  is 
rolled, 

That  mixes  and  chimes  with  the 
chink  of  the  gold, 

From  a  vision,  that  flits  in  a  lumin- 
ous haze, 

Of  figures  forever  eluding  the  gaze  ;  ^ 

It  fleets  through  the  doorway,  it 
gleams  on  the  glass, 

And  the  weird  words  pursue  it— 
Rouge,  Impair,  et  Passe! 

Like  a  sound  borne  in  sleep  through 
such  dreams  as  encumber 

With  haggardjemotions  the  wild  wick- 
ed slumber 

Of  some  witch  when  she  seeks, 
through  a  nightmare,  to  grab  at 

The  hot  hoof  of  the  fiend,  on  her  way 
to  the  Sabbat. 

xiv. 

The  Due  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred 
had  met 

Some  few  evenings  ago  (for  the  sea- 
son as  yet 


LUCILE. 


77 


Was  but  young)  in  this  self-same  Pa- 
vilion of  Chance. 

The   idler  from    England,    the    idler 
from  France 

Shook  hands,-  each  of  course,   with 
much  cordial  pleasure : 

An  acquaintance  at  Ems  is  to  most 
men  a  treasure, 

And  they  both  were  too  well-bred  in 
aught  to  betray 

One    discourteous    remembrance    of 
things  passed  away. 

'T  was  a  sight  that  was  pleasant,  in- 
deed, to  be  seen, 

These  friends  exchange  greetings;— 
the  men  who  had  been 

Foes  so  nearly  in  days  that  were  past. 
This,  no  doubt, 

Is  why,  on  the  night  I  am  speaking 
about, 

My  Lord  Alfred  sat  down  by  himself 
at  roulette, 

without    one  suspicion  his  bosom  to 
fret, 

Although  he  had  left,  with  his  pleas- 
ant French  friend, 

Matilda,   half  vexed,    at  the   room's 
farthest  end 
xv. 

Lord  Alfred  his  combat  with  Fortune 
began 

With    a    few  modest    thalers — away 
they  all  ran — 

The  reserve  followed  fast  in  the  rear. 
As  his  purse 

Grew  lighter  his  spirits  grew  sensibly 
worse. 

One  needs  not  a  Bacon  to  find  a  cause 
for  it ; 

'T  is  an  old  law  in  physics — Natura 
dbliorret 

Vacuum — and  my  lord,  as  he  watched 
his  last  crown 

Tumble-  into   the  bank,  turned  away 
with  a  frown 

Which  the  brows  of  Napoleon  himself 
might  have  decked 

On  that  day  of  all  days  when  an  em- 
pire was  wrecked 

On  thy  plain,  Waterloo,  and  he  wit- 
nessed the  last 

Of  his  favorite  Guard  cut  to  pieces, 
aghast ! 

Just  then  Alfred  felt,  he  could  scarce- 
ly tell  why, 

Within  him  the  sudden  strange  sense 
that  some  eye 


Had  long  been  intently  regarding  him 

there, — 
That  some  gaze  was  upon  him  too 

searching  to  bear. 
He  rose  and  looked  up.     Was  it  fact? 

was  it  fable  ? 
Was    it    dream  ?      Was    it    waking  ? 

Across  the  green  table, 
That  face,  with  its  features  so  fatally 

known, — 

Those  eyes,  whose  deep  gaze  answer- 
ed strangely  his  own, — 
What  was  it?     Some  ghost  from  its 

grave  come  again  ? 
Some  cheat  of  a  feverish,    fanciful 

brain  ? 
Or  was  it  herself — with  those  deep 

eyes  of  hers, 
And  that  face  unforgotten? — Lucile 

de  Nevers ! 

XVI. 

Ah,  well  that  pale  woman  a  phantom 
might  seem, 

Who  appeared  to  herself  but  the 
dream  of  a  dream ! 

'Neath  those  features  so  calm,  that 
fair  forehead  so  hushed, 

That  pale  cheek  forever  by  passion 
unflushed, 

There  yawned  an  insatiate  void,  and 
there  heaved 

A  tumult  of  restless  regrets  unre- 
lieved. 

The  brief  noon  of  beauty  was  passing 
away, 

And  the  chill  of  the  twilight  fell,  si- 
lent and  gray, 

O'er  that  deep,  self-perceived  isola- 
tion of  soul. 

And  now,  as  all  round  her  the  dim 
evening  stole, 

With  its  weird  desolations,  she  in- 
wardly grieved 

For  the  want  of  that  tender  assurance 
received 

From  the  warmth  of  a  whisper,  the 
glance  of  an  eye, 

Which  should  say,  or  should  look, 
"  Fear  thou  naught, — /am  by !" 

And  thus  through  that  lonely  and 
self-fixed  existence, 

Crept  a  vague  sense  of  silence,  and 
horror  and  distance : 

A  strange  sort  of  faint-footed  fear,— 
like  a  mouse 

That  comes  out,  when  'tis  dark,  in 
some  old  ducal  house 


78 


LUCILE. 


Long  deserted,  where  no  one  the  crea- 
ture can  scare, 

And  the  forms  on  the  arras  are  all 
that  move  there. 

In    Rome, — in   the    Forum,  —  there 

opened  one  night 
A  gulf.     All  the  augurs  turned  pale 

at  the  sight. 
In  this  omen  the   anger  of  Heaven 

they  read. 
Men  consulted  the  gods:   then    the 

oracle  said : — 
''Ever  open  this  gulf  shall  endure,  till 

at  last 
That  which  florae  hath  most  precious 

within  it  be  cast." 
The  Eomans  threw  in  it  their  corn 

and  their  stuff, 
But  their  gulf  yawned  as  wide.   Rome 

seemed  likely  enough 
To  be  ruined  ere  this  rent  in  her  heart 

she  could  choke. 
Then  Curtius,    revering  the    oracle, 

spoke : 

"O  Qmritestto  this  Heaven's  ques- 
tion is  come : 
What  to  Rome  is  most  precious  ?  The 

manhood  of  Rome." 
He  plunged,  and  the  gulf  closed. 

The  tale  is  not  new : 
But  the  moral  applies  many  ways  and 

is  true. 
How,  for  hearts  rent  in  twain,  shall 

the  curse  be  destroyed  ? 
'T  is  a  warm  human  life  that  must  fill 

up  the  void. 
Through  many  a  heart  runs  the  rent 

in  the  fable ; 
But  who  to  discover  a  Curtius  is  able? 

XVII. 

Back  she  came  from  her  long  hiding- 
place,  at  the  source 

Of  the  sunrise;  where,  fair  in  their 
fabulous  course, 

Run  the  rivers  of  Eden ;  an  exile 
again, 

To  the  cities  of  Europe,— the  scenes, 
and  the  men, 

And  the  life,  and  the  ways,  she  had 
left:  still  oppressed 

With  the  same  hungry  heart,  and  un- 
peaceable  breast. 

The  same,  to  the  same  things!  The 
world,  she  had  quitted 

With  a  sigh,  with  a  sigh  she  re-enter- 
ed. Soon  flitted 


Through  the  salons  and  clubs,  to  the 
great  satisfaction 

Of  Paris,  the  news  of  a  novel  attrac- 
tion. 

The  enchanting  Lucile,  the  gay  Coun- 
tess, once  more 

To  her  old  friend,  the  World,  had  re- 
opened her  door ; 

The  World  came,  and  shook  hands, 
and  was  pleased  and  amused 

With  what  the  World  then  went  away 
and  abused. 

From  the  woman's  fair  fame  it  in 
naught  could  detract : 

'T  was  the  woman's  free  genius  it  vex-- 
ed  and  attacked 

With  a  sneer  at  her  freedom  of  action 
and  speech. 

But  its  light  careless  cavils,  in  truth, 
could  not  reach 

The  lone  heart  they  aimed  at.  Her 
tears  fell  beyond 

The  world's  limit,  to  feel  that  the 
world  could  respond 

To  that  heart's  deepest,  innermost 
yearning,  in  naught. 

'T  was  no  longer  this  earth's  idle  in- 
mates she  sought  [gage 

The  wit  of  the  wromaii  sufficed  to  en- 

In  the  woman's  gay  court  the  first 
men  of  the  age. 

Some  had  genius ;  and  all,  wealth  of 
mind  to  confer 

On  the  world:  but  that  wealth  was 
not  lavished  for  her. 

For  the  genius  of  man,  though  so  hu- 
man indeed, 

When  called  'out  to  man's  help  by 
some  great  human  need, 

The  right  to  a  man's  chance  acquaint- 
ance refuses 

To  use  what  it  hoards  for  mankind's 
nobler  uses. 

Genius  touches  the  world  at  but  one 
point  alone 

Of  that  spacious  circumference,  never 
quite  known 

To  the  world  :  all  the  infinite  number 
of  lines 

That  radiate  thither  a  mere  point 
combines, 

But  one  only, — some  central  affection 
apart 

From  the  reach  of  the  world,  in  which 
Genius  is  Heart, 

And  love,  life's  fine  center,  includes 
heart  and  mind. 


LUCILE. 


79 


And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucile  sigh- 
ed to  find 

Men  of  genius  appear,  one  and  all  in 
her  ken, 

When  they  scooped  themselves  to  it, 
as  mere  clever  men  ; 

Artists,  statesmen,  and  they  in  whose 
works  are  unfurled 

Worlds  new-fashioned    for   man,   as 
mere  men  of  the  world. 

And  so,  as  alone  now  she  stood,  in 
the  sight 

Of  the  sunset  of  youth,  with  her  face 
from  the  light, 

And  watched  her  own  shadow  grow 
long  at  her  feet, 

As  though  stretched  out,  the  shade  of 
some  other  to  meet, 

The  woman  felt  homeless  and  child- 
less :  in  scorn 

She  seemed  mocked  by  the  voices  of 
children  unborn ; 

And  when  from  these  sombre  reflec- 
tions away 

She  turned,  with  a  sigh,  to  that  gay 
world,  more  gay 

For  her  presence  within  it,  she  knew 
herself  friendless ; 

That  her  path  led  from  peace,  and  that 
path  appeared  endless ! 

That  even  her  beauty  had  been  but  a 
snare, 

And  her  wit  sharpened  only  the  edge 
of  despair. 

XVIII. 

With  a    face    all    transfigured    and 

flushed  by  surprise, 
Alfred  turned  to  Lucile.     "With  those 

deep  searching  eyes 
She  looked  into  his  own.     Not  a  word 

that  she  said, 
Not  a  look,  not  a  blush,  one  emotion 

betrayed. 
She  seemed  to  smile  through  him,  at 

something  beyond  : 
When  she  answered  his  questions,  she 

seemed  to  respond 
To  some  voice  in  herself.     With  no 

trouble  descried, 
To  each  troubled  inquiry  she  calmly 

replied. 
Not  so  he.     At  the  sight  of  that  face 

back  again 

To  his  mind  came  the  ghost  of  a  long- 
stifled  pain, 
A    remembered     resentment,      half 

checked  by  a  wild 


And  relentful  regret  like  a  motherless 
child 

Softly  seeking  admittance,  with  plain- 
tive appeal, 

To  the  heart  which  resisted  its  en- 
trance. 

Lucile 

And  himself  thus,  however,  with  free- 
dom allowed 

To  old  friends,  talking  still  side  by- 
side,  left  the  crowd 

By  the  crowd  unobserved.    Not  un- 
noticed, however, 

By  the  Duke  and  Matilda.     Matilda 
had  never 

Seen  her  husband's  new  friend. 

She  had  followed  by  chance, 

Or    by    instinct,    the    sudden    half- 
menacing  glance 

Which  the  Duke,  when  he  witnessed 
their  meeting,  had  turned 

On   Lucile    and    Lord  Alfred ;  and, 
scared,  she  discerned 

On  his  features  the  shade  of  a  gloom 
so  profound 

That    she    shuddered    instinctively. 
Deaf  to  the  sound 

Of  her  voice,  to  some  startled  inquiry 
of  hers 

He     replied     not,     but    murmured, 
"Lucile  de  Nevers 

Once  again  then  ?  so  be  it ! "    In  the 
mind  of  that  man, 

At  that  moment,  there  shaped  itself 
vaguely  the  plan 

Of    a  purpose  malignant  and  dark, 
such  alone 

(To  his  own  secret  heart  but  imper- 
fectly shown) 

As    could    spring  from    the    cloudy, 
fierce  chaos  of  thought 

By  which  all  his  nature  to  tumult  was 
wrought. 

XIX. 

"  So!"  he  thought,   "  they  meet  thus: 

and  reweave  the  old  charm  ! 
And  she  hangs  on  his  voice,  and  she 

leans  on  his  arm, 
And  she  heeds  me  not,  seeks  me  not, 

recks  not  of  me ! 
0,  what  if  I  showed  her  that  I,  too, 

can  be 
Loved  by  one — her  own  rival — more 

fair  and  more  young  ?" 
The  serpent  rose  in  him :  a  serpent 

which,  stung, 
Sought  to  sting. 


so 


L  UC1LE. 


Each  unconscious,  indeed,  of  the 
eye 

Fixed  upon  them,  Lucile  and  my  lord 
sauntered  by, 

In  converse  which  seemed  to  be 
earnest.  A  smile 

Now  and  then  seemed  to  show  where 
their  thoughts  touched.  Mean- 
while 

The  muse  of  this  story,  convinced 
that  they  need  her. 

To  the  Duke  and  Matilda  returns, 
gentle  Reader. 


The  Duke,  with  that  sort  of  aggres- 
sive false  praise 

"Which    is   meant  a  resentful  remon- 
strance to  raise 

From    a    listener  (as    sometimes    a 
judge,  just  before 

He  pulls  down  the  black  cap,  very 
gently  goes  o'er 

The  case  for  the  prisoner,  and  deals 
tenderly 

With  the  man  he  is  minded  to  hang 
by  and  by), 

Had    referred    to    Lucile,   and    then 
stopped  to  detect 

In  the  face  of  Matilda  the  growing 
effect 

Of  the  words  he  had  dropped.  There's 
no  weapon  that  slays 

Its  victim  so  surely  (if  well  aimed) 
as  praise. 

Thus,  a  pause  on  their  converse  had 
fallen:  and  now 

Each      was       silent,      preoccupied, 
thoughtful. 

You  know 

There  are  moments  when  silence,  pro- 
longed and  unbroken, 

More    expressive    may  be    than  all 
words  ever  spoken. 

It  is  when  the  heart  has  an  instinct 
of  what 

In  the  heart  of  another  is  passing. 
And  that 

In  the  heart  of  Matilda,  what  was  it? 
Whence  came 

To  her  cheek  on  a  sudden  that  tremu- 
lous flame  ? 

What  weighed  down  her  head  ? 

All  your  eye  could  discover 

Was    the    fact    that    Matilda    was 
troubled.     Moreover 


That    trouble  the    Duke's    presence 

seerr  -^d  to  renew. 
She,  however,  broke  silence     he  first 

of  the  two. 
The  Duke  was  too  prudent  to  shatter 

the  spell 
Of  a  silence  which  suited  his  purpose 

so  well. 
She  was  plucking  the  leaves  from  a 

pale  blush  rose  blossom 
Which  had  fallen  from  the  nosegay 

she  wore  in  her  bosom. 
"  This  poor  flower,"  she  said,  "  seems 

it  not  out  of  place 
In  this  hot  lamplit  air,  with  its  fresh, 

fragile  grace  ?" 
She  bent  her  head  low  as  she  spoke. 

With  a  smile 
The  Duke  watched  her  caressing  the 

leaves  all  the  while, 
And  continued  on  his  side  the  silence. 

He  knew 
This  would  force  his  companion  their 

talk  to  renew 
At  the  point  that    he  wished;  and 

Matilda  divined 
The    significant     pause     with     new 

trouble  of  mind. 
She  lifted  one  moment  her  head ;  but 

her  look 
Encountered  the  ardent  regard  of  the 

Duke, 
And  dropped  back  on  her  floweret 

abashed.     Then,  still  seeking 
The  assurance  she  fancied  she  show- 
ed him  by  speaking, 
She  conceived  herself  safe  in  adopt- 
ing again 
The    theme   she    should   most    have 

avoided  just  then. 

XXI. 

"Duke,"  she  said,  .  .  .  and  she  felt, 
as  she  spoke,  her  cheek  burned, 
"  You  know,  then,  this  .  .  .  lady?" 

"  Too  well !"  he  returned. 

MATILDA. 

True;    you  drew  with  emotion  her 
portrait  just  now. 

Luvois. 
With  emotion  ? 

MATILDA. 

Yes,  yes  !  you  described  her,  I  know, 
As  possessed  of  a  charm  all  unrivalled. 


LUCILE. 


81 


Luvois. 

Alas! 

You  mistook  me  completely !  You, 
madam,  surpass 

This  lady  as  moonlight  does  lamp- 
light; as  youth 

Surpasses  its  best  imitations ;  as  truth 

The  fairest  of  falsehoods  surpasses  ; 
as  nature 

Surpasses  art's  masterpiece;  ay,  as 
the  creature 

Fresh  and  pure  in  its  native  adorn- 
ment surpasses 

All  the  charms  got  by  heart  at  the 
world's  looking-glasses! 

"Yet  you  said,"— she  continued  with 

some  trepidation, 
' '  That  you  quite  comprehended"  .  .  . 

a  slight  hesitation 
Shook  the  sentence,  ..."  a  passion 

so  strong  as" 

Luvois. 

True,  true ! 
But  not  in  a  man  that  had  once  looked 

at  you. 

Nor  can  I  conceive,  or  excuse,  or  ... 

"Hush,  hush!" 

She  broke  in,  all  more  fair  for  one 

innocent  blush. 
"Between    man    and    woman    these 

things  differ  so ! 
It  may  be  that  the  world  pardons  .  .  . 

(how  should  I  know  ?) 
In  you  what  it  visits  on  us ;  or  't  is 

true, 
It  may  be,  that  we  women  are  better 

than  you." 

Luvois. 

Who  denies  it  ?  Yet,  madam,  once 
more  you  mistake. 

The  world,  in  its  judgment,  some  dif- 
ference may  make 

'Twixt  the  man  and  the  woman,  so 
far  as  respects 

Its  social  enactments;  but  not  as 
affects 

The  one  sentiment  which,  it  were 
easy  to  prove, 

Is  the  sole  law  we  look  to  the 
moment  we  love. 

MATILDA. 

That  may  be.  Yet  I  think  I  should 
be  less  severe, 


Although    so  inexperienced  in  such 

things,  I  fear 
I  have  learned  that  the  heart  cannot 

always  repress 
Or    account  for    the  feelings  which 

sway  it. 

"Yes!  yes! 
That  is  too  true,   indeed!"  .  .  .  the 

Duke  sighed. 

And  again 
For  one  moment  in  silence  continued 

the  twain. 

xxn. 

At  length  the  Duke  slowly,  as  though 
he  had  needed 

All  this  time  to  repress  his  emotions, 
proceeded : 

"And  yet!  .  .  .  what  avails,  then,  to 
woman  the  gift 

Of  a  beauty  like  yours,  if  it  cannot 
uplift 

Her    heart    from    the  reach  of    one 
doubt,  one  despair, 

One  pang  of  wronged  love,  to  which 
women  less  fair 

Are  exposed,  when  they  love?" 

With  a  quick  change  of  tone, 

As  though  by  resentment  impelled, 
he  went  on  : — 

"  The  name  that  you  bear,  it  is  whis- 
pered, you  took 

From    love,  not   convention.    Well, 
lady,  .  .  .  that  look 

So  excited,  so  keen,  on  the  face  you 
must  know 

Throughout  all  its  expressions,— that 

rapturous  glow—- 
Those eloquent  features — significant 
eyes— 

Which  that  pale  woman  sees,  yet  be- 
trays no  surprise," 

(He  pointed  his  hand  as  he  spoke  to 
the  door, 

Fixing  with  it  Lucile  and  Lord  Al- 
fred,) .  .  .  "before, 

Have  you  ever  once  seen  what  just 
now  you  may  view 

In  that  face  so  familiar?  .  .  .  no,  lady, 
't  is  new. 

Young,  lovely,  and  loving,  no  doubt, 
as  you  are, 

Are  you  loved  ?"  .  .  . 

XXIII. 

He  looked  at  her— paused— felt  if 
thus  far 


LUCILE. 


The  ground  held  yet.     The  ardor  with 
which  he  had  spoken, 

This  close,  rapid  question,  thus  sud- 
denly broken, 

Inspired  in  Matilda  a  vague  sense  of 
fear, 

As    though    some    indefinite    danger 
were  near. 

With  composure,  however,   at  once 
she  replied : — 

"'T  is  three  years  since  the  day  when 
I  first  was  a  bride, 

And  my  husband  I  never  had  cause 
to  suspect; 

Nor    ever   have    stooped,    sir,    such 
cause  to  detect. 

Yet  if  in  his  looks  or  his  acts  I  should 
see — 

See,  or  fancy — some  moment's  obliv- 
ion of  me, 

I  trust  that  I  too  should  forget  it,— 
for  you 

Must  have  seen  that  my  heart  is  my 
husband's." 

The  hue 

On  her  cheek,  with  the  effort  where- 
with to  the  Duke 

She  had  uttered  this  vague  and  half- 
frightened  rebuke, 

Was  white  as  the  rose  in  her  hand. 
The  last  word 

Seemed  to  die  on  her  lip,  and  could 
scarcely  be  heard. 

There  was  silence  again. 

A  great  step  had  been  made 

By  the  Duke  in  the  words  he  that  ev- 
ening had  said. 

There,    half  drowned  by  the  music, 
Matilda,  that  night, 

Had     listened, — long      listened, — no 
doubt,  in  despite 

Of  herself,  to  a  voice  she  should  never 
have  heard, 

And  her  heart  by  that  voice  had  been 
troubled  and  stirred. 

And  so,  having  suffered  in  silence  his 
eye 

To  fathom  her  own,  he  resumed,  with 
a  sigh : 

XXIV. 

"Will    you    suffer    me,    lady,    your 

thoughts  to  invade 
By  disclosing  my  own  ?  The  position," 

he  said, 
"In    which   we    so    strangely    seem 

placed  may  excuse 


The  frankness  and  force  of  the  words 
which  I  use. 

You  say  that  your  heart  is  your  hus- 
band's.    You  say 

That  you  love  him.     You  think  so,  of 
course,  lady  .  .  .  nay, 

Such  a  love,  I  admit,  were  a  merit, 
no  doubt. 

But,  trust  me,  no  true  love  there  can 
be  without 

Its  dread  penalty— jealousy. 

''Well,  do  not  start! 

Until  now,— either  thanks  to  a  singu- 
lar art 

Of  supreme,    self-control,   you  have 
held  them  all  down 

Unrevealed   in  your    heart, — or  you 
never  have  known 

Even  one  of  those  fierce  irresistible 
pangs 

Which  deep  passion  engenders ;  that 
anguish  which  hangs 

On  the   heart  like  a   nightmare,  by 
jealousy  bred. 

But  if,  lady,  the  love  you  describe,  in 
the  bed 

Of  a  blissful  security  thus  hath  re- 
posed 

Undisturbed   with    mild   eyelids    on 
happiness  closed, 

Were  it  not  to  expose  to  a  peril  un- 
just, 

And  most  cruel,  that  happy  repose 
you  so  trust 

To  meet,  to  receive,  and,  indeed,  it 
may  be,  [see 

For  how  long  I  know  not,  continue  to 

A  woman  whose  place  rivals  yours  in 
the  life 

And  the  heart  which  not  only  your 
title  of  wife, 

But  also  (forgive  me !)  your  beauty 
alone, 

Should  have  made  wholly  yours? — 
You,  who  gave  all  your  own! 

Reflect! — 'tis  the  peace  of  existence 
you  stake 

On  the  turn  of  a  die.     And  for  whose 
'  — for  his  sake  ? 

While  you  witness  this  woman,  the 
false  point  of  view 

From  which  she    must    now  be  re- 
garded by  you 

Will   exaggerate    to    you,    whatever 
they  be, 

The  charms   I  admit  she  possesses. 
Tome 


LUCILE. 


S3 


They  are  trivial  indeed ;  yet  to  your 
eyes,  I  fear 

And  foresee,  they  will  true  and  in- 
trinsic appear. 

Self-unconscious,  and  sweetly  unable 
to  guess 

How  more  lovely  by  far  is  the  grace 
you  possess, 

You  will  wrong  your  own  beauty. 
The  graces  of  art, 

You  will  take  for  the  natural  charm 
of  the  heart ; 

Studied  manners,  the  brilliant  and 
bold  repartee, 

Will  too  soon  in  that  fatal  compari- 
son be 

To  your  fancy  more  fair  than  the 
sweet  timid  sense 

Which,  in  shrinking,  betrays  its  own 
best  eloquence. 

0  then,  lady,  then,  you  will  feel  in 

your  heart 
The  poisonous  pain  of  a  fierce  jealous 

dart! 
While  you  see  her,  yourself  you   no 

longer  will  see, — 

You  will  hear  her,  and  hear  not  your- 
self,— you  will  be 
>y ;  unhappy,  because  you  will 

leem 
Your  own  power  less  great  than  her 

power  will  seem. 
And  I  shall  not  be  by  your  side,  day 

by  day, 
In  despite  of  your  noble  displeasure, 

to  say 
'You  are  fairer  than  she,  as  the  star 

is  more  fair 
Than  the  diamond,  the  brightest  that 

beauty  can  wear !' " 

xxv. 

This  appeal,  both  by  looks  and  by 

language,  increased 
The  trouble  Matilda  felt  grow  in  her 

breast. 
Still  she  spoke  with  what  calmness 

she  could : — 

"  Sir,  the  while 

1  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  faint 

scornful  smile, 

"  For  your  fervor  in  painting  my  fan- 
cied distress : 

Allow  me  the  right  some  surprise  to 
express 

At  the  zeal  you  betray  in  disclosing 
to  me 


The  possible  depth  of  my  own 
misery." 

"That  zeal  would  not  startle  you, 
madam,"  he  said, 

11  Could  you  read  in  my  heart,  as  my- 
self I  have  read, 

The  peculiar  interest  which  causes 
that  zeal—" 

Matilda  her  terror  no  more  could 
conceal. 

"Duke,"  she  answered  in  accents 
short,  cold,  and  severe, 

As  she  rose  from  her  seat,  "  I  con- 
tinue to  hear ; 

But  permit  me  to  say,  I  no  more  un- 
derstand." 

"[Forgive !"  with  a  nervous  appeal  of 

the  hand, 
And  a  well-feigned  confusion  of  voice 

and  of  look, 
"Forgive,   O,   forgive    me,"  at  once 

cried  the  Duke, 
"  I  forgot    that    you    know    me    so 

slightly.     Your  leave 
I    entreat    (from    your   anger   those 

words  to  retrieve) 
For  one  moment  to  speak  of  myself, 

— for  I  think 
That  you  wrong  me — " 
His  voice  as  in  pain  seemed  to  sink ; 
And  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  lifted 

them,  glistened. 

XXVI. 

Matilda,  despite  of  herself,  sat  and 
listened. 

XXVII. 

"Beneath  an  exterior  which  seems 

and  may  be, 
Worldly,  frivolous,  careless,  my  heart 

hides  in  me," 
He    continued,     "a    sorrow    which 

draws  me  to  side 
With  all  things    that    suffer.     Nay, 

laugh  not,"  he  cried, 
"At  so  strange  an  avowal. 

"  I  seek  at  a  ball, 
For  instance,— the  beauty  admired  by 

all? 
No !  some  plain,  insignificant  creature. 

who  sits 
Scorned  of  course  by  the  beauties, 

and  shunned  by  the  wits. 
All  the  world  is  accustomed  to  wound, 

or  neglect, 


84 


LUCILE. 


Or    oppress,    claims    my   heart    and 

commands  my  respect. 
No  Quixote,  I  do  not  affect  to  belong, 
I  admit,  to  those  chartered  redressers 

of  wrong : 
But  I  seek  to  console,  where  I  can. 

7T  is  a  part 
Not    brilliant,   I  own,   yet    its   joys 

bring  no  smart." 
These    trite    words,    from    the    tone 

which  he  gave  them,  received 
An  appearance  of  truth,  which  might 

well  be  believed 

By  a  heart  shre  wder  yet  than  Matilda's. 

And  so 

He    continued  .  .  .  "O    lady!    alas, 

could  you  know 
What  injustice    and   wrong    iu  this 

world  I  have  seen ! 
How   many    a    woman,   believed    to 

have  been 
Without  a  regret,  I  have  known  turn 

aside 
To  burst  into  heart-broken  tears  un- 

descried ! 
On  how  many  a  lip  have  I  witnessed 

the  smile 
Which  but  hid  what  was  breaking  the 

poor  heart  the  while !" 
Said  Matilda,  "Your  life,   it  would 

seem,  then,'  must  be 
One  long  act  of  devotion." 

' '  Perhaps  so,"  said  he  ; 
"But    at  least    that  devotion  small 

merit, can  boast, 
For  one  day  may  yet  come, — if  one 

day  at  the  most : — 

When,  perceiving  at  last  all  the  dif- 
ference— how  great ! — 
'Twixt  the  heart  that  neglects  and 

the  heart  that  can  wait, 
'Twixt    the    natures    that    pity,   the 

natures  that  pain. 
Some  woman,  that  else  might  have 

passed  in  disdain 
Or  indifference  by    me, — in  passing 

that  day 
Might  pause  with  a  word  or  a  smile 

to  repay 
This  devotion,— and  then"  .  .  . 

XXVIII. 

To  Matilda's  relief 
At    that    moment  her    husband    ap- 
proached. 

With  some  grief 

I  must  own   that  her  welcome,  per- 
chance, was  expressed 


LVC1LE. 


85 


With  a  gesture  of  gentle  and  kindly 

appeal 
Which  appeared    to  imply,  without 

words,  "Let  us  feel 
'hat  the   friendship  between  us  in 

years  that  are  fled, 
las  survived  one  mad  momeut  for- 
gotten," she  said, 
You  remain,  Duke,  at  Ems  ?" 

He  turned  on  her  a  look 
f    frigid,   resentful,  and  sullen  re- 
buke; 

nd  then,  with  a  more  than  signifi- 
cant glance 
U.  Matilda,    maliciously    answered, 

"Perchance 
have  here  an  attraction.  And  you  ?" 

he  returned, 
ucile's  eyes  had  followed  his  own, 

and  discerned 
he  boast  they  implied. 

He  repeated,  "  And  you  ?" 
A.nd  still  watching  Matilda,  she  an- 

wered,  "  I  too." 
Aoid  he   thought,  as  with  that  word 

she  left  him,  she  sighed, 
he  next  moment  her  place  she  re- 
sumed by  the  side 
f    Matilda;    and   soon    they  shook 

hands  at  the  gate 
)f  the  selfsame  hotel. 

XXX. 

One  depressed,  one  elate, 

he   Duke    and  Lord  Alfred  again, 
through  the  glooms 

)f  the  thick  linden  alley,  returned  to 
the  Rooms. 

lis  cigar  each  had  lighted,  a  moment 
before, 

It  the  inn,  as  they  turned,  arm-in- 
arm, from  the  door. 

3ms  cigars    do    not    cheer  a  man's 
spirits,  cxpcrto 

Me  miserum  quoties  /)  crede  Roberto. 

n  silence,  awhile,  they  walked  on- 
ward. 

At  last 

'he  Duke's  thoughts  to  language  half 
consciously  passed. 

Luvois. 
)nce  more !  yet  once  more ! 
ALFRED. 

What? 
Luvois, 
We  meet  her,  once  more, 


The  woman  for  whom  we  two  mad 

men  of  yore 
(Laugh,    mon"  cher    Alfred,    laugh!) 

were  about  to  destroy 
Each  the  other ! 

ALFRED. 

It  is  not  with  laughter  that  I 
Raise  the  ghost  of  that  once  troubled 

time.     Say !  can  you 
Recall  it  with  coolness  and  quietude 
now  ? 

Luvois. 

Now?  yes!  I,   mon  clier  am  a  true 

Parisien  : 
Now,  the  red  revolution,  the  tocsin, 

and  then 
The  dance  and  the  play.  I  am  now 

at  the  play. 

ALFRED, 

At  the  play,  are  you  now  ?  Then  per- 
chance I  now  may 

Presume,  Duke,  to  ask  you  what, 
ever  until 

Such  a  moment,  I  waited  ,  .  . 

Luvois. 

Oh !  ask  what  you  will. 
Franc  jeu!  on  the  table  my  cards  I 

spread  out. 
Ask. 

ALFRED. 

Duke,  you  were  called  to  a  meet- 
ing (no  doubt 
You  remember  it  yet)  with  Lucile.  It 

was  night 

When  you  went;  and  before  you  re- 
turned it  was  light. 
We  met :  you  accosted  me  then  with 

a  brow 
Bright    with    triumph :    your  words 

(you  remember  them  now  ?) 
Were  "Let  us  be  friends !" 
Luvois. 

Well! 
ALFRED. 

How  then,  after  that, 
Can  you  and  she  meet  as  acquaintan- 
ces? 

Luvois. 

What! 

Did  she  not,  then,  herself,  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Nevers. 


86 


LUCILE. 


Solve  your  riddle  to  night  with  those 
soft  lips  of  hers  ? 
ALFRED. 

In  our  converse  to-night  we  avoided 
the  past. 

But  the  question  I  asked  should  be 
answered  at  last : 

By  you,  if  you  will ;  if  you  will  not, 
by  her. 

Luvois. 

Indeed?  but  that  question,  milord, 
can  it  stir 

Such  an  interest  in  you,  if  your  pas- 
sion be  o'er  ? 

ALFRED. 

Tes.  Esteem  may  remain,  although 
love  be  no  more. 

Lucile  asked  me,  this  night,  to  my 
wife  (understand 

To  my  wife )/  to  present  her.  I  did 
so.  Her  hand 

Has  clasped  that  of  Matilda.  We  gen- 
tlemen owe 

Eespect  to  the  name  that  is  ours: 
and,  if  so, 

To  the  woman  that  bears  it  a  twofold 
respect. 

Answer,  Due  de  Luvois !  Did  Lucile 
then  reject 

The  proffer  you  made  of  your  hand 
and  your  name  ? 

Or  did  you  on  her  love  then  relinquish 
a  claim 

Urged  before?  I  ask  bluntly  this 
question,  because 

My  title  to  do  so  is  clear  by  the  laws 

That  all  gentlemen  honor.  Make 
only  one  sign 

That  you  know  of  Lucile  de  Nevers 
aught,  in  fine, 

For  which,  if  your  own  yirgin  sister 
were  by, 

From  Lucile  you  would  shield  her  ac- 
quaintance, and  I 

And  Matilda  leave  Ems  on  the  mor- 
row. 

XXXI. 

The  Duke 
Hesitated  and  paused.     He  could  tell 

by  the  look 
Of  the  man  at  his  side,  that  he  meant 

what  he  said, 
And  there  flashed  in  a  moment  these 

thoughts  through  his  head  : 


"Leave  Ems!  would  that  suit  meT 
no  that  were  again 

To  mar  all.     And  besides,  if  I  do  not 
explain, 

She  herself  will  .  .  .  et  puis,  il  a  rais- 
on;  on  est 

Gentilhomme    avant    tout!"     He   re- 
plied therefore, 

"Nay! 

Madame  de  Nevers  had  rejected  me.  I, 

In  those  days,   I  was  mad;  and  in 
some  mad  reply 

I  threatened  the  life  of  the  rival  to 
whom 

That  rejection  was  due,  I  was  led  to 
presume. 

She  feared  for  his  life ;  and  the  letter 
which  then 

She  wrote  me,  I  showed  you  ;  we  met 
and  again 

My  hand  was  refused,  and  my  love 
was  denied, 

And  the  glance  you  mistook  was  the 
vizard  which  Pride 

Lends  to  Humiliation. 

"  And  so,"  half  in  jest 

He  went  on,  "  in  this  best  world,  't  is 
all  for  the  best : 

You  are    wedded,   (blessed  English- 
man !)  wedded  to  one 

Whose  past  can  be  called  into  ques- 
tion by  none : 

And  I  (fickle  Frenchman !)  can  still 
laugh  to  feel 

I  am  lord  of  myself,  and  the  Mode : 
and  Lucile 

Still  shines  from  her  pedestal,  frigid 
and  fair 

As  yon  German  moon  o'er  the  linden- 
tops  there4 

A  Dian  in  marble  that  scorns  any  troth 

With   the    little    love-gods,   whom  I 
thank  for  us  both 

While    she   smiles    from    her  lonely 
Olympus  apart, 

That  her  arrows  are  marble   as  well 
as  her  heart. 

Stay  at  Ems,  Alfred  Vargrave !" 

XXXII. 

The  Duke,  with  a  smile, 
Turned  and  entered  the  Rooms  which, 

thus  talking,  meanwhile, 
They  had  reached. 

XXXIII. 

Alfred  Vargrave  strode  on  (overthrown 


LUC  ILK 


87 


Heart    and  mind !)  in  the  darkness 

bewildered,  alone : 
"And  so,"  to  himself  did  he  mutter, 

"and  so 

'T  was  to  rescue  my  life,  gentle  spir- 
it !  -and,  oh, 
For  this  did  I  doubt  her  !  .  .  .  a  light 

word — a  look — 
The  mistake  of  a  moment !  .  .  .  for 

this  I  forsook —  [Lucile ! 

For  this  ?  Pardon,  pardon,  Lucile !  O 
Thought    and  memory    rang,   like  a 

funeral  peal, 
Weary  changes  on  one  dirge-like  note 

through  his  brain, 
As  he  strayed  down  the  darkness. 

XXXIV. 

Re-entering  again 
The  Casino,    the  Duke  smiled.    He 

turned  to  roulette, 
And  sat  down,  and  played  fast,  and 

lost  largely,  and  yet 
He  still  smiled:  night  deepened:  he 

played  his  last  number : 
Went  home  :  and  soon  slept :  and  still 

smiled  in  his  slumber. 

XXXV. 

In  his  desolate  Maxims,  La  Rochefou- 
cauld wrote, 

"  In  the  grief  or  mischance  of  a  friend 
you  may  note, 

There    is    something   which    always 
gives  pleasure." 

Alas! 

That  reflection  fell  short  of  the  truth 
as  it  was. 

La  Rochefoucauld  might  have  as  truly 
set  down, — 

"  No  misfortune,  but  what  some  one 
turns  to  his  own 

Advantage,  its  mischief ;  no   sorrow, 
but  of  it 

There  ever  is  somebody  ready  to  profit: 

No  affliction    without    its  stock-job- 
bers, who  all 

Gamble,   speculate,  play  on  the  rise 
and  the  fall 

Of  another  man's  heart,   and  make 
traffic  in  it." 

Burn  thy  book,  0  La  Rochefoucauld ! 
Fool !  one  man's  wit 

All  men's  selfishness  how  should  it 
fathom  ? 

O  sage, 

Dost  thou  satirize  Nature  ? 

She  laughs  at  thy  page. 


CANTO  II. 

I. 

COUSIN  JOHN  to  COUSIN  ALFRED. 

"LONDON,  18— 

"MY  DEAR  ALFRED  : 

Your  last  letters  put  me  in  pain. 
This  contempt  of  existence,  this  list- 
less disdain 
Of  your  own   life, — its  joys  and  its 

duties, — the  deuce 
Take  my  wits  if  they  find  for  it  half 

an  excuse ! 
I  wish  that   some  Frenchman  would 

shoot  off  your  leg, 
And  compel  you  to  stump  through  the 

world  on  a  peg. 
I  wish    that    you  had,   like  myself, 

(more's  the  pity!) 
To  sit  seven   hours    on  this  cursed 

committee. 
I  wish  that  you  knew,  sir,  how  salt  is 

the  bread 
Of  another — (what  is  it  that  Dante 

has  said  ?) 
And  the  trouble  of  other  men's  stairs. 

In  a  word, 
I  wish  fate  had  some  real  affliction 

conferred 
On  your  whimsical  self,  that,  at  least, 

you  had  cause 
For    neglecting    life's    duties,     and 

damning  its  laws! 
This  pressure  against  all  the  purpose 

of  life, 
This  self-ebullition,  and  ferment,  and 

strife, 
Betokened,  I  grant  that  it  may  be  in 

truth, 
The  richness  and  strength  of  the  new 

wine  of  youth. 
But  if,  when   the  wine  should  have 

mellowed  with  time, 
Being  bottled  and  binned,  to  a  flavor 

sublime 
[t  retains  the  same  acrid,  incongruous 

taste, 
Why,   the   sooner  to  throw  it  away 

that  we  haste 
The  better,  I  take  it.     And  this  vice 

of  snarling, 
Self-love's  little  lap-dog,  the  overfed 

darling 

^f  a  hypochondriacal  fancy  appears, 
To  my  thinking,  at  least,  in  a  man  of 

your  years, 


t  the  midnoon  of  manhood  with 
plenty  to  dp, 

nd  every  incentive  for  doing  it  too, — 

ftth  the  duties  of  life  just  sufficient- 
ly pressing 

or  prayer,  and  of  joys  more  than 
most  men  for  blessing; 

ith  a  pretty  young  wife,  and  a 
pretty  full  purse, — 

ike  poltroonery,    puerile   truly,    or 


take  life 

with  me, 
it  be  not  all  smiles,  that  it  is  not 

all  sneers ; 
admits  honest  laughter,  and  needs 

honest  tears. 
o  you  think  none  have  known  but 

yourself  all  the  pain 
f   hopes    that  retreat,   and  regrets 

that  remain  ? 
nd  all  the  wide  distance  fate  fixes, 

no  doubt, 
wixt  the  life  that's  within,  and  the 

life  that's  without? 
Phat  one  of  us  finds  the  world  just 

as  he  likes  ? 
r   gets    what    he    wants    when    he 

wants  it  ?     Or  strikes 
ithout  missing  the  thing  that  he 

strikes  at  the  first  ? 
r  walks   without    stumbling  ?      Or 

quenches  his  thirst 
b  one  draught  ?    Bah !   I  tell  you ! 

I,  bachelor  John, 
ave  had   griefs  of  my  own.      But 

what  then  ?    I  push  on 
11  the  faster  perchance  that  I  yet 

feel  the  pain  [again, 

my  last  fall,  albeit  I  may  stumble 
od  means  every  man  to  be  happy, 

be  sure, 
e  sends  us  no  sorrows  that  have  not 

some  cure, 
r  duty  down  here  is  to  do,  not  to 

know, 
ve  as  though  life  were  earnest,  and 

life  will  be  so. 
»t  each  moment,   like  Time's  last 

ambassador,  come  : 
will  wait  to   deliver  its  message: 

and  some 
rt  of  answer  it  merits.     It  is  not 

the  deed 
man  does,  but  the  way  that  he  does 

it,  should  plead 


For  the  man's  compensation  in  doing  it. 
"Here, 

My  next  neighbor's  a  man  with  twelve 
thousand  a  year, 

Who  deems  that  life  has  not  a  pastime 
more  pleasant 

Than  to  follow  a  fox  or  to  slaughter  a 
pheasant. 

Yet  this  fellow  goes  through  a  con- 
tested election, 

Lives  in  London,  and  sits,  like  the 
soul  of  dejection, 

All  the  day  through  upon  a  commit- 
tee, and  late 

To  the  last,  every  night,  through  the 
weary  debate, 

As  though  he  were  getting  each 
speaker  by  heart, 

Though  amongst  them  he  never  pre- 
sumes to  take  part. 

One  asks  himself  why,  without  mur- 
mur or  question, 

He  foregoes  all  his  tastes,  and  de- 
stroys his  digestion, 

For  a  labor  of  which  the  result  seems 
so  small. 

'  The  man  is  ambitious/  you  say. 
Not  at  all. 

He  has  just  sense  enough  to  be  fully 
aware 

That  he  never  can  hope  to  be  Prem- 
ier, or  share 

The  renown  of  a  Tully ; — or  even  to 
hold 

A  subordinate  office.  He  is  not  so  bold 

As  to  fancy  the  House  for  ten  min- 
utes would  bear 

With  patience  his  modest  opinions  to 
hear. 

'But  he  wants  something !' 

"  What !  with  twelve  thousand  a  year  ? 

What  could  Government .  give  him 
would  be  half  so  dear 

To  his  heart  as  a  walk  with  a  dog  and 
a  gun 

Through  his  own  pheasant  woods,  or 
a  capital  run  ? 

'  No ;  but  vanity  fills  out  the  emptiest 
brain ; 

The  man  would  be  more  than  his 
neighbors,  't  is  plain; 

And  the  drudgery  drearily  gone 
through  in  town 

Is  more  than  repaid  by  provincial  re- 
nown. 

Enough  if  some  Marchioness,  lively 
and  loose, 


Shall  have   eyed    him  with  passing 
complaisance  ;  the  goose, 

.f.  the  Fashion  to  him  open  one  of  its 
doors, 

is  proud  as  a  sultan,  returns  to  his 
boors.'    . 

iiVrong  again !  if  you  think  so. 

"For,  primo ;  my  friend 

s  the  head  of  a  family  known,  from 
one  end 

)f  the  shire  to  the  other,  as  the  old- 
est ;  and  therefore 

le  despises  fine  lords  and  fine  ladies. 

lie  care  for 
peerage?    no,  truly!    Secondo;  he 
rarely 

)r  never  goes  out ;  dines  at  Bellamy's 

sparely, 

nd  abhors  what  you  call  the  gay 
world. 

"Then,  I  ask, 

Vhat  inspires,  and  consoles,  such,  a 
self-imposed  task 

Ls    the  life   of  this    man, — but  the 
sense  of  its  duty  ? 

Lnd  I    swear  that  the   eyes  of  the 
haughtiest  beauty 

lave  never  inspired  in  my  soul  that 
intense, 

teverential,  and     loving,  and   abso- 
lute sense 

f   heartfelt  admiration    I  feel  for 
this  man, 

s  I  see  him  beside  me ;  —  there, 
wearing  the  wan 

jondon  daylight  away,  on  his  hum- 
drum committee ; 

o  unconscious  of  all    that  awakens 
my  pity, 

Lnd  wonder — and  worship,  I  might 
say. 

"  To  me 

^here  seems  something  nobler  than 
genius  to  be 

n  that  dull  patient  labor  no  genius 
relieves, 

hat  absence  of  all  joy  which  yet 
never  grieves; 

he  humility  of    it !    the  grandeur 
withal! 

'he  sublimity  of  it  ?  and  yet,  should 
you  call 

'he  man's  own  very  slow  apprehen- 
sion to  this, 

[e  would  ask,  with  a  stare,  what  sub- 
limity is !  [born ; 

[is  work  is  the  duty  to  which  he  was 


He  accepts  it  without  ostentation  or 

scorn ; 
And  this  man  is  no  uncommon  type 

(I  thank  Heaven!) 
Of  this  land's  common  men.     In  all 

all  other  lands,  even 
The  type's  self  is  wanting.  Perchance, 

'tis  the  reason 
That    Government    oscillates      ever 

'twixt  treason 
And  tyranny  elsewhere. 

"I  wander  away 
Too  far,   though,  from  what  I    was 

wishing  to  say. 
You,  for  instance,  read   Plato.     You 

know  that  the  soul 
Is  immortal ;  and  put  this  in  rhyme, 

on  the  whole, 
Very  well,  with  sublime  illustration. 

Man's  heart 
Is  a  mystery  doubtless.    You  trace  it 

in  art : 
The  Greek  Psyche,— that's  beauty,— 

the  perfect  ideal. 

But  then  comes  the  imperfect,    per- 
fectible real, 
With  its  pained  aspiration  und  strife 

In  those  pale 
Ill-drawn  virgins  of  Giotto  you  see  it 

prevail. 
You  have  studied  all  this.     Then'  the 

universe,  too, 
Is  not  a  mere  house  to  be  lived  in,  for 

you. 

Geology  opens  the  mind.  So  you  know 
Something  also  of  strata  and  fossils ; 

these  show 
The  bases  of  cosmical  structure :  some 

mention 
Of  the  nebulous  theory  demands  your 

attention; 
And  so  on. 

"In  short,  it  is  clear  the  interior 
3f  your  brain  my  dear  Alf  ed,  is  vastly 

superior 
[n  fibre,  and  fulness,  and  function, 

and  fire, 
To  that  of  my  poor  parliamentary 

squire ; 
But  your  life  leaves  upon  me  (forgive 

me  this  heat 
Due  to  friendship)  the  sense  of  a  thing 

incomplete. 
You  fly  high.  But  what  is  it,  in  truth, 

you  fly  atf^ 
My  mind  is  not  satisfied  quite  as  to 

that. 


90 


LUCILE. 


An  old  illustration's  as  good  as  a  new, 

Provided  the  old  illustration  be  true. 

We  are  children.     Mere  kites  are  the 
fancies  we  fly, 

Though  we  marvel  to  see  them  ascend- 
ing so  high ; 

Things  slight   in  themselves,— long- 
tailed  toys,  and  no  more. 

What  is  it  that  makes  the  kite  steadi- 
ly soar 

Through  the  realms  where  the  cloud 
and  the  whirlwind  have  birth 

But  the  tie  that  attaches  the  kite  to 
the  earth  ? 

I  remember  the  lesson  of  childhood, 
you  see, 

And  the  hornbook  I  learned  on  my 
poor  mother's  knee. 

In  truth,  I  suspect  little  else  do  we 
learn 

From  this  great  book  of  life,  which  so 
shrewdly  we  turn, 

Saving  how  to  apply,  with  a  good  or 
bad  grace, 

What  we  learned  in  the  hornbook  of 
childhood. 

"Your  case 

Is  exactly  in  point. 

"Fly  your  kite,  if  you  please, 

Out  of  sight :  let  it  go  where  it  will, 
on  the  breeze ; 

But  cut  not  the  one  thread  by  which 
it  is  bound, 

Be  it  never  so  high,  to  this  poor  human 
ground. 

No  man  is  the  absolute  lord  of  his 
life. 

You,  my  friend,  have  a  home,  and  a 
sweet  and  dear  wife. 

If  I  often  have  sighed  by  my  own  si- 
lent fire, 

With  the  sense  of  a  sometimes  recurr- 
ing desire 

For  a  voice  sweet  and  low,  or  a  face 
fond  and  fair, 

Some  dull  winter  evening  to  solace 
and  share 

With  the  love  which  the  world  its  good 
children  allows 

To  shake  hands  with, — in  short,  a  le- 
gitimate spouse, 

This  thought  has  consoled  me:  "At 
least  I  have  given. 

For  my  own  good  behavior  no  hostage 
to  heaven/' 

You  have,  though.       Forget  it  not! 
faith  if  you  do, 


I  would  rather  break  stones  on  a  road 

than  be  you. 

If  any  man  wilfully  injured,  or  led 
That  little  girl  wrong,  I  would  sit  on 

his  head. 
Even  though  you  yourself  were  the 

sinner! 

"And  this 
Leads  me  back  ( do  not  take  it,  dear 

cousin,  amiss!) 

To  the  matter  I  meant  to  have  men- 
tioned at  once, 
B:it  these  thoughts  put  it  out  of  my 

head  for  the  nonce, 
Of  all  the  preposterous  humbugs  and 

rams, 
Of  all  the  old  wolves  overtaken  for 

lambs, 
The  wolf  best  received  by  the  flock  he 

devours 
Is  that  uncle-in-law,  dear  Alfred,  of 

yours. 
At  least,  this  has  long  been  my  settled 

conviction, 
And  I  almost  would  venture  at  once 

the  prediction 
That  before  very  long — but  no  matter! 

I  trust 
For  his  sake  and  our  own,  that  I  may 

be  unjust. 
But  Heaven  forgive  me,  if  cautious  I 

am  on 
The  score  of  such  men  as,  with  both 

God  and  Mammon, 
Seem  so  shrewdly  familiar. 

"  Neglect  not  this  warning. 
There  were  rumors  afloat  in  the  City 

this  morning 
Which  I  scarce  like    the    sound    of. 

Who  knows  ?  would  he  fleece 
At  a  pinch,  the  old  hypocrite,  even 

his  own  niece? 

For  the  sake  of  Matilda  I  cannot  im- 
portune 
Your  attention  too  early.     If  all  your 

wife's  fortune 
Is  yet  in  the  hands  of  that  specious 

old  sinner, 
Who  would  dice  with  the  devil,  and 

yet  rise  up  winner,  [grab 

I  say,  lose  no  time  !  get  it  out  of  the 
Of  her  trustee  and  uncle,  Sir  Ridley 

MaeNab. 
I  trust  those  deposits,  at  least,  are 

drawn  out, 
And  safe  at  this  moment  from  danger 

or  doubt. 


LUC  ILK 


A  wink  is  as  good  as  a  nod  to  the  wise. 
Verbum   sap.      I  admit  nothing  yet 

justifies 
My  distrust :  but  I  have  in  my  own 

mind  a  notion 
That  old  Ridley's    white   waistcoat, 

and  airs  of  devotion, 
Have  long  been  the  only  ostensible 

capital 
On  which  he  does  business.     If  so, 

time  must  sap  it  all, 
Sooner  or    later.    Look    sharp.    Do 

not  wait, 
Draw  at  once.     In  a  fortnight  it  may 

be  too  late. 
I  admit  I  know  nothing.     I  can  but 

suspect; 
I  give  you  my  notions.    Form  yours 

and  reflect. 
My    love    to    Matilda.    Her    mother 

looks  well. 
I  saw  her  last  week.     I  have  nothing 

to  tell 
Worth  your  hearing.     We  think  that 

the  Government  here 
Will  not  last  our  next  session.     Fitz 

Funk  is  a  peer, 
You  will  see  by  the  Times.    There 

are  symptoms  which  show 
That  the  ministers  now  are  preparing 

to  go, 
And  finish  their  feast  of  the  loaves 

and  the  fishes. 
It  is  evident  that  they  are  clearing 

the  dishes, 
And    cramming    their   pockets  with 

bon-bons.     Your  news 
Will  be  always  acceptable.    Vere,  of 

the  Blues, 

Has  bolted  with  Lady  Selina.  And  so, 
You  have  met  with  that  hot-headed 

Frenchman?    I  know 
That  the  man  is  a  sad  mauvais  sujet. 

Take  care 
Of  Matilda.    I  wish  I  could  join  you 

both  there : 
But,  before  I  am  free,  you  are  sure  to 

be  gone. 
Good   by,    my  dear   fellow.    Yours, 

anxiously, 

"JOHN." 

II. 

This  is  just  the  advice  I  myself  would 
have  given 

To  Lord  Alfred,  had  I  been  his  cous- 
in, which,  Heaven 


Be  praised,  I  am  not.     But  it  reached 

him  indeed 
In  an  unlucky  hour,    and    received 

little  heed. 
A  half-languid  glance  was  the  most 

that  he  lent  at 
That  time  to  these  homilies.   Primum 

dcmentat 

Quern  Deus  wltperdere.  Alfred  in  fact 
Was  behaving  just  then  in  a  way  to 

distract 
Job's  self  had  Job  known  him.     The 

more  you'd  have  thought 
The  Duke's  court  to  Matilda  his  eye 

would  have  caught, 
The  more  did  his  aspect  grow  listless 

to  hers,  [Nevers. 

The  more  did  it  beam  to  Lucile  de 
And  Matilda,  the  less  she  found  love 

in  the  look 
Of  her    husband,    the    less  did  she 

shrink  from  the  Duke. 
With  each  day  that  passed  o'er  them, 

they  each,  heart  from  heart, 
Woke  to  feel  themselves  further  and 

further  apart. 
More  and  more  of  his  time  Alfred 

passed  at  the  table; 
Played  high ;  and  lost  more  than  to 

lose  he  was  able. 
He  grew  feverish,  querulous,  absent, 

perverse, — 
And  here  I  must  mention,  what  made 

matters  worse, 

That  Lucile  and  the  Duke  at  the  self- 
same hotel 
With    the    Vargraves    resided.      It 

needs  not  to  tell 
That  they  all  saw  too  much  of  each 

other.     The  weather 
Was  so  fine  that  it  brought  them  each 

day  all  together 
In  the  garden,  to  listen,  of  course,  to 

the  band. 
The  house  was  a  sort  of  phalanstery ; 

and 
Lucile  and  Matilda  were  pleased  to 

discover 

A  mutual  passion  formusic.  Moreover, 
The  Duke  was  an  excellent  tenor: 

could  sing 
•' Ange  si  pure"  in   a  way  to  bring 

down  on  the  wing 
All  the  angels  St.  Cicely  played  to. 

My  lord 
Would  also  at  times,  when  he  was 

not  too  bored, 


LUCILE. 


'lay  Beethoven    and  Wagner's  new 

music,  not  ill ; 
Vith  some  little  things  of  his  own, 

showing  skill. 
or  which  reason,  as  well  as  for  some 

others  too, 
'heir  rooms  were  a  pleasant  enough 

rendezvous, 
id   Lucile,    then,    encourage    (the 

heartless  coquette !) 
ill  the  mischief    she  could  not  but 

mark? 

Patience  yet ! 

III. 

a  that  garden,  an  arbor,  withdrawn 
from  the  sun, 

>y  laburnum  and  lilac  with  blooms 
over-run, 

'ormed  a  vault  of  cool  verdure,  which 
made,  when  the  heat 

>f  the  noontide  hung  heavy,  a  gra- 
cious retreat. 

aid  here,  with  some  friends  of  their 
own  little  world, 

n  the  warm  afternoons,  till  the  shad- 
ows uncurled 

'rom  the  feet  of  the  lindens,  and 
crept  through  the  grass, 

'heir  blue  hours  would  this  gay  little 
colony  pass. 

he  men  loved  to  smoke,  and  the 
women  to  bring, 

'ndeterred  by  tobacco,  their  work 
there,  and  sing 

>r  converse,  till  the  dew  fell,  and 
homeward  the  bee 

loated,  heavy  with  honey.  Towards 
eve  there  was  tea 

A.  luxury  due  to  Matilda),  and  ice, 

ruit,  and  coffee.      1Q  "Eairepe,  irdvra 


uch  an  evening  it  was,  while  Matilda 

presided 
!'er  the    rustic    arrangements    thus 

daily  provided, 
Pith  the  "Duke,  and  a  small  German 

prince  with  a  thick  head, 
.nd  an  old  Russian  Countess  both 

witty  and  wicked, 
.    two    Austrian    Colonels,— that 

Alfred,  who  yet 
7as  lounging  alone  with  his  last  cig- 
arette, 
aw   Lucile    de    Nevers   by   herself 

pacing  slow 


'Neath  the  shade  of  the  cool  linden- 
trees  to  and  fro, 

And  joining  her,  cried,    "Thank  the 
good  stars,  we  meet ! 

I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you !" 

"  Yes?  ..."  with  her  sweet 

Serene  voice,  she  replied  to  him  .  .  . 
"Yes?  and  I  too 

Was  wishing,   indeed,   to  say  some- 
what to  you." 

She  was  paler  just  then  than  her  wont 
was.     The  sound 

Of  her  voice  had  within  it  a  sadness 
profound. 

"You  are  ill?"  he  exclaimed. 

' '  No !"  she  hurriedly  said, 

"No,  no!" 

"You  alarm  me!" 

She  drooped  down  her  head. 

"If   your     thoughts    have    of    late 
sought,  or  cared,  to  divine 

The  purpose  of  what  has  been  passing 
in  mine, 

My  farewell  can  scarcely  alarm  you." 

ALFRED. 

Lucile 

Your  farewell !  you  go ! 
LUCILE. 

Yes,  Lord  Alfred. 
ALFRED. 

Reveal 

The  cause  of  this  sudden  unkindness. 
LUCILE. 

Unkind? 
ALFRED. 

Yes !  what  else  is  this  parting  ? 
LUCILE. 

No,  no !  are  you  blind  ? 
Look  into  your  own  heart  and  home. 

Can  you  see 
No  reason  for  this,  save  unkindness 

in  me? 
Look  into  the  eyes  of  your  wife, — 

those  true  eyes, 
Too  pure  and  too  honest  in  aught  to 

disguise 
The  sweet  soul  shining  through  them. 

ALFRED. 

Lucile!  (first  and  last 
Be  the  word    if  you  will!)  let    me 
speak  of  the  past. 


LUCILE. 


93 


I  know  now,  alas !  though  I  know  it 

too  late. 
What  passed  at  that  meeting  which 

settled  my  fate. 
Nay,  nay,  interrupt  me  not  yet !  let  it 

be! 
I  but  say  what  is  due  to  yourself, — 

due  to  me, 
And  must  say  it. 

He  rushed  incoherently  on, 
Describing  how,  lately,  the  truth  he 

had  known, 
To  explain  how,  and  whence,  he  had 

wronged  her  before, 
All  the  complicate  coil  wound  around 

him  of  yore. 
All  the  hopes  that  had  flown  with  the 

faith  that  was  fled, 
"And  then,  O  Lucile,  what  was  left 

me,"  he  said, 
"  When  my  life  was  defrauded  of  you, 

but  to  take 
That  life,  as  't  was  left,  and  endeavor 

to  make 
Unobserved    by    another,    the    void 

which  remained 
Unconcealed  to  myself  ?     If  I  have 

not  attained, 

I  have  striven.     One  word  of  unkind- 
ness  has  never 
Passed    my  lips  to    Matilda.      Her 

least  wish  has  ever 
Beceived  my  submission.     And  if,  of 

a  truth, 
I  have  failed  to  renew  what  I  felt  in 

my  youth, 
1  at  least  have  been  loyal  to  what  I 

do  feel, 

Respect,  duty,  honor,  affection.     Lu- 
cille ; 
I  speak  not  of  love  now,  nor  love's 

long  regret : 
I  would  not  offend  you,  nor  dare  I 

forget 
The  ties  that  are  round  me.  But  may 

there  not  be 
A  friendship  yet  hallowed  between 

you  and  me  ? 
May  we  not  be  yet  friends, — friends 

the  dearest  ? 

"Alas?" 

She  replied,  "  for  one  moment,  per- 
chance, did  it  pass 
Through  my  own  heart  that    dream 

which  forever  hath  brought 
To  those  who  indulge  it  in  innocent 

thought 


So  fatal  and  evil  a  waking!    But  no. 

For  in  lives  such  as  ours  are,  the 
Dream-tree  would  grow 

On  the  borders  of  Hades :  beyond  it, 
what  lies  ? 

The  wheel  of  Ixion,  alas !  and  the 
cries 

Of  the  lost  and  tormented.  Depart- 
ed, for  us, 

Are  the  days  when  with  innocence 
we  could  discuss 

Dreams  like  these.  Fled,  indeed,  are 
the  dreams  of  my  life  ! 

0  trust  me,  the  best  friend  you  have 

is  your  wife. 

And  I,— in  that  pure  child's  pure  vir- 
tue, I  bow 

To  the  beauty  of  virtue.  I  felt  on 
my  brow 

Not  one  blush  when  I  first  took  her 
hand.  With  no  blush 

Shall  I  clasp  it  to-night,  when  I 
leave  you. 

"Hush!  hush! 

1  would   say  what  I  wished  to  have 

said  when  you  came. 
Do  not  think  that  years  leave  us  and 

find  us  the  same  ! 
The  woman  you  knew  long  ago,  long 

ago, 

Is  no  more.     You  yourself  have  with- 
in you,  I  know, 
The  germ  of  a  joy  in  the  years  yet  to 

be, 
Whereby  the  past  years  will  bear  fruit, 

As  for  me, 

I  go  my  own  way — onward,  upward ! 
"Oyet, 

Let  me  thank  you  for  that  which  en- 
nobled regret, 
When  it  came,  as  it  beautified  hope  ere 

it  fled,— 
The  love  I  once  felt  for  you.    True,  it 

is  dead, 
But  it  is  not  corrupted.    I  too  have  at 

last 
Lived  to  learn  that  love  is  not — (such 

love  as  is  past, 
Such   love    as   youth    dreams   of   at 

least) — the  sole  part 
Of  life  which  is  able  to  fill  up  the  heart ; 
Even  that  of  a  woman. 

"Between  you  and  me 
Heaven  fixes  a  gulf,  over  which  you 

must  see 
That  our  guardian  angels  can  bear  us 

no  more. 


94 


LUCILE. 


We  each  of  us  stand  on  an  opposite 
shore. 

Trust  a  woman's  opinion  for  once. 
Women  learn, 

By  an  instinct  men  never  attain,  to  dis- 
cern 

Each  other's  true  natures.  Matilda  is 
fair, 

Matilda  is  young— see  her  now,  sitting 
there  !— 

How  tenderly  fashioned— (O,  is  she 
not!  say,) 

To  love  and  be  loved!" 

IV. 

He  turned  sharply  away,— 

"Matilda  is  young,  and  Matilda  is  fair; 

Of  all  that  you  tell  me  pray  deem  me 
aware ; 

But  Matilda's  a  statue,  Matilda's  a 
child; 

Matilda  loves  not — " 

Lucille  quietly  smiled 

As  she  answered  him: — "Yesterday, 
all  that  you  say 

Might  be  true ;  it  is  false,  wholly  false, 
though,  to-day." 

"How?— what  mean  you?" 

"I  mean  that    to-day,"  she  re- 
plied, 

"The  statue  with  life  has  become  viv- 
ified: 

I  mean  that  the  child  to  a  woman  has 
grown : 

And  that  woman  is  jealous." 

"What!  she?"  with  a  tone 

Of  ironical  wonder,  he  answered — 
"what,  she! 

She  jealous!  —  Matilda!  —  of  whom, 
pray?  —  not  me!" 

' '  My  lord,  you  deceive  yourself ;  no  one 

but  you 
Is  she  jealous  of.     Trust  me.     And 

thank  Heaven,  too, 
That  so  lately  this  passion  within  her 

hath  grown. 
For  who  shall  declare,  if  for  months 

she  had  known 
What  for  days  she  has  known  all  too 

keenly,  I  fear 
That  knowledge  perchance  might  have 

cost  you  more  dear?" 
"Explain!  explain,  madam!"  he  cried 

in  surprise  ; 
And  terror  and  anger  enkindled  his 

eyes. 


"How  blind  are  you  men!'  she  re- 
plied. "  Can  you  doubt 

That  a  woman,  young,  fair,  and  neg- 
lected—" 

"  Speak  out!" 

He  gasped  with  emotion.  "Lucile! 
you  mean — what? 

Do  you  doubt  her  fidelity  ?" 

"  Certainly  not. 

Listen  to  me,  my  friend.  What  I 
wish  to  explain 

Is  so  hard  to  shape  forth.  I  could  al- 
most refrain 

From  touching  a  subject  so  fragile. 
However, 

Bear  with  me  awhile,  if  I  frankly  en- 
deavor 

To  invade  for  one  moment  your  in- 
nermost life. 

Your  honor,  Lord  Alfred,  and  that  of 
your  wife, 

Are  dear  to  me, — most  dear !  And  I 
am  convinced 

That  you  rashly  are  risking  that 
honor." 

He  winced, 

And  turned  pale,  as  she  spoke. 

She  had  aimed  at  his  heart, 

And  she  saw,  by  his  sudden  and  ter- 
rified start, 

That  her  aim  had  not  missed. 

"Stay,  Lucile!"  he  exclaimed, 

"  What  in  truth  do  you  mean  by  these 
words,  vaguely  framed 

To  alarm  me  ?  Matilda  ?— My  wife  ? 
— do  you  know  ?" 

"I  know  that  your  wife  is  as  spotless 
as  snow. 

But  I  know  not  how  far  your  contin- 
ued neglect 

Her  nature,  as  well  as  her  heart  might 
affect. 

Till  at  last,  by  degrees,  that  serene 
atmosphere 

Of  her  unconscious  purity,  faint  and 
yet  clear, 

Like  the  indistinct  golden  and  vapor- 
ous fleece 

Which  surrounded  and  hid  the  celes- 
tials in  Greece 

From  the  glances  of  men,  would  dis- 
perse and  depart 

At  the  sighs  of  a  sick  and  delirious 
heart, — 

For  jealousy  is  to  a  woman,  be  sure, 

A  disease  healed  too  oft  by  a  crimin- 
al cure ; 


L  UCILE. 


95 


And  the  heart   left  too   long  to  its 

ravage,  in  time 
May  find  weakness  in  virtue,  reprisal 

in  crime." 

V. 

"  Such  thoughts  could  have  never," 

he  faltered,   "  I  know, 
Reach  the  heart  of  Matilda." 

"Matilda?  Ono! 
But  reflect !  when  such  thoughts  do 

not  come  of  themselves 
To  the  heart  of  a  woman  neglected, 

like  elves 
That  seek  lonely  places, — there  rarely 

is  wanting 
Some  voice  at  her  side,  with  an  evil 

enchanting 
To  conjure  them  to  her." 

11  O  lady,  "beware! 
At  this  moment,  around  me  I  search 

everywhere 
For  a  clew  to  your  words" — 

11  You  mistake  them,"  she  said, 
Half  fearing,  indeed,  the  effect  they 

had  made. 
"I  was  putting  a  mere  hypothetical 

case." 

With  a  long  look  of  trouble  he  gazed 

in  her  face. 
"  Woe  to  him,  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed  .  .  . 

"  woe  to  him  that  shall  feel 
Such  a  hope !  for  I  swear,  if  he  did 

but  reveal 
One  glimpse, — it  should  be  the  last 

hope  of  his  life  !" 
The  clenched  hand  and  bent  eyebrow 

betokened  the  strife 
She  had  roused  in  his  heart. 

"  You  forget,"  she  began, 
11  That  you  menace    yourself.     You 

yourself  are  the  man 
That  is  guilty.  Alas!  must  it  ever  be  so? 
Do  we  stand  in  our  own  light,  where- 

ever  we  go, 
And  fi<rht  our  own  shadows  forever? 

O  think ! 

The  trial  from  which  you,  the  strong- 
er ones,  shrink, 
You  ask  woman,  the  weaker  one,  still 

to  endure  ; 
You  bid  her  be  true  to  the  laws  you 

abjure ; 
To  abide  by  the  ties  you  yourselves 

rend  asunder, 
With  the  force  that  has  failed  you ; 

and  that  too,  when  under 


The   assumption   of  rights  which  to 

her  you  refuse, 
The  immunity  claimed  for  yourselves 

you  abuse ! 
Where  the  contract  exists,  it  involves 

obligation 
To    both    husband    and  wife  in  an 

equal  relation. 
You  unloose,  in  asserting  your  own 

liberty, 
A     knot,     which    unloosed,     leaves 

another  as  free. 
Then,  O  Alfred !  be  juster  at  heart : 

and  thank  Heaven 
That    Heaven    to  your  wife  such  a 

nature  has  given 

That  you  have  not  wherewith  to  re- 
proach her,  albeit 
You  have  cause  to  reproach  your  own 

self,  could  you  see  it !" 

VI. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  last 

word  she  said, 
In  the  heave  of  his  chest,   and  the 

droop  of  his  head, 
Poor  Lucile   marked  her  words  had 

sufficed  to  impart 
A  new  germ  of  motion  and  life  to 

that  heart 
Of  which  he  himself  had  so  recently 

spoken 
As  dead  to  emotion, — exhausted,   or 

broken ! 
New  fears  would  awaken  new  hopes 

in  his  life. 
In  the  husband  indifferent  no  more  to 

the  wife 
She  already,  as  she  had  forseen,  could 

discover 
That    Matilda    had    gained,    at    her 

hands,  a  new  lover. 
So  after  some  moments  of  silence, 

whose  spell 
They  both    felt,    she  extended   her 

hand  to  him.  .  .  . 

VII. 

"Well!' 

VIII. 

"Lucile,"  he    replied,   as    that    soft 

quiet  hand 
In  his  own  he  clasped  warmly,  "I 

both  understand 
And  obey  you." 

"  Thank  Heaven!"  she  murmured. 
"Oyet, 


L  UCILE. 


One  word,  I  beseech  you!    I  cannot 

forget," 
He  exclaimed,  "We  are  parting  for 

life.     You  have  shown 
My  pathway  to  me  ;  but  say,  what  is 

your  own  ?" 
The  calmness  with  which  until  then 

she  had  spoken 
In  a  moment  seemed  strangely  and 

suddenly  broken. 
She    turned    from   him    nervously, 

hurriedly. 

"Nay, 
I  know  not,"  she  murmured,  "I  follow 

the  way 
Heaven  leads  me ;  I  cannot  foresee 

to  what  end. 
I  know  only  that  far,  far  away  it 

must  tend 
From  all  places  in  which  we  have 

met,  or  might  meet- 
Far  away ! — onward — upward !" 

A  smile  strange  and  sweet 
As  the  incense  that  rises  from  some 

sacred  cup 
And  mixes  with  music,   stole  forth, 

and  breathed  up 
Her  whole  face,  with  those  words. 

"  Wheresoever  it  be, 
May  all  gentlest  angels  attend  you!" 

sighed  he, 

"And  bear  my  heart's  blessing  wher- 
ever you  are !" 
And    her    hand,    with    emotion,    he 

kissed. 

IX. 

From  afar 

That  kiss  was,  alas !  by  Matilda  beheld 
With  far  other  emotions :  her  young 

bosom  swelled, 

And  her  young  cheek  with  anger  was 
crimsoned. 

The  Duke 

Adroitly  attracted  towards  it  her  look 
By  a  faint  but  significant  smile. 

x. 

Much  ill-construed, 
Renowned  Bishop  Berkeley  has  fully, 

for  one,  strewed 
With  arguments  page  upon  page  to 

teach  folks  [hoax. 

That  the  world  they  inhabit  is  only  a 
But  it  surely  is  hard,  since  we  can't 

do  without  them, 
That  our  senses  should  make  us  so 

oft  wish  to  doubt  them! 


CANTO  III. 
I. 

WHEN  first  the  red  savage  called  Man 

strode,  a  king, 
Through  the  wilds  of  creation, — the 

very  first  thing 
That  his  naked   intelligence  taught 

him  to  feel 
Was  the  shame  of  himself;  and  the 

wish  to  conceal 
Was  the  first  step  in  art.    From  the 

apron  which  Eve 
In  Eden  sat  down  out  of  fig-leaves  to 

weave, 
To  the  furbelowed  flounce  and  the 

broad  crinoline 
Of  my  lady  .  .  .  you  all  know  of  course 

whom  I  mean  .  .  . 
This  art  of  concealment  has  greatly 

increased. 
A  whole  world  lies  cryptic  in  each 

human  breast ; 
And  that  drama  of  passions  as  old  as 

the  hills, 
Which  the  moral  of  all  men  in  each 

man  fulfills, 
Is  only  revealed  now  and  then  to  our 

eyes 
In  the  newspaper-files  and  the  courts 

of  assize. 

ii. 

In  the  group  seen  so  lately  in  sunlight 

assembled, 
'Mid  those  walks  over  which  the  la- 
burnum bough  trembled, 
And  the  deep-bosomed  lilac,  empara- 

dising 
The  haunts  where  the  blackbird  and 

thrush  flit  and  sing, 
The  keenest  eye  could  but  have  seen, 

and  seen  only, 
A  circle   of  friends,  minded  not  to 

leave  lonely 
The  bird  on  the  bough,  or  the  bee  on 

the  blossom ; 
Conversing  at  ease  in   the  garden's 

green  bosom, 
Like  those  who,  when  Florence  was 

yet  in  her  glories, 
Cheated  death   and  killed  time  with 

Boccaccian  stories. 
But  at  length  the  long  twilight  more 

deeply  grew  shaded, 
And  the  fair  night  the  rosy  horizon 

invaded. 


LUCILE. 


97 


And  tha  bee  in  the  blossom,  the  bird 

on  the  bough, 
Through    the    shadowy  garden  were 

slumbering  now, 
The  trees  only,  o'er  every  unvisited 

walk, 
Began  on  a   sudden  to  whisper  and 

talk. 

And,  as  each  little  sprightly  and  gar- 
rulous leaf 
"Woke  up   with  an  evident  sense  of 

relief, 
They  all  seemed  to  be  saying  .  .  . 

"  Once  more  we're  alone, 
And,   thank  Heaven,   those  tiresome 

people  are  gone!" 

in. 
Through  the  deep  blue  concave  of  the 

luminous  air, 
Large,  loving,  and  languid,  the  stars 

here  and  there, 
Like    the    eyes    of    shy    passionate 

women,  looked  down 
O'er  the  dim  world  whose  sole  tender 

light  was  their  own, 
"When  Matilda,  alone,  from  her  cham- 
ber descended, 

And  entered  the  garden,  unseen,  un- 
attended. 
Her  forehead  was  aching  and  parched, 

and  her  breast 

By  a  vague  inexpressible  sadness  op- 
pressed; 
A  sadness  which  led  her,  she  scarcely 

knew  how, 
And  she  scarcely  knew  why .  .  .(save, 

indeed,  that  just  now 
The  house,  out  of  which  with  a  gasp 

she  had  fled 
Half-stifled,  seemed  ready  to  sink  on 

her  head) .  .  . 
Out  into  the  night  air,  the  silence,  the 

bright 
Boundless  starlight,  the  cool  isolation 

of  night! 
Her  husband  that  day  had  looked  once 

in  her  face, 
And  pressed  both  her  hands  in  a  silent 

embrace, 
And  reproachfully  noticed  her  recent 

dejection 
With  a  smile  of  kind  wonder  and  tacit 

affection. 
He,  of  late  so  indifferent  and  listless! 

...  at  last 
Was  he   startled    and  awed  by  the 

change  which  had  passed 


O'er  the  once  radiant  face  of  his  young 

wife?    Whence  came 
That  look  of  solicitous  fondness  ?  .  .  . 

the  same 
Look  and  language  of  quiet  affection, 

— the  look 
And  the  language,  alas!  which  so  of  ten 

she  took 
For  pure  love  in  the  simple  repose  of 

•its  purity, — 
Her  own  heart  thus  lulled  to  a  fatal 

security ! 
Ha!  would  he  deceive  her  again  by 

this  kindness? 

Had  she  been,  then,  O  fool!  in  her  in- 
nocent blindness 
The  sport  of  transparent  illusion  ?  ah, 

folly! 
And  that  feeling,  so  tranquil,  so  happy, 

so  holy, 
She  had  taken,  till  then,  in  the  heart, 

not  alone 
Of  her  husband,  but  also,  indeed,  in 

her  own, 
For  true  love,  nothing  else,  after  all, 

did  it  prove 

But  a  friendship  profanely  familiar? 
"And  love?  .  .  . 
What  was  love,  then  ?  .  .  .  not  calm, 

not  secure, —  scarcely  kind! 
But  in  one,  all    intensest    emotions 

combined : 
Life  and  death :  pain  and  rapture." 

Thus  wandering  astray, 

Led  by  doubt  through  the  darkness 
she  wandered  away. 

All  silently  crossing,  recrossing  the 
night, 

With  faint  meteoric,  miraculous 
light, 

The  swift-shooting  stars  through  the 
infinite  burned, 

And  into  the  infinite  ever  returned. 

And  silently  o'er  the  obscure  and  un- 
known 

In  the  heart  of  Matilda  there  darted 
and  shone 

Thoughts,  enkindling  like  meteors 
the  deeps,  to  expire, 

Leaving  traces  behind  them  of  trem- 
ulous fire, 

IV. 

She  entered  the   arbor  of    lilacs  in 

which 
The  dark  air  with  odors  "hung  heavy 

and  rich, 


98 


LUCILE. 


Like  a  soul  that  grows  faint  with  de- 
sire. 

'T  was  the  place 

In  which  she  so  lately  had  sat,  face 
to  face 

With  her  husband, — and  her,  the  pale 
stranger  detested, 

Whose  presence  her  heart  like  a  plague 
had  infested. 

The   whole  spot    with    evil    remem- 
brance was  haunted. 

Through  the  darkness  there  rose  on 
the  heart  which  it  daunted 

Each  dreary  detail  of  that  desolate 
day, 

So  full  and  yet  so  incomplete.      Far 
away 

The    acacias    were    muttering,    like 
mischievous  elves, 

The  whole  story  over  again  to  them- 
selves, 

Each  word, —  and  each  word  was  a 
wound !    By  degrees 

Her  memory  mingled  its  voice  with 
the  trees. 

V. 

Like  the   whisper  Eve  heard,  when 

she  paused  by  the  root 
Of  the  sad  tree   of    knowledge,   and 

gazed  on  its  fruit, ; 
To    the  heart   of  Matilda  the  trees 

seemed  to  hiss 
Wild    instructions,    revealing   man's 

last  right  which  is 
The  right  of  reprisals. 

An  image  uncertain, 
And  vague,  dimly  shaped  itself  forth 

on  the  curtain 
Of  the  darkness  around  her.  It  came, 

and  it  went ; 
Through  her  senses  a  faint  sense  of 

peril  it  sent : 
It  passed  and  repassed  her;  it  went 

and  it  came 

Forever  returning;  forever  the  same; 
And    forever  more    clearly  defined ; 

till  her  eyes 
In  that  outline  obscure  could  at  last 

recognize 
The  man  to  whose  image,  the  more 

and  the  more 
That  her  heart,  now  aroused  from  its 

calm  sleep  of  yore, 
From   her   husband   detached  itself 

slowly,  with  pain, 

Her  thoughts  had  returned,  and  re- 
turned to,  again, 


As  though  by  some  secret  indefinite 

law,— 
The  vigilant  Frenchman, — Eugene  de 

Luvois ! 

VI. 

A  light  sound  behind  her.     She  trem- 
bled.    By  some 
Night-witchcraft  her  vision  a  fact  had 

become. 
On  a  sudden  she  felt,  without  turning 

to  view, 
That  a  man  was  approaching  behind 

her.     She  knew 
By  the    fluttering    pulse   which   she 

could  not  restrain, 
And    the    quick-beating  heart,    that 

this  man  was  Eugene. 
Her  first  instinct  was  flight ;  but  ehe 

felt  her  slight  foot 
As  heavy  as  though  to  the  soil  it  had 

root. 
And  the   Duke's  voice  retained  her, 

like  fear  in  a  dream. 


"Ah,  lady!  in  life  there  are  meetings 
which  seem 

Like  a  fate.  Dare  I  think  like  a  sym- 
pathy too  ? 

Yet  wrhat  else  can  I  bless  for  this 
vision  of  you  ? 

Alone  with  my  thoughts,  on  this  star- 
lighted  lawn,1: 

By  an  instinct  resistless,  I  felt  my- 
self drawn 

To  revisit  the  memories  left  in  the 
place 

Where  so  lately  this  evening  I  looked 
in  your  face, 

And  I  find, — you,  yourself, — my  own 
dream! 

"  Can  there  be 

In  this  world  one  thought  common  to 
you  and  to  me  ? 

If  so,  ...  I,  who  deemed  but  a  mo- 
ment ago 

My  heart  iincompanioned,  save  only 
by  woe, 

Should  indeed  be  more  blessed  than  I 
dare  to  believe — 

Ah,  but  one  word,  but  one  from  your 
lips  to  receive  "... 

Interrupting  him  quickly,  she  mur- 
mured, "I  sought, 

Here,  a  moment  of  solitude,  silence, 
and  thought, 


LUCILE. 


Which  I  needed."  .  .  . 

" Lives  solitude  only  for  one? 
Must  its   charm  by  my  presence  so 

soon  be  undone? 
Ah,  cannot  two  share  it  ?  What  needs 

it  for  this  ?— 
The  same  thought  in  both  hearts, — 

be  it  sorrow  or  bliss  ; 
If  my  heart  be  the  reflex  of  yours, 

lady,— you, 
Are  you  not  yet  alone,— even  though 

we  be  two?" 

"For  that,"  .  .  .  said  Matilda,  .  .  . 

"needs  were,  you  should  read 
What  I  have  in  my  heart."  .  .  . 

"Think   you,  lady,  indeed, 
You  are  yet  of  that  age  when  a  woman 

conceals 
In  her  heart  so  completely  whatever 

she  feels 
From  the  heart  of  the  man  whom  it 

interests  to  know 
And  find  out  what  that  feeling  may 

be?    Ah,  not  so, 
Lady  Alfred !    Forgive  me  that  in  it 

I  look, 
But  I  read  in  your  heart  as  I  read  in 

a  book." 
"Well,   Duke!    and  what    read   you 

within  it  ?  unless 

It  be,  of  a  truth,  a    profound  weari- 
ness, 
And  some  sadness?" 

"No  doubt.     To  all  facts  there  are 

laws. 
The  effect  has  its  cause,  and  I  mount 

to  the  cause." 

VIII. 

Matilda  shrunk  back ;  for  sho  sud- 
denly found 

That  a  finger  was  pressed  on  the  yet 
bleeding  wound 

She  herself  had  but  that  day  per- 
ceived in  her  breast. 

"You  are  sad,"  .  .  .  said  the  Duke 

(and  that  finger  yet  pressed 
With  a  cruel  persistence  the  wound 

it  made  bleed) — 
"You  are  sad,  Lady  Alfred,  because 

the  first  need  [be 

Of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  is  to 
Beloved,  and  to  love.    You  are  sad: 

for  you  see 
That  you  are  not  beloved,    as  you 

deemed  that  you  wero  : 


You    are    sad :    for    that  knowledge 

hath  left  you  aware 
That  you  have  not  yet  loved,  though 

you  thought  that  you  had, 
Yes,   yes!  .  .  .  you  are  sad — because 

knowledge  is  sad !" 
He   could  not   have  read  more  pro- 
foundly her  heart. 
"What  gave  you,"  she  cried,  with  a 

terrified  start, 
"Such  strange  power  ?" 

"To  read  in  your  thoughts?"  he 

exclaimed, 
"0  lady, — a  love,  deep,  profound, — 

be  it  blamed 
Or  rejected,— a  love,  true,  intense, — 

such,  at  least, 
As  you,  and  you  only,  could  wake  in 

my  breast !" 

"  Hush,  hush !  .  .  .  I  beseech  you  .  .  . 

for  pity  !"  she  gasped, 
Snatching   hurriedly    from  him    the 

hand  he  had  clasped 
In  her  effort  instinctive  to  fly  from 

the  spot. 

"For  pity?"  .  .  .  he  echoed,  "for  pity! 

and  what 
Is  the  pity  you  owe  him  ?  his  pity  for 

you! 

He,  the  lord  of  a  life,  fresh  as  new- 
fallen  dew ! 
The  guardian  and  guide  of  a  woman, 

young,  fair, 
And  matchless !  (whose  happiness  did 

he  not  swear 
To  cherish  through  life?)  he  neglects 

her — for  whom? 
For  a  fairer  than  she  ?    No !  the  rose 

in  the  bloom 

Of  that  beauty  which, even  when  hid- 
den, can  prevail 
To  keep  sleepless  with  song  the  aroused 

nightingale, 
Is  not  fairer;  for  even  in  the  pure 

world  of  flowers 
Her  symbol  is  not,  and  this  poor  world 

"of  ours 
Has  no  second  Matilda!    For  whom? 

Let  that  pass! 
'Tis  not  I,  'tis  not  you,  that  can  name 

her,  alas! 
And  /  dare  not  question  or  judge  her. 

But  why, 
Why  cherish  the  cause  of  your  own 

misery? 


100 


LUCILE. 


Why  think  of  one,  lady,  who  thinks 

not  of  you  f 

Why  be  bound  by  a  chain  which  him- 
self he  breaks  through? 
And  why,since  you  have  but  to  stretch 

forth  your  hand, 
The  love  which  you  need  and  deserve 

to  command, 
Why  shrink  ?    Why  repel  it  ?  " 

"0  hush,  sir!    Ohush!" 
Cried  Matilda,  as  though  her  whole 

heart  were  one  blush. 
"Cease,cease,I  conjure  you, to  trouble 

my  life ! 
Is  not  Alfred  your  friend?  and  am  I 

not  his  wife?" 

IX. 

"And  have  I  not,  lady,"  he  answered, 

.  .  .  respected 
His  rights  as  a  friend,  till  himself  he 

neglected 
Tour  rights  as  a  wife  ?    Do  you  think 

'tis  alone 
For  three  days  I  have  loved  you  ?    My 

love  may  have  grown 
I  admit,  day  by  day,  since  I  first  felt 

your  eyes, 

In  watching  their  tears,  and  in  sound- 
ing your  sighs. 

But,  O  lady!  I  loved  you  before  I  be- 
lieved 
That  your  eyes  ever  wept,  or  your 

heart  ever  grieved. 
Then  I  deemed  you  were  happy  —  1 

deemed  you  possessed 
All  the  love  you  deserved, —  and  I  hid 

in  my  breast 
My  own  love,  till  this  hour — when  I 

could  not  but  feel — 
Your  grief  gave  me  the  right  my  own 

grief  to  reveal! 
I  knew,  years    ago,  of  the    singular 

power 

Which  Lucile  o'er  your  husband  pos- 
sessed.    Till  the  hour 
In  which  he  revealed  it  himself,  did  I, 

— say! — 
By  a  word,  or  a  look,  such  a  secret 

betray  ? 
No!  no!  do  me  justice.     I  never  have 

spoken 
Of  this  poor  heart  of  mine,  till  all  ties 

he  had  broken 
Which  bound  your  heart  to  him.   And 

now — now,  that  his  love 
For  another  hath  left  your  own  hi*rt 

free  to  rove, 


What  is  it, — even  now, — that  I  kneel 

to  implore  you  ? 
Only  this,  Lady  Alfred!  ...  to  let  me 

adore  you 
Unblamed :  to  have  confidence  in  me : 

to  spend 
On  me  not  one  thought,  save  to  think 

me  your  friend. 
Let  me  speak  to   you,— ah,  let  me 

speak  to  you  still ! 
Hush  to   silence  my  words  in  your 

heart,  if  you  will. 
I  ask  no  response:  I  ask  only  your 

leave 
To  live  yet  in  your  life,  and  to  grieve 

when  you  grieve ! " 

x. 

' '  Leave  me,  leave  me ! " . . .  she  gasped, 

with  a  voice  thick  and  low 
From    emotion.     "For    pity's    sake, 

Duke,  let  me  go! 
I  feel  that  to  blame  we  should  both  of 

us  be, 
Did  I  linger." 

"To  blame?  yes,  no  doubt!"  .  .  . 

answered  he, 

"If  the  love  of  your  husband,  in  bring- 
ing you  peace, 
Had  forbidden  you  hope.  But  he  signs 

your  release 
By  the  hand  of  another.    One  moment ! 

but  one! 
Who  knows  when,  alas !  I  may  see  you 

alone 
As  to-night  I  have  seen  you  ?  or  when 

we  may  meet 

As  to-night  we  have  met  ?  when,  en- 
tranced at  your  feet, 
As  in  this  blessed  hour,  I  may  ever 

avow 
The   thoughts  which  are  pining  for 

utterance  now  ?  " 

"Duke!   Duke!".  .   .  she   exclaimed 

.  .  .  "For  heaven's  sake  let  me  go! 

It  is  late.     In   the   house   they  will 

miss  me,  I  know. 
We  must  not  be  seen  here  together. 

The  night 
Is    advancing.     I    feel    overwhelmed 

with  affright! 
It  is  time  to  return  to  my  lord." 

,  "  To  your  lord  ?" 
He  repeated,  with  lingering  reproach 

on  the  word, 
"To  your    lord?    do  you    think  he 

awaits  you,  in  truth  ? 


LUCILE. 


101 


Is  he  anxiously  missing  your  presence, 

forsooth ! 
Return  to  your  lord  !  .  .  .  his  restraint 

to  renew! 
And  hinder  the  glances  which  are  not 

for  you! 
No,  no !  ...  at  this  moment  his  looks 

seek  the  face 
Of  another!  another  is  there  in  your 

place ! 

Another  consoles  him:  another  receives 
The  soft  speech  which  from  silence 

your  absence  relieves!" 

XI. 

"You  mistake,  sir!  ...  responded  a 

voice,  calm,  severe, 
And  sadr  .  .  .    "You   mistake,    sir: 

that  other  is  here. " 

Eugene  and  Matilda  both  started. 

"Lucile!" 

With  a  half-stifled  scream,  as  she  felt 
herself  reel 

From    the    place    where    she    stood, 
cried  Matilda. 

"Ho,  oh! 

What!  eaves-dropping,  madam!"  .  .  . 
the  Duke  cried  .  .  .  "  And  so 

You  were  listening!" 

"Say,   rather,"   she   said,  "that  I 
heard, 

Without  wishing  to  hear  it,  that  in- 
famous word, — 

Heard — and  therefore  reply." 

"Belle  Comtesse,"  said  the  Duke, 

With  concentrated  wrath  in  the  sav- 
age rebuke, 

Which  betrayed  that  he  felt  himself 
baffled  ..."  you  know 

That  your  place  is  not  here" 

"  Duke,"  she  answered  him  slow, 

"My  place  is  wherever  my  duty  is 
clear ; 

And  therefore  my  place,  at  this  mo- 
ment, is  here.  \ 

0  lady,  this  morning  my  place  was 

beside 

Your  husband,  because  (as  she  said 
this  she  sighed) 

1  felt  that  from  folly  fast  growing  to 

crime — 
The  crime  of  self-blindness— Heaven 

yet  spared  me  time 
To  save  for  the  love  of  an  innocent 

wife 
All  that  such   love  deserved  in  the 

heart  and  the  life 


Of  the  man  to  whose  heart  and  whose 

life  you  alone 
Can   with    safety    confide    the    pure 

trust  of  your  own." 

She  turned  to  Matilda,   and  lightly 

laid  on  her 
Her  soft,  quiet  hand  .  .  . 

"'T  is,  O  lady,  the  honor 
Which  that  man  has  confided  to  you, 

that,  in  spite 
Of  his  friend,  I  now  trust  I  may  yet 

save  to-night — 
Save  for  both  of  you,  lady :  for  yours 

I  revere ; 
Due  de  Luvois,  what  say  you  ? — my 

place  is  not  here  ?" 

XII. 

And,  so  saying,  the  hand  of  Matilda 
she  caught, 

Wound  one  arm  round  her  waist  un- 
resisted,  and  sought 

Gently,    softly,    to  draw    her    away 
from  the  spot. 

The  Duke  stood  confounded,  and  fol- 
lowed them  not. 

But  not  yet  the  house  had  they  reach- 
ed when  Lucile 

Her     tender     and     delicate    burden 
could  feel 

Sink  and  falter  beside  her.     O,  then 
she  knelt  down, 

Flung  her  arms  round  Matilda,  and 
pressed  to  her  own 

The  poor  bosom  beating  against  her. 
The  moon, 

Bright,  breathless,  and  buoyant,  and 
brimful  of  June, 

Floated  up  from  the  hillside,  sloped 
over  the  vale, 

And  poised  herself  loose  in  midheaven, 
with  one  pale, 

Minute,  scintillescent,  and  tremulous 
star 

Swinging  under  her  globe  like  a  wiz- 
ard-lit car, 

Thus  to  each  of  those  women  reveal- 
ing the  face 

Of  the  other.     Each  bore  on  her  feat- 
ures the  trace 

Of  a  vivid  emotion.     A  deep  inward 
shame 

The  cheek  of  Matilda  had  flooded  with 
flame. 

With  her  enthusiastic  emotion,  Lucile 

Trembled  visibly  yet;  for  she  could 
not  but  feel 


102 


LUCILE. 


That  a  heavenly  hand  was  upon  her 

that  night, 
And  it  touched  her  pure  brow  to  a 

heavenly  light. 
"In  the  name  of  your  husband,  dear 

lady,"  she  said; 
"In  the  name  of  your  mother,  take 

heart!    Lift  your  head, 
For  those  blushes  are  noble.    Alas! 

do  not  trust 
To  that  maxim  of  virtue  made  ashes 

and  dust, 
That  the  fault  of  the  husband  can 

cancel  the  wife's. 
Take    heart!    and   take    refuge    and 

strength  in  your  life's 
Pure  silence,—  there,  kneel,  pray,  and 

hope,  weep,  and  wait!" 
"  Saved,Lucile !"  sobbed  Matilda, ' '  but 

saved  to  what  fate  ? 
Tears,  prayers,  yes!  not  hopes." 

"Hush!"  the  sweet  voice  re- 
plied. 
"Fooled  away  by  a  fancy,  again  to 

your  side 
Must  your  husband   return.     Doubt 

not  this.     And  return 
For  the  love  you  can  give,  with  the 

love  that  you  yearn 
To  receive,  lady.   What  was  it  chilled 

you  both  now? 

Not  the  absence  of  love,  but  the  igno- 
rance how 
Love    is  nourished   by  love.    "Well! 

henceforth  you  will  prove 
Your  heart  worthy  of  love, — since  it 

knows  how  to  love." 

XIII. 
"What  gives  you  such  power  over  me, 

that  I  feel 
Thus  drawn  to  obey  you?    What  are 

you,  Lucile?" 
Sighed  Matilda,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to 

the  face 
Of  Lucile. 
There  passed  suddenly  through  it 

the  trace- 
Of  deep  sadness;  and  o'er  that  fair 

forehead  came  down 
A  shadow  which  yet  was  too  sweet  for 

a  frown. 
"The  pupil  of  sorrow,  perchance".  .  . 

she  replied. 
"Of  sorrow?"  Matilda  exclaimed, . .  . 

"0  confide 
To  my  heart  your  affliction.     In  all 

you  made  known 


I  should,  find   some    instruction,   no 
doubt,  for  my  own!" 

"And  I  some  consolation,  no  doubt, 

for  the  tears 
Of  another  have  not  flowed  for  me 

many  years." 

It    was    then    that    Matilda    herself 

seized  the  hand 
Of  Lucile  in  her  own,  and  uplifted 

her;  and 
Thus  together  they  entered  the  house. 

XIV. 

'Twas  the  room 
Of  Matilda. 

The  languid  and  delicate  gloom 
Of  a  lamp  of  pure  white  alabaster,  aloft 
From  the  ceiling  suspended,  around 

it  slept  soft. 
The  casement  oped  into  the  garden, 

The  pale 
Cool  moonlight  streamed  through  it. 

One  lone  nightingale 
Sung  aloof  in  the  laurels. 

And  here,  side  by  side, 
Hand  in  hand,  the  two  women  sat 

down  undescried, 
Save  by  guardian  angels. 

As  when,  sparkling  yet 
From  the  rain,  that,  with  drops  that 

are  jewels,  leaves  wet 
The  bright  head  it  humbles,  a  young 

rose  inclines 
To  some  pale  lily  near  it,  the  fair 

vision  shines 

As  one  flower  with  two  faces,  in  hush- 
ed, tearful  speech, 
Like  the  showery  whispers  of  flowers, 

each  to  each 

Linked,  and  leaning  together,  so  lov- 
ing, so  fail1, 
So  united,  yet  diverse,  the  two  women 

there 
Looked,  indeed,  like  two  flowers  upon 

one  drooping  stem, 
In  the  soft  light  that  tenderly  rested 

on  them. 
All  that   soul  said  to    soul    in  that 

chamber,  who  knows  ? 
All  that  heart  gained  from  heart? 

Leave  the  lily,  the  rose, 
Undisturbed  with  their  secret  within 

them.     For  who 
To  the  heart  of  the  floweret  can  follow 

the  dew  ? 


LUCILE. 


103 


A  night  full  of  stars !  O'er  the  silence, 
unseen, 

The  footsteps  of  sentinel  angels,  be- 
tween 

The  dark  .laud  and  deep  sky  were 
moving.  You  heard 

Passed  from  earth  up  to  heaven  the 
happy  watchword 

Which  brightened  the  stars  as  amongst 
them  it  fell 

From  earth's  heart,  which  it  eased  .  .  . 
"All  is  well!  all  is  well!" 


CANTO  IV. 
I. 

THE  Poets  pour  wine ;  and,  when  't  is 
new,  all  decry  it, 

But,  once  let  it  be  old,  every  trifler 
must  try  it. 

And  Polonius,  who  praises  no  wine 
that's  not  Massic, 

Complains  of  my  verse,  that  my  verse 
is  not  classic. 

And  Miss  Tilburina,  who  sings,  and 
not  badly, 

My  earlier  verses,  sighs  "  Common- 
place sadly !" 

As  for  you,  O  Pqlonius,  you  vex  me 

but  slightly ; 
But  you,  Tilburina   your  eyes  beam 

so  brightly 
In  despite  of  their  languishing  looks, 

on  my  word, 
That  to    see  you    look  cross  I   can 

scarcely  afford. 
Yes !  the  silliest  woman  that  smiles 

on  a  bard 
Better  far  than  Longinus  himself  can 

reward 
The  appeal  to  her  feelings  of  which 

she  approves ; 
And  the  critics  I  most  care  to  please 

are  the  Loves. 

Alas,   friend !  what  boots  it,  a  stone 

at  his  head 
And  a  brass  on  his  breast, — when  a 

man  is  once  dead  ? 
Ay!  were  fame  the  sole  guerdon,  poor 

guerdon  were  then 
Theirs  who,  stripping  life  bare,  stand 

forth  models  for  men. 
The  reformer's  ? — a  creed  by  posterity 

learnt 
A  century  after  its  author  is  burnt! 


The  poet's? — a  laurel  that  hides  the 

bald  brow 
It  hath  blighted!     The  painter's?— 

ask  Raphael  now 
Which    Madonna's   authentic!      The 

statesman's  ? — a  name 
For  parties  to  blacken,  or  boys  to 

declaim ! 
The  soldier's !   Three  lines  on  the  cold 

Abbey  pavement ! 
Were  this  all  the  life  of  the  wise  and 

brave  meant, 
All  it  ends  in,  thrice  better,  Neaera, 

it  were 

Unregarded  to  sport  with  thine  odor- 
ous hair, 
Untroubled  to  lie  at  thy  feet  in  the 

shade 
And  be  loved,  while  the  roses  yet 

bloom  overhead, 
Than  to  sit  by  the  lone  hearth,  and 

think  the  long  thought, 
A  severe,   sad,    blind    schoolmaster, 

envied  for  naught 
Save  the  name  of  John  Milton  !    For 

all  men,  indeed, 
Who  in  some  choice  edition  may  gra- 
ciously read, 
With    fair    illustration,  and    erudite 

note, 
The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitterness 

wrote, 
Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him, 

in  this — 
The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs,  whilst 

they  miss 
The  grief  of  the  man :  Tasso's  song, — 

not  his  madness ! 
Dante's  dreams, — not  his  waking  to 

exile  and  sadness ! 
Milton's    music, — but    not    Milton's 

blindness !  .  .  . 

Yet  rise,^ 
My  Milton,  and   answer,  with  those 

noble  eyes 
iVhich    the    glory    of   heaven    hath 

blinded  to  earth ! 
Say — the  life,  in  the  living  it,  savors 

of  worth : 
That    the    deed,    in    the    doing    it, 

reaches  its  aim : 
That  the  fact  has  a  value  apart  from 

the  fame : 
That  a  deeper  delight,  in  the  mere 

labor,  pays 

Scorn  of  lesser  delights,  and  labor- 
ious days: 


104 


LUCILE. 


And  Shakespeare,  though  all  Shake- 
speare's writings  were  lost, 

And  his  genius,  though  never  a  trace 
of  it  crossed 

Posterity's  path,  not  the  less  woiild 
have  dwelt 

In  the  isle  with  Miranda, with  Hamlet 
have  felt  • 

All  that  Hamlet  hath  utterad,  and 
haply  where,  pure 

On  its  death-bed,  wronged  Love  lay, 
have  moaned  with  the  Moor! 

ii. 
When  Lord  Alfred  that  night  to  the 

salon  returned 
He    found    it    deserted.      The    lamp 

dimly  burned 
As  though  half  out  of  humor  to  find 

itself  there 
Forced  to  light  for  no  purpose  a  room 

that  was  bare. 
He  sat  down  by  the  window  alone. 

Never  yet 
Did  the  heavens  a  lovelier  evening 

beget 
Since   Latona's  bright  childbed  that 

bore  the  new  moon ! 
The  dark  world  lay  still,  in  a  sort  of 

sweet  swoon, 
Wide  open  to  heaven ;  and  the  stars 

on  the  stream 
Were    trembling    like  eyes  that  are 

loved  on  the  dream 
Of  a  lover ;  and  all  things  were  glad 

and  at  rest 
Save  the  unquiet  heart  in  his  own 

troubled  breast. 

He    endeavored    to    think, — an    un- 
wonted employment, 
Which  appeared  to  afford  him  no  sort 

of  enjoyment. 

III. 
''Withdraw  into   yourself.     But,    if 

peace  you  seek  there  for, 
Your  reception,  beforehand,  be  sure 

to  prepare  for," 
Wrote  the  tutor  of  Nero  ;  who  wrote, 

be  it  said, 
Better  far  than  he  acted,— but  peace 

to  the  dead! 
He  bled  for  his  pupil:    what  more 

could  he  do  ? 
But  Lord  Alfred,  when  into  himself 

he  withdrew, 
Found    all    there    in    disorder.     For 

more  than  an  hour 


He  sat  with  his  head  drooped  like 

some  stubborn  flower 
Beaten  down  by  the  rush  of  the  rain, 

— with  such  force 
Did  the  thick,  gushing  thoughts  hold 

upon  him  the  course 
Of  their  sudden  descent,  rapid,  rush- 
ing, and  dim, 
From  the   cloud  that  had  darkened 

the  evening  for  him. 
At  one  moment  he  rose, — rose  and 

opened  the  door, 
And  wistfully  looked  down  the  dark 

corridor 
Toward  the  room  of  Matilda.     Anon, 

with  a  sigh 
Of  an  incomplete  purpose,  he  crept 

quietly 
Back  again  to  his  place  in  a  sort  of 

submission 
To  doubt,  and  returned  to  his  former 

position, — 

That  loose  fall  of  the  arms,  that  dull 
droop  of  the  face, 

And  the  eye  vaguely  fixed  on  impalp- 
able space. 

The  dream,  which  till  then  had  been 
lulling  his  life, 

As  once  Circe  the  winds,  had  sealed 
thought ;  ancthis  wife 

And  his  home  for  a  time  he  had  quite, 
like  Ulysses, 

Forgotten ;  but  now  o'er  the  troubled 


Of  the  spirit  within  him,  seolian,  forth 

leapt 
To  their  freedom  new  found,  and  re- 

sistlessly  swept 
All     his    heart     into     tumult,     the 

thoughts  which  had  been 
Long  pent  up  in  their  mystic  recesses 

unseen. 

IV. 

How  long  he  thus  sat  there,  himself 
he  knew  not, 

Till  he  started,  as  though  he  were 
suddenly  shot, 

To  the  sound  of  a  voice  too  familiar 
to  doubt, 

Which  was  making  some  noise  in  the 
passage  without. 

A  sound  English  voice,  with  a  round 
English  accent, 

Which  the  scared  German  echoes  re- 
sentfully back  sent ; 


LVCILE. 


105 


The  complaint  of  a  much  disap- 
pointed cab-driver 

Mingled  with  it,  demanding  some  ulti- 
mate stiver: 

Then,  the  heavy  and  hurried  approach 
of  a  boot 

Which  revealed  by  its  sound  no 
diminutive  foot: 

And  the  door  was  flung  suddenly  open, 
and  on 

The  threshold  Lord  Alfred  by  bach- 
elor John 

Was  seized  with  that  sort  of  affec- 
tionate rage  or 

Frenzy  of  hugs  which  some  stout 
Ursa  Major 

On  some  lean  Ursa  Minor  would 
doubtless  bestow 

With  a  warmth  for  which  only  star- 
vation and  snow 

Could  render  one  grateful.  As  soon 
as  he  could, 

Lord  Alfred  contrived  to  escape,  nor 
be  food 

Any  more  for  those  somewhat  vora- 
cious embraces. 

The  two  men  sat  down  and  scanned 
each  other's  faces ; 

And  Alfred  could  see  that  his  cousin 
was  taken 

With  unwonted  emotion.  The  hand 
that  had  shaken 

His  own  trembled  somewhat.  In  truth 
he  descried,^ 

At  a  glance,  something  wrong. 

V. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  cried. 
"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  !" 

JOHN. 
What !  have  you  not  heard ! 

ALFRED. 
Heard  what  ? 

JOHN. 

This  sad  business — 
ALFRED. 

I  ?  no,  not  a  word. 
JOHN. 

You  received  my  last  letter  ? 
ALFRED. 

I  think  so.     If  not, 
What  then? 


JOHN. 

You  have  acted  upon  it  ? 
ALFRED. 

On  what  ? 
JOHN. 

The  advice  that  I  gave  you — 
ALFRED. 

Advice  ? — let  me  see ! 
You  always  are  giving  advice,  Jack, 

to  me. 
About  Parliament  was  it? 

JOHN. 

Hang  Parliament !  no, 
The  Bank,  the  Bank,  Alfred! 

ALFRED. 

What  Bank? 

JOHN. 

Heavens !    I  know 
You  are    careless; — but    surely  you 

have  not  forgotten, — 
Or  neglected.  ...  I  warned  you  the 

whole  thing  was  rotten. 
Yon  have  drawn    those  deposits  at 

least  ? 

ALFRED. 

No,  I  meant 
To  have  written  to-day ;  but  the  note 

shall  be  sent 
To-morrow,  however. 
JOHN. 

To-morrow  ?  too  late ! 
Too  late !    O,  what  devil  bewitched 
you  to  wait  ? 

ALFRED. 

Mercy  save  us!  you  don't  mean  to 
say  ... 

JOHN. 

Yes,  I  do. 
ALFRED. 

What!  SirKidley?  .  .  . 
JOHN. 

Smashed,  broken,  blown  up,  bolted 
too! 

ALFRED. 

But  his  own  niece  ?  ...  In  heaven's 
name,  Jack  .  .  . 


106 


LUCILE. 


JOHN. 

O,  I  told  you 

The      old      hypocritical      scoundrel 
would  .  .  . 

ALFRED. 

Hold !  you 
Surely  can't  mean  we  are  ruined  ? 

JOHN. 

Sit  down ! 

A  fortnight  ago  a  report  about  town 

Made  me  most  apprehensive.     Alas, 
and  alas ! 

I  at  once   wrote    and    warned  you. 
Well,  now  let  that  pass. 

A  run  on  the  Bank  about  five  days  ago 

Confirmed  my  forebodings  too  terri- 
bly, though. 

I  drove  down  to  the  city  at  once : 
found  the  door 

Of  the   Bank   close:   the   Bank  had 
stopped  payment  at  four. 

Next  morning  the  failure  was  known 
to  be  fraud : 

Warrant  out  for  MacNab;  but  Mac- 
Nab  was  abroad : 

Gone — we  cannot   tell  where.     I  en- 
deavored to  get 

Information:   have    learned    nothing 
certain  as  yet, — 

Not  even  the  way  that  old  Ridley  was 

rne: 
those  securities  what  he  had 

done: 
Or  whether   they  had  been   already 

called  out : 
If  they  are   not,  their  fate  is,  I  fear, 

past  a  doubt. 
Twenty    families    ruined,   they  say: 

what  was  left, — 

Unable  to  find  any  clew  to  the  cleft 
The  old  fox  ran  to  earth  in, — but  join 

you  as  fast 
As  I  could,  my  dear  Alfred  ?  * 

VI. 

He  stopped  here,  aghast 
At  the  change  in  his  cousin,  the  hue 
of  whose  face 

*  These  events,   it    is  needless  to  say,   Mr. 

Morse, 
Took  place  when  Bad  News  as  yet  travelled 

by  horse. 
Ere  the  world,  like  a  cockchafer,  buzzed  on 

a  wire, 

Or  Time  was  calcined  by  electrical  fire  ; 
Ere  a  cable  went  under  the  hoary  Atlantic, 
Or  the  word  Telegram  drove  grammarians 

frantic. 


Had  grown  livid  ;  and  glassy  his  eyes 

fixed  on  space. 
"Courage,  courage!".  .  .  said  John, 

.  .  .  bear  the  blow  like  a  man !" 
And  he  caught  the  cold  hand  of  Lord 

Alfred.     There  ran 
Through  that  hand  a  quick  tremor. 

"  I  bear  it,"  he  said, 
"But  Matilda?  the  blow  is  to  her!" 

And  his  head 
Seemed  forced  down,  as  he  said  it. 

JOHN. 

Matilda  ?    Pooh,  pooh ! 

I  half  think  I  know  the  girl  better 
than  you. 

She  has  courage  enough — and  to 
spare.  She  cares  less 

Than  most  women  for  luxury,  non- 
sense, and  dress. 

ALFRED. 
The  fault  has  been  mine. 

JOHN. 

Be  it  yours  to  repair  it : 
If  you  did  not  avert,  you  may  help 
her  to  bear  it. 

ALFRED. 

I  might  have  averted. 
JOHN. 

Perhaps  so.     But  now 

There  is  clearly  no  use  in  considering 
how, 

Or  whence,  came  the  mischief.  The 
mischief  is  here. 

Broken  shins  are  not  mended  by  cry- 
ing,—  that's  clear! 

One  has  but  to  rub  them,  and  get  up 
again, 

And  push  on, — and  not  think  too 
much  of  the  pain. 

And  at  least  it  is  much  that  you  see 
that  to  her 

You  owe  too  much  to  think  of  your- 
self. You  must  stir 

And  arouse  yourself,  Alfred,  for  her 
sake.  Who  knows? 

Something  yet  may  be  saved  from 
this  Avreck.  I  suppose 

We  shall  make  him  disgorge  all  he 
can,  at  the  least. 

"O  Jack,  I  have  been  a  brute  idiot! 
a  beast! 


LUC1LE. 


107 


A  fool!  I  have  sinned,  and  to  her  I 
have  sinned ! 

I  have  been  heedless,  blind,  inexcus- 
ably blind ! 

And  now,  in  ,a  flash,  I  see  all  things !" 
As  though 

To  shut  out  the  vision,  he  bowed  his 
head  low 

On  his  hands  ;  and  the  great  tears  in 
silence  rolled  on, 

And  fell  momently,  heavily,  one  after 
one. 

John  felt  no  desire  to  find  instant  re- 
lief 

For  the  trouble  lie  witnessed. 

He  guessed,  in  the  grief 

Of  his  cousin,  the  broken  and  heart- 
felt admission 

Of  some  error  demanding  a  heartfelt 
contrition : 

Some  oblivion  perchance  which  could 
plead  less  excuse 

To  the  heart  of  a  man  re-aroused  to 
the  use 

Of  the  conscience  God  gave  him,  than 
simply  and  merely 

The  neglect  for  which  now  he  was 
paying  so  dearly. 

So  he    rose    without    speaking,    and 
paced  up  and  down 

The  long  room,   much  afflicted,   in- 
deed, in  his  own 

Cordial  heart  for  Matilda. 

Thus,  silently  lost 

In  his  anxious  reflectious,  lie  crossed 
and  recrossed 

The  place  where  his  cousin  yet  hope- 
lessly hung 

O'er  the  table;  his  fingers  entwisted 
among 

The  rich  curls  they  were  knotting  and 
dragging:  and  there, 

That  sound  of  all  sounds  the  most 
painful  to  hear, 

The  sobs  of  a  man!    Yet  so  far  in  his 
own 

Kindly  thoughts  was  he  plunged,  he 
already  had  grown 

Unconscious  of  Alfred. 

And  so  for  a  space 

There  was  silence  between  them. 

VII. 

At  last,  with  sad  face 
He  stopped  short,  and  bent   on  his 

cousin  awhile 

A  pained  sort  of  wistful,  compassion- 
ate smile, 


Approached  him,  — stood  o'er  him, — 
and  suddenly  laid 

One  hand  on  his  shoulder — 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said. 

Alfred   lifted  his  face  all  disfigured 
with  tears 

And  gazed  vacantly  at  him,  like  one 
that  appears  ' 

In  some  foreign  language  to  hear  him- 
self greeted, 

Unable  to  answer. 

" Where  is  she?"    repeated 

His  cousin. 

He  motioned  his  hand  to  the  door ; 
"There,  I  think,"  he  replied.    Cousin 

John  said  no  more, 
And  appeared  to  relapse  to  his  own 

cogitations, 

Of  which  not  a  gesture  vouchsafed  in- 
dications. 
So  again  there  was  silence. 

A  timepiece  at  last 

Struck  the  twelve  strokes  of  midnight. 

Koused  by  them,  he  cast 

A  half -look  to  the  dial ;    then  quietly 

threw 
His  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  cousin, 

and  drew 
The  hands  down  from  his  face. 

"It  is  time  she  should  know 
What  has  happened,"  he  said,  .... 

"let  us  go  to  her  now." 
Alfred  started  at  once  to  his  feet. 

Drawn  and  wan 
Though  his  face,  he  looked  more  than 

his  wont  was — a  man, 
Strong  for  once,  in  his  weakness.   Up- 
lifted, filled  through 
With  a  manly  resolve. 

If  that  axiom  be  true 
Of  the  "Sum  quia  cogito,"  I  must  opine 
That  "id  sum  quod  cogito":  —  that 

which,  in  fine, 
A  man  thinks  and  feels,  with  his  whole 

force  of  thought 
And  feeling,  the  man  is  himself. 

He  had  fought 
With  himself,  and  rose  up  from  his 

self-overthrow 
The  survivor  of  much  which  that  strife 

had  laid  low. 
At  his  feet,  as  he  rose  at  the  name  of 

his  wife, 
Lay  in  ruins  the  brilliant  unrealized 

life 
Which,  though  yet  unfulfilled,  seemed 

till  then,  in  that  name, 


108 


LUCILE. 


To  be  his,  had  he  claimed  it.     The 

man's  dream  of  fame 
And  of  power  fell  shattered   before 

him;  and  only 
There  rested  the  heart  of  the  woman, 

so  lonely 
In  all  save  the  love  he  could  give  her. 

The  lord 
Of  that  heart  he  arose.     Blush  not, 

Muse,  to  record 
That  his  first  thought,  and  last,  at  that 

moment  was  not 
Of  the  power  and  fame  that  seemed 

lost  to  his  lot, 
But  the  love  that  Avas  left  to  it;  not 

of  the  pelf 
He  had  cared  for,  yet  squandered; 

and  not  of  himself, 
But  of  her;  as  he  murmured, 
"One  moment,  dear  Jack! 
We  have  grown  up  from  boyhood  to- 
gether.    Our  track 
Has  been  through  the  same  meadows 

in  childhood:  in  youth 
Through  the  same  silent  gateways,  to 

manhood.     In  truth, 
There  is  none  that  can  know  me  as 

you  do ;  and  none 

To  whom  I  more  wish  to  believe  my- 
self known. 
Speak  the  truth;  you  are  not  wont  to 

mince  it,  I  know. 
Nor  I,  shall  I  shirk  it,  or  shrink  from 

it  now. 
In  despite  of  a  wanton  behavior,  in 

spite 
Of  vanity,  folly,  and  pride,  Jack,  which 

might 
Have  turned  from  me  many  a  heart 

strong  and  true 
As  your  own,  I  have   never  turned 

round  and  missed  YOU 
From  my  side  in  one  hour  of  affliction 

or  doubt 

By  my  own  blind  and  heedless  self- 
will  brought  about. 
Tell  me  truth.    Do  I  owe  this  alone 

to  the  sake 
Of  those  old  recollections  of  boyhood 

that  make 
In  your  heart  yet  some  clinging  and 

crying  appeal 
From  a  judgment  more  harsh,  which 

I  cannot  but  feel 
Might  have  sentenced  our  friendship 

to  death  long  ago  ? 
Or  is  it  ...  (I  would  I  could  deem  it1 

were  so!) 


That,  not  all  overlaid  by  a  listless  ex- 
terior, 

Your  heart  has  divined  in  me  some- 
thing superior 

To  that  which  I  seem ;  from  my  inner- 
most nature 

Not  wholly  expelled  by  the  world's 
usurpature  ? 

Some  instinct  of  earnestness,  truth, or 
desire 

For  truth?  Some  one  spark  of  the 
soul's  native  fire 

Moving  under  the  ashes,  and  cinders, 
and  dust 

Which  life  hath  heaped  o'er  it  ?  Some 
one  fact  to  trust 

And  to  hope  in  ?  Or  by  you  alone  am 
I  deemed 

The  mere  frivolous  fool  I  so  often  have 
seemed 

To  my  own  self  ?  " 

JOHN. 

No,  Alfred!  you  will,  I  believe, 
Be   true,   at  the  last,  to  what   now 

makes  you  grieve 
For  having  belied  your  true  nature  so 

long. 
Necessity    is    a    stern    teacher.     Be 

strong! 
"Do    you    think,"  he    resumed  .  .  . 

"what  I  feel  while  I  speak 
Is  no  more  than  a  transient  emotion, 

as  weak 
As  these  weak  tears  would  seem  ta 

betoken  it?" 

JOHN. 
No! 

ALFRED. 

Thank  you,  cousin!  your  hand  then 

and  now  I  will  go 
Alone  Jack.     Trust  to  me. 

VIII. 

JOHN. 

I  do.   But 'tis  late. 
If  she  sleeps,  you'll  not  wake  her. 

ALFRED. 

No,  no!  It  will  wait 
(Poor  infant!)too  surely,  this  mission 

of  sorrow ; 
If  she  sleeps,  I    will    not    mar    her 

dreams  of  to-morrow. 


LUC  I LK. 


109 


He  opened  the  door,  and  passed  out. 

Cousin  John 

Watched  him  wistful,  and  left  him  to 
seek  her  alone. 

IX. 

His    heart    beat    so    loud   when    he 

knocked  at  her  door, 
He  could  hear  no  reply  from  within. 

Yet  once  more 
He  knocked  lightly.   No  answer.   The 

handle  he  tried : 
The  door  opened :  he  entered  the  room 

undescried. 

X. 

No  brighter  than  is  that  dim  circlet 

of  light 
Which  enhaloes  the  moon  when  rains 

form  on  the  night, 
The  pale  lamp  and  indistinct  radiance 

shed 
Round  the  chamber,  in  which  at  her 

pure  snowy  bed 
Matilda  was  kneeling;   so  wrapt  in 

deep  prayer 
That  she  knew  not  her  husband  stood 

watching  her  there. 
With  the  lamplight  the  moonlight  had 

mingled  a  faint 
And     unearthly    effulgence      which 

seemed  to  acquaint 
The  whole  place  with  a  sense  of  deep 

peace  made  secure 
By  the  presence  of  something  angelic 

and  pure. 
And  not  purer  some  angel  Grief  carves 

o'er  the  tomb 
Where  Love  lies,  than  the  lady  that 

kneeled  in  that  gloom. 
She  had  put  off  her  dress;  and  she 

looked  to  his  eyes 
Like  a  young  soul  escaped  from  its 

earthly  disguise ; 
Her  fair  neck  and  innocent  shoulders 

were  bare,  [hair; 

And  over  them  rippled  her  soft  golden 
Her  simple  and  slender  white  bodice 

unlaced 
Confined  not  one  curve  of  her  delicate 

waist. 

As  the  light  that,  from  water  reflect- 
ed, forever 
Trembles  up  through  the  tremulous 

reeds  of  a  river, 
So    the    beam    of  her  beautj   went 

trembling  in  him, 


Through  the  thoughts  it  suffused  with 

a  sense  soft  and  dim, 
Reproducing  itself  in  the  broken  and 

bright 

Lapse  and  pulse  of  a  million  emotions. 

That  sight 

Bowed  his   heart,  bowed   his    knee. 

Knowing  scarce  what  he  did, 
To  her  side  through  the  chamber  he 

silently  slid, 
And    knelt    down    beside    her, — and 

prayed  at  her  side. 

XI. 

Upstarting,  she  then  for  the  first  time 
descried 

That  her  husband  was  near  her  :  suf- 
fused with  the  blush 

Which  came  o'er  her  soft  pallid  cheek 
with  a  gush 

Where  the  tears  sparkled  yet. 

As  a  young  fawn  uncouches, 

Shy  with  fear,  from  the  fern  where 
some  hunter  approaches, 

She  shrank  back :  he  caught  her,  and 
circling  his  arm 

Round  her  waist,  on  her  brow  pressed 
one  kiss  long  and  warm. 

Then  her  fear  changed  in  impulse ; 
and  hiding  her  face 

On  his  breast,  she  hung  locked  in  a 
clinging  embrace 

With  her  soft  arms  wound  heavily 
round  him,  as  though 

She  feared,  if  their  clasp  were  relax- 
ed, he  would  go : 

Her  smooth  naked  shoulders,  uucared 
for,  convulsed 

By  sob  after  sob,  while  her  bosom  yet 
pulsed 

In  its  pressure  on  his,  as  the  effort 
within  it 

Lived  and  died  with  each  tender  tu- 
multuous minute. 

"O  Alfred.  O  Alfred!  forgive  me,"  she 
cried, — 

"Forgive  me!"— "Forgive  you,  my 
poor  child!"  he  sighed; 

"But  I  never  have  blamed  you  for 
aught  that  I  know, 

And  I  have  not  one  thought  that  re- 
proaches you  now." 

From  her  arms  he  unwound  himself 
gently.     And  so 

He  forced  her  down  softly  beside  him. 
Below 

The  canopy  shading  their  couch,  they 
sat  down. 


110 


LUCILE. 


And  he  said,  clasping  firmly  her  hand 

in  his  own, 
"When  a  proud  man,    Matilda,   has 

found  out  at  length, 
That  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  midst  of 

his  strength, 
But  a  fool  in  his  wisdom,  to  whom 

can  he  own 
The  weakness  which  thus  to  himself 

hath  been  shown  ? 
From  whom  seek  the  strength  which 

his  need  is  of  sore, 

Although   in  his  pride  he  might  per- 
ish, before 
He  could  plead  for  the  one,  or  the 

other  avow 
'Mid  his  intimate  friends?    Wife  of 

mine,  tell  me  now, 
Do  you  join  me   in  feeling,  in  that 

darkened  hour, 
The   sole  friend   that   can  have  the 

right  or  the  power 
To  be  at  his  side,  is  the  woman  that 

shares 
His  fate,  if  he  falter ;  the  woman  that 

bears 

The  name  dear  for  her  sake,  and  hal- 
lows the  life 
She  has  mingled  her  own  with, — in 

short,  that  man's  wife  ?" 
"  Yes,"  murmured  Matilda,  "Oyes!" 
"  Then,"  he  cried, 
"  This  chamber  in  which  we  two  sit, 

side  by  side 
(And  his  arm,  as  he   spoke,  seemed 

more  softly  to  press  her), 
Is  now  a  confessional, — you,  my  con- 
fessor !" 
"I?"  she  faltered,  and  timidly  lifted 

her  head. 
"Yes!    but  first    answer    one  other 

question,"  he  said: 
"  When  a  woman  once  feels  that  she 

is  not  alone; 
That  the  heart  of  another  is  warmed 

by  her  own ; 
That  another  feels  with  her  whatever 

she  feel, 
And  halves  her  existence  in  woe- or  in 

weal ; 
That  a  man  for  her  sake  will,  so  long 

as  he  lives, 
Live  to  put  forth  his  strength  which 

the  thought  of  her  gives ; 
Live  to  shield  her  from  want,  and  to 

share  with  her  sorrow  ; 
Live  to  solace  the  day,  and  provide 

for  the  morrow ; 


Will  that  woman  feel  less  than  an- 
other, O  say, 

The  loss   of  what  life,    sparing  this, 
takes  away  ? 

Will  she  feel  (feeling  this),  when  ca- 
lamities come, 

That  they  brighten  the  heart,  though 
they  darken  the  home?" 

She  turned,  like  a  soft  rainy  heaven, 
on  him 

Eyes  that  smiled  through  fresh  tears, 
trustful,  tender,  and  dim. 

"  That  woman,"  she  murmured,  ''in- 
deed were  thrice  blest !" 

"Then    courage,     true    wife   of    my 
heart !"  to  his  breast 

As  he  folded  and  gathered  her  close- 
ly, he  cried. 

"For  the   refuge,   to-night  in  these 
arms  opened  wide 

To  your  heart,  can    be  never  closed 
to  it  again, 

And  this  room  is  for  both  an  asylum ! 
For  when 

I  passed  through  that   door,  at  the 
door  I  left  there 

A  calamity,    sudden,    and   heavy  to 
bear. 

One   step   from    that  threshold,    and 
daily,  I  fear, 

We  must  face  it  henceforth;  but  it 
enters  not  here, 

For  that  door  shuts  it  out,  and  ad- 
mits here  alone 

A  heart   which    calamity  leaves  all 
your  own!" 

She  started  .  .  .  "Calamity,  Alfred! 
to  you  ?" 

"To  both,  my  poor  child,  but  't  will 
bring  with  it  too 

The  courage,  I  trust,  to  subdue  it." 
"O  speak! 

Speak !"  she  faltered  in  tones  timid, 
anxious,  and  weak. 

"O  yet  for  a  moment,  "he  said,  "hear 
me  on! 

Matilda,  this  morn  we  went  forth  in 
the  sun, 

Like  those   children  of  sunshine,  the 
bright  summer  flies, 

That  sport  in  the  sunbeam,  and  play 
through  the  skies 

While  the  skies  smile,  and  heed  not 
each  other  •  at  last, 

When   their  sunbeam    is    gone,   and 
their  sky  overcast, 

Who  reeks   hi   what  ruiu  they   fold, 
their  wet  wings  ? 


LUCILE. 


Ill 


So  indeed  the  morn  found  us, — poor 

frivolous  things ! 
Now  our  sky  is  o'ercast,  and  our  sun- 
beam is  set, 
And    the   night    brings   its   darkness 

around  us.     O,  yet, 
Have  we  weathered  no  storm  through 

those  twelve  cloudless  hours  f 
Yes;  you,  too,  have  wept! 

"  While  the  world  was  yet  ours, 
While  its  sun  was  upon  us,  its  incense 

streamed  to  us, 
And  its  myriad  voices  of  joy  seemed 

to  woo  us, 
We  strayed  from  each  other,  too  far, 

it  may  be, 
Nor,  wantonly  wandering,  then  did  I 

see 
How    deep   was  my    need    of    thee, 

dearest,  how  great 
Was  thy  claim  on  my  heart  and  thy 

share  in  my  fate  ! 
But,  Matilda,  an  angel  was  near  us, 

meanwhile, 
Watching  o'er   us,   to  warn,  and  to 

rescue ! 

"  That  smile 
Which  you  saw  with  suspicion,  that 

presence  you  eyed 
With    resentment,    an    angel's    they 

were  at  your  side 
And  at  mine  ;  nor  perchance  is  the 

day  all  so  far, 
When  we  both  in  our  prayers,  when 

most  heartfelt  they  are, 
May    murmur    the     name     of     that 

woman  now  gone 
From  our  sight  evermore. 

"  Here,  this  evening,  alone, 
I  seek  your  forgiveness,  in  opening 

my  heart 
Unto  yours, — from  this   clasp  be  it 

never  to  part ! 
Matilda,  the  fortune  you  brought  me 

is  gone, 

But  a  prize  richer  far  than  that  for- 
tune has  won 
It  is  yours  to  confer,  afnd  I  kneel  for 

that  prize, 
'Tis  the   heart   of  my  wife !"    With 

suffused  happy  eyes 
She  sprang  from  her-  seat,  flung  her 

arms  wide  apart, 
And  tenderly  closing  them  round  him, 

his  heart 
Clasped  in  one  close  embrace  to  her 

bosom ;  and  there 


Drooped  her   head  on  his   shoulder; 

and  sobbed. 

Not  despair, 
Not  sorrow,  not  even  the  sense  of  her 

loss, 
Flowed    in    those    happy    tears,    so 

oblivious  she  was 
Of  all  save  the  sense  of  her  own  love  ! 

Anon, 
However,  his  words  rushed  back  to 

her.     "All  gone, 
The  fortunes  you  brought  me !" 

And  eyes  that  were  dim 
With  soft   tears   she    upraised;  but 

those  tears  were  for  him. 
"  Gone!  my  husband  ?"  she  said,  "tell 

me  all!  see  !  I  need,  [deed 
To  sober  this  rapture,  so  selfish  in- 
Fuller  sense  of  affliction/' 

"  Poor  innocent  child  !" 
lie   kissed    her    fair    forehead,    and 

mournfully  smiled, 
As  he  told  her  the  tale  he  had  heard, 

— something  more 
The  gain  found  in  loss  of  what  gain 

lost  of  yore. 
"Rest,  my  heart,  and  my  brain,  and 

my  right  hand  for  you  ; 
And  with  these,  my  Matilda,   what 

may  I  not  do  ? 
You  know  not,  I  knew  not  myself  till 

this  hour, 
Which  so  sternly  revealed  it,  my  na- 
ture's full  power." 
And  I  too,"  she  murmured,   "  I  too 

am  no  more 
The  mere  infant  at  heart  you  have 

known  me  before. 
I  have  suffered   since  then.     I  have 

learned  much  in  life. 
0  take,  with  the  faith  I  have  pledged 

as  a  wife, 
The  heart  I  have  learned  as  a  woman 

to  feel ! 
For  I — love  you,  my  husband !" 

As  though  to  conceal 
Less  from  him,   than  herself,   what 

that  motion  expressed, 
She   dropped   her    bright   head,    and 

hid  all  on  his  breast. 
0  lovely  us  woman,  beloved  as  wife! 
Evening  star  of  my  heart,  light  for- 
ever my  life! 
[f  from  eyes  fixed  too  long  on  this 

base  earth  thus  far 
You  have  missed  your  due  homage, 

dear  guardian  star, 


112 


LUCILE. 


Believe  that,  uplifting  those  eyes  un 

to  heaven, 
There  I  see  you,  and  know  you,  anc 

bless  the  light  given 
To  lead  me  to  life's  late  achievement 

my  own, 
My    blessing,    my    treasure,   my  al 

things  in  one !" 

XII. 

How  lovely  she  looked  in  the  lovely 

moonlight, 
That  streamed  through  the  pane  from 

the  blue  balmy  night ! 
How  lovely  she  looked  in  her  own 

lovely  youth, 
As  she  clung  to  his  side  full  of  trust, 

and  of  truth ! 
How  lovely  to    him  as  he  tenderly 

pressed 
Her  young  head  on  his  bosom,   and 

sadly  caressed 
The    glittering    tresses    which    now 

shaken  loose 
Showered  gold   in    his   hand,   as  he 

smoothed  them ! 

XIII. 

O  Muse, 
Interpose  not  one  pulse  of  thine  own 

beating  heart 
'Twixt  these  two  silent  souls !  There's 

a  joy  beyond  art, 
And  beyond  sound  the  music  it  makes 

in  the  breast. 

XIV. 

Here  were  lovers  twice  wed,  that 
were  happy  at  least ! 

No  music,  save  such  as  the  nightin- 
gales sung, 

Breathed  their  bridals  abroad ;  and 
no  cresset,  uphung, 

Lit  that  festival  hour,  save  what  soft 
light  was  given 

From  the  pure  stars  that  peopled  the 
deep-purple  heaven. 

He  opened  the  casement :  he  led  her 
with  him, 

Hushed  in  heart,  to  the  terrace,  dip- 
ped cool  in  the  dim 

Lustrous  gloom  of  the  shadowy 
laurels.  They  heard 

Aloof  the  invisible,  rapturous  bird, 

With  her  wild  note  bewildering  the 
woodlands :  they  saw 

Not  unheard,  afar  off,  the  hill-ri*~alet 
draw 


His    long     ripple     of    moon-kindled 
wavelets  with  cheer 

From  the  throat  of  the  vale  ;  o'er  the 
dark-sapphire  sphere 

The  mild,    multitudinous   lights  lay 
asleep, 

Pastured  free  on  the  midnight,  and 
bright  as  the  sheep 

Of  Apollo  in  pastoral  Thrace;  from 
unknown 

Hollow  glooms  freshened  odors  around 
them  were  blown 

Intermittingly ;  then  the  moon  drop- 
ped from  their  sight, 

Immersed  in  the  mountains,  and  put 
out  the  light 

Which  no  longer  they  needed  to  read 
on  the  face 

Of  each  other's  life's  last  revelation. 
The  place 

Slept  sumptuous  round  them ;  and 
Nature,  that  never 

Sleeps,  but  waking  reposes,  with 
patient  endeavor 

Continued  about  them,  unheeded,  un- 
seen, 

Her  old,  quiet  toil  in  the  heart  of  the 
green 

Summer  silence,  preparing  new  buds 
for  new  blossoms, 

And  stealing  a  finger  of  change  o'er 
the  bosoms 

Of  the  unconscious  woodlands ;  and 
Time,  that  halts  not 

His  forces,  how  lovely  soever  the  spot 

Where  their  march  lies, — the  wary, 
gray  strategist,  Time, 

With  the  armies  of  Life,  lay  en- 
camped,— Grief  and  Crime, 

Love  and  Faith,  in  the  darkness  un- 
heeded ;  maturing, 

For  his  great  war  with  man,  new  sur- 
prises ;  securing 

All  outlets,  pursuing  and  pushing  his 
foe 

To  his  last  narrow  refuge, — the  grave. 

*    XV. 

Sweetly  though 

Smiled  the  stars  like  new  hopes  out  of 
heaven,  and  sweetly 

Their  hearts  beat  thanksgiving  for  all 
things,  completely 

Confiding  in  that  yet  untrodden  ex- 
istence 

Over  which  they  were  pausing.  To- 
morrow, resistance 


LVCILE. 


113 


And  struggle ;  to-night,  Love  has  hal. 
lowed  device 

Hung  forth,  and  proclaimed  his  se- 
rene armistice. 


CANTO  V. 


WHEN  Lucile  left  Matilda,  she  sat  for 
long  hours 

In  her  chamber,  fatigued  by  long 
overwrought  powers, 

'Mid  the  signs  of  departure,  about  to 
turn  back 

To  her  old  vacant  life,  oa  her  old 
homeless  track. 

She  felt  her  heart  falter  within  her. 
She  sat 

Like  some  poor  player,  gazing  de- 
jectedly at 

The  insignia  of  royalty  worn  for  a 
night ; 

Exhausted,  fatigued,  with  the  dazzle 
and  light, 

And  the  effort  of  passionate  feigning; 
\vho  thinks 

Of  her  own  meagre,  rush-lighted  gar- 
ret, 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. 
The  air, 

With  the  chill  of  the  dawn  yetunrisen, 
but  at  hand, 

Strangely  smote  on  her  feverish  fore- 
head. 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 
curled  on  the  hill. 

Emotions,  long  pent  in  her  breast, 
were  at  stir, 

And  the  deeps  of  the  spirit  were  trou- 
bled in  her. 


Ah,  pale  woman!  what,  with  that 
heart-broken  look 

Didst  thou  read  then  in  nature's  weird 
heart-breaking  book  ?[  And  who 

Have  the  wild  rains  of  heaven  a  father 

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 -re- 
vealed hope  in  the  skies? 

Ay,  question,  and  listen!  What  an- 
swer? 

The  sound 

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,  supernat- 
ural 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  an- 
guish, hath  passed 

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-fash- 
ioned distaff  uncurled, 

And  those  three  blind  old  women  sit 
spinning  the  world. 

in. 

The  dark  was  blanched  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, 


114 


LUCILE. 


And  about,  and  upon  her. 

A  dull  muffled  sound, 

And  a  hand  on  her  hand,  like  a  ghost- 
ly surprise, 

And  she  felt  herself  fixed  by  the  hot 
hollow  eyes 

Of  the  Frenchman  before  her :  those 
eyes  seemed  to  burn, 

And  scorch  out  the  darkness  between 
them,  and  turn 

Into  fire  as  they  fixed  her.     He  looked 
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  wild- 
erness. 

IV. 

"  At  last,  then,— at  last,  and  alone, — 

I  and  thou, 
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  hori- 
zons.    ;T  is  well ! 
The  timidest  maiden  that  e'er  to  the 

spell 
Of   her    first    lover's  vows  listened, 

hushed  with  delight, 
When  soft  stars    were  brightly    up- 


hanging  the  night, 
•  listened,  I 


Never  listened,  I  swear,  more  unques- 

tioningly, 
Than  thy  fate  hath  compelled  thee  to 

listen  to  me !" 
To  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  though 

out  of  a  dream, 

She  appeared  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  answered,  "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  disturbed.  To  and  fro  he  con- 
.tinued  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  up- 
on 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  wick- 
ed scroll, 

With  thine  own  name  scrawled 
through  it,  defacing  a  soul  ?" 

In  his  face  there  was  something  so 
wrathful  and  wild, 

That  the  sight  of  it  scared  her. 

He  saw  it,  and  smiled, 

And  then  turned  him  from  her,  re- 
newing 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  f " 

"No,  Duke, 

In  my  conscience  I  do  not  deserve 
your  rebuke : 

Not  yours !'  she  replied. 

"No,"  he  muttered  again, 

"Gentle  justice!  you  first  bid  Life 
hope  not,  and  then 

To  Despair  you  say  '  Act  not  V  " 

V. 

He  watched  her  awhile 

With  a  chill  sort  of  restless  and  suffer- 
ing 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  loomed 


LUCILL: 


115 


Kound  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  our- 
selves 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  .  .  .  iu  vain!" 
" Duke!"  she  faltered. 
"Yes,  yes!"  he  went  on,    "I  was 

not 
Always  thus !  what  I  once  was,  I  have 

not  forgot." 

VI. 

As  the  wind  that  heaps  sand  in  a 
desert,  there  stirred 

Through  his  voice  an  emotion  that 
swept  every  word 

Into  one  angry  wail;  as,  with  fever- 
ish change, 

Ho  continued  his  monologue,  fitful 
and  strange. 

"  Woe  to  him,  in  whose  nature,  once 
kindled,  the  torch 

Of  Passion  burns  down  ward  to  blacken 
and  scorch  ! 

But  shame,  shame  and  sorrow,  O 
woman  to  thee 

Whose  hand  sowed  the  seed  of  de- 
struction in  me ! 

Whose  lip  taught  the  lesson  of  false- 
hood to  mine! 

Whose  looks  made  me  doubt  lies  that 
looked  so  divine! 

My  soul  by  thy  beauty  was  slain  in  its 
sleep : 

And  if  tears  I  mistrust,  't  is  that  thou 
too  canst  weep ! 

Well!  .  .  .  how  utter  soever  it  be, 
one  mistake 


In  the  love  of  a    man,    what 
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  por- 
tion, among 

The  great  needs  of  man's  life,  or  ex- 
hausted 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  night- 
ingales sing, 

Not  less  sweetly  for  one  blossom  can- 
celled from  Spring! 

Hast  thou  loved,  O  my  heart  ?  to  thy 
love  yet  remains 

All  the  \vido  loving-kindness  of  na- 
ture. 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 

Why  they  slumber?  Let  only  new 
flowers  be  the  sign ! 

"Vain !  all  vain !  .  .  For  when,  laugh- 
ing, the  wine  I  would  quaff, 

I  remembered  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  stirred. 

In  the  night-wind,  the  starlight,  the 
murmurs  of  even, 

In  the  ardors  of  earth,  and  the  lan- 
guors of  heaven, 

I  could  trace  nothing  more,  notn  ng 
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  burden  of  the  bitterness  in  me  ! 
Behold, 


116 


LUCILE. 


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  turned  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!" 

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 

wrecked  your  life  ? 
Alas!  Due  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  in- 
jured you  worse? 

Yes,  I  then  should  have  merited  just- 
ly your  curse, 

For  I  then  should  have  wronged  you '!" 
"  Wronged!  ah,  is  it  so  ? 
You  could  never  have  loved  me  ?" 

"Duke!" 

"Never?  O  no!" 

(He  broke  into  a  nerce,  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,  [less  power, 

All  t'ae  pale,  cruel,  beautiful,  passion- 
Shut  up  in  that   cold  face  of  yours! 

Was  this  well? 
But  enough  !  not  011  you  would  I  vent 

the  wild  hell 
Which  has   grown  in   my  heart.     0 

that  man,  first  and  last 
He  tramples  in  triumph  my  life !    he 

has  cast 
His  shadow  'twixt  me  and  the  sun  .  .  . 

let  it  pass ! 
ily  hate  yet  may  find  him !" 


She  murmured,  "Alas! 
Tkese  words,  at  least,  spare  me  the 

rin  of  reply. 
,  Due  de  Luvois !  farewell.     I 
"shall  try 
To  forget  every  word  I  have  heard, 

every  sight 
That  has  grieved  and  appalled  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  groaned, 

..."  I  am  mad, 
Brutalized,  blind  with  pain !    I  know 

not  what  I  said. 
I  meant  it  not.     But"  (he  moaned, 

drooping  his  head) 
"  Forgive  me  !     I — have  I  so  wronged 

you,  Lucilo  ? 
I ...  have  I  ...  forgive  me,  forgive 

me !" 

"I  feel 
Only  sad,  very  sad  to  the  soul,"  she 

said,  "far, 
Far  too  sad  for  resentment." 

"  Yet  stand  as  you  are 
One    moment,"    he    murmured.      "I 

think,  could  I  gaze 
Thus  awhile  on  your  face,    the  old 

innocent  days, 
Would  come  back  upon  me,  and  thig 

scorching  heart         [not  depart 
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  spea'k  to  me  of  it.     And  yet, 

if  you  will, 
Whatever  you  say,  my  own  lips  shall 

be  still. 
I  lied.     And   the    truth,   now,    could 

justify  naught. 
There  are  battles,  it  may  be,  in  which 

to  have  fought 
Is    more    shameful   than   simply,    to 

fail.     Yet,  Lucile, 
Had  you  helped  me  to  bear  what  you 

forced  me  to  feel—" 
Could  I  help  you,"   she  murmured, 

"but  what  can  I  say 
That  your  life  will  respond  to?"  "My 

life?"  he  sisrhed.     "Nav. 


ZUClLfi. 


117 


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 

Jove  011  through  life: 
Love  in  fame ;  love  in  knowledge  ;  in 

work  ;  earth  is  rife 
With  labor,  and  therefore  with  love, 

for  a  man. 
If  one  love  fails,  another  succeeds, 

and  the  plan 

Of  man's  life  includes  love  in  all  ob- 
jects!   But  I? 
All  such  loves  from  my  life  through 

its  whole  destiny 
Face  excluded.     The  love  that  I  gave 

you,  alas! 
Was  the  sole  love  that  life  gave  to 

me.     Let  that  pass! 
It  perished,  and  all  perished  with  it. 

Ambition  ? 

Wealth  left  nothing  to  add  to  my  so- 
cial condition. 

Fame?    But  fame  in  itself  presup- 
poses some  great 
Field  wherein  to  pursue  and  attain  it. 

The  State? 
I,  to    cringe    to    an    upstart?     The 

Ca»p  ?    I,  to  draw 
From  its  sheath  the  old  swrord  of  the 

Dukes  of  Luvois 
To  defend  usurpation  ?    Books,  then  ? 

Science,  Art? 
But,  alas !  I  was  fashioned  for  action: 

my  heart, 
Withered  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 !" 

VIII. 

For  a  while  she  was  mute. 
Then  she  answered,    "  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,  Due    de 

Luvois,  I  might  say 
That  all  life  attests,   that  '  the  will 

makes  the  way.' 
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  bloomed  for 

of  yore  ? 
Yet  be  that  as  it  may  be ;  I  cannot 

perchance 

Judge  this  matter.    I  am  but  a  wo- 
man, and  France 
Has  for  me  simpler  duties.      Large 

hope,  though,  Eugene 
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  mo- 
ments it  stretch 
To  shrill  tension  some  one  wailing 

nerve,  means  to  fetch 
Its  response  the  truest,  most  string- 
ent, and  smart, 
Its  pathos  the  purest,  from  out  the 

wrung  heart, 
Whose  faculties,  flaccid  it  may  be,  if 

less 
Sharply  strung,  sharply  smitten,  had 

failed  to  express 

Just  the  one  note  the  great  final  har- 
mony 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 ! 
am    must    bum    itself    out    if    not 

fuelled  by  sin. 


113 


LUCILE. 


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  laugh- 
ter, whose  mind 
Wanders    trackless    amidst  its    own 

ruins,  may  hear 
A  voice  heard  "long  since,   silenced 

many  a  year, 

And  now,  'mid  mad   ravings  recap- 
tured again, 
Singing  through  the  caged  lattice  a 

once  well-known  strain. 
Which  brings  back  his  boyhood  upon 

it,  until 
The  mind's  ruined  crevices  graciouslv 

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 

passed  for  a  king, 
Hard    by,     with    his    squalid   straw 

crown,  now  confessed 
A  madman  more  painfully  mad  than 

the  rest, — 
So  the  sound  of  her  voice,  as  it  there 

wandered  o'er 
His  echoing  heart,  seemed  in  part  to 

restore 
The  forces  of  thought :  he  recaptured 

the  whole 

Of  his  life  by  the  light  which,  in  pass- 
ing, her  soul 

Reflected  on  his:  he  appeared  to  awake 
From  a  dream,  and  perceived  he  had 

dreamed  a  mistake : 
His  spirit  was  softened,  yet  troubled 

in  him  : 
He  felt  his  lips  falter,  his  eyesight 

grow  dim, 
But  he  murmured  .  .  . 

"  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. 
Broken-hearted  the  nightingale  hides 

in  the  spray, 
And  the  owl's  moody  mind  in  his  own 

hollow  tower 


Dwells  muffled.  Be  darkness  hence- 
forward my  dower. 

Light,  be  sure,  in  that  darkness  there 
dwells,  by  which  eyes 

Grown  familiar  with  ruins  may  yet 
recognize 

Enough  desolation." 

IX. 

"  The  pride  that  claims  hero 
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. 

"Eugene  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  doomsman." 

Her  words  seemed  to  fall 
With  the  weight  of  tears  in  them. 

He  looked  up,  and  saw 
That  sad  serene  countenance,  mourn- 
ful as  law 
And  tender  as  pity,  bowed  o'er  him : 

and  heard 
In  some  thicket  the  matinal  chirp  of 

a  bird. 

X. 

"Vulgar  natures  alone  suffer  vainly. 

"  Eugene," 
She  continued,  "in  life  we  have  met 

once  again, 
And  once  more  life  parts  1is.     Yon 

dayspring  for  me 
Lifts  the  veil  of  a  future  in  which  it 

may  be 
We  shall  meet  nevermore.     Grant,  O 

grant  to  me  yet 
The  belief  that  it  is  not  in  vain  we 

have  met! 
I  plead  for  the  future.     A  new  horo- 
scope 
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, 


LUC  ILK 


119 


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  actio.n 

or  thought, 
Life's   strong  earnest,  in  all  things ! 

O  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  fulfil- 
ment, I  plead 
For  all  that  you  miss,  and  for  all  that 

you  need." 

XI. 

Through  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  kneeled,  softly, 

soothingly  fell. 
All  within  him  was  wild  and  confused, 

as  within 
A  chamber  deserted  in  some  roadside 

inn, 
Where,  passing,  wild  travellers  paused 

over  night, 
To  quaff  and  carouse  ;  in  each  socket 

each  light 
Is  extinct;  crashed  the  glasses,  and 

scrawled  is  the  wall 
With  wild  ribald   ballads:    serenely 

o'er  all, 
For  the  first  time  perceived,  where 

the  dawn-light  creeps  faint 
Through  the  wrecks  of  that  orgy,  the 

face  of  a  saint, 

Seen  through  some  broken  frame,  ap- 
pears 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 

seemed  to  his  eyes 


From  their  sight  to  be  melting  away 

in  the  skies 
That  expanded  around  her. 

XII. 

There  passed  through  his  head 

A  fancy,  —  a  vision.  That  woman 
was  dead 

He  had  loved  long  ago, — loved  and 
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  lie  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  j;o  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?  Be- 
hold in  yon  skies, 

This  wild  night  is  passing  away  while 
I  speak : 

Lo,  above  us,  the  day-spring  begin- 
ning 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  extin- 
guished in  me. 

I  know  not.  Thou  goest  thy  way :  I 
my  own : 

For  good  or  for  evil,  I  know  not.  Alone 

This  I  know;  we  are  parting.  I  wished 
to  say  more, 

But  no  matter!  't  will  pass.  All  be- 
tween us  is  o'er. 

Forget  the  wild  words  of  to-night. 
'T  "was  the  pain. 


120 


LUC  ILK 


For    long    years    hoarded    up,    that 

rushed  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  maddened,   delirious!     I  saw 

you  return 
To  him — not  to  me ;  and  I  felt  my 

heart  burn 
With  a  fierce  thirst  for  vengeance — 

and  thus  .  .  .  let  it  pass! 
Long  thoughts  these,  and  so  brief  the 

moments,  alas! 
Thou  goest  thy  way,  and  I  mine.     I 

suppose 
'Tis  to  meet  nevermore.     Is  it  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 !" 

XIII. 
And  again,  clearer  far  than  the  chime 

of  the  bell, 

That  voice  on  his  sense  softly,  sooth- 
ingly fell 
' '  Our  two  paths  must  part  us,  Eugene ; 

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  moral  combat  between 

human  life 
And  each  human  soul  must  be  single. 

The  strife 

None  can  share,  though  by  all  its  re- 
sults may  be  known. 
When  the   soul  arms  for  battle,  she 

goes  forth  alone. 

I  say  not,  indeed,  we  shall  meet  nev- 
ermore, 


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, 

Or  in  solitude  even,  but  never  again 

Shall  we  meet  from  henceforth  as  we 
have  met,  Eugene. 

For  we  know  not  the  way  we  are  go- 
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  shattered,  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,  sup- 
port you,  or  guide, 

In  the  hour  of  that  need  I  shall  be  at 
your  side, 

To  warn,  if  you  will,  or  incite,  or  con- 
trol; 

And  again,  once  again,  we  shall  meet, 
soul  to  soul !" 

XIV. 

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  splendor  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  rolled 

back  one  by  one, 


LUCILE. 


121 


The  bright  herald  angel  stood  stern  in 

the  sun! 
Thrice  holy  Eospheros !     Light's  reign 

began 
In  the  hea'ven,  on  the   earth,  in  the 

heart  of  the  man. 
The  dawn    on  the    mountains !    the 

dawn  everywhere! 
Light !  silence  !  the  fresh  innovations 

of  air ! 
O  earth,  and  O  ether!    A  butterfly 

breeze 
Floated  up,  fluttered  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  whisper- 
ing, "Hope!" 
XV. 

He  uplifted  his  eyes.     In  the  place 

where  she  stood 
But  a  moment  before,  and  where  now 

rolled  the  flood 
Of  the  sunrise  all  golden,  he  seemed 

to  behold, 
In  the  young  light  of  sunrise,  an  image 

unfold 
Of  his    own   youth, — its  ardors, — its 

promise  of  fame,— 
Its  ancestral  ambition;    and  France 

by  the  name 
Of   his    sires    seemed    to    call    him. 

There,  hovered  in  light, 
That  image  aloft,  o'er  the  shapeless 

and  bright 

And  Aurorean    clouds,  which  them- 
selves seemed  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  hovered 

and  shone 
Transcendent,  that  type  of  a  youth 

that  was  gone ; 
And  he,— as  the  body  may  yearn  for 

the  soul, 
So  he  yearned  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    imago 

waned  dim 
Into  heaven;  and  heavenward  with 

it,  to  melt 

As  it  melted,  in  day's  broad  expan- 
sion, he  felt 
With  a  thrill,  sweet  and  strange,  and 

intense, —  awed,  amazed, — 
Something    soar  and   ascend  in  his 

soul,  as  he  gazed. 


CANTO  VI. 

I. 
MAN  is  born  on  a  battlefield.    Round 

him,  to  rend 

Or  resist,  the  dread  Powers  he  dis- 
places attend, 
By  the  cradle  which  Nature,  amidst 

the  stern  shocks 
That    have    shattered    creation,  and 

shapen  it,  rocks. 
He  leaps  with  a  wail  into  being;  and 

lo! 
His  own  mother, fierce  Nature  herself, 

is  his  foe. 
Her  whirlwinds  are  roused  into  wrath 

o'er  his  head: 
'Neath  his  feet  roll  her  earthquakes : 

her  solitudes  spread 
To  daunt  him :  her  forces  dispute  his 

command: 
Her  snows  fall  to  freeze  him:  her  suns 

burn  to  brand: 
Her  seas  yawn  to  engulf  him:  her 

rocks   rise  to  crush: 
And  the  lion  and  leopard,  allied,  lurk 

to  rush 
On  their  startled  invader. 

In  lone  Malabar, 
Where    the    infinite    forest    spreads 

breathless  and  far, 
'Mid  the  cruel  of  eye  and  the  stealthy 

of  claw 
(Striped  and  spotted  destroyers!)  he 

sees,  pale  with  awe, 


122 


LVC1LE. 


On  the  menacing  edge  of  a  fiery  sky 

Grim  Doorga,  blue-limbed  and  red- 
handed,  go  by, 

And  the  first  thing  he  worships  is 
Terror. 

Anon, 

Still  impelled  by  necessity  hungrily 
on, 

He  conquers  the  realms  of  his  own 
self-reliance, 

And  the  last  cry  of  fear  wakes  the 
first  of  defiance. 

From  the  serpent  he  crushes  its  poi- 
sonous soul: 

Smitten  down  in  its  path  see  the  dead 
lion  roll! 

On  toward  Heaven  the  son  of  Alcmena 
strides  high  on 

The  heads  of  the  Hydra,  the  spoils  of 
the  lion : 

And  man,  conquering  Terror,  is  wor- 
shipped by  man. 

A  camp  has  this  world  been  since  first 
it  began ! 

From  his  tents  sweeps  the  roving  Ara- 
bian; at  peace, 

A  mere  wandering  shepherd  that  fol- 
lows the  fleece; 

But,  warring  his  way  through  a  world's 
destinies, 

Lo,  from  Delhi,  from  Bagdadt,  from 
Cordova,  rise 

Domes  of  empiry,  dowered  with  sci- 
ence and  art, 

Schools,  libraries,  forums,  the  palace, 
the  mart! 

New  realms  to  man's  soul  have  been 

conquered.     But  those, 
Forthwith  they  are  peopled  for  man 

by  new  foes! 
The  stars  keep  their  secrets,the  earth 

hides  her  own, 
And  bold  must  the  man  be  that  braves 

the  Unknown! 
Not  a  truth  has  to  art  or  to  science 

been  given, 
But  brows  have  ached  for  it,and  souls 

toiled  and  striven ; 
And  many  have   striven,  and   many 

have  failed, 
And   many  died,  slain  by  the   truth 

they  assailed. 
But  when  Man   hath  tamed  Nature, 

asserted  his  place 
And  dominion,  behold!  he  is  brought 

face  to  face 


With  a  new  foe, — himself! 

Nor  may  man  on  his  shield 
Ever  rest,  for  his  foe  is  forever  afield, 
Danger  ever  at  hand,  till  the  armed 

Archangel 
Sound  o'er  him  the  trump  of  earth's 

final  evangel. 

II. 

Silence  straightway,  stern  Muse,  the 

soft  cymbals  of  pleasure, 
Be  all  bronzen   these   numbers,  and 

martial  the  measure! 
Breathe,  sonorously  breathe,  o'er  the 

spirit  in  me 
One  strain,  sad  and  stern,  of  that  deep 

Epopee 
Which    thou,   from    the    fashionless 

cloud  of  far  time, 
Chantest  lonely,  when  Victory,  pale, 

and  sublime 
In  the  light  of  the  aureole  over  her 

head, 
Hears,  and  heeds  not  the  wound  in  her 

heart  fresh  and  red. 
Blown  wide  by  the  blare  of  the  clarion, 

unfold 
The  shrill  clanging  curtains  of  war! 

And  behold 
A  vision ! 

The  antique  Heraclean  seats ; 
And  the  long  Black  Sea  billow  that 

once  bore  those  fleets, 
Which  said  to   the   winds,  "Be  ye, 

too,  Genoese!" 
And  the  red  angry  sands  of  the  chafed 

Chersonese ; 
And  the  two  foes  of  man,  War  and 

Winter,  allied 
Round  the  Armies  of  England  and 

France,  side  by  side, 
Enduring  and  dying  (Gaul  and  Briton 

abreast!) 
Where  the  towers  of  the  North  fret 

the  skies  of  the  East. 


Since  that  sunrise, which  rose  through 
the  calm  linden  stems 

O'er  Lucile  and  Eugene,  in  the  garden 
at  Ems, 

Through  twenty-five  seasons  encir- 
cling the  sun, 

This  planet  of  ours  on  its  pathway 
hath  gone, 

And  the  fates  that  I  sing  of  have 
flowed  with  the  fates 


LUCILE. 


123 


Cf  a  world,  in  the  red  wake  of  war, 

round  the  gates 
Of  that  doomed  and  heroical  city,  in 

which 
(Fire    crowning  the  rampart,   blood 

bathing  the  ditch!) 
At  bay,  fights  the  Russian  as  some 

hunted  bear, 
Whom  the  huntsman  have  hemmed 

round  at  last  in  his  lair. 


IV. 


A  fanged,  arid  plain,  sapped  with  un- 
derground fire, 

Soaked  with   snow,  torn*  with  shot, 
mashed  to  one  gory  mire! 

There  Fate's  iron  scale  hangs  in  torrid 
suspense, 

While   those   two   famished  ogres, — 
the  Siege,  the  Defence, 

Face  to  face,  through  a  vapor  frore, 
dismal,  and  dun, 

Glare,  scenting  the  breath  of   each 
other. 

The  one 

Double-bodied,  two-headed,  by  sep- 
arate ways 

Winding,    serpent-wise,   nearer;   the 
other,  each  day's 

Sullen  toil  adding  size  to, —  concen- 
trated, solid, 

Indefatigable, — the  brass-fronted, em- 
bodied, 

And    audible   avroS  gone   sombrely 
forth 

To  the  world  from  that  Autocrat  Will 
of  the  North! 


v. 


In  the  dawn  of  a  moody  October,  a 
pale 

Ghostly  motionless  vapor  began  to 
prevail 

Over  city  and  camp ;  like  the  garment 
of  death 

Which  (is  formed  by)  the  face  it  con- 
ceals. 

'T  was  the  breath 

War,  yet  drowsily  yawning,  began  to 
suspire ; 

Where  through, here  and  there,  flashed 
an  eye  of  red  fire, 

And  closed,  from  some  rampart  be- 
ginning to  bellow 

Hoarse  challenge  ;   replied  to  anon, 
through  the  yellow 


And    sulphurous    twilight :    till    day 

reeled  and  rocked, 

And  roared  into  dark.     Then  the  mid- 
night was  mocked 
With  fierce  apparitions.  Ringed  round 

by  a  rain 
Of  red  fire,  and  of  iron,  the  murther- 

ous  plain 
Flared  with  fitful  combustion  ;  where 

fitfully  fell 
Afar  off  the  fatal,  disgorged  sch a rpen- 

clle, 
And  fired  the  horizon,  and  singed  the 

coiled  gloom 
With  wings  of  swift  flame  round  that 

City  of  Doom. 

VI. 

So    the    day — so    the  night  1    So  by 

night,  so  by  day, 
With  stern  patient  pathos,  while  time 

wears  away, 
In  the  trench  flooded  through,  in  the 

wind  where  it  wails, 
In  the  snow  where  it  falls,  in  the  fire 

where  it  hails 
Shot  and  shell — link  by  link,  out  of 

hardship  and  pain, 
Toil,    sickness,   endurance,  is  forged 

the  bronze  chain 
Of  those  terrible  siege-lines ! 

No  change  to  that  toil 
Save  the  mine's  sudden  leap  from  the 

treacherous  soil, 
Save  the  midnight  attack,   save  the 

groans  of  the  maimed, 
And  Death's  daily  obolus  due,  whether 

claimed 
By  man  or  by  nature. 

VII. 
Time  passes.     The  dumb, 

Bitter,  snow-bound,   and  sullen  No- 
vember is  come. 

And  its  snows  have  been  bathed  in 
the  blood  of  the  brave  ; 

And  many  a  young  heart  has  glutted 
the  grave : 

And  on  Inkerman  yet  the  wild  bram- 
ble is  gory, 

And  those  bleak  heights  henceforth 
shall  be  famous  in  story. 

Vin. 
The  moon,  swathed  in  storm,  has  long 

set :  through  the  camp 
No   sound  save   the   sentinel's     slow 

sullen  tramp, 


124 


LUCILE. 


The  distant  explosion,  the  wild  sleety 
wind, 

That  seems  searching  for  something 
it  never  can  find. 

The  midnight  is  turning :  the  lamp  is 
nigh  spent: 

And,  wounded  and  lone,  in  a  desolate 
tent 

Lies  a  young  British  soldier  whose 
sword  .  .  . 

In  this  place, 

However,  my  Muse  is  compelled  to 
retrace 

Her  precipitous  steps  and  revert  to 
the  past. 

The  shock  which  had  suddenly  shat- 
tered at  last 

Alfred  Vargrave's  fantastical  holiday 
nature, 

And  sharply  drawn  forth  to  his  full 
size  and  stature 

The  real    man,    concealed  till    that 
moment  beneath 

All  he  yet  had  appeared.    From  the 
gay  broidered  sheath 

Which    a  man   in  his    wrath  flings 
aside,  even  so 

Leaps  the  keen  trenchant  steel  sum- 
moned forth  by  a  blow. 

And  thus  loss  of  fortune  gave  value 
to  life. 

The  wife  gained  a  husband,  the  hus- 
band a  wife, 

In  that  home  which,  though  humbled 
and  narrowed  by  fate, 

Was  enlarged  and  ennobled  by  love. 
Love  their  state, 

But  large  their  possessions. 

Sir  Ridley,  forgiven 

By    those    he    unwittingly    brought 
nearer  heaven 

By  one  fraudulent  act,  than  through 
all  his  sleek  speech 

The  hypocrite  brought  his  own  soul, 
safe  from  reach 

Of  the  law,  died  abroad. 

Cousin  John,  heart  and  hand, 

Purse  and  person,  henceforth  (honest 
man !)  took  his  stand 

By  Matilda  and  Alfred;  guest,  guar- 
dian, and  friend 

Of  the  home  he  both  shared  and  as- 
sured, to  the  end, 

With  his  large   lively  love.     Alfred 
Vargrave  meanwhile 

Faced  the  world's  frown,  consoled  by 
his  wife's  faithful  smile. 


Late  in  life  he  began  life  in  earnest ; 

and  still, 
With  the  tranquil  exertion  of  resolute 

will, 
Through    long,    and    laborious,    and 

difficult  days, 
Out  of  manifold  failure,  by  wearisome 

ways, 
Worked  his  way  through  the  world; 

till  at  last  he  began 
(Reconciled  to  the  work  which  man- 
kind claims  from  man), 
After  years  of  unwitnessed,  unwearied 

endeavor, 
Years    impassioned    yet   patient    to 

realize  ever 
More  clear  on  the  broad  stream  of 

current  opinion 
The  reflex  of  powers  in  himself, — that 

dominion 
Which  the  life  of  one  man,  if  his  life 

be  a  truth, 
May  assert  o'er  the  life  of  mankind. 

Thus,  his  youth 
In  his  manhood  renewed,  fame  and 

fortune  he  won 
Working  only   for   home,   love,  and 

duty. 

One  son 
Matilda  had  borne  him;  but  scarce 

had  the  boy, 
With  all  Eton  yet  fresh  in  his  full 

heart's  frank  joy, 

The  darling  of  young  soldier  com- 
rades, just  glanced 
Down  the  glad  dawn  of  manhood  at 

life,  when  it  chanced 
That  a  blight  sharp  and  sudden  was 

breathed  o'er  the  bloom 
Of  his  joyous  and  generous  years,  and 

the  gloom 
Of  a  grief  premature  on  their  fair 

promise  fell : 
No  light  cloud  like  those  which,  for 

June  to  dispel, 
Captious  April  engenders ;  but  deep 

as  his  own 
Deep  nature.    Meanwhile,  ere  I  fully 

make  known 
The  cause  of  this  sorrow,  I  track  the 

event. 
When  first  a  wild  war-note  through 

England  was  sent, 
He,  transferring  without  either  token 

or  word, 
To  friend,  parent,  or  comrade,  a  yet 

virgin  sword, 


LUCILE. 


125 


From  a  holiday  troop,  to  one  bound 

for  the  war, 
Had  marched  forth,   with  eyes  that 

saw  death  in  the  star 
Whence  others  sought  glory.     Thus, 

fighting  he  fell 
On  the  red  field  of  Inkerman ;  found, 

who  can  tell 
By  what  miracle,  breathing,  though 

shattered,  and  borne 
To  the  rear  by  his  comrades,  pierced, 

bleeding,  and  torn. 
Where  for  long  days  and  nights,  with 

the  wound  in  his  side, 
He  lay,  dark. 

IX. 

But  a  wound  deeper  far,  undescried. 
In  the  young  heart  was  rankling ;  for 

there,  of  a  truth, 
In  the  first  earnest  faith  of  a  pure 

pensive  youth, 

A  love  large  as  life,  deep  and  change- 
less as  death, 
Lay  ensheathed :  and  that  love,  ever 

fretting  its  sheath, 
The  frail  scabbard   of    life   pierced 

and  wore  through. and  through. 
There  are  loves  in  man's  life  for  which 

time  can  renew 
All  that  time  may  destroy.     Lives 

there  are,  though,  in  love, 
Which  cling  to    one  faith,   and  die 

witli  it;  nor  move, 
Though  eathquakes  may  shatter  the 

shrine. 

"Whence  or  how 
Love  laid  claim  to  this  young  life,  it 

matters  not  now. 


O,  is  it  a  phantom?  a  dream  of  the 

night  ? 
A  vision  which  fever  hath  fashioned 

to  sight  ? 
The  wind  wailing  ever,  with  motion 

uncertain, 
Sways  sighingly  there  the  drenched 

tent's  tattered  curtain, 
To  and  fro,  up  and  down. 

But  it  is  not  the  wind 
That  is  lifting  it  now :  and  it  is  not 

the  mind 
That  hath  moulded  that  vision. 

A  pale  woman  enters, 
As  wan  as  the  lamp's  waning  light, 

which  concentres 


Its  dull  glare  upon  her.    With  eyes 
dim  and  dimmer 

There,  all  in  a  slumberous  and  shad- 
owy glimmer, 

The  sufferer  sees  that  still  form,  float- 
ing on, 

And  feels  faintly  aware  that  he  is  not 
alone. 

She    is    flitting    before    him.      She 
pauses.     She  stands 

By  his  bedside  all  silent.    She  lays 
her  white  hands) 

On  the  brow  of  the  boy.     A  light  fin- 
ger is  pressing 

Softly,  softly  the  sore  wounds :  the 
hot  blood-stained  dressing 

Slips  from  them.     A  comforting  quie- 
tude steals 

Through  the  racked  weary  frame  ;  and 
throughout  it,  he  feels 

The  slow  sense  of  a  merciful,  mild 
neighborhood. 

Something  smooths  the  tossed  pillow. 
Beneath  a  gray  hood 

Of  rough  serge,  two  intense  tender 
eyes  are  bent  o'er  him, 

And  thrill  through  and  through  him. 
The  sweet  form  before  him, 

It  is  surely  Death's  angel  Life's  last 
vigil  keeping ! 

A  soft  voice  says  .  .  .  "Sleep!" 

And  he  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 

XI. 

He  waked  before  dawn.      Still  the 

vision  is  there : 
Still  that  pale  woman  moves  not.    A 

ministering  care 

Meanwhile  has  been  silently  chang- 
ing and  cheering 

The  aspect  of  all  things  around  him. 

Revering 

Some  power  unknown  and  benignant, 

he  blessed 
In    silence    the    sense  of   salvation. 

And  rest 
Having  loosened  the  mind's  tangled 

meshes,  he  faintly 
Sighed  .   .   .    "Say   what  thou  art, 

blessed  dream  of  a  saintly 
And  ministering  spirit!" 

A  whisper  serene^ 
Slid,   softer  than  silence  .  .  .  "The 

Soaur  Seraphine, 
A  poor  Sister  of  Charity.     Shun  to 

inquire 


126 


LUCILE. 


Aught    further,  young  soldier.     The 

son  of  thy  sire, 
For  the  sake  of  that  sire,  I  reclaim 

from  the  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  shun  death :  shun  not 

life.    'T  is  more  brave 
To  live,  than  to  die.     Sleep !" 

He  sleeps:  he  is  sleeping. 

XII. 

He  wakened  again,  when  the  dawn 

was  just  steeping 
The  skies  with  chill  splendor.    And 

there,  never  flitting, 
Never  flitting,  that   vision  of  mercy 

was  sitting. 
As  the  dawn  to  the  darkness,  so  life 

seemed  returning 
Slowly,    feebly    within    him.      The 

night-lamp,  yet  burning, ' 
Made  ghastly   tho    glimmering  day- 
break. 

He  said, 
"  If  thou  be  of  the  living,  and  not  of 

the  dead, 
Sweet  minister,  pour  out  yet  further 

the  healing 

Of  that  balmy  voice ;  if  it  may  be,  re- 
vealing 
Thy  mission  of  mercy!  whence  art 

thou  ?" 

"Oson 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred,  it  matters  not! 

One 
Who  is  not  of  the  living  nor  yet  of 

the  dead : 
To  thee,  and  to  others,  alive  yet"  .  .  . 

she  said  .  .  . 
"  So  long  as  there  liveth   the  poor 

gift  in  me 
Of  this  ministration  ;  to  them,  and  to 

thee, 
Dead  in  all  things  beside.     A  French 

Nun,  whose  vocation 
Is  now  by  this  bedside.     A  nun  hath 

no  nation. 
Wherever  man  suffers,  or  woman  may 

soothe, 
There  her  land  !  there  her  kindred !" 

She  bent  down  to  smooth 
The  hot  pillow  ;  and  added  .  .  .  "Yet 

more  than  another 

Is  thy  life  dear  to  me.     For  thy  fath- 
er, thy  mother, 
I  knew  them, — I  know  them." 

"0  can  it  be?  you! 


My  dearest  dear  father!  my  mother! 

you  knew, 
You  know  them  ?" 

She  bowed,  half  averting,  her  head 
In  silence. 

He  brokenly,  timidly  said, 
"Do  they  know  I  am  thus  ?" 
"  Hush !"  .  .  .  she  smiled,  as  she  drew 
From  her  bosom  two  letters;   and — 

can  it  be  true  ? 
That  beloved  and  familiar  writing ! 

.  He  burst 
Into  tears  ..."  My  poor  mother — my 

father!  the  worst 
Will  have  reached  them!" 

"No,   no!"  she  exclaimed  with  a 

smile, 
"They    know  you  are  living;    they 

know  that  meanwhile 
I  am  watching  beside  you.    Young 

soldier,  weep  not!" 
But  still  on  the  nun's  nursing  bosom, 

the  hot 
Fevered    brow  of   the  boy  weeping 

wildly  is  pressed. 
There,  at  last,  the  young  heart  sobs 

itself  into  rest : 
And  he  hears,  as  it  were  between 

smiling  and  weeping, 
The  calm  voice  say  .  .  .  "Sleep!" 

And  he  sleeps,  he  is  sleeping. 

XIII. 
And  day  followed  day.    And,  as  wave 

follows  wave, 

With  the  tide,  day  by  day,  life,  re- 
issuing, drave 
Through    that    young    hardy    frame 

novel  currents  of  health. 
Yet  some  strange  obstruction,  which 

life's  self  by  stealth 
Seemed    to    cherish,    impeded   life's 

progress.     And  still 
A  feebleness  less  of  the  frame  than 

the  will, 
Clung  about  the  sick  man:  hid  and 

harbored  within 
The  sad  hollow  eyes :  pinched  the  cheek 

pale  and  thin : 
And    clothed  the    wan  fingers  with 

languor. 

And  there, 

Day  by  day,  night  by  night,  unremit- 
ting in  care, 
Unwearied  in  watching,  so  cheerful 

of  mien, 
And  so  gentle  of  hand,  sat  the  Soaur 

Seraphine ! 


LUCILE. 


127 


XIV. 

A  strange  woman  truly!  not  young; 

yet  her  face, 
Wan  and  worn  as  it  was,  bore  about 

it  the  trace 
Of  a  beauty  which  time  could  not 

ruin.     For  the  whole 
Quiet  cheek,  youth's  lost  bloom  left 

transparent,  the  soul 
Seemed  to  fill  with  its  own  light,  like 

some  sunny  fountain 
Everlastingly  fed  from  far  off  in  the 

mountain 
That  pours,  in  a  garden  deserted,  its 

streams, 
And  all  the  more  lovely  for  loneliness 

seems. 
So    that,    watching   that    face,    you 

would  scarce  pause  to  guess 
The  years  which  its  calm  careworn 

lines  might  express, 
Feeling    only    what    suffering   with 

these  must  have  past 
To    have  perfected    there    so  much 

sweetness  at  last, 
xv. 

Thus,  one  bronzen  evening,  when  day 
had  put  out 

His  brief  thrifty  fires,  and  the  wind 
was  about, 

The  nun,  watchful  still  by  the  boy,  on 
his  own 

Laid  a  firm  quiet  hand,  and  the  deep 
tender  tone 

Of  her  voice  moved  in  silence. 

She  said  .  .  .  "I  have  healed 

These  wounds  of  the  body.     Why  hast 
thou  concealed, 

Young  soldier,  that  yet  open  wound 
in  the  heart  ? 

Wilt  thou  trust  no  hand  near  it  ?" 

He  winced,  with  a  start, 

As  of  one  that  is  suddenly  touched  on 
the  spot 

From  which  every  nerve  derives  suf- 
fering. 

"What? 

Lies  my  heart,   then,    so  bare?"    he 
moaned  bitterly. 

"Nay," 

With  compasionate  accents  she  has- 
tened to  say, 

"Do  you  think  that  these  eyes  are 
with  sorrow,  young  man,  . 

So  all  unfamiliar,  indeed,  as  to  scan 

Her  features,  yet  know  them  not  ? 


"0,  was  it  spoken, 
'  Go  ye  forth,  lieal  the  sick  ,lift  the  low, 

bind  the  broken!' 
Of  the  body  alone  ?    Is  our  mission, 

then,  done, 
When  we  leave  the  bruised  hearts,  it 

we  bind  the  bruised  bone? 
Nay,  is  not  the  mission  of  mercy  two* 

fold? 
Whence  twofold,  perchance,  are  the 

powers,  that  we  hold 
To  fulfil  it,  of  Heaven?    For  Heaven 

doth  still 
To  us,  Sisters,  it  may  be,  who  seek  it, 

send  skill 

Wonfrom  long  intercourse  with  afflic- 
tion, and  art 
Helped   of  Heaven,  to  bind  up   the 

broken  of  heart. 
Trust  to  me!  "(His  two  feeble  hands 

in  her  own 
She  drew  gently.)  "Trust  to  me  .'"(she 

said,  with  soft  tone): 
"I  am  not  so  dead  in  remembrance  to 

all 
I  have  died  to  in  this  world,  but  what 

I  recall 
Enough  of  its  sorrow,  enough  of  its 

trial, 
To  grieve  for  both,  —  save  from  both 

haply!  The  dial 
Receives    many    shades,    and    each 

points  to  the  sun. 
The  shadows  are  many,  the  sunlight 

is  one. 
Life's  sorrows  still  fluctuate:  Goa's 

love  does  not. 
And  his  love  is  unchanged,  when  it 

changes  our  lot. 

Looking  up  to  this  light,  which  is  com- 
mon to  all, 
And  down  to  these  shadows,  on  each 

side,  that  fall 
In  time's  silent  circle,  so  various  for 

each, 
Is  it  nothing  to  know  that  they  never 

can  reach 
So  far,  but  what  light  lies  beyond 

them  forever? 
Trust  to  me!     Oh,  if  in  this  hour  I 

endeavor 
To  trace  the  shade  creeping  across 

the  young  life 
Which,  in  prayer  till  this  hour,  I  have 

watched  through  its  strife 
With  the  shadow  of  death,  't  is  with 

this  faith  alone, 


128 


LUCILE. 


That,  in  tracing  the   shade,  I  shall 

find  out  the  sun. 
Trust  to  me !" 
She  paused :  he  was  weeping.     Small 

need 

Of  added  appeal,  or  entreaty,  indeed, 
Had  those  gentle  accents  to  win  from 

his  pale 
And  parched,   trembling  lips,    as  it 

rose,  the  brief  tale 
Of  a  life's  early  sorrow.     The  story  is 

old, 
And  in  words  few  as  may  be  shall 

straightway  be  told. 

XVI. 

A  few  years  ago,  ere  the  fair  form  of 

Peace 
Was  driven  from  Europe,   a  young 

girl — the  niece 
Of  a  French  noble,  leaving  an  old 

Norman  pile 
By  the  wild  northern  seas,  came  to 

dwell  for  a  while 
With  a  lady  allied  to  her  race, — an 

old  dame 
Of  a  threefold  legitimate  virtue,  and 

name, 
In  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

Upon  that  fair  child, 
From  childhood,  nor  father  nor  moth- 
er had  smiled.  [supplied, 
One  uncle  their  place  in  her  life  had 
And  their  place  in  her  heart :  she  had 

grown  at  his  side, 
And  under  his  roof-tree,  and  in  his 

regard, 
From  childhood  to  girlhood. 

This  fair  orphan  ward 
Seemed  the  sole  human  creature  that 

lived  in  the  heart 
Of  that  stern  rigid  man,  or  whose 

smile  could  impart 
One    ray    of   response    to    the    eyes 

which,  above 
Her  fair  infant  forehead,  looked  down 

with  a  love 
That  seemed  almost  stern,  so  intense 

was  its  chill 
Lofty  stillness,  like  sunlight  on  some 

lonely  hill 

Which  is  colder  and  stiller  than  sun- 
light elsewhere. 

Grass    grew   in  the  courtyard:    the 

chambers  were  bare 
In  that  ancient  mansion ;  when  first 

the  stern  tread 


Of  its  owner  awakened  their  echoes 

long  dead : 
Bringing  with  him  this   infant  (tho 

child  of  a  brother), 
Whom,  dying,  the  hands  of  a  desolate 

mother 
Had  placed  on  his  bosom.     'T  was 

said — right  or  wrong — 
That,  in  the  lone  mansion,  left  ten- 

antless  long, 
To  which,  as  a  stranger,  its  lord  now 

returned, 
In  years  yet   recalled,  through  loud 

midnights  had  burned 
The  light  of   wild   orgies.    Be    that 

false  or  true, 
Slow  and  sad  was  the  footstep  which 

now  wandered  through 
Those  desolate  chambers;  and  calm 

and  severe 
Was  the  life  of  their  inmate. 

Men  now  saw  appear 
Every  morn  at  the  mass  that  firm  sor- 
rowful face, 
Which  seemed  to  lock  up  in  a  cold 

iron  case 
Tears  hardened  to  crystal.   Yet  harsh 

if  he  were, 

His  severity  seemed  to  be  trebly  se- 
vere 
In  the  rule  of  his    own    rigid  life, 

which,  at  least, 
Was  benignant  to  others.    The  poor 

parish  priest, 
Who  lived  on  his  largess,  his  piety 

praised. 
The  peasant  was  fed,  and  the  chapel 

was  raised, 
And  the  cottage  was  built,  by   his 

liberal  hand. 
Yet  he   seemed  in  the  midst  of  his 

good  deeds  to  stand 
Alone,   and   unloved,  and  unlovable 

man. 
There  appeared  some  inscrutable  flaw 

in  the  plan 
Of  his  life,  that  love  failed  to  pass 

over. 

That  child 
Alone  did  not  fear  him,   nor  shrink 

from  him ;  smiled 
To  his  frown,  and  dispelled  it. 

The  sweet  sportive  elf 
Seemed  the  type  of  some  joy  lost,and 

missed,  in  himself. 
Ever  welcome  he  suffered  her  glad 

face  to  glide 


LUCILE. 


129 


In  on  hours  when  to  others  his  doo 

was  denied: 
And  many  a  time  with  a  mute  moody 

look 
He  would  watch  her  at  prattle  an< 

play,  like  a  brook 
Whose  babble  disturbs  not  the  quiet 

est  spot, 
But  soothes  us  because  we  need  an 

swer  it  not. 


Creeds  the  oldest  may  crumble,  and. 

dynasties  fall, 
But  the  sole  grand  Legitimacy  will 

endure, 
In  whatever  makes  death  noble,  life 

strong  and  pure. 
Freedom!    action!  .  .   the  desert  to 

breathe  in,— the  lance 
Of  the  Arab  to  follow  !    I  go !     Vive 

la  France  !" 

Few    and    rare    were   the    meetings 
henceforth,  as  years  fled. 

7Twixt  the  child  and  the  soldier.  The 
two  w-omen  led 

Lone  lives  in  the  lone  house.     Mean- 
while the  child  grew 

Into  girlhood;  and,  like  a  sunbeam, 
sliding  through 

Her  green  quiet   years,  changed  by 
gentle  degrees 

To  the  loveliest  vision  of   youth  a 
youth  sees 

In  his  loveliest  fancies  :  as  pure  as  a 
pearl, 

And  as  perfect :  a  noble  and  innocent 
girl, 

With   eighteen    sweet  summers  dis- 
solved in  the  light 

Of  her  lovely  and  lovable  eyes,  soft 
and  bright ! 

Then  her  guardian  wrote  to  the  dame, 
...  "Let  Constance 

Go  with  you  to  Paris.     I  trust  that  in 
France 

I  may  be  ere  the  close  of  the  year.    I 
confide 

My  life's   treasure  to  you.    Let  her 
see,  at  your  side,* 

The  world  which  we  live  in." 

To  Paris  then  came 

Constance    to    abide   with    that  old 
stately  dame 

In  that  old  stately  Faubourg. 

The  young  Englishman 

Thus  met  her.     'T  was  there  their  ac- 
quaintance began, 

There  it  closed.     That  old  miracle— 
Love-at-first-sight — 

STeeds  no    explanations.     The  heart 
reads  aright 

ts    destiny    sometimes.      His    love 
neither  chidden 

Jor  checked,  the  young  soldier  was 
graciously  bidden 

A.n  habitual  guest  to  that  house  by 
the  dame. 


130 


LUCILE. 


His  own  candid  graces,  the  world 

honored  name 
Of  his  father  (in  him  net  dishonored 

were  both 
Fair  titles  to  favor.    His  love,  noth 

ing  loath, 
The  old  lady  observed,  was  returned 

by  Constance. 
And  as  the  child's  uncle  his  absence 

from  France 
Yet  prolonged,   she  (thus  easing  long 

self-gratulation) 
Wrote  to  him  a  lengthened  and  mov- 
ing narration 
Of  the  graces  and  gifts  of  the  young 

English  wooer: 
His    father's    fair    fame;  the    boy's 

deference  to  her; 
His  love  for  Constance, — unaffected, 

sincere ; 
And  the  girl's  love  for  him,  read  by 

her  in  those  clear 
Limpid  eyes ;  then  the  pleasure  with 

which  she  awaited 
Her  cousin's  approval  of  all  she  had 

stated. 

At  length  from  that  cousin  an  answer 

there  came, 
Brief,   stern ;    such  as    stunned  and 

astonished  the  dame. 

"Let  Constance  leave  Paris  with  you 

on  the  day 
You  receive  this.      Until  my  return 

she  may  stay 
At  her  convent  awhile.     If  my  niece 

wishes  ever 
To  behold  me  again,  understand,  she 

will  never 
Wed  that  man. 

"  You  have  broken  faith  with  me. 
Farewell !" 

No  appeal  from  that  sentence. 

It  needs  not  to  tell 
The  tears  of  Constance,  nor  the  grief 

of  her  lover  : 
The  dream  they  had  laid  out  their 

lives  in  was  over. 
Bravely  strove  the  young  soldier  to 

look  in  the  face 
Of    a    life,    where    invisible    hands 

seemed  to  trace 
O'er  the  threshold,  these  words  .  .  . 

"Hope  no  more!" 

Unreturned 


Had  his  love  been,  the  strong  manful 
heart  would  have  spurned 

That  weakness  which  suffers  a  woman 
to  lie 

At  the  roots   of    man's  life,   like  a 
canker,  and  dry 

And  wither  the  sap  of  life's  purpose. 
But  there 

Lay  the   bitterer   part  of  the  pain! 
Could  he  dare 

To    forget  he  was    loved  ?    that   he 
grieved  not  alone  ? 

Recording  a  love  that  drew  sorrow 
upon 

The  woman  he  loved,  for  himself  dare 
he  seek 

Surcease  to  that  sorrow,  which  thus 
held  him  weak, 

Beat  him  down,  and  destroyed  him? 
News  reached  him  indeed, 

Through    a    comrade,    who   brought 
him  a  letter  to  read 

From  the  dame  who  had  care  of  Con- 
stance (it  was  one 

To  whom  when  at  Paris,  the  boy  had 
been  known, 

A  Frenchman  and  friend  of  the  Fau- 
bourg) which  said 

That  Constance,   although    never    a 
murmur  betrayed 

What  she   suffered, 'in  silence  grew 
paler  each  day, 

And  seemed  visibly  drooping  and  dy- 
ing away, 

.t  was  then  he  sought  death. 


Thus  the  tale  ends.    'T  was  told 
rVith  such  broken,  passionate  words, 

as  unfold 
n    glimpses    alone,    a   coiled    grief. 

Through  each  pause 
Of  its  fitful  recital,  in  raw  gusty  flaws, 
rain  shook  the  canvas,  unheeded; 

aloof, 
A.nd  unheeded  the  night-wind  around 

the  tent-roof 
t  intervals  wirbled.     And  when  all 

was  said, 
he   sick    man,    exhausted,    drooped 

backward  his  head, 
^nd  fell  into  feverish  slumber. 

Long  while 
at    the    Soeur    Seraphine,    in    deep 

thought.     The  still  smile 
'hat  was  wont,  angel-wise,  to  inhab 
it  her  face 


^  LUCILE. 


131 


And  make  it  like  heaven,  was  fled 

from  its  place 
In  her  eyes,  on  her  lips ;  and  a  deep 

sadness  there 
Seemed  to  darken  the  lines  of  long 

sorrow  and  care, 
As  low  to  herself  she  sighed  .  .  . 

"Hath  it,  Eugene, 
Been  so  long,  then,  the  struggle  f  .  .  . 

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  I" 

XVIII. 

Large,  slow, 

Silent  tears  in  those  deep  eyes  as- 
cended, and  fell. 
"Here,  at  least,  I  have  failed  not".  .  . 

she  mused  .  .  .  "  this  is  well !" 
She  drew  from  her  bosom  two  letters. 
In  one, 
A  mother's  heart,  wild  with  alarm  for 

her  son, 
Breathed  bitterly  forth  its  despairing 

appeal. 
"  The  pledge  of  a  love  owed  to  thee, 

O  Lucile ! 
The  hope  of  a  home  saved  by  thee, — 

of  a  heart 
Which  hath  never  since  then  (thrice 

endeared  as  thou  art !) 
Ceased  to  bless  thee,  to  pray  for  thee, 

save !  .  .  .  save  my  son ! 
And    if   not"  .  .  .   the    letter    went 

brokenly  on, 
"Heaven  help  us!" 

Then  followed,  from  Alfred,  a  few 
Blotted    heart-broken     pages.       He 

mournfully  drew, 
With    pathos,    the    picture    of   that 

earnest  youth, 
So  unlike  his   own :  how  in  beauty 

and  truth 
He    had    nurtured   that    nature,    so 

simple  and  brave ! 
And  how  he    had   striven  his   son's 

youth  to  save 
From  the  errors  so  sadly  redeemed  in 

his  own, 
And  so  deeply  repented:  how  thus, 

in  that  son, 


In  whose  youth  he  had  garnered  his 

age,  he  had  seemed 
To  be  blessed  by  a  pledge  that  the 

past  was  redeemed, 
And  forgiven.     He  bitterly  went  on 

to  speak 
Of  the  boy's  baffled  love ;    in  which 

fate  seemed  to  break 
Unawares  on  his  dreams  with  retrib- 
utive pain, 
And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  rose  to 

scourge  back  again 
The  hopes  of  the  future.     To  sue  for 

consent 
Pride  forbade :  and  the  hope  his  old 

foe  might  relent 
Experience  rejected  .  .  .  "My  life  for 

the  boy's!" 
(He  exclaimed);  for  I  die  with  my  son 

if  he  dies! 
Lucile!  Heaven  bless  you  for  all  you 

have  done ! 
Save  him,  save  him,  Lucile !  save  my 

son,  save  my  son !" 

XIX. 

"Ay!'  murmured  the  Soeur  Seraphine 

.  .  .  "heart  to  heart! 
There,  at  least,  I  have   failed   not! 

Fulfilled  is  my  part  ? 
Accomplished  my  mission  ?    One  act 

crowns  the  whole. 
Do  I  linger  ?  Nay,  be  it  so,  then !  .  .  . 

Soul  to  soul !" 
She   knelt    down,  and  prayed.    Still 

the  boy  slumbered  on. 
Dawn  broke.     The  pale  nun  from  the 

bedside  was  gone. 

xx. 

Meanwhile,  'mid  his  aides-de-camp, 
busily  bent 

O'er  the  daily  reports,  in  his  well- 
ordered  tent 

There  sits  a  French  General, — 
bronzed  by  the  sun 

And  seared  by  the  sands  of  Algeria. 
One 

Who  forth  from  the  wars  of  the  wild 
Kabylee 

Had  strangely  and  rapidly  risen  to  be 

The  idol,  the  darling,  the  dream  and 
the  star 

Of  the  younger  French  chivalry ;  dar- 
ing in  war, 

And  wary  in  council.  He  entered, 
indeed, 


132 


LUCILE. 


Late  in  life  (and  discarding  his  Bour- 
bonite  creed) 

The  Army  of  France :  and  had  risen, 
in  part, 

From  a  singular  aptitude  proved  for 
the  art 

Of  that  wild  desert  warfare  of  am- 
bush, surprise, 

And  stratagem,  which  to  the  French 
camp  supplies 

Its  subtlest  intelligence  ;  partly  from 
chance ; 

Partly,  too,  from  a  name  and  position 
which  France 

Was  proud  to  put  forward;  but  main- 
ly, in  fact, 

From  the  prudence  to  plan,  and  the 
daring  to  act, 

In    frequent   emergencies    startingly 
shown, 

To  the  rank  which  he  now  held, — in- 
trepidly won 

With    many    a    wound,    trenched  in 
many  a  scar, 

From  fierce  Milianah  and  Sidi-Sakh- 
dar. 

XXI. 

All  within,  and  without,  that  warm 
tent  seems  to  bear 

Smiling  token  of  provident  order  and 
care. 

All  about,  a  well-fed,  well-clad  sol- 
diery stands 

In  groups  round  the  music  of  mirth- 
breathing  bands. 

In  and  out  of  the  tent,  all  day  long, 
to  and  fro, 

The  messengers  come,  and  the  mes- 
sengers go, 

Upon  missions  of  mercy,  or  errands  of 
toil: 

To  report  how  the  sapper  contends 
with  the  soil 

In  the  terrible  trench,  how  the  sick 
man  is  faring 

In  the  hospital  tent :  and,  combining, 
comparing, 

Constructing,  within  moves  the  brain 
of  one  man, 

Moving  all. 

He  is  bending  his  brow  o'er  some  plan 

For  the  hospital  service,  wise,  skil- 
ful, humane. 

The  officer  standing  beside  him  is  fain 

To  refer  to  the  angel  solicitous  cares 

Of  the  Sisters  of  Charity ;  one  he  de- 
clares 


To  be  known  through  the  camp  as  a 

seraph  of  grace : 
He  has  seen,  all  have  seen  her  indeed, 

in  each  place 

Where  suffering  is  seen,  silent,  act- 
ive,— the  Soeur  .  .  . 
Soaur  .  .  .  how  do  they  call  her  ? 

"Ay,  truly,  of  her 
I  have    heard    much,"   the   General, 

musing,  replies; 
"And    we  owe  her  already   (unless 

rumor  lies) 
The  lives  of  not  few  of  our  bravest. 

You  mean  .  .  . 
Ay,  how  do  they  call  her?  .  .  .  the 

Soeur — Seraphine, 
(Is  it  not  so  ?)     I  rarely  forget  names 

once  heard." 

"Yes;  the  Soeur  Seraphine.    Her  I 
meant." 

"  On  my  word, 
I  have  much  wished  to  see  her.  I  fancy 

I  trace, 
In  some  facts  traced  to  her,  something 

more  than  the  grace 
Of  an  angel :  I  mean  an  acute  human 

mind, 
Ingenious,    constructive,    intelligent. 

Find 
And,  if  possible,  let  her  come  to  me. 

We  shall, 
I  think,  aid  each  other. 

Oui,  mon  General; 
I  believe  she  has  lately  obtained  the 

permission 
To  tend  some  sick  man  in  the  Second 

Division 
Of  our  Ally;  they  say  a  relation." 

"Ay,  so? 
A  relation  ?" 

"  'T  is  said  so." 

"  The  name  do  you  know  ?" 
"JVow,  mon  General." 

While  they  spoke  yet,  there  went 
A  murmur  and  stir  round  the  door  of 

the  tent. 

'A  Sister  of  Charity  craves,  in  a  case 
Of    uugent  and    serious  importance, 

the  grace 

Of  brief  private  speech  with  the  Gen- 
eral there. 
Will  the  general  speak  with  her  ?" 

"Bid her  declare 
Her  mission." 

"She  will  not.     She   craves  to  be 


LUCILE. 


133 


And  be  heard." 

"Well,  her  name  then?" 

"  The  Sceur  Seraphine." 
"  Clear  the  tent.     She  may  enter." 

XXII. 

The  tent  has  been  cleared. 

The  chieftain  stroked  moodily  some- 
what his  beard, 

A  sable  long  silvered:  and  pressed 
down  his  brow 

On  his  hand,  heavy  veined.  All  his 
countenance,  now 

Unwitnessed,  at  once  fell  dejected, 
and  dreary, 

As  a  curtain  let  fall  by  a  hand  that's 
grown  weary, 

Into  puckers  and  folds.  From  his 
lips  unrepressed, 

Steals  th;  impatient  quick  sigh,  which 
reveals  in  man's  breast 

A  conflict  concealed,  an  experience  at 
strife 

With  itself, —  the  vexed  heart's  pass- 
ing protest  on  life. 

He  turned  to  his  papers.  He  heard 
the  light,  tread 

Of  a  faint  foot  behind  him:  and,  lift- 
ing his  head, 

Said,  "Sit,  Holy  Sister!  your  worth 
is  well  known 

To  the  hearts  of  our  soldiers ;  nor  less 
to  my  own. 

I  have  much  wished  to  see  you.  I 
owe  you  some  thanks : 

In  the  name  of  all  those  you  have 
saved  to  our  ranks 

I  record  them.  Sit !  Now  then  your 
mission?" 

The  nun 

Paused  silent.  The  General  eyed  her 
anon 

More  keenly.  His  aspect  grew  troub- 
led. A  change 

Darkened    over    his    features.      He 
muttered  .  .  .  "  Strange!  strange! 

Any  face  should  so  strongly  remind 
me  of  her  ! 

Fool!  again  the  delirium,  the  dream! 
does  it  stir  ? 

Does  it  move  as  of  old  ?    Psha ! 

"Sit,  Sister!  I  wait 

Your  answer,  my  time  halts  but  hur- 
riedly. State 

The  cause  why  you  seek  me  ? " 


"The  cause?  ay,  the  cause!" 
She  vaguely  repeated.     Then,  after  a 

pause, — 
As  one  who,  awaked  unawares,  would 

put  back  [track 

The  sleep  that  forever  returns  in  the 
Of  dreams  which,  though  scared  and 

dispersed,  not  the  less 
Settle  back  to  faint  eyelids  that  yield 

'neath  their  stress, 

Like  doves  to  a  penthouse, — a  move- 
ment she  made, 

Less  toward  him  than  away  from  her- 
self ;  drooped  her  head 
And  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom: 

long,  spare, 
Fatigued,   mournful    hands!     Not  a 

stream  of  stray  hair 
Escaped  the  pale  bands ;  scarce  more 

pale  than  the  face 
Which  they  bound  and  locked  up  in  a 

rigid  white  case. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.    There 

crept  a  vague  awe 
O'er  his  sense,  such  as  ghosts  cast. 

''Eugene  de  Luvois, 
The  cause  which  recalls  me  again  to 

your  side 
Is  a  promise  that  rests  unfulfilled," 

she  replied. 
"I  come  to  fulfil  it." 

He  sprang  from  the  place 
Where  he  sat,  pressed  his  hand,  as  in 

doubt,  o'er  his  face; 
And,  cautiously  feeling  each  step  o'er 

the  ground 
That  he  trod  on  (as  one  who  walks 

fearing  the  sound 
Of  his  footstep  may  startle  and  scare 

out  of  sight 
Some  strange    sleeping  creature  on 

which  he  would  'light 
Unawares),   crept    toward  her;    one 

heavy  hand  laid 
On  her  shoulder  in  silence;  bent  o'er 

her  his  head, 
Searched  her  face  with  a  long  look  oi.- 

troubled  appeal 
Against  doubt;  staggered  backward, 

and  murmured  .  .  .  "Lucile! 
Thus  we    meet,  then?  .  .  .  here!  .  .  . 

thus!" 

"Soul  to  soul,  ay,  Eugene, 
As  I  pledged  you  my  word  that  we 

should  meet  again, 
Dead,..."    she    murmured,    "long 

dead?  all  that  lived  in  our  lives, 


134 


LUCILE. 


Tliine  and  mine, —  .saving  that  which 

e'vn  life's  self  survives, 
The  soul!    'Tis  my  soul  seeks  thine 

own.     What  may  reach 
From  my  life  to  thy  life  (so  wide  each 

from  each!) 
Save  the  soul  to  the  soul?    To  thy 

soul  I  would  speak. 
May  I  dp  so?" 
He  said  (worked  and  white  was  his 

cheek 
As  he  raised  it),  "Speak  to  me!" 

Deep,  tender,  serene, 
And  sad  was  the  gaze  which  the  Soaur 

Seraphine 
Held  on  him.     She  spoke, 

XXIII. 

As  some  minstrel  may  fling, 
Preluding  the  music  yet  mute  in  each 

string, 
A  swift    hand    athwart    the  hushed 

heart  of  the  whole, 
Seeking  which  note  most  fitly  may 

first  move  the  soul; 
And,  leaving    untroubled   the    deep 

chords  below, 
Move  pathetic  in  numbers  remote ; — 

even  so 
The  voice  which  was  moving  the  heart 

of  that  man 

Far  away  from  its  yet  voiceless  pur- 
pose began 
Far  away  in  the  pathos  remote  of  the 

past; 
Until,  through  her  words,  rose  before 

him,  at  last, 
Bright  and  dark  in  their  beauty,  the 

hopes  that  were  gone 
Unaccomplished  from  life. 

He  was  mute. 

XXIV. 

She  went  on. 

And  still  further  down  the  dim  past 
did  she  lead 

Each  yielding  remembrance,  far,  far 
off,  to  feed 

'Mid  the  pastures  of  youth,  in  the  twi- 
light of  hope, 

And  the  valleys  of  boyhood,  the  fresh- 
flowered  slope 

Of  life's  dawning  land! 

'Tis  the  heart  of  a  boy, 

With  its  indistinct,  passionate  pres- 
cience of  joy! 


The  unproved  desire, —  the  unaimed 

aspiration, — 
The  deep  conscious  life  that  forestalls 

consummation ; 
With  ever  a  flitting  delight,  one  arm's 

length 

In  advance  of  the  august  inward  im- 
pulse. 

The  strength 
Of,  the  spirit  which  troubles  the  seed 

in  the  sand 
With  the  birth  of  the  palm-tree !    Let 

ages  expand 
The  glorious  creature!    The  ages  lie 

shut 

(Safe,  see!)  in  the  seed,  at  time's  sig- 
nal to  put 
Forth  their  beauty  and  power,  leaf  "by 

leaf,  layer  on  layer, 
Till  the   palm   strikes   the  sun,  and 

stands  broad  in  blue  air. 
So  the  palm  in   the  palm-seed!  so, 

slowly — so,  wrought 
Year  by  year  unperceived,  hope  on 

hope,  thought  by  thought, 
Trace  the  growth  of  the  man  from  its 

germ  in  the  boy. 
Ah,  but  Nature,  that  nurtures,  may 

also  destroy ! 
Charm  the  wind  and  the  sun,   lest 

some  chance  intervene ! 
While  the  leaf's  in  the  bud,  while  the 
,  -         stem's  in  the  green, 
A  light  bird  bends  the  branch,  a  light 

breeze  breaks  the  bough, 
Which,  if  spared  by  the  light  breeze, 

the  light  bird,  may  grow 
To  baffle  the  tempest,  and  rock  the 

high  nest, 
And  take  both  the  bird  and  the  breeze 

to  its  breast. 

Shall  we  save  a  vhole  forest  in  spar- 
ing one  seed  ? 
Save  the  man    in  the  boy?    in  the 

thought  save  the  deed? 
Let  the  whirlwind  uproot  the  grown 

tree,  if  it  can  ! 
Save  the  seed  from  the  north-wind. 

So  let  the  grown  man 
Face  out  fate.     Spare  the  man-seed 

in  youth. 

He  was  dumb. 
She  went  one  step  further. 

xxv. 
Lo!  manhood  is  come. 


LUCILE. 


135 


And  love,  the  -wild   song-bird,    hath 

flown  to  the  tree, 
And  the  whirlwind  comes  after.  Now 

prove  we,  and  see ; 
What  shade, from  the  leaf?  what  sup- 
port from  the  branch  f 
Sureads  the  leaf  bi'oad  and  fair?  holds 

the  bough  strong  and  stanch  ? 
There,  he  saw  himself,— dark,  as  he 

stood  on  that  night, 
The  last  when    they  met    and  they 

parted :  a  sight 
For  heaven  to  mourn  o'er,  for  hell  to 

rejoice! 
An  ineffable  tenderness  troubled  her 

voice; 
It  grew  weak,  and  a  sigh  broke  it 

through. 

Then  he  said 
(Never  looking  at  her,  never  lifting 

his  head, 
As  though,  at  his  feet,  there  lay  visibly 

hurled 
Those  fragments),  "It  was  not  a  love, 

'twas  a  world, 
'Twas  a  life  that  lay  ruined,  Lucile!" 

XXVI. 

She  went  on. 

"So  be  it!  Perish  Babel,  arise  Bab- 
ylon! 

From  ruins  like  these  the  fanes  that 
shall  last, 

And  to  build  up  the  future  heaven 
shatters  the  past." 

"Ay,"  he  moodily  murmured,  "and 
who  caves  to  scan 

The  heart's  perished  world,  if  the 
world  gains  a  man  ? 

From  the  past  to  the  present,  though 
late,  I  appeal ; 

To  the  nun  Seraphine,  from  the  wom- 
an Lueile ! " 

XXVII. 

Lucile!  .  .  .  the  old  name, —  the  old 
self!  silenced  long: 

Heard  once  more!  felt  once  more! 

As  some  soul  to  the  throng 

Of  invisible  spirits  admitted,  bap- 
tized 

By  death  to  a  new  name  and  nature, — 
surprised 

'Mid  the  songs  of  the  seraphs,  hears 
faintly,  and  far, 


Some  voice  from  the  earth,  left  below 
a  dim  star, 

Calling  to  her  forlornly ;  and  (sadden- 
ing the  psalms 

Of  the  angels,  and  piercing  the  Para- 
dise palms!) 

The  name  borne  'mid  earthly  beloveds 
on  earth 

Sighed  above  some  lone  grave  in  the 
land  of  her  birth ; — 

So  that  one  word . . .  Lucile ! . . .  stirred 
the  Soeur  Seraphine, 

For  a  moment.     Anon  she  resumed 
her  serene 

And  concentrated  calm. 

"Let  the  Nun,  then,  retrace 

The  life  of  the  soldier!"  ...  she  said, 
with  a  face 

That  glowed,  gladdening  her  words. 
"To  the  present  I  come : 

Leave  the  Past." 

There  her  voice  rose,  and  seemed  as 
when  some 

Pale  Priestess  proclaims    from    her 
temple  the  pi'aise 

Of  the  hero  whose  brows  she  is  crown- 
ing with  bays. 

Step  by  step  did  she  follow  his  path 
from  the  place 

Where  their  two  paths  diverged.  Year 
by  year  did  she  trace 

(Familiar  with  all)  his,  the  soldier's 
existence. 

Her  words  were  of  trial,  endurance, 
resistance; 

Of  the  leaguer  around  this  besieged 
world  of  ours : 

And  the  same  sentinels  that  ascend 
the  same  towers 

And  report  the  same  foes,  the  same 
fears,  the  same  strife, 

Waged  alike  to  the  limits  of  each  hu- 
man life. 

She  went  on  to  speak  of  the  lone 
moody  lord, 

Shut  up  in  his  lone  moody  halls :  every 
word 

Held  the  weight  of  a  tear:  she  re- 
corded the  good 

He  had  patiently  wrought  through  a 
whole  neighborhood ; 

And  the  blessing  that  lived  on  the 
lips  of  the  poor, 

By  the  peasant's  hearthstone,  or  the 
cottager's  door. 

There  she  paused:   and  her  accents 
seemed  dipped  in  the  hue 


136 


LUCILE. 


Of  his  own  sombre  heart,  as  the  pict 

ure  she  drew 

Of  the  poor,  proud,  sad  spirit,  reject- 
ing love's  wages, 
Yet  working    love's    work;    reading 

backwards  life's  pages 
For  penance ;   and  stubbornly,  many 

a  time, 
Both  missing  the  moral,  and  marring 

the  rhyme. 
Then  she  spoke  of  the  soldier! . . .  the 

man's  work  and  fame, 
The  pride  of  a  nation,  a  world's  jusl 

acclaim! 
Life's  inward  approval! 

XXVIII. 

Her  voice  reached  his  heart, 
And  sank  lower.     She  spoke  of  her- 
self:  how,  apart 
And    unseen, —  far   away, —  she    had 

watched,  year  by  year, 
With  how  many  a  blessing,  how  many 

a  tear, 
And  how  many  a  prayer,  every  stage 

in  the  strife : 
Guessed  the  thought    in    the    deed: 

traced  the  love  in  the  life : 
Blessed  the  man  in  the  man's  work! 

"  Thy  work  ...  O  not  mine ! 
Thine,  Lucile !"  .  .  .  he  exclaimed  .  .  . 

"all  the  worth  of  it  thine 
If  worth  there  be  in  it !" 

Her  answer  conveyed 
His  reward,  and   her  own :  joy  that 

cannot  be  said 
Alone  by  the  voice  .  .  .  eyes — face — 

spoke  silently: 

All  the  woman,  one  grateful  emotion ! 

And  she 

A    poor   Sister  of  Charity!    hers    a 

life  spent 
In  one  silent  effort  for  others !  .  .  . 

She  bent 
Her  divine  face  above  him,  and  filled 

up  his  heart 
"With  the  look  that  glowed  from  it. 

Then  slow,  with  soft  art 
Fixed  her  aim,  and  moved  to  it. 

XXIX. 

He,  the  "soldier  humane, 
He,  the  hero ;  whose  heart  hid  in  glory 
the  pain 


Of  a  youth  disappointed ;  whose  life 

had  made  kno"wn 
The  value  of  man's  life!  .  .  .  that 

youth  overthrown 
And  retrieved,  had  it  left  him  no  pity 

for  youth 

In  another?  his  own  life  of  strenu- 
ous truth 
Accomplished  in  act,   had  it  taught 

him  no  care 
For  the  life  of  another?  .  .  .  Ono! 

everywhere 
In  the  camp  which  she  moved  through, 

she  came  face  to  face 
With  some  noble  token,  some  gener- 
ous trace 
Of  his  active  humanity  .  .  . 

"Well,  "he  replied, 
"If  it  be  so?" 

"  I  come  from  the  solemn  bedside 
Of  a  man  that  is  dying,"  she  said. 

"While  we  speak 
A  life  is  in  jeopardy." 

"  Quick  then!  you  seek 
Aid  or  medicine,  or  what  ?" 

"'T  is  not  needed,"  she  said. 
"Medicine  ?  yes  for  the  mind!     7Tis 

a  heart  that  needs  aid! 
You,  Eugene  de  Luvois,  you  (and  you 

only)  can 

Save  the  life  of  this  man.     Will  you 
save  it?" 

"Whatman? 
How  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  .  ,  .  can  you  ask  ?" 
She  went  rapidly  on 
To  her  object  in  brief  vivid  words  .  .  . 

The  young  son 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred — the  boy  lying 

there 
Half  a  mile  from  that  tent-door — the 

father's  despair, 
The  mother's  deep  anguish — the  pride 

of  the  boy 
[n  the  father — the  father's  one  hope 

and  one  joy 
"n  the  son  : — the  son  now— 'wounded, 

dying »     She  told 
Of  the  father's  stern  struggle   with 

life  :  the  boy's  bold, 
Pure,  and  beautiful  nature :  the  fair 

life  before  him 
f  that  life  were  but  spared  .  .  .  yet  a 

word  might  restore  him  ! 
The  boy's  broken  love  for  the  niece  of 

Eugene ! 

ts  pathos  :   the  girl's  love  for  him  ; 
how,  half  slain 


LUCILE. 


137 


In  his  tent  sha  had  found  him ;  won 
from  him  the  tale ; 

Sought  to  nurse  back  his  life ;  found 
her  efforts  still  fail ; 

Beaten  back  by  a  love  that  was  strong- 
er than  life  ; 

Of  how  bravely  till  then  he  had  stood 
in  that  strife 

Wherein  England  and  France  in  their 
best  blood,  at  last, 

Had  bathed  from  remembrance  the 
wounds  of  the  past. 

And  shall  nations  be  nobler  than  men? 
Are  not  great 

Men    the    models    of    nations?    For 
what  is  a  state 

But  the  many's  confused  imitation  of 
one? 

Shall  he,  the  fair  hero  of  France,  on 
the  son 

Of  his  ally  seek  vengeance,  destroying 
perchance 

An  innocent  life, — here,   when  Eng- 
land and  France 

Have  forgiven  the  sins  of  their  fathers 
of  yore, 

And  baptized  a  new  hope  in  their 
sons'  recent  gore  ? 

She  went  on  to  tell  how  the  boy  had 
clung  still 

To  life,  for  the  sake  of  life's  uses,  until 

From  his  weak  hands  the  strong  effort 
dropped,  stricken  down 

By  the  news  that  the  heart  of  Con- 
stance, like  his  own, 

Was  breaking  beneath  .  .  . 

But  there  " Hold!"  he  exclaimed, 

Interrupting,    "forbear!"   .    ,     .    his 
whole  face  was  inflamed 

With    the    heart's    swarthy  thunder 
which  yet,  while  she  spoke, 

Had  been  gathering   silent, — at  last 
the  storm  broke 

In  grief  or  in  wrath  .  .  . 

"'T  is  to  him,  then,"  he  cried,  .  .  . 

Checking  suddenly  short  the  tumultu- 
ous stride, 

"That  I  owe  these  late  greetings,— 
for  him  you  are  here, — 

For  his  sake  you  seek  me,— for  him, 
it  is  clear, 

You  have  deigned  at  the  last  to  be- 
think you  again 

Of  this  long-forgotten  existence  !" 

"Eugene!" 

"Ha!  fool  that  I  was !"  .  .  .  he  went 
on,  ...  "and  just  now, 


While  you  spoke  yet,  my  heart  was 

beginning  to  grow 
Almost  boyish  again,  almost  sure  of 

one  friend ! 
Yet  this  was  the  meaning  of  all, — this 

the  end ! 

Be  it  so !    There's  a  sort  of  slow  jus- 
tice (admit!) 

In   this,— that   the  word  that  man's 

finger  hath  writ  [last. 

In  fire  on  my  heart,  I  return  him  at 

Let  him  learn  that  word, — Never!" 

"Ah,  still  to  the  past 
Must    the    present  be    vassal?"  she 

said.     "  In  the  hour 
We  last  parted  I  urged  you  to  put 

forth  the  power 

Which  1  felt  to  be  yours,  in  the  con- 
quest of  life. 
Yours,  the  promise  to  strive :  mine, — 

to  watch  o'er  the  strife. 
I  foresaw  you  would  conquer ;   you 

have  conquered  much, 
Much,  indeed,  that  is  noble !    I  hail 

it  as  such, 
And  am  here  to  record  and  applaud 

it.     I  saw 
Not  the  less  in  your  nature,  Eugene 

de  Luvois, 
One  peril,— one  point  where  I  feared 

you  would  fail 
To  subdue   that  worst  foe  which  a 

man  can  assail, — 
Himself :    and  I  promised  that,  if  I 

should  see 
My  champion  once  falter,  or  bend  the 

brave  knee, 
That  moment  would  bring  me  again 

to  his  side. 
That  moment  is  come !    for  that  peril 

was  pride, 
And  you  falter.    I  plead  for  yourself, 

and  one  other, 
For  that  gentle  child  without  father 

or  mother. 

To  whom  you  are  both.     I  plead,  sol- 
dier of  France, 
For   your   own   nobler  nature, — and 

plead  for  Constance !" 
At  the  sound  of  that  name  he  averted 

his  head. 
Constance  !  .  .  .  Ay,  she  entered  my 

lone  life  "  (he  said) 
When  its  sun  was  long   set;   and 

hung  over  its  night 
Eer  own   starry  childhood.     I  have 

but  that  light, 


138 


LUCILE. 


In  the  midst  of  much  darkness     Who 

names  me  but  she 
With  titles  of  love?  and  what  rests 

there  for  me 
In  the  silence  of  age  save  the  voice  of 

that  child  ? 
The  child  of  my  own  better  life,  un- 

defiled  ! 
My  creature,  carved  out  of  my  heart 

of  hearts !" 

"Say," 
Said  the  Soeur  Seraphine,— "are  you 

able  to  lay 
Your  hand  as  a  knight  on  your  heart 

as  a  man 

And  swear  that,  whatever  may  hap- 
pen, you  can 
Feel   assured  for  the    life  you  thus 

cherish  ?" 

"How  so?" 
He  looked   up.     "If  the  boy  should 

die  thus  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know 
What  your  look  would  imply  .  .  .  this 

sleek  stranger  forsooth  ! 
Because  on    his  cheek   was  the  red 

rose  of  youth 
The  heart  of  my  niece  must  break  for 

it!" 

She  cried, 
"  Nay,  but  hear  me  yet  further!" 

With  slow  heavy  stride, 
Unheeding  her  words,  he  was  pacing 

the  tent, 
He  was  muttering  low  to  himself  as 

he  went. 
"Ay,  these  young  things  lie   safe  in 

our  heart  just  so  long 
As  their  wings  are  in  growing ;  and 

when  these  are  strong 
They  break  it,  and  farewell !  the  bird 

flies!"  .  .  . 

The  nun 
Laid  her  hand  on  the  soldier,   and 

murmured,  "The  sun 
Is  descending,  life  fleets  while  we  talk 

thus!     Oyet 
Let  this  day  upon  one  final  victory 

set, 
And  complete  a  life's  conquest !" 

He  said,  "Understand! 
If    Constance  wed    the    son  of   this 

man,  by  whose  hand 
My  heart  hath  been  robbed,  she  is  lost 

to  my  life ! 
Can  her  home  be  my  home  ?    Can  I 

claim  in  the  wife 


Of  that  man's  son  the   child  of  my 

age  ?    At  her  side 
Shall  he  stand  on  my  hearth  ?     Shall 

I  sue  to  the  bride 
Of  ...  enough! 

"'Ah,  and  you  immemorial  halls 
Of    my  Norman    forefathers,   whose 

shadow  yet  falls 
On  my  fancy,  and  fuses  hope,  memory, 


Present, — all,  in  one  silence!  old  trees 

to  the  blast 
Of  the  North  Sea  repeating  the  tale 

of  old  days, 
Nevermore,  nevermore    in   the   wild 

bosky  ways 
Shall  I   hear  through  your  umbrage 

ancestral  the  wind 
Prophesy  as  of  yore,  when  it  shook 

the  deep  mind 
Of  my  boyhood,  with  whispers  from 

out  the  far  years 
Of  love,  fame,  the  rapture  life  cools 

down  with  tears ! 
Henceforth  shall  the  tread  of  a  Var- 

grave  alone 
Rouse  your  echoes?" 

"  O,  think  not,"  she  said,   "of  the 

son 
Of  the  man  whom  unjustly  you  hate ; 

only  think 
Of  this  young  human  creature   who 

cries  from  the  brink 
Of  a  grave  to  your  mercy  ! 

"  Recall  your  own  words 
(Words  my  memory  mournfully  ever 

records !) 
How  with  love  may  be  wrecked  a 

whole  life !  then,  Eugene, 
Look  v.ith  me  (still  those   words  in 

our  ears  !)  once  again 
At  this  young  soldier  sinking  from 

life  here, — dragged  down 
By  the   weight  of    the    love    in  his 

heart :  no  renown 
No  fame  comforts  him  !  nations  shout 

not  above 
The  lone   grave  down  to  which  he  is 

bearing  the  love 
Which   life   has  rejected!     Will  you 

stand  apart  ? 
You,  with  such  a  love's  memory  deep 

in  your  heart ! 

You  the   hero,  whose  life   hath  per- 
chance been  led  on 
Through  the  deeds  it  has  wrought  to 

the  fame  it  hath  won, 


LVCILK. 


139 


By  recalling  the  visions  and  dreams  of 

a  youth, 
Such  as  lies  at  your  door  now :  who 

have  but,  in  truth, 
To  stretch  forth  a  hand,  to  speak  only 

one  word, 

And  by  that  word  you  rescue  a  life !" 

He  was  stirred. 

Still  he  sought  to  put  from  him  the 

cup ;  bowed  his  face 
On  his  hand ;   and   anon,  as  though 

wishing  to  chase 
"With    one    angry    gesture    his    own 

thoughts  aside, 
He  sprang  up,  brushed  past  her,  and 

bitterly  cried, 
"  No ! — Constance  wed  a  Vargrave ! — 

I  cannot  consent !" 
Then  uprose  Sceur  Seraphine. 

The  low  tent, 
In     her     sudden     uprising     seemed 

dwarfed  by  the  height 
From     which    those    imperial     eyes 

poured  the  light 
Of    their   deep   silent    sadness  upon 

him. 

No  wonder 
He  felt,  as  it  were,  his  own  stature 

shrink  under 
The  compulsion  of  that  grave  regard! 

For  between 

The  Due  de  Luvois  and  the  Soeur  Ser- 
aphine 
At  that   moment  there  rose  all  the 

height  of  one  soul 
O'er  another :    she  looked  down  on 

him  from  the  whole 
Lonely  length  of  a  life.     There  were 

sad  nights  and  days, 
There  were  long  months  and  years  in 

that  heart-searching  gaze  ; 
And  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  with 

sharp  pathos  thrilled  through 
And  transfixed  him. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois,  but  for  yon, 
I   might  have    been  now, — not   this 

wandering  nun, 
But  a  mother,  a  wife,— pleading,  not 

for  the  son 
Of  another,  but  blessing  some  child 

of  my  own, 
His, — the  man's  that  I  once  loved! . . . 

Hush !  that  which  is  done 
I  regret  not.     I  breathe  no  reproaches. 

That's  best 

Which  God  sends.     7T  was  His  will : 
it  is  mine,    And  the  rest 


3f  that  riddle  I  will  not  look  back  to. 

He  reads 
[n  your  heart, — He  that  judges  of  all 

thoughts  and  deeds, 
With  eyes,  mine  forestall  not !     This 

only  I  say : 
Y"ou  have  not  the  right  (read  it,  you, 

as  you  may!) 
To  say  ...  'I  am  the  wronged.'"  .  .  . 
"Have  I  wronged  thee? — wronged 

tllee !" 
He  faltered,  "Lucile,  ah,  Lucile!" 

"  Nay,  not  me," 
She  murmured,  "but  man!     The  lone 

nun  standing  here 
Has    no    claim    upon  earth,   and    is 

passed  from  the  sphere 
Df  earth's  wrongs  and  earth's  repara- 
tions.    But  she, 
The  dead  woman,  Lucile,  she  whose 

grave  is  in  me, 
Demands  from  her  grave  reparation 

to  man, 
Reparation  to  God.     Heed,  O  heed, 

while  you  can, 
This  voice  from  the  grave !" 

"Hush!"  he  moaned,  "I  obey 
The  Soaur  Seraphine.     There,  Lucile! 

let  this  pay 
Every  debt  that  is  due  to  that  grave. 

Now  lead  on : 
I   follow   you,   Soeur  Seraphine!  .  .  . 

To  the  son 
Of  Lord   Alfred  Vargrave  .  .  .  and 

then,"  .  .  . 

As  he  spoke 
He  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  down  the 

dun  smoke 
Pointed  out  the  dark  bastions,  with 

batteries  crowned, 
Of  the  city  beneath  them  .  .  . 

"Then,  there,  underground, 
And  valcte  etplaudite,  soon  as  maybe : 
Let  the  old  tree  go  down  to  the  earth, 

— the  old  tree, 
With  the  worm  at  its  heart !    Lay  the 

axe  to  the  root ! 
Who  will  miss  the  old  stump,  so  wo 

save  the  young  shoot  ? 
A  Vargrave !   .   .   .  this  pays  all  ... 

Lead  on  !  ...  In  the  seed 
Save  the  forest !  .  .  . 

"I  follow  .  .  .  forth,  forth!  where 
you  lead." 


140 


LUCILE. 


xxx. 

The    clay   was  declining;  a  day  sick 

and  damp. 
In  a  blank  ghostly  glare   shone  the 

bleak  ghostly  camp 
Of  the  English.     Alone  in  his  dim, 

spectral  tent 
(Himself  the  wan  spectre  of  youth), 

with  eyes  bent 
On  the  daylight  departing,  the  sick 

man  was  sitting 
Upon  his  low  pallet.     These  thoughts, 

vaguely  flitting, 
Crossed  the  silence  between  him  and 

death,  which  seemed  near. 
— "Pain  o'erreaches  itself,  so  is  balk- 
ed! else,  how  bear 

This  intense  and  intolerable  solitude, 
With  its  eye   on  my  heart  and  its 

hand  on  my  blood  ? 
Pulse  by  pulse !    Day  goes  down :  yet 

she  comes  not  again. 
Other    suffering,     doubtless,     where 

hope  is  more  plain, 
Claims  her  elsewhere.  I  die,  strange  ! 

and  scarcely  feel  sad. 
O,  to  think  of  Constance  thus,  and 

not  to  go  mad ! 
Bnt  Death,  it  would  seem,  dulls  the 

sense  to  his  own 
Dull  doings  .  .  ." 

XXXI. 

Between  those  sick  eyes  and  the  sun 
A  shadow  fell  thwart. 

XXXII. 

i  'T  is  the  pale  nun  once  more ! 
But  who  stands  at  her  side,  mute  and 

dark  in  the  door  ? 
How  oft  had  he  watched  through  the 

glory  and  gloom 
Of    the    battle,    with    long,   longing 

looks  that  dim  plume 
Which  now  (one  stray  sunbeam  upon 

it)  shook,  stooped 
To  where  the  tent-curtain,  dividing, 

was  looped ! 
How  that  stern  face  had  haunted  and 

hovered  about 
The  dreams  it  still  scared!  through 

what  fond  fear  and  doubt 
Had  the  boy  yearned  in  heart  to  the 

hero  !     (What's  like 


A  boy's  love  for  some  famous  man  ?) 

...  O,  to  strike 
A  wild  path  through  the  battle,  down 

striking  perchance 
Some  rash  foeman  too  near  the  great 

soldier  of  France, 
And  so  fall  in  his  glorious  regard ! 

...  Oft  how  oft 
Had  his  heart  flashed  this  hope  out, 

Whilst  watching  aloft 
The  dim  battle  that  plume  dance  and 

dart,— never  seen 
So  near  till  this  moment !  how  eager 

to  glean 
Every  stray  word,    dropped   through 

the  camp-babble  in  praise 
Of  his  hero,— each  tale  of  old  ven- 
turous days 
In  the  desert !     And  now  .  .  .  could 

he  speak  out  his  heart 
Face  to  face  with  that  man  ere  he 

died! 

xxxin. 

With  a  start 
The    sick    soldier    sprang    up ;    the 

blood  sprang  up  in  him 
To  his  throat,  and  o'erthrew  him ;  he 

reeled  back ;  a  dim 
Sanguine  haze  filled  his  eyes  ;  in  his 

ears  rose  the  din 
And  rush,    as  of  cataracts  loosened 

within, 
Through   which  he   saw  faintly,  and 

heard,  the  pale  nun 
(Looking  larger  than  life,  where  she 

stood  in  the  sun) 
Point  to  him  and  murmur,  "Behold !" 

Then  that  plume 
Seemed  to  wave  like  a  fire,  and  fade 

off  in  the  gloom 
Which  momently  put   out  the  world. 

xxxiv. 

To  his  side 

Moved  the  man  the  boy  dreaded  yet 

loved  .  .  .  "Ah!"  ...  he  sighed, 

"The    smooth   brow,   the    fair  Var- 

grave  face!  and  those  eyes, 
All  the   mother's!"    The  old  things 
again ! 

"Do  not  rise. 
You  suffer,  young  man  ?" 

THE  BOY. 

Sir,  I  die. 


LUCILE. 


141 


THE  DUKE. 

Not  so  young ! 
.THE  BOY. 

So  young  ?  yes !  and  yet  I  have  tan- 
gled among 
The  frayed  warp  and  woof  of  this 

brief  life  of  mine 
Other  lives  than  my  own.     Could  my 

death  but  untwine 
The  vext  skein  .    .    .  but  it  will  not. 

Yes,  Duke,  young— so  young ! 
And  I  knew  you  not  ?  yet  I  have  done 

you  a  wrong 
Irreparable!   .    .   .   late,   too  late  to 

repair. 
If  I  knew  any  means  .  .  .  but  I  know 

none !  .  .  .  I  swear, 
If  this  broken  fraction  of  time  could 

extend 
Into  infinite  lives  of  atonement,  no 

end 
Would  seem  too  remote  for  my  grief 

(could  that  be!) 
To  include  it !    Not  too  late,  however, 

for  me 
To  entreat:  is  it  too  late  for  you  to 

forgive  ? 

THE  DUKE. 

You    wrong  —  my  forgiveness  —  ex- 
plain 

THE  BOY. 

Could  I  live ! 
Such  a  very  few  hours  left  to  life,  yet 

I  shrink, 

I  falter !  .  .  .  Yes,   Duke,   your  for- 
giveness I  think 
Should  free  my  soul  hence. 

Ah !  you  could  not  surmise 
That  a  boy's  beating  heart,  burning 

thoughts,  longing  eyes 
Were  following  you  evermore  (heeded 

not!) 
While  the  battle  was  flowing  between 

us  :  nor  what 
Eager,  dubious  footsteps  at  nightfall 

oft  went 
With  the  wind  and  the   rain,  round 

and  round  your  blind  tent, 
Persistent  and  wild  as  the  wind  and 

the  rain, 


Unnoticed  as  these,  weak  as  these, 

and  as  vain ! 
O,   how  obdurate  then  looked  your 

tent!     The  waste  air 
Grew  stern  at  the  gleam  which  said 

.  .  .  "Off!  he  is  there!" 
I  know  not  what  merciful  mystery  now 
Brings  you    here,  whence   the   man 

whom  you  see  lying  low 
Other    footsteps    (not  those! )    must 

soon  bear  to  the  grave, 
But   death  is  at  hand,  and  the  few 

words  I  have 
Yet  to  speak,  I  must  speak  them  at 

once. 

Duke,  I  swear, 
As  I  lie  here,  (Death's  angel  too  close 

not  to  hear!) 
That  I  meant  not  this  wrong  to  you. 

Duo  de  Luvois, 
I  loved  your  niece— loved?  why,  I  love 

her!    I  saw, 
And,  seeing,  how  could  I  but  love  her? 

I  seemed 
Born  to  love  her.  Alas,  were  that  all ! 

had  1  dreamed 
Of  this  love's  cruel  consequence  as  it 

rests  now 

Ever  fearfully  present  before  me,  I  vow 
That  the  secret,   unknown,  had  gone 

down  to  the  tomb 
Into  which  I   descend  .   .  .  O  why, 

whilst  there  was  room 
In  life  left  for  warning,  had  no  one 

the  heart 

To  warn  me  ?     Had  any  one  whisper- 
ed ...  "Depart!" 
To  the  hope  the  whole  world  seemed 

in  league  then  to  nurse ! 
Had  any  one  hinted  .  .  .  "  Beware  of 

the  curse 
Which  is  coming!"     There  was  not  a 

voice  raised  to  tell, 
Not  a  hand  moved  to  warn  from  the 

blow  ere  it  fell, 
And  then  .  .  .  then  the  blow  fell  on 

loth  I     This  is  why 
I  implore  you  to  pardon  that  great 

injury 
Wrought   on  her,  and,   through  her, 

wrought  on  you,  Heaven  knows 
How  unwittingly ! 

THE  DUKE. 

Ah !  ...  and,  youug  soldier,  suppose 
That  I  came  here  to  seek,  not  grant, 
pardon  ? — 


142 


L  UC1LE. 


Of  yourself. 


THE  BOY. 

Of  whom? 
THE  DUKE. 


THE  BOY. 


Duke,  I  bear  in  my  heart  to  the  tomb 

No  boyish  resentment;  not  one  lone- 
ly thought 

That  honors  you  not.     In  all  this  there 
is  nought 

'T  is  for  me  to  forgive. 

Every  glorious  act 

Of  your  great  life  starts  forward,  an 
eloquent  fact, 

To  confirm  in  my  boy's  heart  its  faith 
in  your  own. 

And  have  I  not  hoarded,  to  ponder 
upon, 

A  hundred  great  acts  from  your  life  ? 
Nay,  all  these, 

Were  they  so  many  lying  and  false 
witnesses, 

Does  there  rest  not  one  voice,  which 
was  never  untrue  ? 

I  believe  in  Constance,  Duke,  as  she 
does  in  you ! 

In  this  great  world  around  us,  where- 
ever  we  turn, 

Some  grief  irremediable  we  discern; 

And    yet — there    sits    God,    calm    in 
Heaven  above! 

Do  we  trust  one  whit  less  in  His  just- 
ice or  love  ?  I  judge  not. 

THE  DUKE. 

Enough !  hear  at  last,  then,  the  truth. 
Your  father  and  I, — foes  we  were  in 

our  youth. 
It  matters  not  why.     Yet  thus  much 

understand : 
The  hope  of  my  youth  was  signed  out 

by  his  hand. 
I  was  not  of  those  whom  the  buffets 

of  fate 
Tame  and  teach  ;  and  my  heart  buried 

slain  love  in  hate. 
If  your  own   frank  young  heart,  yet 

unconscious  of  all 
Which  turns  the  heart's  blood  in  its 

springtide  to  gall, 
And  unable  to  guess  even  aught  that 

the  furrow 
Across  these  gray  brows  hides  of  sin 

or  of  sorrow, 


Comprehends  not  the  evil  and  grief  of 
my  life 

'T  will  at  least  comprehend  how  in- 
tense was  the  strife 

Which  is  closed  in  this  act  of  atone- 
ment, whereby 

I  seek  in  the  son  of  my  youth's  enemy 

The  friend  of  my  age.  Let  the  pres- 
ent release 

Here  acquitted  the  past!  In  the  name 
of  my  niece, 

Whom  for  my  life  in  yours  as  a  host- 
age I  give, 

Are  you  great  enough,  boy,  to  forgive 
me, — and  live  ? 

Whilst  he  spoke  thus,  a  doubtful  tu- 
multuous joy 
Chased  its  fleeting  effects  o'er  the  face 

of  the  boy : 
As  when  some  stormy  moon,  in  a  long 

cloud  confined, 
Struggles  outward  through  shadows, 

the  varying  wind 
Alternates,  and  bursts,  self -surprised, 

from  her  prison, 
So  that  slow  joy  grew  clear  in  his 

face.     He  had  risen 
To  answer  the  Duke ;   but  strength 

failed  every  limb ; 
A  strange  happy  feebleness  trembled 

through  him. 
With  a  faint  cry  of  rapturous  won- 
der, he  sank 
On  the  breast  of  the  nun,  who  stood 

near. 

"Yes,  boy  .'thank 
This  guardian  angel,"  the  Duke  said. 

"I — you, 
We  owe  all  to  her.     Crown  her  work. 

Live !  be  true 
To  your  young  life's  fair  promise,  and 

live  for  her  sake !" 
'  Yes,  Duke :  I  will  live.    I  must  live, 

— live  to  make 
My  whole  life  the  answer  you  claim, 

the  boy  said, 
'  For  joy  does  not  kill ! " 

Back  again  the  faint  head 
3eclined  on  the  nun's  gentle  bosom. 

She  saw 
lis  .  lips    quiver,  and    motioned  the 

Duke  to  withdraw 
And  leave  them  a  moment  together. 

He  eyed 
Them   both  with  a  wistful  regard; 

turned,  and  sighed, 


L  UCLLE. 


143 


And  lifted  the  tent  door,  and  passed 
from  the  tent. 

xxxv. 

Like  a  furnace,  the  fervid,  intense 
Occident 

From  its  hot  seething  levels  a  great 
glare  struck  up 

On  the  sick  metal  sky.  And,  as  out 
of  a  cup 

Some  witch  watches  boiling  wild  por- 
tents arise, 

Monstrous  clouds,  massed,  misshap- 
en, and  tinged  with  strange  dyes, 

Hovered  over  the  red  fume,  and 
changed  to  weird  shapes 

As  of  snakes,  salamanders,  efts,  liz- 
ards, storks,  apes, 

Chimeras,  and  hydras:  whilst — ever 
the  same — 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  (creatures 
fuse  by  his  flame, 

And  changed  by  his  influence !)  change- 
less, as  when, 

Ere  he  lit  down  to  death  generations 
of  men, 

O'er  that  crude  and  ungainly  creation, 
which  there 

"With  wild  shape^  this  cloud-world 
seemed  to  mimic  in  air, 

The  eye  of  Heaven's  all-judging  wit- 
ness, he  shone, 

And  shall  shine  on  the  ages  we  reach 
not, — the  sun  ! 

xxxvi. 

Nature  posted  her  parable  thus  in  the 

skies, 
And    the  man's  heart  bore  witness. 

Life's  vapors  arise 
And  fall,    pass    and   change,    group 

themselves  and  revolve 
Round  the  great  central  life,  which  is 

Love;  these  dissolve 
And  resume  themselves,  here  assume 

beauty,  there  terror ; 
And  the   phantasmagoria  of  infinite 

error, 
And  endless  complexity,  lasts  but  a 

while ; 
Life's  self,  the  immortal,  immutable 

smile 
Of  God,  on  the  soul,  in  the  deep  heart 

of  Heaven 
Lives    changeless,    unchanged:    and 

,    our  morning  and  even 
Are  earth's  alternations,  not  Heaven's. 


XXXVII. 

"While  he  yet 
Watched  the  skies,  with  this  thought 

in  his  heart ;  while  he  set 
Thus  unconsciously  all  his  life  forth 

in  his  mind, 
Summed  it  up,  searched  it  out,  proved 

it  vapor  and  wind, 
And  embraced   the    new  life  which 

that  hour  had  revealed, — 
Love's  life,  which  earth's  life  had  de- 
faced and  concealed ; 
Lucile  left  the  tent  and  stood  by  him. 
Her  tread 
Aroused  him;  and,  turning  towards 

her,  he  said: 

"  O  Soeur  Seraphine,  are  you  happy?" 

"  Eugene, 

What  is  happier  than  to  have  hoped 

not  in  vain  ?" 
She  answered, — "And  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not  repent?" 
"No." 

"Thank Heaven !"  she  murmured. 

He  musingly  bent 

His  looks  on  the  sunset,  and  some- 
what apart 
Where  he  stood,  sighed,  as  though  to 

his  innermost  heart, 
"O  blessed  are  they,  amongst  whom 

I  was  not, 
Whose   morning  unclouded,  without 

stain  or  spot, 
Predicts  a  pure  evening ;  who,  sunlike 

in  light 
Have  traversed,  unsullied,  the  world, 

and  set  bright !" 

But  she  in  response,  "  Mark  yon  ship 

far  a^A-ay, 
Asleep  on  the  wave,  in  the  last  light 

of  day, 
With  all  its  hushed  thunders  shut  up ! 

Would  you  know 
A  thought  which  came  to  me  a  few 

days  ago, 
Whilst  watching   those  ships  ?  .  .   . 

When  the  great  Ship  of  Life, 
Surviving,  though  shattered,  the  tu- 
mult and  strife 
Of    earth's    angry    element,  —  masts 

broken  short, 
Decks  drenched,  bulwarks  beaten, — 

drives  safe  into  port, 
When  the  Pilot  of  Galilee,  seen  on 

the  strand,  -  • -"^ 


144 


LUCILE. 


Stretches  over  the  waters  a  welcoming 

hand: 
When,   heeding  no  longer   the   sea's 

baffled  roar, 

The  mariner  turns  to  his  rest  ever- 
more ; 
What  will   then  "be  the  answer  the 

helmsman  must  give  ? 
Will  it  be ...  'Lo  our  log  book!  Thus 

once  did  we  live 

In  the  zones  of  the  south;  thus  we  trav- 
ersed the  seas 
Of  the  Orient ;  there  dwelt  with  the 

Hesperides ; 
Thence  followed  the  west- wind ;  here, 

eastward  we  turned; 
The  stars  failed  us  there ;  just  here 

land  we  discerned 
On  our  lee ;  there  the  storm  overtook 

us  at  last ; 
That  day  went  the  bowsprit,  the  next 

day  the  mast ; 
The  mermen  came  round  us,  and  there 

we  saw  bask  [ask 

A  siren?  The  Captain  of  Port  will  he 
Any  one  of  such  questions  ?   I  cannot 

think  so ! 
But . . . '  What  is  the  last  Bill  of  Health 

you  can  show? 
Not — How  fared  the  soul  through  the 

trials  she  passed  ? 
But— What  is  the  state  of  that  soul  at 

the  last  ? 
"May  it  be  so,"  he  sighed.  "There! 

the  sun  drops,  behold!" 
And  indeed,  whilst  he  spoke,  all  the 

purple  and  gold 
In  the  west  had  turned  ashen,  save 

one  fading  strip 
Of  light  that  yet  gleamed  from  the 

dark  nether  lip 

Of  a  long  reef  of  cloud;  and  o'er  sul- 
len ravines 

And  ridges  the  raw  damps  were  hang- 
ing white  screens 
Of  melancholy  mist. 

"Nunc  dimittis!"  she  said. 
"  O  God  of  the  living!  whilst  yet  'mid 

the  dead 
And  the  dying  we  stand  here  alive, 

and  thy  days 
Keturning,  admit  space  for  prayer  and 

for  praise, 
In  both  these  confirm  us ! 

"The  helmsman,  Eugene, 
Needs  the  compass  to  steer  by.    Pray 

always.    Again 


We  two  part :  each  to  work  out  Heav- 
en's will :  you,  I  trust, 

In  the  world's  ample  witness;  and  I, 
as  I  must, 

In  secret  and  silence  :  you,  love,  fame, 
await ; 

Me,  sorrow  and  sickness.    We  meet 
at  one  gate 

When  all's  over.     The  ways  they  are 
many  and  wide, 

And  seldom  are  two  ways  the  same. 
Side  by  side 

May  we  stand  at  the  same  little  door 
when  all's  done ! 

The  ways  they  are  many,  the  end  it  is 
one. 

He  that  knocketh  shall   enter:  who 
asks  shall  obtain : 

And   who    seeketh,  he  findeth.     Re- 
member, Eugene'" 

She  turned  to  depart. 

"  Whither  ?  whither  ?"  .  .  .  he  said. 

She  stretched  forth  her  hand  where, 
already  outspread 

On  the   darkened  horizon,    remotely 
they  saw 

The  French  camp-fires  kindling. 

"O  Due  do  Luvois, 

See  yonder  vast  hosf,  with  its  mani- 
fold heart 

Made  as  one  man's  by  one  hope !  That 
hope  't  is  your  part 

To  aid  towards  achievement,  to  save 
from  reverse : 

Mine,  through  suffering  to  soothe,  and 
through  sickness  to  nurse. 

I  go  to  my  work:  you  to  yours." 

XXXVIII. 

Whilst  she  spoke, 
On  the  wide  wasting  evening  there 

distantly  broke 
The  low  roll  of  musketry.     Straight- 
way, anon, 
From  the  dim  Flag-staff  Battery  bel- 
lowed a  gun. 

Our  chasseurs  are  at  it !"  he  mutter- 
ed. 

She  turned, 
Smiled,  and  passed  up  the  twilight. 

He  faintly  discerned 
Her  form,  now  and  then,  on  the  flat 

lurid  sky 
Rise,  and  sink,    and  recede  through 

the  mists :  by  and  by 
The  vapors  closed  round,  and  he  saw 
her  no  more. 


LUCILE. 


,1  !f> 


XXXIX. 

Nor  shall  we.     For  her  mission,  ac 

eomplished,  is  o'er. 
The  mission  of  genius  on  earth  !     To 

uplift,' 
Purify,  and  confirm  by  its  own  gra 

cious  gift, 
The  world,  in  despite  of  the  world's 

dull  endeavor 
To  degrade,  and  drag  down,  and  op- 
pose it  forever. 
The  mission  of  genius  :  to  watch,  and 

to  wait, 

To  renew,  to  redeem,  and  to  regener- 
ate.  . 
The  mission  of  woman  on  earth !   to 

give  birth 
To  the  mercy  of  Heaven  descending 

on  earth. 
The  mission  of  woman  :  permitted  to 

bruise 
The  head  of  the  serpent,  and  sweetly 

infuse, 
Through  the  sorrow  and  sin  of  earth's 

registered  curse, 
The    blessing   which    mitigates    all : 

born  to  nurse, 
And  to  soothe,  and  to  solace,  to  help 

and  to  heal 
The   sick   world  that   leans  on  her. 

This  was  Lucile. 

XL. 

A  power  hid  in  pathos  :  a  %e  veiled 

in  cloud : 
Yet  still  burning  outward :  a  branch 

which,  though  bowed 
By  the  bird  in  its  passage,  springs  up- 
ward again' 
Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her 

sweetness — in  vain  ! 
Judge  her  love  by  her  life.     For  our 

life  is  but  love 
In  act.     Pure  was  hers  :  and  the  dear 

God  above, 
Who  knows  what  his  creatures  have 

need  of  for  life, 
And  whose    love  includes  all  loves, 

through  much  patient  strife 
Led  her  soul  into  peace.    Love,  though 

love  may  be  given 
En  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  native 

heaven 
More  clearly  she  mirrored,  as  life's 

troubled  dream 


Wore  away;  and  love  signed  into  rest, 

like  a  stream 
That  breaks  its  heart  over  wild  rocks 

toward  the  shore 
Of  the  great  sea  which  hushes  it  up 

evermore 
With  its  little  wild  wailing.  No  stream 

from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its 

course, 
But  what  some  land  is  gladdened.  No 

star  ever  rose 
And  set,  without  influence  somewhere. 

Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowest 

creature  ?    No  life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong 

in  its  strife 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger 

thereby. 
The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect 

on  high. 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by 

the  Throne 
And  gaze  into  the  Face  that  makes 

glorious  their  own, 
Know  this,   surely,  at  last.     Honest 

love,  honest  sorrow, 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope 

for  the  morrow, 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than 

the  hand  they  make  weary, 
The  heart   they  have  saddened,  the 

life  they  leave  dreary ! 
Hush!  the  sevenfold  heavens  to  the 

voice  of  the  Spirit 
Echo :    He  that  o'ercometh  shall  all 

things  inherit. 

XLI. 

The  moon  was,   in  fire,   carried  up 

through  the  fog ; 
The  loud  fortress  barked  at  her  like  a 

chained  dog. 
The  horizon  pulsed    flame,   the    air 

sound.     All  without, 
War   and   winter,    and  twilight,  and 

terror  and  doubt ; 
All  within,  light,  warmth,  calm! 

In  the  twilight,  long  while 
ugene    de     Luvois    with    a    deep,' 

thoughtful  smile, 
ingered,  looking,  and  listening,  lone 

by  the  tent. 
At    last    he    withdrew,    and    night 

closed  as  he  went. 


146 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


FROM  the  river  Euphrates,  the  river  whose  source  is  in  Paradise,  far 
As  red  Egypt,— sole  lord  of  the  land  and  the  sea,  'twixt  the  home  of  the  star 
That  is  born  in  the  blush  of  the  East,  and  the  porch  of  the  chambers  of  rest 
Where  the  great  sea  is  girded  with  fire,  and  Orion  returns  in  the  West, 
And  the  ships  come  and  go  in  grand  silence,— King  Solomon  reigned.     And 

behold, 

In  that  time  there  was  everywhere  silver  as  common  as  stones  be,  and  gold 
That  for  plenty  was  'counted  as  silver,  and  cedar  as  sycamore  trees 
That  are  found  in  the  vale,  for  abundance.     For  GOD  to  the  King  gave  all  these 
With  glory  exceeding  ;  moreover  all  kings  of  the  earth  to  him  came, 
Because  of  his  wisdom,  to  hear  him.     So  great  was  King  Solomon's  fame. 

And  for  all  this  the  King'ssoul  was  sad.    And  his  heart  said  within  him,  "Alas, 
For  man  dies !  if  his  glory  abideth,  himself  from  his  glory  shall  pass. 
And  that  which  remaineth  behind  him,  he  seeth  it  not  any  more  : 
For  how  shall  he  know  what  comes  after,  who  knoweth  not  what  went  before  ? 
I  have  planted  me  gardens  and  vineyards,  and  gotten  me  silver  and  gold, 
And  my  hand  from  whatever  my  heart  hath  desired  I  did  not  withhold : 
And  what  profit  have  I  in  the  works  of  my  hands  which  I  take  not  away  ? 
I  have  searched  out  wisdom  and  knowledge :  and  what  do  they  profit  me,  they? 
As  the  fool  dieth,  so  doth  the  wise.     What  is  gathered  is  scattered  again. 
As  the  breath  of  the  beasts,  even  so  is  the  breath  of  the  children  of  men : 
And  the  same  thing  befalleth  them  both.     And  not  any  man's  soul  is  his  own." 

This  he  thought,  ashe  sat  in  his  garden  and  watched  the  great  sun  going  down 
In  the  glory  thereof ;  and  the  earth  and  the  sky  by  the  beam  of  the  same 
Were  clothed  with  the  gladness  of  color,  and  bathed  in  the  beauty  of  flame. 
And  "Behold,"  said  the  King,  "in  a  moment  the  glory  shall  vanish!"  Even 

then. 

While  he  spake,  he  was' ware  of  a  man  drawing  near  him,  who  seemed  to  his  ken 
(By  the  hair  in  its  blackness  like  flax  that  is  burned  in  the  hemp-dresser's  shed, 
And  the  brow's  smoky  hue,  and  the  smouldering  eyeball  more  livid  than  lead) 
As  sons  of  the  land  that  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub  whose  wing 
Wraps  in  wrath  the  shut  gateways  of  Paradise.  He,  being  come  to  the  King, 
Seven  times  made  obeisance  before  him.  To  whom,  "What  art  thou,"  The 

King  cried, 

"That  thus  unanounced  to  King  Solomon  comest  ?     The  man,  spreading  wide 
The  palm  of  his  right  hand,  showed  in  it  an  apple  yet  bright  from  the  Tree 
In  whose  stem  springs  the  life  never  failing  which  Sin  lost  to  Adam,  when,  he 
Tasting  knowledge  forbidden,  found  death  in  the  fruit  of  it .  .  .  .So  doth  the 

Giver 

Evil  gifts  to  the  evil  apportion.     And  "  Hail !  let  the  King  live  forever!" 
Bowing  down  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch,  and  laughingly,  even  as  one 
Whose  meaning,  in  joy  or  in  jest,  hovers  hid  'twixt  the  word  and  the  tone, 
Said  the  stranger. "  For  lo  ye  "  (and  lightly  he  dropped  in  the  hand  of  the  King 
That  apple),  '"•  from  'twixt  the  four  rivers  of  Eden,  GOD  gave  me  to  bring 
To  his  servant  King  Solomon,  even  to  my  lord  that  on  Israel's  throne 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  147 

lie  hath  'stablisht,  this  fruit  from  the  Tree  in  whose  branch  Life  abideth :  for 

none 
Shall  taste  death,  having  tasted  this  apple." 

And  therewith  he  vanished. 

Remained 

In  the  hand  of  the  King  the  life-apple  :  ambrosial  of  breath,  golden-grained, 
Rosy-bright  as  a  star  dipt  in  sunset.     The  King  turned  it  o'er,  and  perused 
The  fruit,  which,  alluring  his  lip,  in  his  hand  lay  untasted. 

He  mused, 

"  Life  is  good  :  but  not  life  in  itself.     Life  eternal,  eternally  young, 
What  were  life  to  be  lived,  or  desired !     Well  it  were  if  a  man  could  prolong 
The  manhood  that  move's  in  the  muscles,  the  rapture  that  mounts  in  the  brain 
When  life  at  the  prime,  in  the  pastime  of  living,  led  on  by  the  train 
Of  the  jubilant  senses,  exulting  goes  forth,  brave  of  body  and  spirit, 
To  conquer,  choose,  claim,  and  enjoy  what  't  was  born  to  achieve  or  inherit. 
The  dance,  and  the  festal  procession!  the  pride  in  the  strenuous  play 
Of  the  sinews  that,  pliant  of  power,  the  will,  though  it  wanton,  obey! 
When  the  veins  are  yet  wishful,  and  in  them  the   bountiful  impulses  beat, 
When  the  lilies  of  Love  are  yet  living,  the  roses  of  Beauty  3^1  sweet : 
And  the  eye  glows  with  glances  that  kindle,  the  lip  breathes  the  warmth  that 

inspires, 

And  the  hand  hath  yet  vigor  to  seize  the  good  thing  which  the  spirit  desires ! 
O  well  for  the  foot  that  bounds  forward !  and  ever  the  wind  it  awakes 
Lifts  no  lock  from  the  forehead  yet  white,  not  a  leaf  that  is  withered  yet 

shakes 
From  the  loose  crown  that  laughs  on  young  tresses !  and  ever  the  earth  and 

the  skies 

Are  crammed  with  audacious  contingencies,  measureless  means  of  surprise  ! 
Life  is  sweet  to  the  young  that  yet  know  not  what  life  is.  But  life,  after  Youth, 
The  gay  liar,  leaves  hold  of  the  bauble,  and  Age,  with  his  terrible  truth, 
Picks  it  up,  and  perceives  it  is  broken,  and  knows  it  unfit  to  engage 
The  care  it  yet  craves.  .  .  Life  eternal,  eternally  wedded  to  Age  ! 
What  gain  were  in  that  ?    Why  should  any  man  seek  what  lie  loathes  to  pro- 
long ? 

The  twilight  that  darkens  the  eyeball :  the  dull  ear  that's  deaf  to  the  song, 
When  the  maidens  rejoice  and  the  bride  to  the  bridegroom,  with  music,  is  led: 
The  palsy  that  shakes  'neath  the  blossoms  that  fall  from  the  chill  bridal  bed. 
When  the  hand  saith  '/  did,1  not   '/  will  do^  the  heart  saith  '•It  teas,1    not 

"TwUlbe,"  • 

Too  late  in  man's  life  is  Forever, — too  late  comes  this  apple  to  me !" 
Then  the  King  rose.  And  lo,  it  was  evening.  And  leaning,  because  he  was  old, 
On  the  sceptre  that,  curiously  sculptured  in  ivory  garnished  with  gold, 
To  others  a  rod  of  dominion,  to  him  was  a  staff  for  support, 
Slow  paced  he  the  murmurous  pathways  where  myrtles,  in  court  up  to  court, 
Mixt  with  roses  in  garden  on  garden,  were  ranged  around  fountains  that  fed 
With  cool  music  green  odorous  twilights  :  and  so,  never  liffing  his  head 
To  look  up  from  the  way  he  walked  wearily,  he  to  the  House  of  his  Pride 
Reascended,  and  entered. 

In  cluster,  high  lamps,  spices,  odors,  each  side, 

Burning  inward  and  onward,  from  cinnamon  ceilings,  down  distances  vast 
Of  voluptuous  vistas,  illumined  deep  halls  through  whose  silentness  passed 
King  Solomon  sighing ;  where  columns  colossal  stood,  gathered  in  groves 
As  the  trees  of  the  forest  in  Libanus,— there  where  the  wind,  as  it  moves, 
Whispers,  4i  I  too,  am  Solomon's  servant !"— huge  trunks  hid  in  garlands  of  gold, 
On  whose  tops  the  skilled  sculptors  of  Sidon  had  granted  men's  gaze  to  behold 
How  the  phoenix  that  sits  on  the  cedar's  lone  summit  'mid  fragrance  and  fire. 


148  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


Ever  dying  and  living,  hath  loaded  with  splendors  her  funeral  pyre; 

How  the  stork  builds  her  nest  on  the  pine-top ;  the  date  from  the  palm  branch 

depends ; 

And  the  aloe's  great  blossom  bursts,  crowning  with  beauty  the  life  that  it  ends. 
And  from  hall  on  to  hall,  in  the  doors,  mute  magnificent  slaves,  watchful-eyed, 
Bowed  to  earth  as  King  Solomon  passed  them.  And,  passing,  King  Solomon 

sighed. 

And,  from  hall  on  to  hall  pacing  feebly,  the  king  mused  .  .  .  O  fair  Shulannte ! 
Thy  beauty  is  brighter  than  starlight  on  Hebron  when  Hebron  is  bright, 
Thy  sweetness  is  sweeter  than  Carmel.     The  King  rules  the  nations;  but  thou, 
Thou  rulest  the  King,  niy  Beloved." 

So  murmured  King  Solomon  low 
To  himself,  as  he  passed  through  the  portal  of  porphyry,  that  dripped,  as  he 

passed, 
From  the  myrrh-sprinkled  wreaths  on  the  locks  and  the  lintels ;  and  entered  at 

last, 

Still  sighing,  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  contrived  for  repose  and  delight, 
Where  the  beautiful  Shulamite  slumbered.     And  straightway,  to  left  and  to 

right, 

Bowing  down  as  he  entered,  the  Spirits  in  bondage  to  Solomon,  there 
Keeping  w7atch  o'er  his  love,  sank  their  swords,  spread  their  wings,  and  evan- 
ished in  air. 

The  King  with  a  kiss  woke  the  sleeper.     And,  showing  the  fruit  in  his  hand, 
"Behold!  this  was  brought  me  erewhile  by  one  coming,"  he  said,  "from  the 

land 
That  lies  under  the  sword  of    the  Cherub.      'Twas  pluckt  by  strange  hands 

from  the  Tree 

Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.     And  therefore  I  bring  it  to  thee, 
My  Beloved.     For  thou  of  the  daughters  of  women  are  fairest.     And  lo, 
I, the  King,  I  that  love  thee*  whom  men  of  man's  sous   have  called  wisest,  I 

know, 
That  in  knowledge  is  sorrow.     Much  thought  is  much  care.     In  the  beauty  of 

youth, 

Not  the  wisdom  of  age,  is  enjoyment.     Nor  spring,  is  it  sweeter,  in  truth, 
Than  winter  to  roses  once  withered.     The  garment,  though  broidered  with  gold, 
Fades  apace  where  the  moth  frets  the  fibres.     So  I,  in  my  glory,  grow  old, 
And  this  life  maketh  mine  (save  the  bliss  of  my  soul  in  the  beauty  of  thee) 
No  sweetness  so  great  now  that  greatly  unsweet  't  were  to  lose  what  to  me 
Life  prolonged,  at  its  utmost,  can  promise.     But  thine,  O  thou  spirit  of  bliss, 
Thine  is  all  that  the  living  desire, — youth,  beauty,  love,  joy  in  all  this! 
And  O  were  it  not  well  for  the  praise  of  the  world  to  maintain  evermore 
This  mould  of  a  woman.  God's  masterwork,  made  for  mankind  to  adore? 
Wherefore  keep  thou  the  gift  I  resign.     Live  forever,  rejoicing  in  life  ! 
And  of  women  unborn  yet  the  fairest  shall  still  be  King  Solomon's  wife." 
So  he  said,  and  so  dropped  in  her  bosom  the  apple. 

But  when  he  was  gone, 

And  the  beautiful  Shulamite,  eying  the  gift  of  the  King,  sat  alone 
With  the  thoughts  the  King's  words  had  awakened,  as  ever  she  turned  and  perused 
The  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untasted — she  mused, 
u  Life  is  good  ;  but  not  life  in  itself.     So  is  youth,  so  is  beauty.     Mere  stuff 
Ar-;-  all  these  for  Love's  usance.     To  live,  it  is  well ;  but  it  is  not  enough. 
Well,  too,  to  be  fair,  to  be  young ;  but  what  good  is  in  beauty  and  youth 
If  the  lovely  and  young  are  not  surer  than  they  that  be  neither,  forsooth, 
Foung  nor  'lovely,  of  being  beloved  ?    O  my  love,  if  thou  lovest  not  me, 
Shall  I  love  my  own  life?    Am  I  fair,  if  not  fair,  Azariah,  to  thee." 
Then  she  hid  in  her  bosom  the  apple.    And  rose. 


T3E  Al>l>Lfi  OF  LIFE-  149 


And,  reversing  the  ring 
That,  inscribed  with  the  word  that  works  wonders,  and  signed  with  the  seal  of 

the  King, 

Compels  even  spirits  to  obedience— (for  she,  for  a  plaything,  erewhile 
From  King  Solomon's  awful  forefinger,  had  won  it  away  with  a  smile) — 
The  beautiful  Shulamite  folded  her  veil  o'er  her  forehead  and  eyes, 
And  unseen  from  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  unseen  through  the  long  galleries, 
Unseen  from  the  palace,  she  passed,  and  passed  down  the  city  unseen, 
Unseen  passed  the  green  garden  wicket,  the  vineyard,  the  cypresses  green, 
And  stood  by  the  doors  of  the  house  of  the  Prince  Azariah.     And  cried, 
In  the  darkness  she  cried, — "Azariah,  awaken  !  ope,  ope  to  me  wide! 
Ope  the  door,  ope  the  lattice!     Arise!     Let  me  in,  O  my  love!     It  is  I. 
I,  the  bride  of  King  Solomon,  love  thee.     Love,  tarry  not.     Love,   shall  I  die 
At  thy  doors  ?    I  am  sick  of  desire.     For  my  love  is  more  comely  than  gold. 
More  precious  to  me  is  my  love  than  the  throne  of  a  king  that  is  old. 
Behold,  I  have  passed  through  the  city,  unseen  of  the  watchmen.     I  stand 
By  the  doors  of  the  house  of  my  love,  till  my  love  lead  me  in  by  the  hand." 
Azariah  arose.     And  unbolted  the  door  to  the  fair  Shulamite. 
"O  my  queen,  what  dear  folly  is  this,  that  hath  led  thee  alone,  and  by  night, 
To  the  house  of  King  Solomon's  servant  ?     For  lo  you,  the  watchmen  awake. 
And  much  for  my  own,  O  my  queen,  must  I  fear,  and  much  more  for  thy  sake. 
For  at  that  which  is  done  in  the  chamber  the  leek  on  the  house-top  shall  peep 
And  the  hand  of  a  king  it  is  heavy  :  the  eyes  of  a  king  never  sleep  : 
But  the  bird  of  the  air  beareth  news  to  the  king,  and  the  stars  of  the  sky 
Are  as  soldiers  by  night  on  the  turrets.     I  fear,  O  my  queen,  lest  we  die." 
"Fear  thou  not,  O  my  love  !     Azariah,  fear  nothing.     For  lo,  what  I  bring! 
'Tis  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  that  in  Paradise  GOD  hideth  under  the  wing 
Of  the  Cherub  that  chased  away- Adam.     And  whoso  this  apple  doth  eat 
Shall  live— live  forever  I     And  since  unto  me  my  own  life  is  less  sweet 
Than  thy  love,  Azariah,  (sweet  only  my  life  is  if  thou  lovest  me!) 
Therefore  eat !  Live,  and  love,  for  life's  sake,  still,  the  love  that  gives  life  unto 

thee!" 
Then  she  held  to  his  lips  the  life-apple,  and  kissed  him. 

But  soon  as  alone, 

Azariah  leaned  out  from  his  lattice,  he  muttered,  "'Tis  well !  She  is  gone." 
While  the  fruit  in  his  hand  lay  untasted.   "Such  visits,"  he  mused,  "may  cost 

dear. 
In  the  love  of  the  great  is  great  danger,  much  trouble,   and  care  more  than 

cheer." 
Then  he  laughed  and  stretched  forth  his  strong  arms.  For  he  heard  from  the 

streets  of  the  city 

The  song  of  the  women  that  sing  in  the  doors  after  dark  their  love  ditty, 
And  the  clink  of  the  wine  cup,  the  voice  of  the  wanton,  the  tripping  of  feet, 
And  the  laughter  of  youths  running   after,    allured  him.        And  "£(/fe  #  & 

sweet 

While  it  lasts,"  sang  the  women,  and  sweeter  the  good  minute,  in  that  it  goes. 
For  who,  if  the  rose  bloomed  forever,  so  greatly  would  care  for  the  rose? 
Wherefore  haste!  pluck  the  time  in   the  blossom.'"  The   prince   mused,    "The 

counsel  is  well." 

And  the  fruit  to  his  lips  he  uplifted  :  yet  paused.      "  Who  is  he  that  can  tell 
What  his  days  shall  bring  forth  ?  Live  forever  .  .  .  But  Avhat  sort  of  life  ?    Ah, 

the 'doubt!"  ; 

'Neath  his  cloak  then  he  thrust  back  the  apple.  And  opened  the  door  and  passed 

out 

To  the  house  of  the  harlot  Egyptian.     And  mused  as  he  went,  "  Life  is  good  : 
But  not  life  iu  itself.     It  is  well  while  the  wine-cup  is  hot  in  the  blood, 


ISO  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFJS. 


And  a  man  goeth  whither  he  listeth,  and  doeth  the  thing  that  he  will, 

And  liveth  his  life  as  he  lusteth,  and  taketh  in  freedom  his  fill 

Of  the  pleasure  that  pleaseth  his  humor,  and  feareth  no  snare  by  the  way. 

Shall  I  care  to  be  loved  by  a  queen,  if  my  pride  with  my  freedom  I  pay? 

Better  far  is  a  handful  in  quiet  than  both  hands,  though  filled  to  o'erflow, 

With  pride,  in  vexation  of  spirit.     And  sweeter  the  roses  that  blow 

From  the  wild  seeds  the  wind,  where  he  wanders,  with  heedless  beneficence 

flings, 

Than  those  that  are  guarded  by  dragons  to  brighten  the  gardens  of  kings. 
Let  a  man  take  his  chance,  and  be  happy.     The  hart  by  the  hunter  pursued, 
That  far  from  the  herd  on  the  hill-top  bounds  swiftly  through  the  blue  solitude- 
Is  more  to  be  envied,  though  Death  with  his  dart  follow  fast  to  destroy, 
Than  the  tame  beast  that  pent  in  the  paddock,  tastes  neither  the  danger  nor 


Of  the  mountain,  and  all  its  surprises.     The  main  thing  is,  not  to  li-ve  long, 
But  to  live.       Better  moments  of  rapture  soon  ended  than  ages  of  wrong. 
Life's  feast  is  best  spiced  by  the  flavor  of  death  in  it.     Just  the  one  chance 
To  lose  it  to-morrow  the  life  that  a  man  lives  to-day  doth  enhance. 
That  may-be  for  me,  not  the  must-be  I      Best  flourish   while  flourish   the 

flowers, 

And  fall  ere  the  frost  falls.  The  dead,  do  they  rest  or  arise  with  new  powers  ? 
Either  way,  well  for  them.     Mine,  meanwhile,  be  the  cup  of  life's  fullness  to- 

night. 
And  to-morrow  .  .  .  Well,  time  to  consider"  (he  felt  at  the  fruit).     "  What  de- 

light 

Of  his  birthright  had  Esau,  when  hungry  ?    To-day  with  its  pottage  is  sweet. 
For  a  man  cannnot  feed  and  be  full  on  the  faith  of  to-morrow's  baked  meat. 
Open  !  open,  my  dark-eyed  beguiler  of  darkness!" 

Up  rose  to  his  knock, 

Light  of  foot,  the  lascivious  Egyptian,  and  lifted  the  latch  from  the  lock, 
And  opened.     And  led  in  the  prince  to  her  chamber,  and  shook  out  her  hair, 
Dark,  heav}%  and  humid  with  odors  ;  her  bosom  beneath  it  laid  bare, 
And  sleek  sallow  shoulder  ;  and  sloped  back  her  face,  as,  when  falls  the  slant 

South 
In  wet  whispers  of  rain,  flowers  bend  back  to  catch  it  ;   so  she,  with  shut 

mouth 
Half-unfolding  for  kisses;    and  sank,  as  they  fell,  'twixt  his  knees,   with  a 

laugh,  [half 

On  the  floor,  in  a  flood  of  deep  hair  flung  behind  her  full  throat  ;  held  him 
Aloof  with  one  large,  languid  arm,  while  the  other  uppropped,  where  she  la}r, 
Limbs  flowing  in  fullness  and  lucid  in  surface  as  waters  at  play, 
Though  in  firmness  as  slippery  marble.     Anon  she  sprang  loose  from  his  clasp, 
And  whirled  from  the  table  a  flagon  of  silver  twined  round  by  an  asp 
That  glittered,—  rough  gold  and  red  rubies;  and  poured  him,  and  praised  him, 

the  wine 
Wherewith  she  first  brightened  the  moist  lip  that  murmured,  "Ha,  fool!  art 

thou  mine  ? 
I  am  thine.     This  will  last  for  an  hour."    Then,  humming  strange  words  of  a 

song, 
Sung  by  maidens  in  Memphis  the  old,  when  they  bore  the  Crowned  Image 

along, 

Apples  yellow  and  red  from  a  basket  with  vine-leaves  o'erlaid  she  'gan  take, 
And  played  with,  peeled,  tost  them,  and  caught  them,  and  bit  them,  for  idle- 

ness' sake  ; 
But  the  rinds  on  the  floor  she  flung  from  her,  and  laughed  at  the  figures  they 

made, 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  151 

As  her  foot  pusht  them  this  way  and  that  way  together.     And  "  Look,  fool," 
she  said,  [stain! 

"It  is  all  sour  fruit,  this!  But  those  I  fling  from  me, — see  here  by  the 
Shall  carry  the  mark  of  my  teeth  in  their  flesh.  Could  they  feel  but  the  pain, 
O  my  soul,  how  these  teeth  should  go  through  them  1  Fool,  fool,  what  good 

gift  dost  thou  bring  ? 

For  thee  have  I  sweetened  with  cassia  my  chambers."  "  A  gift  for  a  king," 
"Azariah  laughed  loud ;  and  tost  to  her  the  apple.  "This  comes  from  the  Tree 
Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.  I  care  not.  I  give  it  to  thee.  [my  purse 
Nay,  witch  !  't  is  worth  more  than  the  shekels  of  gold  thou  hast  charmed  from 
Take  it.  Eat,  and  thank  me  for  the  meal,  witch !  for  Eve,  thy  sly  mother, 
fared  worse,  [and  try. 

0  thou  white-toothed  taster  of  apples?"     "Thou  liest,  fool!"     "Taste,  then, 

For  the  truth  of  the  fruit's  in  the  eating.     'T  is  thou  art  the  serpent,  not  I." 
And  the  strong  man  laughed  loud  as  he  pushed  at  her  lip  the  life-apple.     She 

caught  [naught. 

And  held  it  away  from  her,  and  musing ;  and  muttered  ..."  Go  to !  It  is 
Fool,  why  dost  thou  laugh?'  And  he  answered,  "Because,  witch,  it  tickles 

my  brain 

Intensely  to  think  that  all  we,  that  be  Something  while  yet  we  remain, 
We,  the  princes  of  people, — ay,  even  the  King's  self, — shall  die  in  our  day, 
And  thou,  that  art  Nothing,  shaltsit  on  our  graves,  with  our  grandsons,  and  play." 
So  he  said,  and  laughed  louder. 

But  when,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  he  was  gone, 

And  the  wan  light  waxed  large  in  the  window,  as  she  on  her  bed  sat  alone, 
With  the  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untasted,  perusing, 
Perplext,  the  gay  gift  of  the  Prince,  the  dark  woman  thereat  fell  a  musing, 
And  she  thought .  .  .  "What  is  Life  without  Honor?    And  what  can  the  life 

that  I  live 

Give  to  me,  I  shall  care  to  continue,  not  caring  for  aught  it  can  give  ? 
I,  despising  the  fools  that  despise  me, — a  plaything  not  pleasing  myself, — 
Whose  life,  for  the  pelf  that  maintains  it,  must  sell  what  is  paid  not  by  pelf! 

1  ?  .  .  .  the  man  called  me  Nothing.     He  said  well.     '  The  great  in  their  glory 

must  go.'. 

And  why  should  I  linger,  whose  life  leadeth  nowhere  ?— a  life  which  I  know 
To  name  is  to  shame — struck,  unsexed,  by  the  world  from  its  lists  of  the  lives 
Of  the  women  whose  womanhood,  saved,  gets  them  leave  to  be  mothers  and 

wives. 

And  the  fancies  of  men  change.     And  bitterly  bought  is  the  bread  that  I  eat  : 
For,  though  purchased  with  body  and  spirit,  when  purchased  't  is  yet  all  un. 

sweet."  [rest! 

Her  tears  fell:  they  fell  on  the  apple.     She  sighed  ..."  Sour  fruit,  like  the 
Let  it  go  with  the  salt  tears  upon  it.     Yet  life  ...  it  were  sweet  if  possessed 
In  the  power  thereof,  and  the  beauty.     '  A  gift  for  a  king'  ...  did  he  say  ? 
Aye,  a  king's  life  is  a  life  as  it  should  be, — a  life  like  the  light  of  the  day, 
Wherein  all  that  liveth  rejoiceth.     For  is  not  the  King  as  the  sun 
That  shineth  in  heaven  and  seemeth  both  heaven  and  itself  all  in  one  ? 
Then  to  whom  may  this  fruit,  the  life-giver,  be  worthily  given?    Not  me. 
Nor  the  fool  Azariah  that  sold  it  for  folly.     The  King!' only  he, — 
Only  he  hath  the  life  that's  worth  living  forever.     Whose  life,  not  alone 
Is  the  life  of  the  King,  but  the  life  of  the  many  made  mighty  in  one. 
To  the  King  will  I  carry  this  apple.     And  he  (for.  the  hand  of  a  king 
Is  a  fountain  of  hope)  in  his  handmaid  shall  honor  the  gift  that  I  bring 
And  men  for  this  deed  shall  esteem  me,  with  Raliab  by  Israel  praised, 
As  first  among  those  who,  though  lowly,  their  shame  into  honor  have  raised : 


152  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


Such  honor  as  lasts  when  life  goes,  and  while  life  lasts,  shall  lift  it  above 
What;  if  loved  by  the  many  I  loathe,  must  be  loathed  by  the  few  I  could  love.' 

So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  through  the  city.     And  with  her  the  apple  she  bore 
In  her  bosom  :     and  stood  'mid  the  multitude,  waiting  therewith  in  the  door 
Of  the  hall  where  the  King,    to  give  judgment,    ascended  at  morning  his 

throne : 

And,  kneeling  there,  cried,   "Let  the  King  live  forever!     Behold,  I  am  one 
Whom  the  vile  of  themselves  count  the  vilest.     But  great  is  the  grace  of  my 

lord. 

And  now  let  my  lord  on  his  handmaid  look  down,  and  give  ear  to  her  word." 
Thereat,  in  the  witness  of  all,  she  drew  forth,  and  (uplifting  her  head) 
Showed  the  Apple  of  Life,  which  who  tastes,  tastes  not  death.     "And  this 

apple,"  she  said, 

"Last  night  was  delivered  to  me,  that  thy  servant  should  eat,  and  not  die. 
But  I  said  to  the  soul  of  thy  servant,  '  Not  so.     For  behold,  what  am  I  ? 
That  the  King,  in  his  glory  and  gladness,  slwuld  cease  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Whiles  I,  that  am  least  of  his  slaves,  in  my  shame  and  abasement  live  on.' 
For  not  sweet  is  the  life  of  thy  servant,  unless  to  thy  servant  my  lord 
Stretch  his  hand,  and  show  favor.     For  surely  the  frown  of  a  king  is  a  sword, 
But  the  smile  of  the  King  is  as  honey  that  flows  from  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
And  his  grace  is  as  dew  that  from  Horeb  descends  on  the  heads  of  the  flock  : 
In  the  King  is  the  heart  of  a  host :  the  King's  strength  is  an  army  of  men : 
And  the  wrath  of  the  King  is  a  lion  that  roareth  by  night  from  his  den : 
But  as  grapes  from  the  vines  of  En-Gedi  are  favors  that  fall  from  his  hands, 
And  as  towers  on  the  hill-tops  of  Shenir  the  throne  of  King  Solomon  stands. 
And  for  this,  it  were  well  that  forever  the  King,  who  is  many  in  one, 
Should  sit,  to  be  seen  through  all  time,  on  a  throne  'twixt  the  moon  and  the 

sun  I 
For  how  shall  one  lose  what  he  hath  not?    Who  hath,  let  him  keep  what  he 

hath. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  King  give  this  apple." 

Then  great  was  King  Solomon's  wrath. 
And  he  rose,  rent  his  garment,  and  cried,  ' '  Woman,  whence  came  this  apple 

tothee?" 

But  when  he  was  'ware  of  the  truth,  then  his  heart  was  awakened.  And  he 
Knew  at  once  that  the  man  who,  ere  while,  unawares  coming  to  him,  had 

brought 

That  Apple  of  Life  was,  indeed,  GOD'S  good  Angel  of  Death.  And  he  thought 
"In  mercy,  I  doubt  not,  when  man's  eyes  were  opened,  and  made  to  see  plain 
All  the  wrong  in  himself,  and  the  wretchedness,  GOD  sent  to  close  them  again 
For  man's  sake,  his  last  friend  upon  earth — Death,  the  servant  of  GOD,  who  is 

just. 
Let  man's  spirit  to  Him  whence  it  corneth  return,  and1  his  dust  to  the  dust!" 

Then  the  Apple  of  Life  did  King  Solomon  seal  in  ah  urn  that  was  signed 
With  the  seal  of  Oblivion :  and  summoned  the  Spirits  that  walk  in  the  wind 
Unseen  on  the  summits  of  mountains,  where  never  the  eagle  yet  flew  ; 
And  these  he  commanded  to  bear  far  away, — out  of  reach,  out  of  view, 
Out  of  hope,  out  of  memory, — higher  than  Ararat  buildeth  his  throne, 
In  the  Urn  of  Oblivion  the  Apple  of  Life. 

But  on  green  jasper-stone 

Did  the  King  write  the  story  thereof  for  instruction.     And  Enoch,  the  seer, 
Coming  afterward,  searched  out  the  meaning.     And  he  that  haih  ears  let  him 
hear. 


THE    WANDERER. 

• 

DEDICATION. 
TO    J.    F. 


As  in  the  laitrel's  murmurous  leaves 
'Twas  fabled,  once,  aVirgin  dwelt; 
Within  the  poet's  page  yet  heaves 
The  poet's  Heart,  and  loves  or  grieves 
Or  triumphs,  as  it  felt. 

A  human  spirit  here  records 

The  annals  of  its  human  strife. 
A  human  hand  hath  touched  these  chords. 
These  songs  may  all  be  idle  words : 
And  yet— they  once  were  life. 

I  gave  my  harp  to  Memory 

She  sung  of  hope,  when  hope  was  young, 
Of  youth,  as  youth  no  more  may  be ; 
And,  since  she  sung  of  youth,  to  thee, 
Friend  of  my  youth,  she  sung. 

For  all  youth  seeks,  all  manhood  needs, 

All  youth  and  manhood  rarely  find  : 
A  strength  more  strong  than  codes  or  creeds, 
In  lofty  thoughts  and  lovely  deeds 
Revealed  to  heart  and  mind ; 

A  staff  to  stay,  a  star  to  guide  ; 

A  spell  to  soothe,  a  power  to  raise  ; 
A  faith  by  fortune  firmly  tried  ; 
A  judgement  resolute  to  preside 
O'er  days  at  strife  with  days. 

O  large  in  lore,  in  nature  sound ! 
*O  man  to  me,  of  all  men,  dear! 
All  these  in  thine  my  life  hath  found, 
And  forced  to  tread  the  rugged  ground 
Of  daily  toil,  with  cheer. 

Accept — not  these,  the  broken  cries 

Of  days  receding  far  from  me — 
But  all  the  love  that  in  them  lies, 
The  man's  heart  in  the  melodies, 
The  man's  heart  honoring  thee  ! 

Sighing  I  sung ;  for  some  sublime 

Emotion  made  my  music  jar  : 
The  forehead  of  this  restless  time 
Pales  in  a  fervid,  passionate  clime, 
Lit  by  a  changeful  star  ; 

And  o'er  the  Age's  threshold,  traced 
In  chai'acters  of  hectic  fire, 


The  name  of  that  keen,  fervent-faced 

And  toiling  seraph,  hath  been  placed, 

Which  men  have  called  Desire, 

But  thou  art  strong  where,  even  of  old, 

The  old  heroic  strength  was  rare, 
In  high  emotions  self-controlled, 
And  insight  keen,  but  never  cold, 
To  lay  all  falsehood  bare ; 

Despising  all  those  glittering  lies 

Which  in  these  days  can  fool  mankind ; 
But  full  of  noble  sympathies 
For  what  is  genuinely  wise, 
And  beautiful,  and  kind, 

And  thou  wilt  pardon  all  the  much 

Of  weakness  which  doth  here  abound, 
Till  music,  little  prized  as  such, 
With  thee  find  worth  with  one  true  touch 
Of  nature  in  its  sound. 

Though  mighty  spirits  are  no  more, 
Yet  spirits  of  beauty  still  remain. 
Gone  is  the  Seer  that,  by  the  shore 
Of  lakes  as  limpid  as  his  lore, 
Lived  to  one  ceaseless  strain 

And  strenuous  melody  of  mind. 

But  one  there  rests  that  hath  the  power 
To  charm  the  midnight  moon,  and  bind 
All  spii'its  of  the  sweet  south-wind, 
And  steal  from  every  shower 

That  sweeps  from  England  cool  and  clear, 

The  violet  of  tender  song. 
Great  Alfred  !  long  may  England's  ear 
His  music  fill,  his  name  be  dear 
To  English  bosoms  long  ! 

And  one  ...  in  sacred  silence  sheathed 

That  name  I  keep,  my  verse  would  sham*. 
The  name  my  lips  in  prayer  first  breathed 
Was  his :  and  prayer  hath  yet  bequeathed 
Its  silence  to  that  name  ; 

Which  yet  an  age  remote  shall  hear, 

Borne  on  the  fourfold  wind  sublime 
By  Fame,  where,  with  some  faded  year 
These  songs  shall  sink,  like  leaflets  sere, 
In  avenues  of  Time. 


THE  WANDEEEli. 


And  Childhood  steals,  with  wistful  grace, 

'Twixt  him  and  me  ;  an  infant  hand 
Chides  gently  back  the  thoughts  that  chase 
The  forward  hour,  and  turns  my  face 
To  that  remembered  land 

Of  legend,  and  the  Summer  sky, 

And  all  the  wild  Welsh  waterfalls, 
And  haunts  where  he,  and  thou.  and  I 
Once  waridei-ed  with  the  wandering  Wye, 
And  scaled  the  airy  Avails 

Of  Chepstow,  from  whose  ancient  height 

We  watched  the  liberal  sun  go  down  ; 
Then  onward,  through  the  gradual  night, 
Till,  ere  the  moon  was  fully  bright, 
We  supped  in  Monmouth  Town. 

And  though,  dear  friend,  thy  love  retains 

The  choicest  sons  of  song  in  fee, 
Tothee  not  less  I  pour  these  strains, 
Knowing  that  in  thy  heart  remains 
A  little  place  for  me. 

Nor  wilt  thou  all  forget  the  time 
Though  it  be  past,  in  which  together, 


On  many  an  eve,  with  many  a  rhyme 
Of  old  and  modern  bards  sublime 

We  soothed  the  summer  weather : 

And.  citing  all  he  said  or  sxmg 

With  pi-aise  reserved  for  bards  like  him, 
Spake  of  that  friend  who  dwells  among 
The  Appennine,  and  there  hath  strung 
A  harp  of  Anakim ; 

Than  whom  a  mightier  master  never 

Touched  the  deep  chords  of  hidden  things  ; 
Nor  error  did  from  ti'uth  dissever 
With  keener  glance  :  nor  made  endeavor 
To  rise  on  bolder  wings. 

In  those  high  regions  of  the  soul 

Where  thought  itself  grows  dim  with  awe. 
But  now  the  star  of  eve  hath  stole 
Through  the  dim  sunset,  and  the  whole 
Of  heaven  begins  to  draw 

The  darkness  round  me,  and  the  dew. 

And  my  pale  Muse  doth  fold  her  eyes. 
Adieu,  my  friend  ;  my  guide,  adieu  ! 
May  never  night,  'twixt  me  and  you, 
With  4houghts  less  fond  arise ! 

THE  AUTHOR. 

FLORENCE,  September  24,  1857. 


PEOLOGUE. 


PAKT   I. 


Sweet  are  the  rosy  memories  of  the 

lips, 
That  first  kissed  ours,  albeit  they  kiss 

no  more : 

Sweet  is  the  sight  of  sunset  sailing  ships, 
Although  they  leave  us  on  a  lonely 

shore : 
Sweet  are  familiar  songs,   tho'  Music 

dips 
Her  hollow  shell  in  Thought's  for- 

lornest  wells : 
And  sweet,   though  sad,   the  sound 

of  midnight  bells, 

When  the  oped   casement   with    the 
night-rain  drips. 

There  is  a  pleasure  which  is  born  of 

pain  : 

The  grave  of  all  things  hath  its  vio- 
let. 

Else  why,  through  days  which  never 
come  again, 


Roams  Hope  with  that  strange  long. 

ing,  like  Regret? 
"Why  put  the  posy  in  the  cold  dead 

hand? 
Why  plant  the  rose  above  the  lonely 

grave  ? 
Why  bring  the  corpse  across  the  salt 

sea-wave  ? 

Why  deem    the  dead  more    near  in 
native  land  ? 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  silence  in  my 

life  [now. 

So  long,    it    falters  upon  language 

O  more  to  me  than  sister  or  than  wife 

Once  .  .  .  and  now — nothing  !     It  is 

hard  to  know 
That  such  things  have  been,  and  are 

not,  and  yet 
Life  loiters,  keeps  a  pulse  at  even 

measure, 
And  goes  upon  its  business  and  its 

pleasure, 

And  knows  not  all  the  depths  of  its  re- 
gret. 


PROLOG TTE. 


155 


Thou  art  not  in  thy  picture,  O  my 

friend ! 
The  years  are  sad  and  many  since  I 

saw  thee, 
And  seem  with  me  to  have  survived 

their  end. 
Far  otherwise  than  thus  did  memory 

draw  thee 
I  ne'er  shall  know  thee  other  than  thou 

wast. 
Yet  save,  indeed,  the  same  sad  eyes 

of  old, 

And  that  abundant  hair's  warm  silk- 
en gold, 

Thou  art  changed,  if  this  be  like  the 
look  thou  hast. 

Changed!     There   the  epitaph   of  all 

the  years 
Was  sounded  !     I  am  changed  too. 

Let  it  be. 

Yet  is  it  sad  to  know  my  latest  tears 
Were  faithful  to  a  memory,— not  to 

thee. 
Nothing  is  left  us !  nothing— save  the 

soul. 
Yet  even  the  immortal  in  us  alters 

too. 

Who  is  it  his  old  sensations  can  re- 
new ? 

Slowly  the  seas  are  changed.     Slow 
ages  roll 

The    mountains  to  a  level.      Nature 

sleeps, 
And  dreams  her  dream,  and  to  new 

work  awakes 

After  a  hundred  years  are  in  the  deeps. 
But  Man  is  changed  before  a  wrinkle 

breaks 
The  brows  sereneness,  or  the  curls  are 

gray. 
We  stand  within  the  flux  of  sense : 

the  near 
And  far  change  place  :  and  we  see 

nothing  clear. 

That's  false  to-morrow  which  was  true 
to-day. 

Ah,  could  the  memory  cast  her  spots, 

as  do 
The  snake's  brood  theirs  in  spring ! 

and  be  once  more        *  ' 
Wholly  renewed,  to  dwell  i'  the  time 

that's  new, 

With  no  reiterance  of  those  pangs  of 
yore. 


Peace,  peace  !     My  wild  song  will  go 

wandering 
Too  wantonly  down  paths  a  private 

pain 
Hath   trodden  bare.     What  was  it 

jarred  the  strain  ? 

Some  crusht  illusion,  left  with  crump- 
led wing 

Tangled    in    Music's  web  of    twined 

strings 
That    started   that  false  note,    and 

cracked  the  tune 

In  its  beginning.     Ah,  forgotten  things 
Stumble  back  strangely!     And  the 

ghost  of  June 
Stands  by  December's  fire,  cold,  cold ! 

and  puts 
The  last  spark  out. 

How  could  I  sing  aright 
With  those  old  airs  haunting  me  all 

the  night 

And  those  old  steps  that  sound  when 
daylight  shuts  ? 

For  back  she   comes,  and  moves  re- 
proachfully, 
The  mistress  of    my    moods,    and 

looks  bereft 
(Cruel  to  the  last !)  as  though 't  were  I, 

not  she, 
That  did  the  wrong,  and  broke  the 

spell,  and  left 
Memory  comfortless. 

Away!  away! 
Phantoms,   about  whose   brows  the 

bindweed  clings. 
Hopeless  regret ! 

In  thinking  of  these  things 
Some  men  have  lost  their  minds,  and 
others  may. 

Yet,  O,  for  one  deep  draught  in  this 

dull  hour ! 

One  deep,  deep  draught  of  the  de- 
parted time ; 
O,  for  one  brief  strong  pulse  of  ancient 

power, 
To  beat  and  breathe  through  all  the 

valves  of  rhyme ! 
Thou,    Memory,    with  the  downward 

eyes,  that  art 
The  cupbearer  of  gods,  pour  deep 

and  long, 

Brim  all  the  vacant  chalices  of  song 
With  health  !     Droop  down  thine  urn. 
I  hold  my  heart. 


156 


THE  WANDERER. 


One  draught  of  what  I  shall  not  taste 

again, 
Save  when  my  brain  with  thy  dark 

wine  is  brimmed, — 
One  draught!    and  then  straight  on- 
ward, spite  of  pain, 
And  spite    of    all  things  changed, 

with  gaze  undimmed, 
Love's  footsteps  through  the  waning 

Past  to  explore 
Undaunted:    and  to  carve,    in  the 

wan  light 
Of  Hope's  last  outposts,  on  Song's 

utmost  height 

The  sad  resemblance  of  an  hour  no 
more. 

Midnight,  and  love,    and  youth,   and 

Italy ! 

Love  in  the  land  where  love  most 

lovely  seems !  [thee, 

Land  of  my  love,  though  I  be  far  from 

Lend,   for  love's  sake,  the  light  of 

thy  moonbeams, 

The  spirit  of  thy  cypress  groves,  and  all 
Thy  dark-eyed  beauty,  for  a  little 

while 
To  my  desire.    Yet  once  more  let 

her  smile 

Fall  o'er  me  :  o'er  me  let  her  long  hair 
fall, 

The  lady  of  my  life,  whose  lovely  eyes 
Dreaming,  or  waking,  lure  me.     I 

shall  know  her 
By  Love's  own  planet  o'er  her  in  the 

skies, 
And  Beauty's  blossom  in  the  grass 

below  her ! 

Dreaming,  or  waking,  in  her  soft,  sad 

gaze  [night 

Let  my  heart  bathe,  as  on  that  fated 

I  saw  her,  when  my  life  took  in  the 

sight 

Of  her  sweet  face  for  all  its  nights  and 
days. 

Her  winsome  head  was  bare  :  and  she 

had  twined 

Through  its  rich  curls  wild  red  an- 
emones ; 

One  stream  of  her  soft  hair  strayed  un- 

confined 

Down  her  ripe  cheek,  and  shadowed 
her  deep  eyes. 

The  bunch  of  sword-grass  fell  from 
her  loose  hand. 


Her  modest  foot  beneath  its  snowy 

skirt 
Peeped,   and  the  golden  daisy  was 

not  hurt. 
Stately,  yet  slight,  she  stood,  as  fairies 

stand. 

Under  the  blessed  darkness  unreproved 
We  were  alone,  in  that  blest  hour  of 

time, 
Which  first  revealed  to  us  how  much 

we  loved, 
'Neath    the    thick    starlight.      The 

young  night  sublime 

Hung  trembling  o'er  us.     At  her  feet  I 

knelt,  [eyes, 

And  gazed  up  from  her  feet  into  her 

Her  face  was  bowed:  we  breathed 

each  other's  sighs : 

We  did  not  speak :    nor  move :    we 
looked :  we  felt. 

The    night    said    not    a    word.     The 

breeze  was  dead. 
The  leaf  lay  without  whispering  on 

the  tree, 
As  I  lay  at  her  feet.     Droopt  was  hep 

head : 
One  hand  in  mine :  and  one    still 

pensively 
Went  wandering  through  my  hair.  We 

were  together. 
How  ?  Where  ?  What  matter  ?  Some, 

where  in  a  dream, 
Drifting,  slow  drifting,  down  a  wiz, 

ard  stream  ; 

Whither?  Together:  then  what  mat- 
ter  whither? 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  clasp  her  hand : 
To  blend  with  her  love-looks  my 

own  :  no  more. 
Enough  (with  thoughts  like  ships  that 

cannot  land, 
Blown  by  faint  winds  about  a  magic 

shore) 

To  realize,  in  each  mysterious  feeling, 
The  droop  of  the  warm  cheek  so 

near  my  own  : 

The  cool  white  arm  about  my  shoul- 
der thrown  : 

Those  exquisite  frail  feet,  where  I  was 
kneeling. 

How  little  know  they  life's  divinest 

bliss, 

That  know  not  to  possess  and  yet 
refrain ! 


PROLOGUE. 


157 


Let  the  young  Psyche  roam,  a  fleeting 

kiss : — 
Grasp  it — a  few  poor  grains  of  dust 

remain. 
See  how  those   floating  flowers,    the 

butterflies, 
Hover  the  garden  through,  and  take 

no  root ! 

Desire  forever  hath  a  flying  foot. 
Free  pleasure  comes  and  goes  beneath 

the  skies. 
Close  not  thy  hand  upon  the  innocent 

j°y 

That  trusts  itself  within  thy  reach. 

It  may, 
Or  may  not,  linger.     Thou  canst  but 

destroy 
The  wing6d  wanderer.     Let  it  go  or 

stay. 
Love  thou  the  rose,  yet  leave  it  on  its 

stem. 
Think !  Midas  starved  by  turning  all 

to  gold. 
Blessed  are  those   that  spare,    and 

that  withhold. 

Because  the  whole  world  shall  be  trust- 
ed then. 

The  foolish  Faun  pursues  the  unwill- 
ing Nymph 
That  culls  her  flowers  besides  the 

precipice, 

Or  dips  her  shining  ankles  in  the  lymph: 
But,  just  when  she  must  perish  or 

be  iiis, 
Heaven  puts  an  arm  out.     She  is  safe. 

The  shore 
Gains  some  new  fountain:  or  the 

lilied  lawn 
A  rarer  sort  of  rose  :  but,  ah,   poor 

Faun! 

To  thee  she  shall  be  changed  forever- 
more. 

Chase  not  too  close  the  fading  rapture. 

Leave 

To  Love  his  long  auroras,  slowly 'seen. 
Be  ready  to  release,  as  to  receive. 
Deem    those    the    nearest,    soul   to 

soul,  between 
Whose  lips  yet  lingers  reverence  on  a 

sigh. 
Judge  what  thy  sense  can  reach  not, 

most  thine  own, 
If  once  thy  soul  hath  seized  it.    The 

unknown 
Is  life  to  love,  religion,  poetry. 


The  moon  had  set.    There  was  not  any 

light, 

Save  of  the  lonely  legioned  watch- 
stars  pale 
In  outer  air,  and  what  by  fits  made 

bright 

Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Searched   by  the  lamping  fly,  whose 

little  spark 
Went  in  and  out,  like  passion's  bash, 

ful  hope. 
Meanwhile  the  sleepy  globe  began 

to  slope 

A  ponderous  shoulder  sun  ward  through 
the  dark, 

And  the  night  passed  in  beauty  like  a 

dream. 
Aloof  in  those  dark  heavens  paused 

Destiny, 
With  her  last  star  descending  in  the 

gleam 

Of  the  cold  morrow,  from  the  emp- 
tied sky. 
The  hour,  the  distance  from  her  old 

self,  all 

The  novelty  and  loneness  of  the  place, 
Had  left  a  lovely  awe  on  that  fair 

face, 
And  all   the  land  grew  strange    ancj 

magical. 

As  droops  some  billowing  cloud  to  the 

crouched  hill, 
Heavy  with  all  heaven's  tears,  for 

all  earth's  care, 
She  drooped  unto  me,  without  force  or 

will, 

And  sank  upon  my  bosom,  murmur- 
ing there 
A    woman's    inarticulate,    passionate 

words. 

O  moment  of  all  moments  upon  earth! 
O  life's  supreme  !     How  worth,  how 

wildly  worth, 

Whole  worlds  of  flame,  to  know  this 
world  affords 

What  even  Eternity  cannot  restore  ! 
When  all  the  ends  of  life  take  hands, 

and  meet 
Hound  centers    of    sweet    fire.      Ah, 

never  more, 
Ah  never,  shall  the  bitter  with  the 

sweet 

Be  mingled  so  in  the  pale  after-years  I 
One    hour  of    life    immortal   spirits 


158 


THE   WANDERER. 


This  drains  the  world,  and  leaves 

but  weariness, 
And  parching  passion,  and  perplexing 

tears. 

Sad  is  it.  that  we  cannot  even  keep 
That  hour  to  sweeten  life's  last  toil : 

but  Youth 
Grasps  all,  and  leaves  us ,  and,  when 

we  would  weep, 
We  dare  not  let  our  tears  flow  lest, 

in  truth, 
They  fall  upon  our  work  which  must 

be  done. 
And  so  we  bind  up  our  torn  hearts 

from  breaking : 
Our    eyes  from  weeping,   and  our 

brows  from  aching : 
And  follow  the  long  pathway  all  alone. 

O    moment    of    sweet  peril,   perilous 

sweet ! 

When  woman  joins  herself  to  man  ; 

and  man  [plete 

Assumes  the  full-lived  woman,  to  com- 

The  end  of  life,  since  human   life 

began  ! 

When  in  the  perfect  bliss  of  union, 
Body  and  soul  triumphal    rapture 

claim, 
When  there's  a  spirit  in  blood,    a 

spirit  a  flame, 
And  earth's  lone  hemispheres    glow, 

fused  in  one ! 
Rare  moment  of  rare  peril !  .  .  .  The 

bard's  song, 
The  mystic's  musing  fancy.      Did 

there  ever 

Two  perfect  souls  in  perfect  forms  be- 
long 
Perfectly  to  each   other?      Never, 

never  I 

Perilous  were  such  moments,  for  a  touch 
Might  mar  their   clear    perfection. 

Exquisite 

Even  for  the  peril  of  their  frail  de- 
light. 

Such  things  man  feigns :  such  seeks  : 
but  finds  not  such. 

No !  for  'tis  in  ourselves  our  love  doth 

grow :    . 
And,'  when  our   love  is  fully  risen 

within  us, 

Round  the  first  object  doth  it  overflow, 
Which,  be  it  fair  or  foul,  is  sure  to 
win  us 


Out  of  ourselves.     We  clothe  with  our 

own  nature 
The   man   or  woman  its  first  want 

doth  find. 
The  leafless  prop  with  our  own  buds 

we  bind, 

And  hide  in  blossoms :  fill  the  empty 
feature 

With  our  own  meanings :  even  prize 

defects 
Which  keep  the  mark  of  our  own 

choice  upon 
The  chosen :    bless  each  fault   whose 

spot  protects 

Our  choice  from  possible  confusion 
With  the  world's  other  creatures :  we 

believe  them 
What  most  we  wish,  the  more  we 

find  they  are  not : 
Our  choice  once  made,  with  our  own 

choice  we  war  not : 

We  worship  them  for  what  ourselves 
we  give  them. 

Doubt  is  this  otherwise  .  .  .  When  fate 

removes 
The  unworthy  one  from  our  reluct- 

ant  arms, 
We  die  with  that  lost  love  to  other 

loves, 
And  turn  to  its  defects  from  other 

charms. 
And  nobler  forms,  where  moved  those 

forms,  may  move 

With  lingering  IOOKS  :  our  cold  fare- 
wells we  wave  them. 
We  loved  our  lost  loves  for  the  love 

we  gave  them, 

And  not  for  anything  they  gave  our 
love. 

Old  things  return  not  as  they  were  in 

Time. 
Trust  nothing  to  the  recompense  of 

Chance, 
Which  deals  with  novel  forms.     This 

falling  rhyme 

Fails  from  the  flowery  steeps  of  old 

romance,  [above, 

Down  that  abyss  which  Memory  droops 

And,    gazing    out    of    hopelessness 

down  there, 
I    see   the    shadow    creep    through 

Youth's  gold  hair 

And  white  Death  watching  over  red- 
lipped  Love. 


PROLOGUE. 


159 


PART   II. 

THE  soul  lives  on.     What  lives   on 

with  the  soul  ? 
Glimpses  of  something  better  than 

her  best ; 
Truer  than  her  truest:  motion  to  a 

pole 

Beyond  the  zones  of  this  orb's  dim- 
ness guest : 
And  (eince  life  dies  not  with  the  first 

dead  bliss) 
Blind   notions    of    some    meaning 

moved  through  time, 
Some  purpose  in  the  deeps  of  the 

sublime, 

That  stirs  a  pulse  here,  could  we  find 
out  this. 

Visions  and  noises  rouse  us.     I  dis- 
cern 
Even  in  change   some  comfort,  O 

Beloved! 
Suns  rise  and  set ;   stars  vanish  and 

return ; 
But  never  quite  the  same.      And 

life  is  moved 
Toward  new  experience.     Every  eve 

and  morn 
Descends  and  springs  with  increase 

on  the  world. 
And  what  is  death  but  life  in  this 

life  furled  ? 

The  outward   cracks,  the  inward  life 
is  born. 

Friends  pass  beyond  the  borders  of 

this  Known, 
And  draw    our  thoughts  up  after 

them.     We  say 
"  They  are:  but  their  relations  now 

are  done 
With  Nature,  and  the  plan  of  night 

and  day." 
If  never  monal  man  from  this  world's 

light 
Did  pass  away  to  that  surrounding 

gloom, 

'Twere  well  to  doubt  the  life  be- 
yond the  tomb ; 
But  now  is  Truth's  dark  side  revealed 

to  sight. 

Father  of  spirits!    Thine  all  secrets 

be. 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  light  Thou  hast 
revealed, 


And  that  Thou  hidest.     Part  of  me  I 

see, 
And  part  of  me  Thy  wisdom  hath 

concealed, 
Till   the  new  life  divulge  it.    Lord, 

imbue  me 
With  will  to  work  in  this  diurnal 

sphere, 

Knowing  myself  my  life's  day-lab- 
orer here 

Where  evening  brings  the  day's  Work's 
wages  to  me. 

I  work  my  work.     All  its  results  are 

Thine. 

I  know  the  loyal  deed  becomes  a  fact 
Which.  Thou  wilt  deal  with :  nor  will 

I  repine 

Although  I  miss  the  value  of  the  act. 
Thou  carest  for  the  creatures:   and 

the  end 
Thou  seest.     The  world  unto  Thy 

hands  I  leave ; 
And  to  Thy  hands  my  life.     I  will 

not  grieve 

Because  I  know  not  all  thou  dost  in- 
tend. 

Something  I  know.     Oft,  shall  it  come 

about 
When  every  neart  is  full  with  hope 

for  man 
The  horizon  straight  is  darkened,  and 

a  doubt 
Clouds  all.     The  work  the  world  so 

well  began 
Wastes  down,  and  by  some  deed  of 

shame  is  finished 
Ah  yet,  I  will  not  be  dismayed  :  nor 

though 
The  good  cause  flourish  fair,  and 

Freedom  flow 

All  round,  my  watch  beyond  shall  be 
diminished. 

What  seemed  the  triumph  of  the  Fiend 

at  length 
Might  be  the  effort  of  some  dying 

Devil, 
Permitted    to  put  forth    his   fullest 

strength 

To  lose  it  all  forever.  While,  the  evil 
Whose  cloven  crest  our  pagans  float 

above 
Might   have  been  less  than  what 

unnoticed  lies 

'Neath  our  rejoicings.     Which  of  us 
is  wise  ? 


160 


THE  WANDE&ER. 


We  know  not  what  we  mourn:  nor 
why  we  love. 

But  teach  me,  O  Omnipotent,  since 

strife, 

Sorrow,  and  pain  are  but  occurrences 
Of  that  condition  through  which  flows 

my  life, 
Not    part    of    me,    the    immortal, 

whom  distress 
Cannot  retain,  to  vex  not  thought  for 

these : 

But  to  be  patient,  bear,  forbear,  re- 
strain, 
And  hold  my  spirit  pure  above  my 

pain. 
No  star  that  looks  through  life's  dark 

lattices, 

But  what  gives  token  of  a  world  else- 
where. 
I   bless  Thee  for  the    loss  of  all 

things  here 
Which  proves  the  gain  to    be:   the 

hand  of  Care 
That  shades  the  eyes  from  earth, 

and  beckons  near 
The    rest    which  sweetens    all:    the 

shade  Time  throws 
On  Love's  pale  countenance,   that 

he  may  gaze 

Across  Eternity  for  better  days 
Unblinded ;    and   the  wisdom  of  all 
woes: 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  life  Thou  gavest, 

albeit 

It  hath  known  sorrow :  for  the  sor- 
row's self 
I  bless  Thee ;  and  the  gift  of  wings 

to  flee  it, 
Led  by  this  spirit  of  song,  —  this 

ministering  elf, 
That  to  sweet  uses  doth  unwind  my 

pain, 

And  spin  his  palace  out  of  poison- 
flowers, 
To  float,  an  impulse,  through  the 

live-long  hours, 

From  sky  to  sky,  on  Fancy's  glitter- 
ing skein. 

Aid  me,  sweet  Spirit,  escaping  from 

the  throng 
Of  those  that  raise  the  Corybantic 

shout, 
And   barbarous,    dissonant    cymbals 

clash  prolong, 


In  fear  lest  any  hear  the  God  cry  out, 
Now  that  the  night  resumes  her  bleak 

retreat 
In  these  dear  lands,  footing  the  un- 

wandered  waste 

Of  Loss,  to  walk  in  Italy,  and  taste 
A  little  while  of  what   was   once   so 
sweet. 

PAET  III. 

NURSE  of    an  ailing  world,  beloved 

Night! 
Our  days  are  fretful  children,  weak 

to  bear 
A  little  pain:   they  wrangle,  wound 

and  fight 
Each  other,  weep    and  sicken,  and 

despair. 
Thou,  with   thy  motherly  hand  that 

healeth  care, 
Stillest  our  little  noise:   rebukest 

one, 
Soothest    another :    blamest    tasks 

undone : 

Eef  reshest  jaded  hope ;  and  teachest 
prayer. 

Thine  is  the  mother's    sweet  hush- 
hush,  that  stills 
The  flutterings  of  a  plaintive  heart 

to  rest. 
Thine    is    the    mother's    medicining 

hand  that  fills 
Sleep's  opiate :  thine  the  mother's 

patient  breast: 

Thine,    too,    the    mother's    mute  re- 
proachful eyes, 
That  gently  look  our  angry  noise 

to  shame 
When  all  is  done :  we  dare  not  meet 

their  blame  : 

They  are   so   silent,  and  they  are   so 
wise. 

Thou  that  from  this  lone   casement, 

while  I  write, 
Seen  in  the  shadowy  upspring,  swift 

dost  post 
Without  a   sound  the  polar  star  to 

light, 

Not  idly  did  the  Chaldee  shepherds 

boast  [to  read. 

By  thy  stern  lights  man's  life  aright 

All  day  he  hides  himself  from  hid 

own  heart, 

Swaggers  and  struts,  and  plays  his 
foolish  part : 


r no  LOG  UE. 


161 


Thou  only  seest  him  as  he  is  indeed 

For  who  could  feign  false  worth,  or 

give  the  nod 

Among  his  .fellows,  or  this  dust  dis- 
own, 
With  naught  between  him  and  those 

lights  of  God, 

Left  awfully  alone  with  the  Alone  ? 
Who  vaunt  high  words,  whose  least 

heart's  beating  jars 
The  hush  of  sentinel  worlds  that 

take  most  note 
Of  all  beneath  yon  judgment  plains 

remote? — 
A  universal  cognizance  of  stars! 

And  yet,  O gentlest  angel  of  the  Lord! 

Thou  leadest  by  the  hand  the  artisan 

Away  from  work.     Thou  bringest,  on 

ship-board, 
When  gleam  the  dead-lights,  to  the 

lonely  man 

That  turns  the  wheel,  a  blessed  mem- 
ory 

Of  apple  blossoms,  and  the  moun- 
tain vales 

About  his  little  cottage  in  Green 
Wales, 

Miles  o'er  the  ridges  of  the  rolling  sea. 
Thou     bearest     divine     forgiveness 

amongst  men. 

Kelenting  Auger  pauses  by  the  bed 
Where  Sleep  look  so  like  Death.    The 

absent  then 
Return ;  and  Memory  beckons  back 

the  dead. 
Thou  helpest  home  (thy  balmy  hand  it 

is!) 
The  hard  worked  husband  to  the 

pale-cheeked  wife, 

And  hushest  up  the  poor  day's  house- 
hold strife 
On  marriage  pillows,  with  a  good-night 

kiss. 

Thou  bringest  to  the  wretched  and  for- 
lorn 

Woman,  that  dowrn  the  glimmering 
by-street  hovers, 

A  dream  of  better  days  :  the  gleam  of 

corn 

About  her  father's  field,  and  her  first 
lover's 

Grave,  long  forgotten   in   the   green 
churchyard: 

Voices,  long-stilled,  from  purer  hours, 
before 


The  rushlight,  Hope,  went  out ;  and, 

through  the  door 

Of  the  lone  garret,  when,  the  nights 
were  hard, 

Hunger,  the  wolf,  put  in  his  paw,  and 

found  her 
Sewing  the  winding-sheet  of  Youth, 

alone; 

And  griped     away  the  last  cold  com- 
forts around  her ; — 
Her  little  bed;  the  mean  clothes  she 

had  on: 
Her  mother's  picture — the  sole  saint 

she  knew: 
Till  nothing  else  was  left  for  the 

last  crust 
But  the  poor  body,  and  the  heart's 

young  trust 

In  its  own   courage :    and  so  these 
went  too. 

Home    from  the   heated  Ball  flusht 

Beauty  stands, 

Musing  beside  her  costly  couch  alone: 
But  while  she  loosens,    faint,    with 

jeweled  hands, 
The  diamonds  from  her  dark  hair, 

one  by  one, 
Thou  whisperest  in  her  empty  heart 

the  name 
Of  one  that  died  heart-broken  for 

her  sake 

Long  since,  and  all  at  once  the  coil- 
ed hell-snake 
Turns  stinging  in  his  egg, — and  pomp 

is  shame. 

Thou    comest  to  the  man    of  many 

pleasures 
Without  a  joy,  that,  soulless,  plays 

for  souls, 
Whose  lifes     a   squandered  heap  of 

plundered  treasures, 
While  listless  loitering  by,  the  mo- 
ment rolls 
From  nothing  on  to  nothing.     From 

the  shelf 
Perchance  he  takes  a  cynic  book. 

Perchance 
A  dead    flower    stains  the  leaves. 

The  old  romance 
Returns.      Ere  morn,   perchance,  he 

shoots  himself. 
Thou  comest,  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 

to  me, 

That  o'er  the  broken  wine-cup  of 
my  youth 


162 


THE    WANDERER. 


Sit  brooding  here,  and  poiiitest  silently 
To  thine  unchanging  stars.     Yes! 

yes!  in  truth, 
They  seem  more  reachless  now  than 

when  of  yore 
Above  the  promist  land  I  watcht 

them  shine, 

And  all  along  their  cryptic  serpentine 
Went  climbing  Hope,  new  planets  to 

explore. 
Not  for  the  flesh  that  fades— although 

decay 
This  thronged  metropolis  of  sense 

o'erspread : 

Not  for  the  joys  of  youth  that  fleet  away 
When   the  wise   swallows   to    the 

south  are  fled  ; 
Not  that,  beneath  the  law  which  fades 

the  flower, 
An  earthly  hope  should  wither  in 

the  cells 
Of  this  poor  earthly  house  of  life, 

where  dwells 
Unseen  the  solitary  Thinking-Power; 

But  that  where  fades  the  flower  the 

weed  should  flourish ; 
For  all  the  baffled  efforts  to  achieve 
The    imperishable   from    the    things 

that  perish, 
For    broken  vows,    and  weakened 

will,  I  grieve, 
Knowing  that  night  of  all  is  creeping 

on 
Wherein  can  110  man  work,  I  sorrow 

most 
For  what  is  gained,   and  not  for 

what  is  lost : 

Nor  moui-n  alone  what 's  undone,  but 
what's  done. 

What    light,    from    yonder  windless 

cloud  released, 
Is  widening  up  the  peaks  of    yon 

black  hills  ? 

It  is  the  full  moon  in  the  mystic  east, 
Whose  coming  half  the  unravisht 

darkness  fills 

Till  all  among  the  ribbed  light  cloud- 
lets pale, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  sapphrine 

deeps  divine, 
The  orbv'  .  splendor  seems  to  slide 

and  shine 
Aslope  the  rolling  vapors  in  the  vale. 

Abroad  the   stars'  majestic  light  is 
flung, 


And  they  fade  brightening  up  the 

steps  ot  Night. 
Cold  mysteries  of  the  midnight !  that, 

among 
The  sleeps  and  pauses  of  this  world, 

in  sight, 

Reveal  a  doubtful  hope  to  wild  Desire ; 
Which,,  hungering  for  the  sources 

of  the  suns, 
Makes  moan  beyond  the  blue  Sep- 

teiitrions, 

And  spidery  Saturn  in  his  webs  of 
fire; 

Whether  the  unconscious  destinies  of 

man 
Move  with    the    motions    of    your 

sphered  lights, 
And  his  brief  course,  foredoomed  ere 

he  began, 

Your  shining  symbols  fixed  in  reach- 
less heights, 

Or  whether  all  the  purpose  of  his  pain 
Be  shut  in  his  wild  heart  and  fever- 
ish will, 
He  knows  no  more  than  this: — that 

you  are  still, 

But  he  is  moved:  he  goes,  but  you  re- 
main. 

Fooled   was  the   human  vanity  that 

wrote 

Strange  names  in  astral  fire  on  yon- 
der pole. 
Who    and  what  were   they — in  what 

age  remote — 
That  scrawled  weak  boasts  on  yon 

sidereal  scroll* 
Orion  shines.     Now  seek  for  Nimrocl. 

Where? 

Osiris  is  a  fable,  and  no  more : 
But  Sirius  burns  as  brightly  as  of 

yore. 
There  *is  no  shade  on  Berenice's  hair. 

You  that    outlast    the    Pyramids,  as 

they 
Outlast  their  founders,  tell  us  of  our 

doom! 
You  that  see  Love  depart,  and  Error 

stray, 
And  Genius   toiling  at  a    splendid 

tomb, 
Like  those  Egyptian  slaves:  and  Hope 

deceived : 
And  Strength  still  failing  when  the 

goal  is  near : 

And  Passion  parcht :  and  Rapture 
claspt  to  Fear : 


PROLOGUE. 


163 


And  Trust  betrayed :    and    Memory 
bereaved! 

Vain    question!      Shall    some  other 

voice  declare 
What  my  soul  knows  not  of  herself  ? 

Ah  no ! . 
Dumb     patient    Monster,     grieving 

everywhere, 
Thou   answerest  nothing  which   I 

did  not  know. 
The  broken  fragments  of  ourselves 

we  seek 
In  alien  forms,  and  leave  our  lives 

behind. 
In  our  own  memories  our  graves  we 

find. 

And  wThen  we  lean  upon  our  hearts, 
they  break. 

E  seem  to  see  'mid  yonder  glimmering 

spheres 

Another  world: — not  that  our  pray- 
ers record, 
Wherein  our  God  shall  wipe  away  all 

tears, 
And  never  voice  of  mourning  shall 

be  heard; 
But    one    between    the    sunset    and 

moonrise : 
Near  night,  yet  neighboring  day  :  a 

twilit  land, 
And    peopled     by    a    melancholy 

band — 
The  souls  that  loved  and  fulled — with 

hopeless  eyes ; 
More  like  that  Hades  of  the  antique 

creeds ; — 
A    land    of    vales    forlorn,    where 

Thought  si  i all  roam 
Regretful,  void  of  wholesome  human 

deeds, 
An     endless,  homeless  pining  after 

home, 
Io  which  all  sights  and  sounds  shall 

minister 
In  vain  : — white  roses  glimmering 

all  alone 
In  an  evening  light,  and,  with  his 

haunting  tone, 

Ihe  advancing  twilight's  shard-born 
trumpeter. 

A  world  like  this  world's  worst  come 

back  again  ; 
Still  groaning  'iieath  the  burthen  of 

a  Fall : 
Eternal  longing  with  eternal  pain, 


Want  without  hope,  and  memory 

saddening  all. 

All  congregated  failure  and  despair 
Shall  wander  there,  through  some 

old  maze  of  wrong: — 
Ophelia  drowning  in  her  own  death- 
song, 

And  First-Love  strangled  in  his  gol- 
den hair. 

Ah  well,  for  those  that  overcome,  no 

doubt 
The  crowns  are  ready ;  strength  is 

to  the  strong. 
But  we — but  we — weak  hearts  that 

grope  about 
In  darkness,  with  a  lamp  that  fails 

along 
The  lengthening  midnight,  dying  ere 

we  reach 
The  bridal  doors!    O,  what  for  us 

remains, 
But  mortal    effort  with    immortal 

pains  ? 

And  yet  God  breathed  a  spirit  into 
each ! 

I  know  this  miracle  of-the   soul  is 

more 
Than  all  the  marvels  that  it  looks 

upon. 
And  we  are  kings  whose  heritage  was 

before 
The  spheres,  and  owes  no  homage  to 

the  sun. 
In  my  own  breast  a  mightier  world 

I  bear 
Than  all  those  orbs  on  orbs  about 

me  rolled ; 
Nor  are  you  kinglier,  stars,  though 

throned  on  gold, 

And  given  the  empires  of  the  mid- 
night air. 

For  I,  too,  am  undying  as  you  are. 

O  teach  me  calm,   and  teach  me 

self-control : — 
To  sphere  my  spirit  like  yon  fixe~d  star 

That  moves  not  ever  in  the  utmost 


pole, 

whirls, 


But  whirls,  and  sleeps,  and  turns  all 

heaven  one  way. 
So,    strong   as    Atlas,   should  the 

spirit  stand, 
And  turn  the  great  globe  round  in 

her  right  hand, 
For  recreation  of  her  sovereign  sway. 


164 


THE   WANDERER. 


Ah  yet!— For  all,  I  shall  not  use  my 

power, 
Nor  reign  within  the   light  of  my 

own  home, 
Till    speculation    fades,    and     that 

strange  hour 
Of  the  departing  of  the  soul  is  come  ; 


Till   all  this   wrinkled  husk  of  care 

falls  by, 
And    my  immortal    nature   stands 

upright 
In  her  perpetual  morning,  and  the 

light 
Of  suns  that  set  not  on  Eternity ! 


BOOK  I.  -  IN  ITALY. 


THE  MAGIC  LAND. 

BY  woodland  belt,  by  ocean  bar, 
The  full  south  breeze  our  foreheads 
fanned, 

And,  under  many  a  yellow  star 
We  dropped  into  the  Magic  Land. 

There,  every  sound  and  every  sight 
Means  more  than   sight  or  sound 
elsewhere ; 

Each  twilight  star  a  twofold  light; 
Each  rose  a  double  redness,  there. 

By  ocean  bar,  by  woodland  belt, 
Our  silent  course  a  syren  led, 

Till  dark  in  dawn  began  to  melt, 
Through  the  wild  wizard-work  o'er- 
head. 

A  murmur  from  the  violet  vales ! 

A  glory  in  the  goblin  dell! 
There  Beauty  all  her  breast  unveils, 

And  Music  pours  out  all  her  shell. 

We    watched,    toward   the    land    of 

dreams, 
The  fair  moon  draw  the  murmuring 

main ; 

A  single  thread  of  silver  beams 
Was  made   the  monster's  rippling 
chain. 

We  heard  far  off  the  syren's  song; 
We  caught  the  gleam  of  sea-maid's 

hair. 
The    glimmering    isles     and    rocks 

among, 

We  moved  through  sparkling  pur- 
ple air. 


Then  Morning  rose,  and  smote  from 
far, 

Her  elfin  harps  o'er  land  and  sea ; 
And  woodland  belt,  and  ocean  bar, 

To  one  sweet  note,  sighed  "Italy!" 

DESIRE. 

THE  golden  Planet  of  the  Occident 
Warm  from  his  bath  comes  up,  i' 

the  rosy  air, 

And  you  may  tell  which  way  the  Day- 
light went, 

Only  by  his  last  footsteps  shining 
there : 

For  now  he  dwells 

Sea-deep  o'  the  other  shore  of  the 

world, 
And    winds    himself    in    the    pink- 

mouthe'd  shells  ; 

Or,  with  his  dusky,  sun-dyed  Priest, 
Walks  in  the  gardens  of  the  gorgeous 

East ; 
Or  hides  in  Indian  hills ;  or  saileth 

where 

Floats,  curiously  curled, 
Leagues  out  of  sight  and  scent  of  spicy 

trees, 
The  cream. white  nautilus  on  sapphrin  e 


But  here  the  night  from  the  hill-top 

yonder 

Steals  all  alone,  nor  yet  too  soon  ; 
I  have  sighed  for,  and  sought  for,  her ; 

sadder  and  fonder 
(All  through  the  lonely  and  linger, 

ing  noon) 

Than  a  maiden  that  sits  by  the  lattice 
to  ponder 


PROLOGUE. 


TOT 


On  vows  made  in  vain,   long  since, 

under  the  moon. 

Her  dusky  hair  she  hath  shaken  free, 
And  her  tender  eyes  are  wild  with 

love  ; 

And  her  balmy  bosom  lies  bare  to  me. 
She  hath  lighted  the  seven  sweet 

Pleiads  above, 

She  is  breathing  over  the  dreaming  sea, 
She  is  murmuring  low  in  the  cedar 

grove ; 
She  hath  put  to  sleep  the  moaning 

dove 
In  the  silent  cypress-tree. 

And  there  is  no  voice  nor  whisper, — 
No  voice  nor  whisper, 

In  the  hill-side  olives  all  at  rest, 
Underneath  blue-lighted  Hesper, 

Sinking,  slowly,  in  the  liquid  west : 
For  the  night's  heart  knoweth  best 
Love  by  silence  most  exprest. 
The  nightingales  keep  mute 
Each  one  his  fairy  flute, 
Where  the  mute  stars  look  down, 
And  the  laurels  close  the  green  seaside: 
Only  one  amorous  lute 
Twa»gs  in  the  distant  town, 
From  some  lattice  opened  wide  : 
The  climbing  rose  and  vine  are  here, 

are  there. 

On  the  terrace,  around,  above  me: 
The  lone  Leda?an  *  lights  from  yon 

enchanted  air 
Look  down  upon  my  spirit,   like   a 

spirit's  eyes  that  love  me. 

How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  muse  on 

the  -mountain  height, 
Moated  in  purple  air,  and  all  alone ! 
How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  look  into 

the  light 
Of  loving  eyes,   when   loving   lips 

lean  down  unto  our  own ! 
But  there  is    no  hand  in  mine,  no 

hand  in  mine, 
Xor  any  tender  cheek  against  me 

prest ; 
0  stars  that  o'er  me  shine,  I  pine,  I 

pine,  I  pine, 
With  hopeless  fancies  hidden  in  an 

ever-hungering  breast ! 
O  whei*e,  O  where  is  she  that  should 
be  here, 

*  "  How  oft,   unwearied,  have  we  spent  the 

nights. 

Till  the  Ledspan  stars,  so  famed  for  love, 
Wondered  at  us  from  above. "—COWLKY. 


The  spirit  my  spirit  dreameth  ? 
With  the  passionate  eyes,  so  deep,  so 

dear, 
Where  a  secret  sweetness  beameth? 

0  sleepeth  she,  with  her  soft  gold  hair 
Streaming  over  the  fragrant  pillow, 

And  a  rich  dream  glowing  in  her  ripe 

cheek, 

Far  away,  I  know  not  where, 
By  lonely  shores,  where  the  tumbling 

billow 
Sounds  all  night  in  an  emerald  creek? 

Or  doth   she  lean  o'er  the  casement 

stone 
When  the  day's  dull  noise  is  done 

with, 
And  the  sceptred  spirit  remounts  alono 

Into  her  long-usurped  throne, 
By  the  stairs  the  stars  are  won  with  ? 

Hearing  the  white  owl  call 
Where  the  river  draws  through  the 

meadows  below, 
By    the    beeches    brown,  and    the 

broken  wall, 
His  silvery,  seaward  waters,  slow 

To  the  ocean  bounding  all : 

With,  here  a  star  on  his  glowing  breast, 

And,  there  a  lamp  down-streaming, 

And  a  musical  motion  towards  the  west 

Where    the    long  white  cliffs    are 

gleaming ; 
While,  far  in  the  moonlight,  lies  at 

rest 
A  great  ship,  asleep  and  dreaming? 

Or  doth  she  linger  yet 

Among  her  sisters  and  brothers, 
In  the   chamber  where  happy  faces 

are  met, 

Distinct  from  all  the  others  ? 
As  my  star  up  there,  be  it  never  so 

bright, 

No  other  star  resembles. 
Doth  she  steal  to  the  window,  and 

strain  her  sight 
(While  the  pearl   in  her  warm  hair 

trembles) 

Over  the  dark,  the  distant  night, 
Feeling   something    changed    in    her 

home  yet; 
That  old  songs  have  lost  their  old 

delight, 

And  the  true  soul  is  not  come  yet? 
Till  the  nearest  star  in  sight 
Is  drowned  in  a  tearful  light. 

1  would  that  I  were  nigh  her, 


1G6 


THE  WAXDEREE. 


"Wherever  she  rest  or  rove ! 
My  spirit  waves  as  a  spiral  fire 
In  a  viewless  wind  doth  move. 
Go  forth,  alone,  go  forth,  wild-winged 

Desire, 

Thou  art  the  bird  of  Jove, 
That  broodest  lone  by  the  Olympian 

throne ; 
And  strong  to  bear  the  thunders  which 

destroy, 
Or    fetch    the    ravisht,   flute-playing 

Phrygian  boy  ; 

Go  forth,  across  the  world,  and  find 
my  love ! 

FATALITY. 

I  HAVE  seen  her,  with  her  golden  hair, 
And  her  exquisite  primrose  face, 

And  the  violet  in  her  eyes ; 
And  my  heart  received  its  own  des- 
pair— 

The  thrall  of  a  hopeless  grace, 
And  the  knowledge  of  how  youth 

dies. 

Live  hair  afloat  with  snakes  of  gold, 
And  a  throat  as  white  as  snow, 

And  a  stately  figure  and  foot : 
And  that  faint  pink  smile,  so  sweet, 

so  cold, 
Like  a  wood  anemone,  closed  below 

The  shade  of  an  ilex  root. 
And  her  delicate  milk-white  hand  in 

mine, 

And  her  pensive  voice  in  my  ear, 
And    her  eyes    downcast  as    we 
speak.  [fine ; 

I  am  filled  with  a  rapture,  vague  and 
For  there  has  fallen  a  sparkling  tear 
Over  her  soft,  pale  cheek. 

And  I  know  that  all  is  hopeless  now. 
And  that  which  might  have  been, 
Had  she  only  waited  a  year  or 

two, 

Is  turned  to  a  wild  regret,  I  know, 
Which  will  haunt  us  both,  whatever 

the  scene, 
And  whatever  the  path  we  go. 

Meanwhile,  for  one  moment,  hand  in 

hand, 
"We  gaze  on  each  other's  eyes : 

And  the  red  moon  rises  above  us; 
We  linger  with   love    in  the  lovely 

land, — 

Italy  with  its  yearning  skies, 
And  its  white  wild  stars  that  love 
us. 


A  VISION. 

THE  hour  of  Hesperus !  the  hour  when 

feeling 
Grows  likest  memory,  and  the  full 

heart  swells 
With  pensive  pleasure  to  the  mellow 


pealing 
aful 

bells : 


Of    mournful  music    upon    distant 


The  hour  when  it  seems  sweetest  to 

be  loved, 
And  saddest  to  have  loved  in  days 

no  more. 

O  love,  O  life,  O  lovely  land  of  yore, 
Through  which,  erewhile,  these  weary 
footsteps  roved, 

Was  it  a  vision  ?     Or  Irene,  sitting, 
Lone  in  her  chamber,  on  her  snowy 

bed, 
With  listless  fingers,  lingeringly  un- 

knitting 
Her  silken  bodice ;  and,  with  bend-^ 

ed  head, 
Hiding  in  warm  hair,  half-way  to  her 

knee, 
Her  pearl-pale  shoulder,  leaning  on 

one  arm, 
Athwart  the  darkness,  odorous  and 

warm, 

To  watch  the  low,  full  moon  set,  pen- 
sively ? 

A  fragrant  lamp  burned  dimly  in  the 

room, 

With  scarce  a  gleam  in  either  look- 
ing-glass. 
The  mellow  moonlight,  through  the 

deep-blue  gloom, 
Did  all  along  the  dreamy  chamber 

pass, 
As  though  it  were  a  little  toucht  with 

awe 
(Being  new-come    into  that  quiet 

place 
In  such  a  quiet  way)  at  the  strange 

grace 

Of  that  pale  lady,   and  what  else  it 
saw;— 

Rare  flowers :    narcissi ;    irises,  each 

crowned  ; 

Eed  oleander  blossoms ;  hyacinths 
Flooding  faint  fragrance,  richly  curl- 
ed all  round, 

Corinthian,  cool  columnar  flowers  on 
plinths; 


X  ITALY. 


107 


Waxen  camelias,  white  and  crimson 

ones ; 
And  amber  lillies,    and  the  regal 

rose, 

Which  for  tho  breast  of  queens  full- 
scornful  grows ; 
All  pinnacled  in  urns  of  carven  bronze : 

Tables  of  inwrought  stone,  true  Flor- 
entine,— 
Olympian    circles    thronged    with 

Mercuries, 

Minervas,  little  Junos  dug  i'  the  green 
Of  ruined  Rome  ;  and  Juno's  own  rich 

eyes 

Vivid  on  peacock  plumes  Sidonian  : 
A   ribboned    lute,    young    Music's 

cradle :  books, 

Vellumed  and  claspt :  and  with  be- 
wildered looks, 

Madonna's     picture, — the    old    smile 
grown  wan. 

From  bloomed  thickets,  firefly-lamp- 
ed, beneath 

The  terrace,  fluted  cool  the  nightin- 
gale. 
In    at  the    open  window    came  the 

bren  th 

Of  many  a  balmy,  dim  "blue,  dream- 
ing vale. 
At  intervals  the  howlet's  note  came 

clear, 
Fluttering  dark  silence  through  the 

cypress  grove ; 
An  infant  breeze  from  the  elf-land 

of  Love, 

Lured  by  the  dewy  hour,  crept,  lisp- 
ing, near. 

And  now  is  all  the  night  her  own,  to 

make  it 
Or  grave  or  gay   with  throngs  of 

waking  dreams. 
Now  grows  her  heart  so  ripe,  a  sigh 

might  shake  it 
To  showers  of   fruit,  all  golden  as 

beseems 
Hesperian    growth.        Why    not,    on 

nights  like  this, 
Should  Daphne  out  from  yon  green 

laurel  slip  ? 
A  Dryad  from  the  ilex,  with  white 

hip 

Quivered  and   thonged   to   hunt  with 
Artemis  ? 

To-night,  what  wonder  were  it,  while 
such  shadows 


Are  taking  up  such  shape  on  moon- 
lit mountains, 
Such  star-flies,  kindling  o'er  low  em- 
erald meadows, 
Such  voices  floating  out  of  hillside 

fountains, 
If  some  full  face    should    from  the 

.  window  greet  her, 
Whose  eyes  should  be  new  plane- 
tary lights, 
Whoso  voice  a  well  of  liquid  love- 
delights, 

And  to  the  distance  sighingly  entreat 
berf 

EEOS. 

WHAT  wonder  that  I  loved  her  thus, 
that  night? 

The  Immortals  know  each  other  at 
first  sight, 

And  Love  is  of  them. 

In  the  fading  light 

Of  that    delicious    eve,   whose  stars 
even  yet 

Gild  the  long  dreamless  nights,  and 
cannot  set, 

She  passed  me,  through  the  silence : 
all  her  hair, 

Her  waving,  warm,  bright  hair  neg- 
lectfully 

Poured   round  her  snowy  throat  as 
without  care 

Of  its  own  beauty. 

And  when  she  turned  on  me 

The  sorrowing  light  of  desolate  eyes 
divine, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  what  our  lives 
must  be 

Henceforth.     It  lightened  on  me  then 
and  there, 

How  she  was  irretrievably  all  mine, 

I  hers, — through  time,  become  eter- 
nity. 

It  could  not  ever  have  been   other- 
wise, 

Gazing  into  those  eyes. 

And  if,  before  I  gazed  on  them,  my 

soul, 

Oblivious  of  her  destiny  had  followed, 
In  days  forever  silent,  the  control 
Of  any  beauty  less  divinely  hallowed 
Than  that  upon  her  beautiful  white 

brows, 
(The   serene  summits  of  all  earthly 

sweetness !) 


Straightway  the  records  of  all  other 

vows 

Of  idol- worship  faded  silently 
Out  of  the  folding  leaves  of  memory, 
Forever  and  forever ;    and  my  heart 

became 
Pure  white  at    once,   to  keep  in  its 

completeness, 
And  perfect  purity, 
Her  mystic  name. 

INDIAN  LOVE-SONG. 

MY  body  sleeps :  my  heart  awakes. 
My  lips  to  breathe  thy  name  are 

moved 
In    slumber's    ear:     then     slumber 

breaks ; 

And  I  am  drawn  to  thee,  beloved. 
Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me, 
Through   sleep,   through   night.     I 

hear  the  rills, 

And  hear  the  leopard  in  the  hills, 
And  down  the  dark  I  feel  to  thee. 

The  vineyards  and  the  villages 

Were  silent  in  the  vales,  the  rocks. 
I  followed  past  the  myrrhy  trees, 

And  by  the  footsteps  of  the  flocks. 
Wild  honey,  dropt  from  stone  to  stone, 

Where   bees  have    been,  my  path 
suggests. 

The  winds  are  in  the  eagles'  nests. 
The  moon  is  hid.     I  walk  alone. 

Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me 

Across  the  glimmering  wildernesses, 
And  drawest  me,  my  love,  to  thee, 

With    dove's    eyes    hidden    in  thy 

tresses. 
The  world  is  many  :  my  love  is  one. 

I  find  no  likeness  for  my  love. 

The  cinnamons  grow  in  the  grove  : 
The  Golden  Tree  grows  all  alone. 

0  who  hath   seen  her  wondrous  hair ! 

Or  seen  my  dove's  eyes  in  the  woods ! 
Or  found  her  voice  upon  the  air? 

Her  steps  along  the  solitudes  ? 
0  where  is  beauty  like  to  hers  ? 

She  draweth  me,  she  draweth  me. 

I  sought  her  by  the  incense-tree, 
And  in  the  aloes,  and  in  the  firs. 

Where  art  thou,  O  my  heart's  delight, 
With   dove's    eyes    hidden    in  thy 
locks  ? 

My  hair  is  wet  with  dews  of  night. 
My  feet  are  torn  upon  the  rocks. 


The  cedarn  scents,   the   spices,   fail 
About  me.     Strange  and  stranger 

seems 
The  path,     There  comes  a  sound  of 

streams 
Above  the  darkness  on  the  vale. 

No    trees    drop    gums ;    but    poison 

flowers 
From  rifts  and  clefts  all  round  me 

fall; 
The     perfumes     of    thy     midnight 

bowers, 

The  fragrance  of  thy  chambers,  all 
Is  drawing  me,  is  drawing  me. 

Thy  baths  prepare;    anoint  thine 

hair; 

Open  the  window :  meet  me  there  : 
I  come  to  thee,  to  thee,  to  thee ! 

Thy  lattices  are  dark,  my  own. 
Thy  doors  are  still.     My  love,  look 

out. 

Arise,  my  dove  with  tender  tone. 
The  camphor-clusters  all  about 
Are    whitening.       Dawn    breaks    si- 
lently. 

And  all  my  spirit  with  the  dawn 
Expands ;  and  slowly,  slowly  drawn, 
Through  mist  and    darkness  moves 
toward  thee. 

MOKNING  AND  MEETING. 

OXE  yellow  star,  the  largest  and  the 

last 

Of  all  the  lovely  night,  was  fading 
(As  fades  a  happy  moment  in  the 

past) 
Out  of    the   changing  east,  when, 

yet  aglow 
With  dreams  her  looks  made  magical, 

from  sleep 
I    waked;    and  oped    the   lattice. 

Like  a  rose 
All  the  red-opening  morning  'gan 

disclose 
A    ripened   light    upon    the  distant 


A  bell  was  chiming  through  the  crys- 
tal air 
From  the  high  convent-church  upon 

the  hill. 
The  folk  were  loitering  by  to  matin 

prayer. 

The  church-bell  ca^ed  me  out,  and 
seemed  to  fill 


IJV  ITALY. 


109 


The  air  with  little  hopes.      I  reached 

the  door 
Before  the  chanted  hymn  began  to 

rise, 

And  float  its  liquid  Latin  melodies 
O'er  pious  groups  about  the  marble 
floor. 

Breathless,  I  slid  among  the  kneeling 

folk. 
A  little  bell  went  tinkling  through 

the  pause 
Of   inward  prayer.     Then  forth  the 

low  chant  broke 
Among    the    gloomy    aisles,    that 

through  a  gauze 
Of  sunlight  glimmered. 

Thickly  throbbed  my  blood. 
I  saw,  dark-tressed  in  the  rose-lit 

shade, 

Many  a  little  dusk  Italian  maid, 
Kneeling    with    fervent    face    close 
where  I  stood. 

The  morning,  all  a  misty  splendor, 

shook 

Deep  in  the  mighty  window's  flame- 
lit  webs. 
It  touched  the  crowned  Apostle  with 

his  hook, 
And  brightened  where  the  sea  of 

jasper  ebbs 
About  those  Saints'  white  feet  that 

stand  serene 
Each  with  his  legend,  each  in  his 

own  hue 

Attired:    some  beryl-golden;  sap- 
phire blue 

Some :    and    some     ruby-red :     some 
emerald-green. 

Wherefrom,  in  rainbow-wreaths,  the 

rich  light  rolled 
About  the  snowy  altar,  sparkling 

clean. 
The  organ  groaned  and  pined,  then, 

growing  bold, 
Bevelled  the  cherubs'  golden  wings 

atween, 
And  in  the  light,  beneath  the  music, 

kneeled 

(As  pale  as  some  stone  Virgin  bend- 
ing solemn 
Out  of  the  red  gleam  of  a  granite 

column) 

Irene  with  claspt  hands  and  cold  lips 
sealed. 


As  one  who,  pausing  on  some  moun- 
tain height, 
Above  the  breeze  that  breaks  o'er 

vineyard  walls. 

Leans  to  the  impulse  of  a  wild  delight, 
Bows  earthward,  feels  the  hills  bow 

too,  and  falls— 
I  dropt  beside  her.  Feeling  seemed  to 

expand 
And  close :  a  mist  of  music  filled  the 

air: 
And,  when  it  ceased  in  heaven,  I  was 

aware 

That,  through  a  rapture,  I  had  toucht 
her  hand. 

THE  CLOUD. 

With  shape  to  shape,  all  day, 

And  change  to  change,  by  foreland, 

firth,  and  bay, 

The  cloud  comes  down  from  wan- 
dering with  the  wind, 
Through  gloom  and  gleam  across 

the  green  waste  seas ; 
And,  leaving  the  white  cliff  and  lone 

tower  bare 
To  empty  air, 
Slips  down  the  windless  west,  and 

grows  defined 
In  splendor  by  degrees. 
And,  blown  by  every  wind 
Of  wonder  through  all  regions  of  the 

mind, 
From  hope  to  fear,  from  doubt  to 

sweet  despite 
Changing  all  shapes,  and  mingling 

snow  with  fire, 
The  thought  of  her  descends,  sleeps 

o'er  the  bounds 
Of  passion,  grows,  and  rounds 
Its  golden  outlines  in  a  gradual  light 
Of  still  desire. 

ROOT  AND  LEAF. 

The  love  that  deep  within  me  lies 
Unmoved  abides  in  conscious  power; 

Yet  in  the  heaven  of  thy  sweet  eyes 
It  varies  every  hour. 

A  look  from  thee  will  flush  the  cheek : 
A  word  of  thine  awaken  tears: 

And,  ah,  in  all  I  do  and  speak 
How  frail  my  love  appears ! 

In  yonder  tree,  Beloved,  whose  boughs 
Are  household  both  to  earth  andhea- 


170 


THE  1YANVEREE. 


Whose  leaves  have  murmured  of  our 

vows 

To  many  a  balmy  even,         [green, 
The  branch  that  wears  the   liveliest 

Is  shaken  by  the  restless  bird; 
The  leaves   that  Highest  heaven  are 

seen, 
By  every  breeze  are  stirred : 

But  storms  may  rise,  and  thunders  roll, 
Nor  move  tlie  giant  roots  below; 

So,  from  the  bases  of  the  soul, 
My  love  for  thee  doth  grow. 

It  seeks  the  heaven,  and  trembles  there 
To  every  light  and  passing  breath ; 

But  from  the  heart  no  storm  can  tear 
Its  rooted  growth  beneath. 

WARNINGS. 

Beware,  beware  of  witchery 

And  fall  not  in  the  snare 
That  lurks  and  lies  in  wanton  eyes, 

Or  hides  in  golden  hair: 
For  the  Witch  hath  sworn  to   catch 

thee, 

And  her  spells  are  on  the  air. 
"Thou  art  fair,  fair,  fatal  fair, 
O  Irene ! 

What  is  it,  what  is  ft, 

In  the  whispers  of  the  leaves  ? 
In  the  night-wind,  when  its  bosom, 

Witli  the  shower  in  it.  grieves? 
In  the  breaking  of  the  breaker, 
As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach 

Through  the  silence  of  the  night? 

Cordelia !  Cordelia ! 
A  warning  in  my  ear — 
"Not  here!    not  here!    not  here! 
But  seek  her  yet,  and  seek  her, 
Seek  her  ever  out  of  reach. 
Out  of  reach,  and  out  of  sight ! " 
Cordelia! 

Eyes  on  mine,  when  none  can  view  me ! 
And  a  magic  murmur  through  me! 
And  a  presence  out  of  Fairyland, 
Invisible,  yet  near! 
Cordelia! 

"In  a  time  which  hath  not  been: 
In  a  land  thou  hast  not  seen: 

Thou  shalt  find  her,  but  not  now: 
Thou    shalt    meet    her,  but    not 
here": 

Cordelia!     Cordelia! 
"In  the  falling  of  the  snow: 
In  the  fading  of  the  year: 
When  the  light  of  hope  is  low, 


And  the  last  red  leaf  is  sere." 
Cordelia ! 

And  my  senses  lie  asleep,  fast  asleep, 

O  Irene ! 
In  the  chambers  of  this  Sorceress,  the 

South, 
In  a  slumber  dim  and  deep, 

She  is  seeking  yet  to  k'   p, 
Brimful  of  poisoned  perfumes, 

The  shut  blossom  of  my  youth 
O  fatal,  fatal  fair  Irene  ! 

But  the  whispering  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  night-wind,  when  it  grieves, 
And  the  breaking  of  the  breaker, 
As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach 
Through  the  silence  of  the  night, 

Cordelia  ! 

Whisper  ever  in  my  ear 
"  Not  here !  not  here  !  not  here! 
But  awake,  O  wanderer !  seek  her, 
Ever  seek  her  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach,  and  out  of  sight !" 
Cordelia  ! 

There  is  a  star  above  me 

Unlike  all  the  millions  round  it. 
There  is  a  heart  to  love  me, 
Although  not  yet  I  have  found  it. 
And  awhile, 

O  Cordelia,  Cordelia ! 
A  light  and  careless  singer, 
In  the  subtle  South  I  linger, 
While  the  blue  is  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  bloom  is  on  the  peach, 
And  the  fire-fly  on  the  night, 

Cordelia ! 

But  my  course  is  ever  norward, 
And  a  whisper  whispers  "  For- 
ward!" 

Arise,  O  wanderer,  seek  her, 
Seek  her  ever  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach  and  out  of  sight ! 
Cordelia ! 
Out  of  sight, 

Cordelia!  Cordelia! 

Out  of  reach,  out  of  sight, 
Cordelia,' 

A  FANCY. 

How  sweet  wore  life, — tliis  life,  if  we 
(My  love  and  I)   might  dwell  to- 
gether 

Here  beyond  the  summer  sea, 
In  the  heart  of  summer  weather! 

With  pomegranates  on  the  bough, 
And  with  lilies  in  the  bower  j 


IN  ITALY. 


171 


And  a  sight  of  distant  snow, 
Kosy  in  the  sunset  hour. 

And  a  little  house, — no  more 
In  state  that  suits  two  quiet  lovers; 

And  a  woodbine  round  the  door, 
Where    the    swallow    builds    and 
hovers ; 

With  a  silver  sickle-moon, 
O'er  hot  gardens,  red  with  roses : 

And  a  window  wide,  in  June, 
For  serenades  when  evening  closes : 

In  a  chamber  cool  and  simple, 

Trellised  light  from  roof  to  base- 
ment : 

And  a  summer  wind  to  dimple 

The  white  curtain  at  the  casement: 

Where,  if  we  at  midnight  wake, 
A  green  acacia-tree  shall  quiver 

In  the  moonlight,  o'er  some  lake 
Where  nightingales  sing  songs  for- 
ever. 

With  a  pine- wood  dark  in  sight ; 

And  a  bean-field  climbing  to  us, 
To  make  odors  faint  at  night 

Where  we  roam  with  none  to  view  us. 

And  a  convent  on  the  hill, 

Through  its  light  green,  olives  peep- 
ing 

In  clear  sunlight,  and  so  still, 
All  the  nuns,  you'd  say,  were  sleep- 
ing. 

Seas  at  distance,  seen  beneath 
Grated  garden-wildernesses ; — 

Not  so  far  but  what  their  breath 
At  eve  may  fan  my  darling's  tresses. 

A  piano,  soft  in  sound, 

To  make  music  when  speech  wan- 
ders, 
Poets  reverently  bound, 

O'er  whose  pages  rapture  ponders. 

Canvas,  brushes,  hues,  to  catch 

Fleeting  forms  in  vale  or  mountain  : 

And  an  evening  star  to  watch 
When    all's    still,   save  one   sweet 
fountain. 

Ah !  I  idle  time  away 

With  impossible  fond  fancies ! 
For  a  lover  lives  all  day 

In  a  land  of  lone  romances. 


But  the  hot  light  o'er  the  city 
Drops, — and  see  !  on  fire  departs. 

And  the  night  comes  down  in  pity 
To  the  longing  of  our  hearts. 

Bind  thy  golden  hair  from  falling, 
O  my  love,  my  own,  my  own  ! 

'T  is  for  thee  the  cuckoo's  calling 
With  a  note  of  tenderer  tone. 

Up  the  hillside,  near  and  nearer, 
Through   the    vine,   the    corn,  the 
flowers, 

Till  the  very  air  grows  dearer, 
Neighboring  our  pleasant  bowers. 

Now  I  pass  the  last  Poder&  : 
There,  the  city  lies  behind  me. 

See  her  fluttering  like  a  fairy 
O'er  the  happy  grass  to  find  me ! 

ONCE. 

A  FALLING  star  that  shot  across 
The  intricate  and  twinkling  dark 

Vanisht,  yet  left  no  sense  of  loss 
Throughout  the  wide  ethereal  arc 

Of  those  serene  and  solemn  skies 
That  round  the  dusky  prospect  rose, 

And  ever  seemed  to  rise,  and  rise, 
Through  regions  of  unreached  re- 
pose. 

Far,  on  the  windless  mountain-»ange, 
One  crimson  sparklet  died :  the  blue 

Flushed  with  a  brilliance,  faint  and 

strange, 
The  ghost  of  daylight,  dying  too. 

But  half-revealed,  each  terrace  urn 
Glimmered,   where    now,    111    filmv 

flight, 

We  watched  return,  and  still  return, 
The  blind    bats  searching   air   for 
sight. 

With  sullen  fits  of  fleeting  sound, 
Borne  half  asleep  on  slumbrous  air, 

The  drowsy  beetle  hummed  around, 
And  passed,  and   oft  repassed  us, 

there ; 

Where,  hand  in  hand,  our  looks  alight 
With  thoughts  our  pale  lips  left  un- 
told, 

We  sat,  in  that  delicious  night, 

On  that  dim  terrace,  green  and  old. 


172 


THE    WANDERER. 


Deep  down,  far  off,  the  city  lay, 
When  forth  from  all  its  spires  was 
swept 

A  music  o'er  our  souls  ;  and  they 
To  music's  midmost  meanings  leapt; 

And,  crushing  some  delirious  cry 
Against  each  other's  lips,  we  clung 

Together  silent,  while  the  sky 
Throbbing  with   sound  around  us 
hung. 

For,  borne  from  bells  on  music  soft, 
That     solemn     hour     went     forth 
through  heaven, 

To  stir  the  starry  airs  aloft, 
And  thrill  the  purple  pulse  of  even. 

O  happy  hush  of  heart  to  heart ! 

0  moment    molten    through    with 

bliss ! 

0  Love,  delaying  long  to  part 
That  first,  fast,  individual  kiss ! 

Whereon  two  lives  on  glowing  lips 
Hung  claspt,  each  feeling  fold  in 
fold, 

Like  daisies  closed  with  crimson  tips, 
That  sleep  about  a  heart  of  gold. 

Was  it  some  drowsy  rose  that  moved  ? 
Some  dreaming  dove's  pathetic 

moan  ? 

Or  was  it  my  name  from  lips  beloved  ? 
And  was  it  thy  sweet  breath,  mine 
own, 

That  made  me  feel  the  tides  of  sense 
O'er  life's  low  levels  rise  with  might, 

And  pour  my  being  down  the  immense 
Shore  of  some  mystic  Infinite  ? 

"  O,  have  I  found  thee,  my  soul's  soul? 

And  did  we  then  break  earth's  control? 
And  have  I  seen  thee  face  to  face  ? 

11  Close,  closer  to  thy  home,  my  bi'east, 
Closer  thy  darling  arms  enfold ! 

1  need  such  warmth,  for  else  the  rest 
Of  life   will  freeze  me  dead  with 

cold. 

"Long  was  the  search,  the  effort  long, 
Ere  I  compelled  thee  from  thy 

sphere, 
I  know  not  with  what  mystic  song, 

1  know  not  with  what  nightly  tear: 

"  But  thou  art  here,  beneath  whose 
eyes 


My  passion  falters,  even  as  some 
Pale  wizard's  taper  sinks,  and  dies, 
When  to  his  spell  a  spirit  is  come. 

"  My  brow  is  pale  with  much  of  pain; 
Though  I  am  young,  my  youth  is 

gone, 
And,    shouldst  thou  leave    me  lone 

again, 
I  think  I  could  not  live  alone. 

"  As  some  idea,  half  divined, 
With  tumult  works  within  the  brain 

Of  desolate  genius,  and  the  mind 
Is  vassal  to  imperious  pain, 

"For  toil  by  day,  for  tears  by  night, 
Till,  in  the  sphere  of  vision  brought, 

Eises  the  beautiful  and  the  bright 
Predestined,  but  relentless  Thought; 

"So,   gathering    up  the    dreams    of 

years, 

Thy  love  doth  to  its  destined  seat 
Rise   sovran,    through    the    light    of 

tears — 

Achieved,   accomplisht,   and  com- 
plete! 

"  I  fear  not  now  lest  any  hour 
Should  chill  the  lips  my  own  have 
prest ; 

For  I  possess  thee  by  the  power 
Whereby  I  am  myself  possest. 

"These  eyes  must  lose  their  guiding 

light: 
These    lips    from    thine,   I    know, 

must  sever : 

O,  looks  and  lips  may  disunite, 
But  ever  love  is  love  forever !" 

SINCE. 

WORDS  like  to  these  were  said,  or 

dreamed 

(How  long  since!)  on  a  night  di- 
vine, 
By    lips    from    which    such    rapture 

streamed, 
I  cannot  deem  those  lips  were  mine. 

The  day  comes  up  above  the  roofs, 
All  sallow  from  a  night  of  rain  ; 

The  sound  of   feet,  and  wheels  and 

hoofs 
In  the  blurred  street  begins  again : 

The  same  old  toil— no  end — no  aim! 
The  same  vile  babble  in  my  ears; 


IN  ITALY. 


173 


The  same    unmeaning    smiles:    the 

same 
Most  miserable  dearth  of  tears. 

The  same  dull'  sound :  the  same  dull 
lack 

Of  lustre  in  the  level  gray  : 
It  seems  like  Yesterday  come  back 

With  his  old  tilings,  and  not  To-day. 

But  now  and  then  her  name  will  fall 
From     careless     lips    with    little 
praise, 

On  this  dry  shell,  and  shatter  all 
The  smooth  indifference  of  my  days. 

They  chatter  of  her — deem  her  light — 
The  apes  and  liars !  they  who  know 

As   well   to   sound  the   unfathomed 

Night 
As  her  impenetrable  woe  ! 

And  here,  where  Slander's  scorn   is 
spilt, 

And  gabbling  Folly  clucks  above 
Her  addled  eggs,  it  feels  like  guilt, 

To  know  that  far  away,  my  love 

Her  heart  on  every  heartless  hour 
Is  bruising,  breaking,  for  my  sake : 

While,  coiled  and  numbed,  and  void 

of  power, 
My  life  sleeps  like  a  winter  snake. 

I  know  that  at  the  mid  of  night, 
(When  she  flings  by  the  glittering 

stress 

Of  Pride,  that  mocks  the  vulgar  sight, 
And  fronts  her   chamber's  loneli- 
ness,) 

She  breaks  in  tears,  and,  overthrown 
With  sorrowing,  weeps  the  night 
away, 

Till  back  to  his  unlovely  throne 
Returns  the  unrelenting  day. 

All     treachery    could    devise    hath 

wrought 
Against    us: — letters  robbed   and 

read : 

Snares  hid  in  smiles :  betrayal  bought: 
And  lies  imputed  to  the  dead. 

I  will  arise,  and  go  to  her, 
And  save  her  in  her  own  despite  ; 

For  in  my  breast  begins  to  stir 
A  pulse  of  its  old  power  and  might. 


They  cannot  so  have  slandered  me 
But  what,  I  know,  if  I  should  call 

And  stretch  my  arms  to  her,  that  she 
Would  rush  into  them,  spite  of  all. 

In    Life's    great    lazar-house,    each 

breath 
We  breathe  may  bring  or  spread 

the  pest ; 
And,    woman,    each    may   catch    his 

death 

From    those   that    lean   upon    his 
breast. 

I  know  how  tender  friends  of  me 
Have  talked  with  broken  hint,  and 

glance: 

— The  choicest  flowers  of  calumny, 
.That  seem,  like   weeds,    to  spring 
from  chance ; — 

That  small,  small  imperceptible 
Small   talk,  which  cuts  like  pow- 
dered glass 

Ground  in  Tophana — none  can  tell 
Where  lurks  the  power  the  poison 
has! 

I  may  be  worse  than  they  would  prove, 
(Who  knows  the  worst  of  any  man?) 

But,  right  or  wrong,  be  sure  my  love 
Is  not  what  they  conceive,  or  can. 

For  do  I  question  what  thou  art, 
Nor  what  thy  life,  in  gi'eat  or  small, 

Thou  art,  I  know,  what  all  my  heart 
Must  beat  or  break  for.  That  is  all. 

A  LOVE-LETTER. 

MY  love, — my  chosen, — but  not  mine! 

I  send 
My  whole   heart  to  thee  in  these 

words  I  write ; 
So  let  the  blotted  lines,  my  soul's  sole 

friend, 

Lie  upon  thine,  and  there  be  blest 
at  night. 

This   flower,    whose    bruised  purple 

blood  will  stain 
The  page  now    wet    with  the  hot 

tears  that  fall— 

(Indeed,  indeed,  I  struggle  to  restrain 
This  weakness,  but  the  tears  come 
spite  of  all!) 

I  plucked  it  from  the  branch  you  used 
to  praise, 


THE   WANDEEER. 


The  branch  that  hides  the  wall.     I 

tend  your  flowers. 
I  keep  the  paths  we  paced  in  happier 

days. 
How  long    ago    they  seem,   those 

pleasant  hours. 

The  white  laburnum's  out.  Yourjudas 

tree 
Begins  to  shed  those  crimson  buds 

of  his. 

The  nightingales  sing— ah,    too  joy- 
ously 

Who  says  those  birds  are  sad  ?    I 
think  there  is 

That  in    the  books  we  read,  which 

deeper  wrings 
My  heart,  so  they  lie  dusty  on  the 

shelf. 
Ah  me,  I  meant  to  speak  of  other 

things 
Less  sad.     In  vain !    they  bring  me 

to  myself. 
!  know  your  patience.     And  I  would 

not  cast 
New  shade  on  days  so  dark  as  yours 

are  grown 
r  weak  and  wild  repining  for  the 

past, 
Since  it  is  past  forever,  Omiue  own ! 

For  hard  enough  the  daily  cross  you 

bear, 
Without  that  deeper  pain  reflection 

brings ; 
And  all  too  sore  the  fretful  household 

care, 

Free  of  the  contrast  of  remembered 
things. 

But  ah!  it  little  profits,  that  we  thrust 
From  all   that   's  said,  what   both 

must  feel,  unnamed 
Better  to  face  it  boldly,  as  we  must, 
Than  feel  it  in  the  silence  and  be 
shamed. 

Irene,  I  have  loved  you,  as  men  love 
Light,  music,  odor,  beauty,  love  it- 
self;— 

Whatever  is  apart  from,and  above 
Those  daily  needs  which  deal  with 
dust  and  pelf. 

And  I  had  been  content,  without  one 

thought 

Our    guardian    angels    could  have 
blusht  to  know, 


So  to  have  lived  and  died,  demanding 

nought 

Save,   living  dying,  to  have  loved 
you  so. 

My  youth  was  orphaned,  and  my  age 

will  be 
Childless.     I  have  no  sister.    None, 

to  steal 
One   stray   thought  from   the    many 

thoughts  of  thee, 

Which  are  the  source  of  all  I  think 
and  feel. 

My  wildest  wish  was  vassal  to  thy  will : 
My  haughtiest  hope,  a  pensioner  on 

thy  smile, 
Which  did  with  light  my  barren  being 

fill, 

As  moonlight  glorifies  some  desert 
isle. 

I  never  thought  to  know  what  I  have 

known, — 
The  rapture,  dear,  of  being  loved 

by  you ; 
I  never  thought,  within  my  heart,  to 

own 

One  wish  so  blest  that  you  should 
share  it  too : 

Nor  ever  did  I  deem,  contemplating 
The  many  sorrows  in  this  place  of 

pain, 
So  strange  a  sorrow  to  my  life  could 

cling, 

As,  being  thus  loved,  to  be  beloved 
in  vain. 

But  now  we  know  the  best,  the  worst. 

We  have 

Interred,  and  prematurely,  and  un- 
known, 
Our  youth,  our  hearts,  our  hopes,  in 

one  small  grave, 

Whence  we  must  wander,  widowed, 
to  our  own. 

And  if  we  comfort  not  each   other, 

what 
Shall  confort  us,  in  the  dark  days  to 

come? 
Not  the  light  laughter  of  the  world, 

and  not 

The  faces  and  the  firelight  of  fond 
home. 

And  so  I  write  to  you;  and  write,  and 
write, 


175 


For  the  mere  sake  of  writing  to  you, 

dear. 

What  can  I  tell  you,  that  you  know 
not?  Night 

Is  deepening  through  the  rosy  at- 
mosphere 

About  the   lonely   casement   of   this 

room, 
Which  }rou  have  left  familliar  with 

the  grace 
That  grows  where  you  have  been.  And 

on  the  gloom 
I  almost  fancy  I  can  see  your  face. 

Not  pale  with  pain,  and  tears  restrain- 
ed for  me, 

As  when  I  last  beheld  it ;  but  as  first, 
A  dream  of  rapture  and  of  poesy, 
Upon  my  youth,  like  dawn  on  dark, 
it  burst. 

Percluuu-c  I  shall  not  ever  see  again 
That  face.   I  know  that  1  shall  never 
see 

Its  radiant  beauty  as  I  saw  it  then. 
Save  by  this  lonely  lamp  of  memory, 

With  childhood's  starry  graces  linger- 
ing yet 

I'  the  rosy  orient  of  young  woman- 
hood ; 
And  eyes  like  woodland  violets  newly 

wet ; 

And  lips  that  left  their  meaning  in 
my  blood! 

I  will  not  say  to  you  what  I  might  say 
To  one  less  worthily  loved,  less  wor- 
thy love. 
I  will  not  say  .  .  .  "Forget  the  past. 

Be  gay. 

And  let  the  all  ill-judging  world  ap- 
prove 

"Light  in  your  eyes,  and  laughter  on 

your  lip." 
I   will   not   say   .  .  .    "Dissolve   in 

thought  forever 

Our  sorrowful,  but  sacred  fellowship." 
For  that  would  be,  to  bid  you,  dear, 
dissever 

Your  nature  from  its  nobler  heritage 
In  consolations  registered  in  heav- 
en, 

For  griefs  this  world  is  barren  to  as- 
suage, 

And  hopes  to  which,  on  earth,  no 
home  is  given. 


But  I  would  whisper  what  forever- 
more 
My  own  heart  whispers  through  the 

wakeful  night,  .  .  . 

"This  grief  is  but  a  shadow  flung  be- 
fore, 

From  some  refulgent  substance  out 
of  sight." 

Wherefore  it  happens,  in  this  riddling 

world, 
That,  where  sin  came  not,  sorrow  yet 

should  be; 
Why,  heaven's  most  hurtful  thunders 

should  be  hurled 
At  what  seems  noblest  in  humanity ; 

And  we  are  punished  for  our  purest 

deeds, 
And    chastened    for    our    holiest 

thoughts;  .  .  .  alas! 
There  is  no  reason  found  in  all  the 

creeds, 

Why  these  things  are,  nor  whence 
they  come  to  pass. 

Rut  in  the  heart  of  a  man,  a  secret 

voice 
There  is,  which  speaks,  and  Avill  not 

be  restrained,    • 
Which  cries  to  Grief  ..."  Weep  on, 

while  I  rejoice, 

Knowing  that,  somewhere,  all  will 
be  explained." 

I  will  not  cant  that  commonplace  of 

friends, 
Which  never   yet  hath  dried  one 

mourner's  tears, 
Nor    say   that    grief's    slow    wisdom 

makes  amends 

For  broken    hearts    and  desolated 
years. 

For  who   would  barter  all  he  hopes 

from  life, 

To  be  a  little  wiser  than  his  kind  ? 
Who   arm  his   nature   for  continued 

strife, 

Where  all   he  seeks  for  hath  been 
left  behind  ? 

But  I  would  say,  O  pure  and  perfect 

pearl 
Which  I  have  dived  so  deep  in  life 

to  find, 
Locked  in  my  heart  thou  liest.     The 

wave  may  curl, 

The  wind  may  wail  above  us.  Wave 
and  wind, 


176 


THE  WANDERER. 


What  are  their  storm  and  strife  to 

me  and  you  ? 
No  strife  can  mar  the  pure  heart's 

inmost  calm. 
This  life  of  ours,  what  is  it  ?    A  very 

few 

Soon-ended  years,  and  then, — the 
ceaseless  psalm, 

And  the  eternal  sabbath  of  the  soul ! 
Hush !  .  .  .  while  I  write,  from  the 

dim  Carmine* 

The  midnight  angelus  begins  to  roll, 
And  float  athwart  the  darkness  up 
to  me. 

My    messenger    (a  man   by    danger 

tried) 
Waits  in  the  courts  below  ;  and  ere 

our  star 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  dawn  hath 

died, 
Beloved  one,  this  letter  will  be  far 

Athwart  the  mountain,  and  the  mist, 

to  you. 
I    know    each    robber    hamlet.     I 

know  all 
This  mountain  people.  I  have  friends, 

both  true 

And  trusted,  sworn  to  aid  whate'er 
befall. 

I  have  a  bark  upon  the  gulf.    And  I, 
If  to  my  heart  I  yielded  in  this 

hour, 

Might  say  ..."  Sweet  fellow-suf- 
ferer, let  us  fly ! 

I  know  a  little  isle  which  doth  em- 
bower 

"  A  home  where  exiled  angels  might 

forbear 
Awhile  to  mourn  for  paradise."  .  .  . 

But  no ! 
Never,  whate'er  fate  now  may  bring 

us,  dear, 

Shalt  thou  reproach  me  for  that 
only  woe 

Which  even  love  is  powerless  to  con- 
sole ; 
Which  dwells  where  duty  dies :  and 

haunts  the  tomb 
Of  life's  abandoned  purpose  in  the 

soul; 

And  leaves  to  hope,  in  heaven  itself, 
no  room. 

Man  cannot  make,  but  may  ennoble, 
fate, 


By   nobly,   bearing    it.      So  let  us 

trust, 
Not  to  ourselves,  but  God,  and  calmly 

wait 
Love's  orient,  out  of  darkness  and 

of  dust. 

Farewell,  and  yet  again  fare  well,,  and 

yet 
Never  farewell,— if  farewell  mean 

to  fare 

Alone  and  disunited.     Love  hath  set 
Our  days,  in  music,  to  the  self-same 
air; 

And  I  shall  feel,  wherever  we  may  be, 
Even  though  in    absence    and  an 

alien  clime 

The  shadow  of  the  sunniness  of  thee, 
Hovering    in   patience,  through    a 
clouded  time. 

Farewell!    The   dawn  is  rising,  and 

the  light 

Is  making,  in  the  east,  a  faint  en- 
deavor 
To  illuminate   the    mountain   peaks. 

Good  night. 

Thine  own,  and  only  thine,  my  love, 
forever. 

CONDEMNED  ONES. 

ABOVE  thy  child  I  saw  thee  bend, 
Where  in  that  silent  room  we  sat 

rrt. 
I  the  involuntary  tear  de- 
scend ; 
The  firelight  was  not  all  so  dim,  my 

friend, 
But  I  could  read  thy  heart. 

Yet  when,  in  that  familiar  room, 
I  strove,  so  moveless  in  my  place, 
To  look  with  comfort  in  thy  face, 
That  child's  young  smile  was  all  that 

I  could  see 
Ever  between  us  in  the  thoughtful 

gloom,— 
Ever  between  thyself  and  me, — 
With  its  bewildering  grace. 

Life  is  not  what  it  might  have  been, 

Nor  are  we  what  we  would! 

And  we  must  meet  with  smiling  mien, 

And  part  in  careless  mood, 

Knowing  that  each  retains  unseen, 

In  cells  of  sense  subdued, 

A  little  lurking  secret  of  the  blood— 


X  ITALY. 


177 


A  little  serpent-secret  rankling  keen — 
That  makes  the  heart  its  food. 

Yet  is  there  much  for  grateful  tears, 

if  sad  ones, 
And  Hope's  young  orphans  Memory 

mothers  yet : 
So  let  them  go,  the  sunny  days  we  had 

once, 
Our  night   hath  stars  that  will  not 

ever  set. 
And  in  our  hearts  are  harps,  albeit 

not  glad  ones, 
Yet    not    all    nnmelodious,    through 

whose  strings 

The  night-winds  murmur  their  famil- 
iar things, 

Unto  a  kindred  sadness :  the  sea  brings 
The  spirits  of  its  solitude,  with  wings 
Folden  about  the  music  of  its  lyre, 
Thrilled  with  deep  duals  by  sublime 

desire, 
Which    never   can    attain,    yet    ever 

must  aspire, 
And  glorify  regret. 

What  might  have  been,  I  know,  is  not: 

What  must  be,  must  be  borne: 

But,  ah  !  what  hath  been  will  not  be 
forgot, 

Never,  oh!  never,  in  the  years  to 
follow ! 

Though  all  their  summers  light  a 
waste  forlorn, 

Yet  shall  there  be  (hid  from  the  care- 
less swallow 

And  sheltered  from  the  bleak  wind  in 
the  thorn) 

In  Memory's  mournful  but  beloved 
hollow, 

One  dear  green  spot ! 

Hope,  the  high  will  of  Heaven 
To  help  us  hath  not  given, 
But  more  than  unto  most  of  consola- 
tion : 

Since  heart  from  heart  may  borrow 
Healing  for  deep  heart-sorrow, 
And  draw  from  yesterday,  to  soothe 

to-morrow, 

The  sad,  sweet  divination 
Of  that  unuttered  sympathy,  which  is 
Love's  sorceress,  and  for  Love's  dear 

sake, 

About  us  both  such  spells  doth  make, 
As  none  can  see,  and  none  can  break, 
And  none  restrain  ;— a  secret  pain 
Claspt  to  a  secret  bliss ! 


A  tone,  a  touch, 
A  little  look,  may  be  so  much  ! 
Those  moments  brief,  nor  often, 
When,  leaning  laden  breast  to  breast, 
Pale  cheek  to  cheek,  life,  long  represt, 
May  gush  with  tears  that  leave  half 

blest 

The  want  of  bliss  they  soften. 
The  little  glance  across  the  crowd, 
None  else  can  read,  wherein  there  lies 
A  life  of  love  at  once  avowed — 
The  embrace  of  pining  eyes.  .  .  . 
So  little  more  had  made  earth  heaven, 
That  hope  to  help  us  was  not  given! 

THE  STOEM. 

BOTH  hollow  and  hill  were  as  dumb 

as  death, 

While  the  skies  were  silently  chang- 
ing form  : 

And  the  dread  forecast  of  the  thun- 
der-storm 

Made  the  crouched  land  hold  in  its 
breath . 

But  the  monstrous  vapor  as  yet  was 

unriven 
That  was  breeding  the  thunder  and 

lightning  and  rain ; 
And  the  wind  that  was  waiting  to 

ruin  the  plain 
Was    yet  fast  in  some  far  hold  of 

heaven. 

So,  in  absolute  absence  of  stir  or  strife, 
The  red  land  lay  as  still  as  a  drifted 

leaf: 
The  roar  of  the  thunder  had  been  a 

relief, 

To  the  calm  of  that  death-brooding 
life. 

At  the  wide-flung  casement  she  stood 

full-height, 
With  her  long  rolling  hair  tumbled 

all  down  her  back ; 
And,  against  the  black  sky's  super- 
natural black, 

Her  white  neck  gleamed   scornfully 
white. 

could  catch  not  a  gleam  of  her  anger- 
ed eyes 
(She  was  sullenly  watching  the  slow 

storm  roll), 
But  I  felt  they  were  drawing  down 

into  her  soul 
The  thunder  that  darkened  the  skies. 


178 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  how  could  I  feign  in  that  heart- 
less gloom, 
To  be  carelessly  reading  that  stupid 

page  ? 
What  harm,  if  I  flung  it  in  anguish 

and  rage, 
Her  book,  to  the  end  of  the  room  f 

"And  so,  do  we  part  thus  forever?" 

...  I  said, 

"O,  speak  only  one  word,  and  I  par- 
don the  rest!" 
She    drew  her  white  scarf  tighter 

over  her  breast, 
But  she  never  once  turned  round  her 

head. 
"In    this  wicked  old  world  is  there 

naught  to  disdain? 
Or" — I  groaned — "are  those  dark 
eyes  such  deserts  of  blindness, 
That,  O  Woman !  your  heart  must 

hoard  all  its  unkindness, 
For  the  man  on  whose  breast  it  hath 

lain  ? 
"Leave  it  nameless,  the  grave  of  the 

grief  that  is  past ; 
Be  its  sole  sign  the  silence  we  keep 

for  its  sake. 
I  have  loved  you — lie  still  in  my 

heart  till  it  break: 
As  I  loved,  I  must  love  to  the  last. 
"Speak!  the  horrible  silence  is  stifl- 

ling  my  soul !" 
She  turned  on  me  at  once  all  the 

storm  in  her  eyes ; 
And  1  heard  the  low  thunder  aloof 

in  the  skies, 
Beginning  to  mutter  and  roll. 

She  turned — by  the  lightning  revealed 

in  its  glare, 
And  the  tempest  had  clothed  her 

with  terror ;  it  clung 
To  the  folds  of  her  vaporous  gar- 
ments, and  hung 
In  the  heaps  of  her  heavy  wild  hair. 

But  one  word  broke  the  silence  ;  but 

one ;  and  it  fell 
With  the  weight  of  a  mountain  upon 

me.     Next  moment 
The  fierce  levin  flashed  in  my  eyes. 
From  my  comment 

She  was  gone  when  I  turned.     Who 
can  tell 

How  I  got  to  my  home  on  the  moun- 
tain ?    I  know 


That  the  thunder  was  rolling,  the 


The  great  bells   were  tolling,  my 

very  brain  crashing 
In  my  head,  a  few  hours  ago : 

Then  all  hushed.    In  the  distance  the 

blue  rain  receded ; 
And  the  fragments  of  storm  were 

spread  out  on  the  hills ; 
Hard  by,  from  my  lattice,  I  heard 

the  far  rills 

Leaping  down  their   rock    channels, 
wild-weeded. 

The  round,  red  moon  was  yet  low  in 

the  air.  .  .  . 
O,  I  knew  it,  foresaw  it,and  felt  it, 

before 
I  heard  her  light  hand  on  the  latch 

of  the  door : 

When   it  opened   at  last, — she   was 
there. 

Childlike  and  wistful,  and  sorrowful- 
eyed, 
With  the  rain  on  her  hair,  and  the 

rain  on  her  cheek ; 
She  knelt  down,  with  her  fair  fore- 
head fallen  and  meek 
In  the  light  of  the  moon  at  my  side. 

And  she  called  me  by  every  caressing  I 

old  name 
She  of  old  had  inve'nted  and  chosen 

for  me : 
She  crouched  at  my  feet,  with  her 

cheek  on  my  knee, 
Like  awild  thing  grown  suddenly  tame. 

In  the  world  there  .are  women  enough, 

maids  or  mothers ; 
Yet,  in  multiplied- millions,  I  never 

should  find 
The  symbol  aught  in  her  face,  or 

her  mind. 

She    has    nothing  in  common    with 
others. 

And  she  loves  me !    This  morning  the 

earth,  pressed  beneath 
Her    light   foot    keeps    the    print. 

'Twas  no  vision  last  night, 
For  the  lily  she  dropped, as  she  went, 

is  yet  white 
With  the  dew  on  its  delicate  sheath ! 


IN  ITALY. 


179 


THE  VAMPYEE. 

I  found  a  corpse,  with  golden  hair, 
Of  a  maiden  seven  months  dead. 
But  the  face  with  the  death  in  it,  still 

was  fair, 
And  the   lips  with   their  love   were 

red. 

Rose  leaves  on  a  snow-drift  shed, 
Blood  drops  by  Adonis  bled, 
Doubtless  were  not  so  red. 

I  combed  her  hair  into  curls  of  gold, 
And  I  kissed  her  lips  till  her  lips 

were  warm, 
And  I  bathed  her  body  in  moonlight 

cold, 

Till  she  grew  to  a  living  form: 
Till  she  stood  up  bold  to  a  magic  of 

old, 

And  walked  to  a  muttered  charm — 
Life-like,  without  alarm. 

And  she  walks  by  me,  and  she  talks 

by  me, 

Evermore  night  and  day; 
For  she  loves  me  so,  that,  wherever  I 

She  follows  me  all  the  way — 

This  corpse — you  would  almost  say 

There  pined  a  soul  in  the  clay. 

Her  eyes  are  so  bright  at  the  dead  of 

night 
That    they  keep    me    awake  with 

dread; 
And  my  life-blood  fails  in  my  veins, 

and  pales 

At  the  sight  of  her  lips  so  red  : 
For  her  face  is  as  white  as  the  pillow 

by  night 

Where  she  kisses  me  on  my  bed: 
All  her  gold  hair  outspread — 
Neither  alive  nor  dead. 

I  would  that  this  woman's  head 
Were  less  golden  about  the  hair: 

I  would  her  lips  were  less  red, 
And  her  face  less  deadly  fair, 
For  this  is  the  worst  to  bear — 
How  came  that  redness  there  ? 

'T  is  my  heart,  be  sure,  she  eats  for 

her  food ; 
And  it   makes    one's    whole    flesh 

creep 
To  think  that  she  drinks  and  drains 

my  blood 
Unawares,  when  I  am  asleep. 


How  else  could  those  red  lips  keep 
Their  redness  so  damson  deep  ? 

There's  a  thought  like  a  serpent  slips 

Ever  into  my  heart  and  head, — 
There  are  plenty  of  women,  alive  and 

human, 
One  might  woo,  if  one  wished,  and 

wed— 
Women  with  hearts  and  brains, — ay, 

and  lips 
Not  so  very  terribly  red. 

But  to  house  with  a  corpse— and  she 

so  fair, 
With    that    dim,    unearthly,    golden 

hair, 

And  those  sad,  serene,  blue  eyes, 
With   their    looks  from  who  knows 

where, 

Which  Death  hath  made  so  wise, 
With    the     grave's    own     secret 

there — 
It  is  more  than  a  man  can  bear ! 

It   were  better  for   me,   ere  I  came 

nigh  her, 

This  corpse — ere  I  looked  upon  her, 
Had  they  burned  my  body  in  flame 

and  fire 

With  a  sorcerer's  dishonor. 
For  when  the  Devil  hath  made  his 

lair, 
And  lurks  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair 

young  woman 
(To    grieve  a  man's    soul  with  her 

golden  hair, 
And  break  his  heart,  if  his  heart  be 

human), 

Would  not  a  saint  despair 
To  be  saved  by  fast  or  prayer 
From  perdition  made  so  fair  ? 

CHANGE. 

SHE  is  unkind,  unkind! 

On  the  windy  hill,  to-day, 

I  sat  in  the  sound  of  the  wind. 

I  knew  what  the  wind  would  say. 

It  said  ...  or  seemed  to  my  mind  .  . 

"  The  flowers  are  falling  away. 

The  summer,"  ...  it  said,  .  .  .  "will 

not  stay, 
And  Love  will  be  left  behind." 

The  swallows   were  swinging  them- 
selves 
In  the  leaden-gray  air  aloft ; 


180 


THE    WANDERER. 


Flitting  by  tens  and  twelves, 
And  returning  oft  and  oft ; 
Like  the  thousand  thoughts  in  me, 
That  went,  and  came,  and  went, 
Not  letting  me  even  be 
Alone  with  my  discontent. 

The  hard-vext  weary  vane 
Rattled,  and  moaned  and  was  still, 
In  the  convent  over  the  plain, 
By  the  side  of  the  windy  hill. 
It  was  sad  to  hear  it  complain, 
So  fretful,  and  weak,  and  shrill, 
Again,  and  again,  and  in  vain. 
While  the  wind  was  changing  his  will. 

I  thought  of  our  walks  last  summer 
By  the  con  vent- walls  so  green  ; 
Of  the  first  kiss  stolen  from  her, 
With  no  one  near  to  be  seen. 
I  thought  (as  Are  wandered  on, 
Each  of  us  waiting  to  speak) 
How  the  daylight  left  us  alone, 
And  left  his  last  light  on  her  cheek. 

The  plain  was  as  cold  and  gray 
( With  its  villas  like  glimmering  shells) 
As  some  north-ocean  bay. 
All  dumb  in  the  church  were  the  bells. 
In  the  mist,  half  a  league  away, 
Lay  the  little  white  house  where  she 
dwells. 

I  thought  of  her  face  so  bright, 
By  the  firelight  bending  low 
O'er  her  work  so  neat  and  white ; 
Of  her  singing  so  soft  and  slow ; 
Of  her  tender-toned  '•  Good-night" ; 
But  a  very  few  nights  ago. 

O'er  the  convent  doors,  I  could  see 
A  pale  and  sorrowful-eyed 
Madonna  looking  at  me, 
As  when  Our  Lord  first  died. 
There  was  not  a  lizard  or  spider 
To  be  seen  on  the  broken  walls. 
The  ruts  with  the  rain,   had  grown 

wider 

And  blacker  since  last  night's  falls. 
O'er  the  universal  dulness 
There  broke  not  a  single  beam. 
I  thought  how  my  love  at  its  fulness 
Had  changed  like  a  change  in  a  dream. 

The  olives  were  shedding  fast 
About  me,  to  left  and  right, 
In  the  lap  of  the  scornful  blast 
Black  berries  and  leaflets  white. 


I  thought  of  the  many  romances 
One  wintry  word  can  blight : 
Of  the  tender  and  timorous  fancies 
By  a  cold  look  put  to  flight. 

How  many  noble  deeds 
Strangled  perchance  at  their  birth ! 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  weeds 
Came  up  with  the  steam  of  the  earth, 
From  the  red,  wet  ledges  of  soil, 
And  the  sere  vines,  row  over  row, — 
And  the  vineyard-men  at  their  toil, 
Who  sang  in  the  vineyard  below. 

Last  Spring,  while  I  thought  of  her 

here, 

I  found  a  red  rose  on  the  hill. 
There  it  lies,  withered  and  sere! 
Let  him  trust  to  a  woman  who  will. 

I  thought  how  her  words  had  grown 
colder, 

And  her  fair  face  colder  still, 

From  the  hour  whose  silence  had  told 
her 

What  has  left  me  heart-broken  and  ill ; 

And  "Oh  !"  I  thought,  ...  ''if  I  be- 
hold her 

Walking  there  with  him  under  the 
hill ! » 

O'er  the  mist,  from  the  mournful  city 
The  blear  lamps  gleamed  aghast, —  ' 
— "She  has  neither  justice,  nor  pity," 
I  thought,  .  .  .  '•  all's  over  at  last !" 
The  cold  eve  came.     One  star 
Through  a  ragged  gray  gap  forlorn 
Fell  down  from  some  region  afar, 
And  sickened  as  soon  as  born. 
I  thought,  "How  long  and  how  lone 
The  years  will  seem  to  be, 
When  the  last  of  her  looks  is  gone, 
And  my  heart  is  silent  in  me! ' 

One  streak  of  scornful  gold, 
In  the  cloudy  and  billowy  west, 
Burned  with  a  light  as  cold 
As  love  in  a  much-wronged  breast. 
I  thought  of  her  face  so  fair  ; 
Of  her  perfect  bosom  and  arm  ; 
Of  her  deep  sweet  eyes  and  hair ; 
Of  her  breath  so  pure  and  warm  ; 
Of  her  foot  so  fine  and  fairy 
Through    the    meadows     where   she 

would  pass ; 

Of  the  sweep  of  her  skirts  so  airy 
And  fragrant  over  the  grass. 


V  ITALY. 


181 


I  thought    .  .  .    "Can  I  live  without 

her 

Whatever  she  do,  or  say  !" 
I  thought  ..."  Can  I  dare  to  doubt 

her, 

Now  when  I  have  given  away 
My  whole  self,  body  and  spirit, 
To  keep  or  to  cast  aside, 
To  dower  or  disinherit, — 
To  use  as  she  may  decide  ?" 

The  West  was  beginning  to  close 
O'er  the  last  light  burning  there. 
I  thought  ..."  And  when  that  goes, 
The  dark  will  be  everywhere  !" 

Oh  !  well  is  it  hidden  from  man 
Whatever  the  Future  may  bring. 
The  bells  in  the  church  began 
On  a  sudden  to  sound  and  swing. 
The  chimes  on  the  gust  were  caught, 
And  rolled  up  the  windy  height. 
I  rose,  and  returned,  and  thought  .  .  . 

"I  SHALL  NOT  SEE  HER  TO-NIGHT." 

A  CHAIN  TO  WEAR. 

AWAY  !  away !    The  dream  was  vain. 

We  meet  too  soon,  or  meet  too  late : 

Still  wear,  as  best  you  may,  the  chain 

Your  own  hands  forged  about  your 

fate, 

Who  could  not  wait ! 

What!  .  .  .  you  had  given  your  life 

away 
Before  you  found  what  most  life 

misses  ? 

Forsworn  the  bridal  dream,  you  say, 
Of  that  ideal  love,  whose  kisses 
Are  vain  as  this  is  f 

Well,  I  have  left  upon  your  mouth 
The   seal  I  know  must  burn  there 

yet; 

My  claim  is  set  upon  your  youth; 
My  sign  upon  your  soul  is  set : 
Dare  you  forget  ? 

And  you'll    haunt,   I    know,    where 

music  plays, 

Yet  find  a  pain  in  music's  tone  ; 
You'll  blush,  of  course,  when  others 

praise 

That  beauty  scarcely  now  your  own. 
What's  done,  is  done! 

For  me,  you  say,  the  world  is  wide, — 
Too  wide  to   find  the  grave  I  seek ! 


Enough  !  whatever  now  betide, 
No    greater  pang  can  blanch   my 
cheek. 
Hush!  ...  do  not  speak. 

SILENCE. 

WORDS  of  fire  and  words  of  scorn, 
I  have  written.  Let  them  go ! 

Words  of  love— heart-broken,  torn, 
With  this  strong  and  sudden  woe. 

All  my  scorn,  she  could  not  doubt, 

Was  but  love  turned  inside  out. 

Silence,  silence,  still  unstirred ; 

Long,  unbroken,  unexplained: 
Not  one  word,  one  little  word, 

Even  to  show  her  touched  or  pained ; 
Silence,  silence,  all  unbroken 
Not  a  sound,  a  sign,  a  token. 

Well,  let  silence  gather  round 
All  this  shattered  life  of  mine. 

Shall  I  break  it  by  a  sound  ? 
Let  it  grow,  and  be  divine — 

Divine  as  that  Prometheus  kept 

When  for  his  sake  the  sea-nymphs 
wept. 

Let  silence  settle,  still  and  deep ; 

As  the  mist,  the  thunder-cloud, 
O'er  the  lonely  blasted  steep, 

Which  the  red  bolt  hath  not  bowed, 
Settle,  to  drench  out  the  star, 
And  cancel  the  blue  vales  afar. 

In  this  silence  I  will  sheathe 
The  sharp  edge  and  point  of  all ! 

Not  a  sigh  my  lips  shall  breathe ; 
Not  a  groan,  whate'er  befall. 

And  let  this  sworded  silence  be 

A  fence  'twixt  prying  fools  and  me. 

Let  silence  be  about  her  name, 

And  o'er  the  things  which  once  have 

been: 
Let  silence  cover  up  my  shame, 

And  annul  that  face,  once  seen 
In  fatal  hours,  and  all  the  light 
Of  those  eyes  extinguish  quite. 

In  silence,  I  go  forth  alone 

O'er  the  solemn  mystery 
Of  the  deeds  which,  to  be  done, 

Yet  undone  in  the  future  lie. 
I  peer  in  Time's  high  nests,  and  there 
Espy  the  callow  brood  of  Care, 

The  fledgeless  nurslings  of  Regret, 


182 


THE  WANDERER. 


With  beaks  forever  stretched  for 

food: 
But  why  should  I  forecount  as  yet 

The  ravage  of  that  vulture  brood? 
O'er  all  these  things  let  silence  stay, 
And  lie,  like  snow,  along  my  way. 

Let  silence  in  this  outraged  heart 
Abide,  and  seal  these  lips  forever; 

Let  silence  dwell  with  me  apart 
Beside  the  ever-babbling  river 

Of  that  loud  life  in  towns,  that  runs 

Blind  to  the  changes  of  the  suns. 

Ah!  from  \vhat  most  mournful  star, 
Wasting  down  on  evening's  edge, 

Or  what  barren  isle  afar 
Flung  by  on  some  bare  ocean  ledge, 

Came  the  wicked  hag  to  us. 

That  changed  the  fairy  revel  thus  T 

There  were  sounds  from  sweet  guitars 
Once,  and  lights  from  lamps  of  am- 
ber; 
Both  went  up  among  the  stars 

From    many   a    perfumed    palace- 
chamber: 

Suddenly  the  place  seemed  dead ; 
Light  and  music  both  were  fled. 

Darkness  in  each  perfumed  chamber; 

Darkness,  silence,  in  the  stars; 
Darkness  on  the  lamps  of  amber; 

Silence  in  the  sweet  guitars: 
Darkness,  silence,  evermore 
Guard  empty  chamber,  moveless  door. 

NEWS. 

News,     news,    news,     my  gossiping 

friends ! 

I  have  wonderful  news  to  tell. 
A  lady,  by  me,  her  compliments  sends; 

And  this  is  the  news  from  Hell : 
The  Devil  is  dead.  He  died  resigned, 
Though  somewhat  opprest  by  cares ; 
But  his  wife,  my  friends,  is  a'woman 

of  mind, 
And  looks  after  her  lord's  affairs. 

I  have  just  come  back  from  that  won- 
derful place, 
And  kist  hands  with  the  Queen  down 

there ; 
But  I  cannot  describe   her  majesty's 

face, 
It  has  filled  me  so  with  despair. 

The  place  is  not  what  you  might  sup- 
pose: 


It  is  worse  in  some  respects. 
But  all  that  I  heard  there,  I  must  not 

disclose, 
For  the  lady  that  told  me  objects. 

The  laws  of  the  land  are  not  Salique, 

But  the  King  never  dies,  of  course; 

The  new  Queen  is  young,  and  pretty, 

and  c/itc, 

There  are  women,  I  think,  that  are 
worse. 

But    however  that  be,   one   thing  I 

know, 

And  this  I  am  free  to  tell; 
The  Devil,  my  friends,  is  a  woman,  just 

now ; 
'Tis  a  woman  that  reigns  in  Hell. 

COUNT  EINALDO  RINALDI. 

'Tis  a  dark-purple,  moonlighted  mid- 
night: 

There  is  music  about  on  the  air. 
And,  where,  through  the  water,  fall 
flashing 

The  oars  of  each  gay  gondolier, 
The  lamp-lighted  ripples  are  dashing, 
lu  the  musical  moonlighted  air, 
To  the  music,  in  merriment ;  washing, 

And  splashing,    the  black  marble 

stair 
That  leads  to  the  last  garden  terrace, 

Where  many  a  gay  cavalier 
And  many  a  lady  yet  loiter, 

Round  the  Palace  in  festival  there. 

'Tis  a  terrace  all  paven  mosaic, — 

Black  marble,  and  green  malachite; 
Round  an  ancient  Venetian  Palace, 
Where  the  windows  with  lampions 

are  bright. 
'Tis  an  evening  of  gala  and  festival, 

Music,  and  passion,  and  light. 
There  is  love  in    the    nightingales' 

throats, 

That  sing  in  the  garden  so  well: 
There  is  love  in  the  face  of  the  moon : 
There  is  love  in  the  warm  languid 

glances 
Of    the    dancers    adown   the    dim 

dances : 
There  is  love  in  the  low  languid  notes 

That  rise  into  rapture,  and  swell, 
From  viol,  and  flute,  and  bassoon. 

The  tree  that  bends  down  o'er  the 

water 
So  black,  is  a  black  cypress  tree. 


IN  ITALY. 


183 


And  the  statue,  there,  under  the  ter- 
race, 

Mnemosyne's  statue  must  be. 
There  comes  a  black  gondola  slowly 

To  the  Palace  in  festival  there  : 
And  the  Count  Rinaldo  Einaldi 

Has  mounted  the  black  marble  stair. 

TLere  was  nothing  but  darkness,  and 

midnight, 
And  tempest,  arid    storm,  in    the 

breast 

Of  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi, 
As  his  foot  o'er  the  black  marble 

prest : — 

The  glimmering  black  marble  stair 
Where  the  weed  in  the  green  ooze 

is  clinging, 

That  leads  to  the  garden  so  fair, 
Where  the  nightingales  softly  are 

singing,— 
Where  the  minstrels  new  music  are 

stringing, 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  prepare. 

There  rustles  a  robe  of  white  satin ; 
There's  a  footstep  falls  light  by  the 

stair : 

There  rustles  a.  robe  of  white  satin : 
There's  a  gleaming  of  soft  golden 

hair : 

And  the  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli 
Stands  near  the  cypress-tree  there, — 
Near  Mnemosyne's  statue  so  fair, — 
The  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 
With  the  light  in  her  long  golden 
hair. 

And  the  nightingales  softly  are  sing- 
ing 

In  the  mellow  and  moon-lighted  air ; 
And    the  minstrels    their    viols    are 

stringing ; 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  prepare . 

"  Siora,"  the  Count  said  unto  her, 
"The  shafts  of  ill-fortune  pursue 

me : 

The  old  grief  grows  newer  and  newer, 
The  old  pangs  are  never  at  rest ; 
And  the  foes  that  have  sworn  to  un- 
do me 

Have  left  me  no  peace  in  my  breast. 
They  have  slandered,  and  wronged, 

and  maligned  me : 
Though  they  broke  not  my  sword  in 

my  hand,   . 

They  have  broken  my  heart  in  my 
bosom 


And  sorrow  my  youth  has  unmanned. 
But  I  love  you,  Irene,  Irene, 
With  such   love   as   the  wretched 

alone 

Can  feel  from  the  desert  within  them 
Which    only    the    wretched    have 

known ! 

And  the  heart  of  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 
Dreads,  Lady,  no  frown  but  your 

own. 
To  others  be  all  that  you  are,  love — 

A  lady  more  lovely  than  most ; 
To  me — be  a  fountain,  a  star,  love, 
That  lights  to  his  haven  the  lost ; 
A  shrine  that  with  tender  devotion, 
The  mariner  kneeling,  doth  deck 
With  the  dank   weeds  yet  dripping 

from  ocean, 

And  the  last  jewel  saved  from  the 
wreck. 

"  None  heeds  us,  beloved  Irene  ! 

None  will  mark  if  we  linger  or  fly. 
Amid  all  the  mad  masks  in  yon  revel, 

There  is  not  an  ear  or  an  eye, — 
Not  one,— that  will  gaze  or  will  listen  ; 

And,  save  the  small  star  in  the  sky 
Which,  to    light   us,   so  softly  doth 
glisten, 

There  is  none  will  pursue  us,  Irene. 

O  love  me,  O  save  me,  I  die ! 
I  am  thine,  O  be  mine,  O  belove*d ! 

"  Fly  with  me,  Irene,  Irene  ! 

The  moon  drops :    the  morning  is 

near, 
My  gondola  waits  by  the  garden 

And  fleet  is  my  own  gondolier!" 
What  the  lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 

By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone, 
Where  she  leaned,  'neath  the  black 
cypress-tree, 

To  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Replied  then,  it  never  was  known, 
And  known,  now,  it  never  will  be. 

But  the  moon  hath   been  melted  in 

morning : 
And  the  lamps  in  the  windows  are 

dead: 

And  the  gay  cavaliers  from  the  ter- 
race, 
And  the  ladies  they  laughed  with, 

are  fled : 

And  the  music  is  husht  in  the  viols : 
And  the  minstrels,  and  dancers,  are 
gone; 


184 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  the  nightingales  now  in  the  gar- 
den, 

From  singing  have  ceased,  one  by 
one : 

But  the  Count  Einaldo  Rinaldi 
Still  stands,  where  he  last  stood, 
alone, 

'Neath  the  black  cypress-tree,   near 
the  water, 

By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone. 

O'er  his  spirit  was  silence  and  mid- 
night, 

In  his  breast  was  the  calm  of  de- 
spair. 

He  took,  with  a  smile,  from  a  casket 
A  single  soft  curl  of  gold  hair, — 
A  wavy  warm  curl  of  gold  hair, 
And  into  the  black-bosomed  water 

He  flung  it  athwart  the  black  stair. 
The  skies  they  were  changing  above 

him : 

The  dawn,  it  came  cold  on  the  air : 

He  drew  from  his  bosom  a  kerchief — 

"Would,"  he    sighed,    "that   her 

face  was  less  fair, 
That  her  face  was  less  hopelessly 

fair." 

And  folding  the  kerchief,  he  covered 
The  eyes  of  Mnemosyne  there. 

THE  LAST  MESSAGE. 

FLING  the  lattice  open, 

And  the  music  plain  you'll  hear  ; 
Lean  out  of  the  window, 

And  you'll  seethe  lamplight  clear. 

There,  you  see  the  palace 
Where  the  bridal  is  to-night. 

You  may  shut  the  window. 
Come  here,  to  the  light. 

Take  this  portrait  with  you, 
Look  well  before  you  go. 

She  can  scarce  be  altered, 
Since  a  year  ago. 

Women's  hearts  change  lightly, 
(Truth  both  trite  and  olden !) 

But  blue  eyes  remain  blue  ; 
Golden  hair  stays  golden. 

Once  I  knew  two  sisters  : 

One  was  dark  and  grave 
As  the  tomb;  one  radiant 

And  changeful  as  the  wave, 


Now  away,  friend,  quickly! 

Mix  among  the  masks : 
Say  you  are  the  bride's  friend, 

If  the  bridegroom  asks. 

If  the  bride  have  dark  hair, 

And  an  olive  brow, 
Give  her  this  gold  bracelet; — 

Come  and  let  me  know. 

If  the  bride  have  bright  hair, 

And  a  brow  of  snow, 
In  the  great  canal  there 

Quick  the  portrait  throw ; 

And  you  '11  merely  give  her 

This  poor  faded  flower. 
Thanks !  now  leave  your  stylet 

With  me  for  an  hour. 

You  're  my  friend:  whatever 

I  ask  you  now  to  do, 
If  the  case  were  altered, 

I  would  do  for  you. 

And  you  '11  promise  me,  my  mother 
Shall  never  miss  her  son, 

If  anything  should  happen 
Before  the  night  is  done. 

VENICE. 

THE  sylphs  and  ondines, 
And  the  sea-kings  and  queens, 
Long  ago,  long   ago,  on  the   waves 

built  a  city, 
As  lovely  as  seems 
To  some  bard,  in  his  dreams, 
The  soul  of  his  latest  love-ditty. 
Long  ago,  long  ago,— ah!  that  was 

long  ago 
Thick  as  gems  on  the  chalices 

Kings  keep  for  treasure, 
Were  the  temple  and  palaces 

In  this  city  of  pleasure  : 
And  the  night  broke  out  shining 
With  lamps  and  with  festival, 
O'er  the  squares,  o'er  the  streets : 
And  the  soft  sea  went,  pining 
With  love,  through  the  musical, 
Musical  bridges,  and  marble  re- 

treats 
Of  this  city  of  wonder,  where  dwell 

the  ondines, 

ong  ago,  and  the  sylphs,  and  the  sea- 
kings  and  queens, 
— Ah !  that  was  long  ago ! 
But  the  sylphs  and  ondines, 


IN  ITALY.. 


185 


And  the  sea-kings  and  queens 

Are  fled  under  the  waves  : 
And  I  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide 

Through  a  city  of  graves. 
Here  will  I  bury  my  heart, 

[dreamed  ; 

Wrapt  in  the  dream  it 
One  grave  more  to  the  many ! 
One  grave  as  silent  as  any  ; 
Sculptured  about  with  art, — 

[seemed. 

For  a  palace  this  tomb  once 
Light  lips  have  laughed  there, 
Bright  eyes  have  beamed. 
Kevel  and  dance ; 
Lady  and  lover! 
Pleasure  hath  quaffed  there : 
Beauty  hath  gleamed, 
Love  wooed  Romance. 

Now  all  is  over  ! 
And  I  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide, 
'Mid  forms  silently  passing,  as  silent 

as  any, 

Here  mid  the  waves, 
In  this  city  of  graves 
To  bury  my  heart — one  grave  more  to 
the  many ! 

ON  THE  SEA. 

COME  !  breathe  thou  soft,  or  blow  thou 

bold, 

Thy  coming  be  it  kind  or  cold, 
Thou  soul    of    the    heedless     ocean 

wind ; — 

Little  I  rede  and  little  I  reck, 
Though  the  mast  be  snapped  on  the 

mizzen-deck, 
So  thou  blow  her  last  kiss  from  my 

neck, 
And  her  memory  from  my  mind  ! 

Comrades  around  the  mast, 
The  welkin  is  o'ercast : 
One  watch  is  wellnigh  past — 
Out  of  sight  of  shore  at  last ! 

Fade  fast,  thou  falling  shore, 
With  that  fair  false  face  of  yore, 
And  the  love,  and  the  life,  now  o'er ! 
What  she  sought,  that  let  her  have — 
The  praise  of  traitor  and  knave, 
The  simper  of  coward  and  slave, 
And    the     worm    that    clings     and 
stings— 


The  knowledge  of  nobler  things. 
But  here  shall  the  mighty  sea 
Make  moan  with  my  heart  in  me, 
And  her  name  be  torn 
By  the  winds  in  scorn, 
In  whose  march  we  are  moving  free. 
I  am  free,  I  am  free,  I  am  free ! 
Hark!  how  the  wild  waves  roar! 
Hark!  how  the  wild  winds  rave  ! 
Courage,  true  hearts  and  brave, 
Whom  Fate  can  afflict  no  more ! 

Comrades,  the  night  is  long. 

I  will  sing  you  an  ancient  song 

Of  a  tale  that  was  told 

In  the  days  of  old, 

Of  a  Baron  blithe  and  strong, — 

High  heart  and  bosom  bold, 

To  strive  for  the  right  with  wrong! 

"Who  left  his  castled  home, 

When  the  Cross  was  raised  in  Borne, 

And  swore  on  his  sword 

To  fight  for  the  Lord, 

And  the  banners  of  Christendom. 

To  die  or  to  overcomej 

"In  hauberk  of  mail,  and  helmet  of 

steel, 

And  armor  of  proof  from  head  to  heel, 
0,  what  is  the  wound  which  he  shall 

feel? 
And  where  the  foe  that  shall  make 

him  reel? 
True  knight  on  whose  crest  the  cross 

doth  shine ! 
They  buckled  his    harness,  brought 

him  his  steed — 
A  stallion  black  of  the  land's  best 

breed — 

Belted  his  spurs,  and  bade  him  God- 
speed 

'Mid  the  Paynim  in  Palestine. 
But  the  wife  that  he  loved,  when  she 

poured  him  up 

A  last  deep  health  in  her  golden  cup, 
Put  poison  into  the  wine. 

"So  he  rode  till  the  land  he  loved 

grew  dim, 
And  that   poison  began  to  work  in 

him,— 
A  true  knight  chanting  his  Christian 

hymn. 

With  the  cross  on  his  gallant  crest. 
Eastward,  aye,  from  the  waning  west, 
Toward  the  land  where  the  bones  of 

the^Saviour  rest,    , 


186 


THE   WANDERER. 


And  the  Battle  of  God  is  to  win : 
With  his  young  wife's  picture  upon 

his  breast, 
And  her  poisoned  wine  within. 

"  Alas  !  poor  knight,  poor  knight! 
He  carries  the  foe  he  cannot  fight 
In  his  own  true  breast  slnit  up. 
He  shall  die  or  ever  he  fight  for  the 

Lord, 
And  his  heart  be  broken  before  his 

sword. 

He  hath  pledged  his  life 
To  a  faithless  wife, 
In  the  wine  of  a  poisoned  cup !" 

Comrade,  thy  hand  in  mine ! 
Pledge  me  in  our  last  wine, 
While  all  is  dark  on  the  brine. 
My  friend,  I  reck  not  now 
If  the  wild  night-wind  should  blow 
Our  bark  beyond  the  poles  : — 
To  drift  through  fire  or  snow, 
Out  of  reach  of  all  we  know 
Cold  heart,  and  narrow  brow, 
Smooth  faces,  sordid  souls 
Lost,  like  some  pale  crew 
From  Ophir.  in  golden  galleys, 


On  a  witch's  island !  who 

Wander  the  tamarisk  alleys, 

Where  the  heaven  is  blue, 

And  the  ocean  too, 

That  murmurs  among  the  valleys. 

"  Perished  with  all  on  board  I" 

So  runs  the  vagrant  fame — 

Thy  wife  weds  another  lord, 

My  children  forget  my  name, 

While  we  count  new  stars  by  night. 

Each  wanders  out  of  sight 

Till  the  beard  on  his  chin  grows  white 

And  scant  grow  the  curls  on  his  head. 

One  paces  the  placid  hours 

In  dim  enchanted  bowers, 

By  a  soft- eyed  Panther  led 

To  a  magical  milk-white  bed 

Of  deep,  pale  poison-flowers. 

With  ruined  gods  one  dwells, 

In  caverns  among  the  fells, 

Where,  with  desolate  arms  outspread, 

A  single  tree  stands  dead, 

Smitten  by  savage  spells, 

And  striking  a  silent  dread 

From  its  black  and  blighted  head 

Through  the  horrible,  hopeless,  sultry 

dells 
Of  Elephanta,  the  Red. 


BOOK  II. -IN"  FEA^CE. 


PRENSUS  IN 


'T  is  toil  must  help  us  to  forget. 

In  strife,  they  say,  grief  finds  repose. 
Well,  there's  the  game  !     I  throw  the 

stakes  :  — 

A  life  of  war,  a  world  of  foes, 
A  heart  that  triumphs  while  it  breaks. 
Some  day  I  too,  perchance,  may  lose 
This  shade  which  memory  o'er  me 

throws, 
And  laugh  as   others  laugh,   (who 

knows  ?) 
But  ah,  't  will  not  be  yet  ! 

How  many  years  since  she  and  I 
Walked  that  old  terrace,  hand-in- 
hand  ! 

Just  one  star  in  the  rosy  sky, 
And  silence  on  the  summer  land. 

And  she  ?  .  . 


I  think  I  hear  her  sing 
That    song, — the    last    of    all    our 

songs. 
How  all    comes    back!— thing    after 

thing, 

The  old  life  o'er  me  throngs ! 
But  I  must  to  the  palace  go  ; 

The  ambassador's  to-morrow : 
Here's  little  time  for  thought  I  know, 

And  little  more  for  sorrow. 
Already  in  the  portc-cocliere 

The  carriage  sounds .  .  .  my  hat  and 

gloves ! 
I  hear  my  friend's  foot  on  the  stair, — 

How  joyously  it  moves  ! 
He    must    have    done  some    wicked 

thing 

To  make  him  tread  so  light : 
Or  is  it  only  that  the  king 
Admired  his  wife  last  night? 


X  FRANCE. 


187 


We  talk  of  nations  by  the  way. 

And  praise  the  Nuncio's  manners, 
And  end  with  something  fine  to  say 

About  the  "allied  banners.'' 
'T  is  well  to  mix  with  all  conditions 

Of  men  in  every  station  : 
I  sup  to-morrow  with  musicians, 

Upon  the  invitation 
Of  my  clever  friend,  the  journalist, 

Who  writes  the  reading  plays 
Which  no  one  reads ;  a  socialist 

Most  social  in  his  ways. 
But  I  am  sick  of  all  the  din 

That's  made  in  praising  Verdi, 
Who  only  know  a  violin 

Is  not  a  hurdy-gurdy. 

Here  oft,  while  on  a  nerveless  hand 

An  aching  brow  reclining, 
Through  this  tall  window  where    I 

stand, 

I  see  the  great  town  shining. 
Hard  by,  the  restless  Boulevart  roars, 
Heard  all  the  night  through,  even 

in  dreaming : 
While  from  its  hundred  open  doors 

The  many-headed  life  is  streaming. 
Upon  the  world's  wide  thoroughfares 

My  lot  is  cast.     So  be  it, ! 
Each  on  his  back  his  burthen  bears 

And  feels,  though  he  may  not  see  it. 
My  life  is  not  more  hard  than  theirs 

Who  toil  on  either  side : 
They  cry  for  quiet  in  their  prayers, 
And  it  is  still  denied. 

But  sometimes  when  I  stand  alone, 

Life  pauses, — now  and  then: 
And  in  the  distance  dies  the  moan 

Of  miserable  men. 
As  in  a  dream  (how  strange!)  I  seem 

To  be  lapsing,  slowly,  slowly, 
From  noise  and  strife,  to  a  stiller  life, 

Where  all  is  husht  and  holy. 

Ah,  love!  our  way's  in  a  stranger  land, 
We  may  not  rest  together. 

For  an  Angel  takes  me  by  the  hand, 
And  leads  me  . . .  whither  ?  whither? 

A  L'ENTRESOL. 

ONE  circle  of  all  its  golden  hours 
The  flitting  hand  of  the  Time-piece 

there, 
In  its  close  white   bower  of    china 

flowers, 
Hath  rounded  unaware : 


While  the   firelight,   flung  from  the 

flickering  wall 

On  the  large  and  limpid  mirror  be- 
hind, 
Hath  reddened  and  darkened  down 

o'er  all, 
As  the  fire  itself  declined. 

Something  of  pleasure  and  something 

of  pain 
There   lived  in  that   sinking  light. 

What  is  it  ? 

Faces  I  shall  never  look  at  again, 
In  places  you  never  will  visit, 

Revealed  themselves  in  each  faltering 

ember, 
While,    under    a    palely  wavering 

flame, 

Half  of  the  years  life   aches  to  re- 
member 
Reappeared,  and  died  as  they  came. 

To  its  dark  Forever  an  hour  hath 

gone 

Since  either  you  or  I  have  spoken : 
Each  of  us  might  have  been  sitting 

alone 
In  a  silence  so  unbroken. 

I  never  shall   know  what  made  me 

look  up 
•  (In  this  cushioned  chair  so  soft  and 

deep, 
By  the  table  where,  over  the  empty 

cup, 
I  was  leaning,  half  asleep) 

To  catch  a  gleam  on  the  picture  up 

there 

Of  the  saint  in  the  wilderness  un- 
der the  oak ; 
And  a  light  on  the  brow  of  the  bronze 

Voltaire, 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cynical  joke. 

To  mark,  in  each  violet  velvet  fold 
Of  the  curtains  that  fall  'twixtroom 
and  room, 

The  dip  and  dance  of  the  manifold 
Shadows  of  rosy  gloom. 

O'er   the    Rembrandt  — the    Caracci 

here  — 

Flutter  warmly  the  ruddy  and  wa- 
vering hues ; 

And  Saint  Anthony  over  his  book  has 

a  leer  [Greuze. 

At    the    little    French    beauty  by 


188 


THE 


There, —  the  Leda,  weighed  over  .her 

white  swan's  back, 
By  the    weight  of  her    passionate 

kiss,  ere  it  falls : 
O'er   the    ebony    cabinet,    glittering 

black 
Through  its  ivory  cups  and  balls  : 

Your  scissors  and  thimble,  and  work 

laid  away, 
With  its  silks,  in  the  scented  rose- 
wood box; 
The  journals,  that  tell  truth  every  day, 
And  that  novel  of  Paul  de  Kock's  : 

The  flowers  in  the  vase,  with  their 

bells  shut  close 
In  a  dream  of  the  far  green  fields 

where  they  grew: 
The  cards  of  the  visiting  people  and 

shows 
In  that  bowl  with  the  sea-green  hue. 

Your  shawl,  with  a  queenly  droop  of 

its  own, 

Hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  crim- 
son chair: 

And,  last,— yourself,  as  silent  as  stone, 
In  a  glow  of  the  firelight  there  ! 

I  thought  you  were  reading  all  this 

time. 
And  was  it  some  wonderful  page  of 

your  book 
Telling  of  love,   with  its   glory  and 

crime, 

That  has  left  you   that  sorrowful 
look? 

For   a  tear  from  those    dark,  deep, 

humid  orbs 
'Neath  their  lashes,    so  long,   and 

soft,  and  sleek, 

All  the  light  in  your  lustrous  eyes  ab- 
sorbs, 
As  it  trembles  over  your  cheek. 

Were  you  thinking  how  we,    sitting 

side  by  side. 
Might  be  dreaming  miles  and  miles 

apart  ? 
Or  if  lips  could  meet  over  a  gulf  so 

wide 
As  separates  heart  from  heart  ? 

Ah,  well !  when  time  is  flown,  how  it 

fled 

It  is  better  neither  to  ask  nor  tell. 
Leave  the  dead  moments  to  bury  their 

dead. 


Let  us  kiss  and  break  the  spell ! 

Come,  arm  in  arm,   to  the  window 

here ; 
Draw  by  the  thick  curtain,  and  see 

how,  to-night, 

In  the  clear  and  frosty  atmosphere, 
The  lamps  are  burning  bright. 

All  night,  and  forever,  in  yon  great 

town, 
The  heaving  Boulevart  flares  and 

roars : 
And  the  streaming  Life  flows  up  and 

down 
From  its  hundred  open  doors. 

It  is  scarcely  so  cold,  but  I  and  you, 
With  never  a  friend  to  find  us  out, 

May  stare  at  the  shops  for  a  moment 

or  two, 
And  wander  awhile  about. 

For  when  in  the  crowd  we  have  taken 

our  place, 
— Just  two  more  lives  to  the  mighty 

street  there !) 

Knowing  no  single  form  or  face 
Of  the  men  and  women  we  meet 

there, — 

Knowing,  and  known  of,  none  in  the 

whole 
Of  that  crowd  all  round,  but  our 

two  selves  only, 
We  shall  grow  nearer,  soul  to  soul, 
Until  we  feel  less  lonely. 

Here  are  your  bonnet  and  gloves,  dear. 

There,— 
How  stately  you  look  in  that  long 

rich  shawl ! 

Put  back  your  beautiful  golden  hair, 
That  never  a  curl  may  fall. 

Stand  in  the  firelight  ...  so,  ...  as 

you  were, — 
O  my  heart,  how  fearfully  like  her 

she  seemed ! 

Hide  me  up  from  my  own  despair, 
And  the  ghost  of  a  dream  I  dreamed! 

TEREA  INCOGNITA. 

3ow  sweet  it  is  to  sit  beside  her, 
When  the  hour  brings  nought  that's 
better ! 

All  day  in  my  thoughts  to  hide  her, 
And,  with  fancies  free  from  fetter, 


IX  FIIAXCE. 


189 


Half  remember,  half  forget  her. 

Just  to  find  her  out  by  times 
In  my  mind,  among  sweet  fancies 

Laid  away : 

In  the  fall, of  mournful  rhymes  ; 
In  a  dream  of  distant  climes  ; 
In  the  sights  a  lonely  man  sees 
At  the  dropping  of  the  day : 

Grave  or  gay. 

As  a  maiden  sometimes  locks 
With  old  letters,  whose  contents 

Tears  have  faded, 
In  an  old  worm-eaten  box, 

Some  sweet  packet  of  faint  scents, 
Silken-braided ; 
And  forgets  it : 

Careless,  so  I  hide 

In  my  life  her  love — 
Fancies  on  each  side, 

Memories  heaped  above:— 
There  it  lies,  unspied : 

Nothing  frets  it. 
On  a  sudden,  when 

Deed,  or  word,  or  glance, 
Brings  me  back  again 

To  the  old  romance, 
With  what  rapture  then, — 

When,  in  its  completeness, 
Once  my  heart  hath  found  it, 

By  each  sense  detected, 
Steals  on  me  the  sweetness 
Of  the  air  around  it, 

Where  it  lies  neglected! 
Shall  I  break  the  charm  of  this 

In  a  single  minute  ? 
For  some  chance  with  fuller  bliss 

Proffered  in  it  ? 
Secrets  unsealed  by  a  kiss, 

Could  I  win  it! 
'Tis  so  sweet  to  linger  near  her, 

Idly  so! 
Never  reckoning,  while  I  hear  her 

Whispering  low, 
If  each  whisper  will  make  clearer 

Bliss  or  woe ; 
Never  roused  to  hope  or  fear  her 

Yes  or  No! 
What  if,  seeking  something  more 

Than  before, 
All  that's  given  I  displace — 

Calm  and  grace — 
Nothing  ever  can  restore, 

As  of  yore, 
That  old  quiet  face! 
Quiet  skies  in  quiet  lakes, 
No  wind  wakes, 


All  their  beauty  double: 
But  a  single  pebble  breaks 
Lake  and  sky  to  trouble ; 
Then  dissolves  the  foam  it  makes 

In  a  bubble, 

With  the  pebble  in  my  hand, 
Here,  upon  the  brink,  I  stand ; 
Meanwhile,  standing  on  the  brink, 

Let  me  think ! 

Not  for  her  sake,  but  for  mine, 
Let  those  eyes  unquestioned  shine, 

Half  divine  : 

Let  no  hand  disturb  the  rare 
Smoothness  of  that  lustrous  hair 

Anywhere : 

Let  that  white  breast  never  break 
Its  calm  motion— sleep  or  wake — 

For  my  sake. 

Not  for  her  sake,  but  for  mine, 
All  I  might  have,  I  resign. 

Should  I  glow 

To  the  hue— the  fragrance  fine — 
The  mere  first  sight  of  the  wine, 
If  I  drained  the  goblet  low! 

Who  can  know  ? 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow, 
Let  her  go!     Shall  I  repine 
That  no  idle  breath  of  mine 
Melts  it  t    No !    JT  is  better  so. 
All  the  same,  as  she  came, 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow. 
Cold,  unspotted,  let  her  go! 

A  REMEMBRANCE. 
'T  was  eve  and  May  when  last,  through 

tears, 
Thine  eyes  sought  mine,  thy  hand 

my  hand. 

The    night    came   down    her    silent 
spheres, 

And  up  the  silent  land, 

In   silence,    too,   my  thoughts  were 

furled, 
Like  ring-doves  in   the   dreaming 

grove. 

Who  would  not  lightly  lose  the  world 
To  keep  such  love  ? 

But  many  Mays,  with  all  their  flowers, 
Are  faded  since  that  blissful  time— 
The  last  of  all  my  happy  hours 
I'  the  golden  clime ! 

By  hands   not   thine   these   wreaths 

were  curled 

That  hide  the  care  my  brows  above : 
And  I  have  almost  gained  the  world, 
But  lost  that  love.     • 


100 


TEE    WANDERER. 


As  though  for  some  serene  dead  brow, 
These  wreaths  for  me  I  let  them 

twine. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  praise,  and  know 
It  is  not  thine. 

How  many  long  and  lonely  days 

I  strove  with  life  thy  love  to  gain ! 
I  know  my  work  was  worth  thy  praise  ; 
But  all  was  vain. 

Vain  Passion's  fire,  vain  Music's  art ! 
For  who  from  thorns  grape-bnnches 

gathers  ? 

What  depth  is  in  the  shallow  heart? 

What  weight  in  feathers? 

As  drops  the  blossom,  ere  the  growth 

Of  fruit,  on  some  autumnal  tree, 
I  drop  from  my  changed  life,  its  youth 
And  joy  in  thee  : 

And  look  beyond,  and  o'er  thee, — right 

To  some  sublimer  end  than  lies 
Within  the  compass  of  the  sight 
Of  thy  cold  eyes. 

With  thine  my  soul  hath  ceased  its 

strife. 

Thy  part  is  filled ;  thy  work  is  done  ; 
Thy  falsehood  buried  in  my  life, 

And  known  to  none. 

Yet  still  will  golden  memories  frame 

Thy  broken  image  in  my  heart. 
And  love  for  what   thou  wast  shut 
blame 

From  what  thou  art. 

In  Life's  long  galleries,  haunting-eyed, 
Thy  pictured  face  no  change  shall 

show  ; 

Like  some  dead  Queen's  who  lived  and 
died 

An  age  ago ! 

MADAME  LA  MAKQUISE. 

THE  folds  of  her  wine-dark  violet  dress 
Glow  over  the  sofa,  fall  011  fall, 

As  she  sits  in  the  air  of  her  loveliness 
With  a  smile  for  each  and  for  all. 

Half  of  her  exquisite  face  in  the  shade 
Which  o'er  it  the  screen  in  her  soft 

hand  flings : 
Through  the  gloom  glows  her  hair  hi 

ifs  odorous  braid: 

In  the   firelight  are  sparkling   her 
rings. 


As    she  leans, — the    slow  smile  half 

shut  up  in  her  eyes 
Beams  the   sleepy,    long,   silk-soft 

lashes  beneath ; 
Through  her  crimson  lips,  stirred  by 

her  faint  replies, 

Breaks  one  gleam  of  her  pearl- white 
teeth. 

As  she  leans, — where  your  eye,  by  her 

beauty  subdued, 
Droops — from  under  warm  fringes 

of  broidery  white 

The  slightest  of  feet— silken-slipper- 
ed, protrude, 

For  one  moment,  then  slip  out  of 
sight. 

As  I  bend  o'er  her  bosom,  to  tell  her 

the  news, 

The  faint  scent  of  her  hair,  the  ap- 
proach of  her  cheek, 
The  vague  warmth  of  her  breath,  all 

my  senses  suffuse 

With  HERSELF:    and  I  tremble  to 
speak. 

So  she  sits  in  the  curtained,  luxurious 

light 
Of  that  room,  with  its  porcelain,  and 

pictures,  and  flowers, 
When  the  dark  day's  half  done,  and 

the  snow  flutters  white, 
Past     the    windows    in    feathery 
showers. 

All  without  is  so  cold,— 'neath  the  low- 
leaden  sky ! 
Down  the  bald,  empty  street,  like  a 

ghost,  the  gendarme 
Stalks  surly:  a  distant  carriage  hums 

All  within  is  so  bright  and  so  warm ! 

Here  we  talk  of  the  schemes  and  the 

scandals  of  court, 
How  the    courtesan   pushes:    the 

charlatan  thrives : 
We  put  horns  on   the   heads   of  our 

friends,  just  for  sport: 
Put  intrigues  in  the  heads  of  their 
wives. 

Her    warm    hand,     at    parting,    so 

strangely  thrilled  mine, 
That  at  dinner  I  scarcely  remark 

what  they  say, — 
Drop  the  ice  in  my  soup,  spill  the  salt 

in  my  wine, 
Then  go  yawn  at  my  favorite  play. 


IX  FRANCE. 


"iot 


But  she  drives  afternoon: — then's  the 

time  to  behold  her, 
With  her  fair  face  half  hid,  like  a 

ripe  peeping  rose, 
'Neath  th;it  veil,— o'er  the  velvets  and 

furs  which  enfold  her, 
Leaning  back  with   a  queenly  re- 
pose,— 

As  she  glides  up  the  sunlight!  .-.  . 

You'd  say  she  was  made 
To  loll  back  in  a  carriage,  all  day, 

with  a  smile, 
And  at  dusk,  on  a  sofa,  to  lean  in  the 

shade 
Of  soft  lamps,  and  be  wooed  for  a 

while. 
Could  we  find  out  her  heart  through 

that  velvet  and  lace  ! 
Can   it  beat    without   ruffling   her 

sumptuous  dress? 
She  will  show  us  her  shoulder,  her 

bosom,  her  face ; 

But  what  the  heart  ;s  like,  -we  must 
guess. 

With  live  women  and  men  to  be  found 

in  the  world — 

( — Live  with  sorrow  and  sin, — live 

with  pain  and  with  passion, — ) 

Who  could  live  with  a  doll,  though  its 

locks  should  be  curled, 
And  its  petticoats  trimmed  in  the 
fashion  ? 

'T  is  so  fair !  .  .  .  would  my  bite,  if  I 

bit  it,  draw  blood  ? 
Will  it  cry  if  I  hurt  it?  or  scold  if  I 

kiss  ? 
Is  it  made,  with  its  beauty,  of  wax  or 

of  wood? 

...  Is  it  worth  while  to  guess  at  all 
this? 

THE  NOVEL. 

'•  HERE,  I  have  a  book  at  last — 
Sure,"  I  thought,    "to   make   you 
weep !" 

But  a  careless  glance  you  cast 
O'er  its  pages,  half  asleep. 

'T  is  a  novel, — a  romance, 

(What  you  will)  of  youth,  of  home, 
And  of  brilliant  days  in  France, 

And  long  moonlit  nights  in  liome. 

'T  is  a  tale  of  tears  and  sins, 
Of.  love's  glory  and  its  gloom ; 


In  a  ball-room  it  begins, 
And  it  ends  beside  a  tomb  ; 

There's  a  little  heroine  too, 

Whom  each  chapter   leaves   more 

pale  ; 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  blue 

Like  the  violet  of  the  vale  ; 

And  her  hand  is  frail  and  fair ; 

Could  you  but  have  seen  it  lie 
O'er  the  convent  death-bed,  where 

Wept  the  nuns  to  watch  her  die, 

You,  I  think,  had  wept  as  well ; 

For  the  patience  in  her  face 
(Where  the  dying  sunbeam  fell) 

Had  such   strange    heart-breaking 
grace. 

There's  a  lover,  eager,  bold, 
Knocking  at  the  convent  gate  ; 

But  that  little  hand  grows  cold, 
And  the  lover  knocks  too  late. 

There's  a  high-born  lady  stands 

At  a  golden  mirror,  pale ; 
Something  makes  her  jewelled  hands 

Tremble,  as  she  hears  the  tale 

Which  her  maid  (while  weaving  roses 
For  the  ball,  through  her  dark  hair) 

Mixed  with  other  news,  discloses. 
O,  to-night  she  will  look  fair ! 

There's  an  old  man,  feeble-handed, 
Counting  gold  .  .  .   "My  sou  shall 
wed 

With  the  Princess,  as  I  planned  it, 
Now  that  little  girl  is  dead." 

There's  a  young  man,  sullen,  husht, 
By   remorse  and  grief  unmanned, 

With  a  withered  primrose  crusht 
In  his  hot  and  feverish  hand. 

There's  a  broken-hearted  woman, 
Haggard,  desolate,  and  wild, 

Says  .  .  .  "  The  world  hath  grown  in- 
human ! 
Bury  me  beside  my  child." 

And  the  little  god  of  this  world 

Hears  them,  laughing  in  his  sleeve. 

He  is  master  still  in  his  world, 
There's  another,  we  believe. 

Of  this  history  every  part 

You  have  seen,  yet  did  not  heed  it ; 
For  't  is  written  in  my  heart, 

And  you  have  not  learned  to  read  it, 


192 


THE  WAXDERER. 


AUX  ITALIENS. 

AT  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there  ; — 
And  she  looked  like  a  queen  in  a 

book,  that  night, 
With  the  wreath  of  peariin  her  raven 

hair, 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast,  so 
bright. 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 
The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trova- 

tore: 
And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor 

note 

The  souls  in  Purgatory. 
The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as 

snow ; 
And  who   was  not  thrilled  in  the 

strangest  way, 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas 

burned  low, 
"  Ron  ti  scordar  di  me"  ? 

The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then 

seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city-gate, 
Where   his   eagles  in  bronze  had 
been. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
You'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had 

gone  back  again, 
For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue 

sky, 
To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well!  there  in  our  front-row  box  we 
sat, 

Together,  my  bride-betrothed  and  I ; 
My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera-hat, 

And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were 

sad. 
Like  a  queen,  she  leaned  on  her  full 

white  arm, 

With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had; 
So  confident  of  her  charm ! 

I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking 

then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that 

he  was ! 
Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of 

men, 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 


I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of 

heaven, 
Through  a  needle's  eye  he  had  not 

to  pass. 

I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure  given. 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first 

love, 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught 

for  years, 

Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  she  wore  last 

time, 

When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress- 
trees,  together, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime, 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather : 
Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was 

hot), 
And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its 

golden  chain 
And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a 

knot, 
And  falling  loose  again : 

And   the    jasmin-flower  in    her    fair 

young  breast : 
(O  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that 

jasmin-flower !) 
And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his 

nest : 
And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and 

strife ; 
And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back 

my  ring. 
And  it  all  seemed  then,  in  the  waste 

of  life, 

Such  a  very  little  thing ! 
For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the 

hill, 
Which    the   sentinel   cypress-tree 

stands  over. 
And  I  thought  .  .  .  "were  she  only 

living  still, 

How  I  could  forgive  her,  and  love 
her!" 

And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus, 

in  that  hour, 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things 

were  best, 
That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmin 

flower, 


IN  FRANCE. 


193 


Which  she  used   to   wear   in   her 
breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me 

cold, 
Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the 

crumbling  sheet 
Where  a  mummy  is  half  unrolled. 

And  I  turned,  and  looked.     She  was 

sitting  there 
In  a  dim  box,  over  the  stage ;  and 

drest 
In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full 

soft  hair, 
And  that  jasmin  in  her  breast ! 

I  was  here:  she  was  there  : 
And  the  glittering  horseshoe  curved 

between  :— 
From  my  bride-betrothed,  with  her 

raven  hair, 
And  her  sumptuous,  scornful  mien. 

To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  down- 
cast, 
And    over    her    primrose  face  the 

shade, 
(In  short  from  the  Future  back  to  the 

Past) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from   my   future 

bride 
One    moment    I  looked.      Then  I 

stole  to  the  door, 
I  traversed  the  passage  ;  and  down  at 

her  side, 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's 

strain, 
Or  something  which  never  will  be 

exprest, 
Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave 

again, 
With  the  jasmin  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed! 
But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved 

me  then! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet 

lips  said, 
My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 

The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 
She  is  wealthy,   and    young,   and 
handsome  still, 


And  but  for  her  .  .  .  well,  we'll  let 

that  pass, 

She    may    marry    whomever    she 
will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 
With    her    primrose  face ;  for  old 

things  are  best, 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize 

it  above 
The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  sin, 
And  Love  must  cling  where  it  can, 
I  say  : 

For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win; 
But  one  is  n't  loved  every  day. 

And   I    think,  in  the  lives  of  most 

women,  and  men, 
There's  a  moment  when  all  would 

go  smooth  and  even, 
If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven. 

But O the  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower! 

And  O  that  music  !  and  O  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon 

tower 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me, 
Non  ti  scordar  di  me  ! 

PROGRESS. 

WHEN  Liberty  lives  loud  on  every  lip, 

But  Freedom  moans, 
Trampled    by    Nations    whose   faint 

foot-falls  slip 
Round  bloody  thrones ; 
When,  here  and  there,  in  dungeon  and 

in  thrall, 
Or  exile  pale, 
Like  torches  dying  at  a  funeral, 

Brave  natures  fail ; 
When  Truth,  the  armed  archangel, 

stretches  wide 
God's  tromp  in  vain, 
And  the  world,  drowsing,  turns  upon 

its  side 

To  drowse  again ; 
O    Man,   whose    course    hath  called 

itself  sublime 
Since  it  began, 
Why  art  thou  in   such  dying  age  of 

time. 
As  man  to  man  ? 

When  Love's  last  wrong  hath  been 
forgotten  coldly. 


194 


THE   WANDERER. 


As  First  Love's  Face : 
And,  like  a  rat  that  comes  to  wanton 

boldly 

In  some  lone  place, 
Once  festal, — in  the  realm  of  light 

and  laughter 
Grim  Doubt  appears; 
Whilst  weird  suggestions  from  Death's 
•    vague  Hereafter, 
O'er  ruined  years, 
Creep,  dark   and    darker,   with  new 

dread  to  mutter 
Through  Life's  long  shade, 
Yet  make  no  more  in  the  chill  breast 

the  flutter 

Which  once  they  made  ; 
Whether  it  be,— that  all  doth  at  the 

grave 

Bound  to  its  term, 

That  nothing  lives  in  that  last  dark- 
ness, save 
The  little  worm, 
Or  whether  the  tired  spirit  prolong 

its  course 

Through  realms  unseen, — 
Secure,  that  unknown  world  cannot 

be  worse 

Than  this  hath  been ; 
Then  when  through  Thought's  gold 

chain,  so  frail  and  slender, 
No  link  will  meet ; 

When  all  the  broken  harps  of  Lan- 
guage render 
No  sound  that's  sweet ; 
When,    like    torn    books,    sad    days 

weigh  down  each  other 
I'  the  dusty  shelf; 

0  Man,  what  art  thou,  O  my  friend, 

my  brother, 
Even  to  thyself  ? 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

MIDNIGHT  past !  Not  a  sound  of  aught 
Through  the  silent  house,  but  the 
wind  at  his  prayers. 

1  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  up  stairs. 

A  night  of  tears !  for  the  gusty  rain 
Had  ceased,   but  the    eaves  were 

dripping  yet ; 
And  the  moon  looked  forth,  as  though 

in  pain, 
With  her  face  all  white  and  wet : 

Nobody  with  me,  my  watch  to  keep, 
But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,,  the 
Man  I  love : 


And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 
All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss 

beside, 
But  the  good  young  Priest  with  the 

Raphael-face, 
Who  confessed  her  when  she  died. 

The  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle 

nerve, 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  be- 


yond control ; 

lis  " 


For  his  lips  grew  white,   as  I  could 

observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 

I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone : 
I  tnought  of  the  pleasant  days  of 
yore : 

I  said  "  the  staff  of  my  life  is  gone : 
Tiie  woman  I  loved  is  no  more. 

"  On  her  cold,  dead  bosom  my  portrait 

lies, 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used 

to  wear — 

Haunting  it  o'er  with  her  tender  eyes 
When  my  own  face  was  not  there. 

"  It  is  set  all  round  with  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have 

kept. 
For  each  ruby  there,  my  heart  hath 

bled: 

For    each    pearl,    my    eyes    have 
wept." 

And  I  said — "the  thing  is  precious  to 

me: 
They  will   bury  her  soon   in  the 

churchyard  clay ; 

It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be, 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 

I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame, 
And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creaked 
from  fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 

The  moon  shone  over  her  winding- 
sheet. 
There,  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven 

bed: 

Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 
And  seven  about  her  head. 


IN  FRANCE. 


195 


As  I  stretched  my  uaiid,  I  held 

breath ; 
I    turned    as   I  drew  the  curtains 

apart ; 

i  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death 
I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart, 

I  thought,  at  first,  as  my  touch  fel 

there, 
It  had  warmed  that  heart  to  life, 

with  love ; 
For  the  thing  I  touched  was  warm,  I 

swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 

'Twas  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was 

moving  slow 
O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead, — from 

the  other  side ; 
And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my 

brow, 
"Who  is  robbing  the  corpse?"  I  cried. 

Opposite  me,  by  the  tapers'  light, 
The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I 
loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse,  and  all  as  white, 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

"What  do  you  here,  my  friend  ?"  .  .  . 

The  man 
Looked  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the 

dead. 

"  There  is  a  portrait  here,"  he  began; 
"There  is.    It  is  mine,"  I  said. 

Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  "  yours, 

no  doubt, 

The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  ago, 
When  this  suffering  angel  took  that 

out, 
And  placed  mine  there,  I  know." 

"  This  woman,  she  loved  me  well," 

said  I. 
"A  month  ago,"  said  my  friend  to 

me: 
:And  in   your    throat,"  I  groaned, 

"  you  lie!" 
He  answered  ...  "let  us  see." 

'Enough!"  I  returned,  "let  the  dead 

decide : 

And  whose  soever  the  portrait  prove, 

His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried, 

Where  Death  is  arraigned  by  Love." 

We  found  the  portrait  there,  in  its 
place : 


We  opened  it,  by  the  tapers'  shine : 
The  gems  were  all  unchanged ;  the  face 
Was— neither  his  nor  mine. 

"  One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  least! 
The  face  of  the  portrait  there,"  I 

cried, 
"Is  our  friend's,   the  Raphael-faced 

young  Priest, 
Who  confessed  her  when  she  died." 

The  setting  is  all  of  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have 

kept. 
For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hath 

bled: 
For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept. 

ASTARTE. 

WHEN  the  latest  strife  is  lost,  and  all 

is  done  with, 
Ere  we  slumber  in  the  spirit  and 

the  brain, 
We  drew  back,  in  dreams,  to  days 

that  life  begun  with, 
And  their  tender  light  returns  to  us 
again. 

I  have  cast  away  the  tangle  and  the 

torment 
Of  the  cords  that  bound  my  life  up 

in  a  mesh  : 
And  the  pulse  begins  to  throb  that 

long  lay  dormant 

'Neath  their  pressure ;  and  the  old 
wounds  bleed  afresh. 

t  am  touched  again  with  shades  of 

early  sadness, 

Like  the  summer-cloud's  light  shad- 
ow in  my  hair: 
[  am  thrilled  again  with  breaths  of 

boyish  gladness, 

Like  the  scent  of  some  last  prim- 
rose on  the  air. 

And  again  she  comes,  with   all  her 

silent  graces, 
The  lost  woman  of  my  youth,,  yet 

unpossest: 
And  her  cold  face  so  unlike  the  other 

faces 

Of  the  women  whose  dead  lips  I 
since  have  prest. 

The  motion  and  the  fragrance,  ot  bet 

garments 

Seen  about  me,  aU  the  day  long,  in 
the  room : 


196 


THE   WANDERER. 


And  her  face,  with  its  bewildering 

old  endearments 

Conies  at  night,  between  the   cur- 
tains, in  the  gloom. 

When  vain  dreams  are  stirred  with 

sighing,  near  the  morning, 
To  my  own  her  phantom  lips  I  feel 

approach: 
And  her  smile,  at  eve,  breaks  o'er  me 

without  warning 

From  its  speechless,  pale,  perpetual 
reproach. 

When  Life's  dawning  glimmer  yet  had 

all  the  tint  there 
Of  the  orient,  in  the  freshness  of 

the  grass, 
(Ah,  what  feet  since  then  have  trodden 

out  the  print  there !) 
Did  her  soft,  her  silent  footsteps 
fall,  and  pass. 

They  fell  lightly,  as  the  dew  falls, 

'mid  ungathered 

Meadow- flowers;  and  lightly  linger- 
ed with  the  dew, 
But  the  dew  is  gone,  the  grass  is  dried 

and  withered, 

And  the  traces  of  those  steps  have 
faded  too. 

Other  footsteps  fall  about  me, — faint, 

uncertain, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  world,  as  it 

recedes : 

Other  forms  peer  through  the  half-up- 
lifted curtain 

Of  that  mystery  which  hangs  be- 
hind the  creeds. 

What  is  gone,  is  gone  forever.    And 

new  fashions 

May  replace  old  forms  which  noth- 
ing can  restore : 
But  I  turn  from  sighing  back  departed 

passions 

With  that  pining  at  the  bosom  as  of 
yore. 

I  remember  to  have  murmured,  morn 

and  even, 
"Though  the   Earth  dispart  these 

Earthlies,  face  from  face, 
Yet  the  Heavenlies  shall  surely  join 

in  Heaven, 

For  the  spirit  hath  no  bonds  in  time 
or  space. 


"Where  it  listeth,  there  it  bloweth; 

all  existence 
Is  its  region;  and  it  houseth  where 

it  will. 
I  shall  feel  her  through  unmeasurable 

distance, 

\nd  grow  nearer  and  be  gathered  to 
her  still. 

"  If  I  fail  to  find  her  out  by  her  gold 

tresses, 

Brows,  and  breast,  and  lips,  and  lan- 
guage of  sweet  strains, 
I  shall  know  her  by  the  traces  of  dead 

kisses, 

And  that  portion  of  myself  which 
she  retains." 

But  my  being  is  confused  with  new 

experience, 
And  changed  to  something  other 

than  it  was; 
And  the  future  with  the  past  is  set  at 

variance ; 

And  Life  falters  with  the  burthens 
which  it  has. 

Earth's  old  sins  press  fast  behind  me, 

weakly  wailing: 
Faint  before  me  fleets  the  good  ] 

have  not  done : 
And  my  search  for  her  may  still  be  un* 

availing 

'Mid  the  spirits  that  are  passed  be- 
yond the  sun. 

AT  HOME  DURING  THE  BALL. 

JT  is  hard  upon  the  dawn,  and  yet 
She  comes  not  from  the  Ball. 

The  night  is  cold,  and  bleak,  and  wet, 
And  the  snow  lies  over  all. 

I  praised  her  with  her  diamonds  on:— • 
And,  as  she  went,  she  smiled. 

And  yet  I  sighed,  when  she  was  gone, 
Above  our  sleeping  child. 

And  all  night  long,  as  soft  and  slow 

As  falls  the  falling  rain, 
The  thoughts  of  days  gone  long  ago 

Have  filled  my  heart  again. 

Once  more  I    hear  the    Rhine  rush 
down, 

(I  hear  it  in  my  mind !) 
Once  more,  about  the  sleepiag  town, 

The  lamps  wink  in  the  wind. 


IN  FRANCE. 


197 


The  narrow,  silent  street  I  pass: 
The  house  stands  o'er  the  river : 

A  light  is  at  the  casement-glass, 
That  leads  my  soul  forever. 

I  feel  my  way  along  the  gloom, 
Stair  after  stair,  I  push  the  door : 

I  find  no  change  within  the  room, 
And  all  things  as  of  yore. 

One  little  room  was  all  we  had 
For  June  and  for  December. 

The  world  is  wide,  but  O  how  sad 
It  seems,  when  I  remember ! 

The  cage  with  the  canary-bird 
Hangs  in  the  window  still : 

The  small  red  rose-tree  is  not  stirred 
Upon  the  window-sill. 

Wide  open  her  piano  stands  ; 

— That  song  I  made  to  ease 
A  passing  pain  while  her  soft  hands 

Went  faintly  o'er  the  keys! 

The  fire  within  the  stove  burns  down ; 

The  light  is  dying  fast. 
How  dear  is  all  it  shines  upon, 

That  firelight  of  the  Past ! 

No  sound!  the  drowsy  Dutch-clock 
ticks 

O,  how  should  I  forget 
The  slender  ebon  crucifix, 

That  by  her  bed  is  set? 

Her  little  bed  is  white  as  snow, — 

How  dear  that  little  bed  ! 
Sweet  dreams  about  the  curtains  go, 

And  whisper  round  her  head. 

That  gentle  head  sleeps  o'er  her  arm 
— Sleeps  all  its  soft  brown  hair: 

And  those  dear  clothes  of  hers,  yet 

warm, 
Droop  open  on  the  chair. 

Yet  warm  the  snowy  petticoat ! 

The  dainty  corset  too ! 
How  warm  the  ribbon  from  herthroat, 

And  warm  each  little  shoe ! 

Lie  soft,  dear  arm  upon  the  pillow! 

Sleep,  foolish  little  head ! 
Ah,   well   she   sleeps!      I    know  the 
willow 

That  curtains  her  cold  bed. — 

Since  last  I  trod  that  silent  street 
'Tis  many  a  year  ago : 


And,  if  I  there  could  set  my  feet 
Once  more,  I  do  not  know 

If  I  should  find  it  where  it  was, 
That  house  upon  the  river ; 

But  the  light  that  lit  the  casement- 
glass 
I  know  is  dark  forever. 

Hark !  wheels  below,  ...  my  lady's 

knock! 

— Farewell,  the  old  romance ! — 
Well,    dear,  you're  late, — past  four 

o'clock! — 
How  often  did  you  dance1? 

Not  cooler  from  the  crowning  waltz, 
She  takes  my  half  the  pillow. — 

Well, — well !    the  women  free    from 

faults 
Have  beds  below  the  willow ! 

AT  HOME  AFTER  THE  BALL. 

THE  clocks  are  calling  Three 

Across  the  silent  floors. 
The  fire  in  the  library 

Dies  out ;  through  the  open  doors 
The  red  empty  room  you  may  see. 

In  the  nursery,  up  stairs, 
The  child  had  gone  to  sleep, 

Half-way  'twixt  dreams  and  prayers, 
When  the  hall-door  made  him  leap 

To  its  thunders  unawares. 

Like  love  in  a  worldly  breast, 
Alone  in  my  lady's  chamber, 

The  lamp  burns  low,  supprest 
'Mid  satins  of  broidered  amber, 

Where  she  stands,  half  undrest: 

Her  bosom  all  unlaced : 

Her  cheeks  with  a  bright  red  spot : 
Her  long  dark  hair  displaced, 

Down  streaming,  heeded  not, 
From  her  white  throat  to  her  waist : 

She  stands  up  her  full  height, 
With  her  ball-dress  slipping  down 

her, 

And  h£r  eyes  as  fixed  and  bright 
As  the  diamond  stars  that  crown 

her, — 
An  awful,  beautiful  sight. 

Beautiful,  yes  .  .  .  with  her  hair 
So  wild,  and  her  cheeks  so  flusht! 

Awful,  yes  .  .  .  for  there 

In  her  beauty  she  stands  husht 

By  the  pomp  of  her  own  despair ! 


198 


THE    WANDERER. 


Andfixt  there,  without  doubt, 
Face  to  face  with  her  own  sorrow, 

She  will  stand,  till,  from  without, 
The  light  of  the  neighboring  morrow 

Creeps  in,  and  finds  her  out. 

With  last  night's  music  pealing 
Youth's  dirges  in  her  ears ; 

With  last  night's  lamps  revealing, 
In  the  charnels  of  old  years, 

The  face  of  each  dead  feeling. 

Ay,  Madam,  here  alone 

You  may  think,  till  your  heart  is 

broken, 
Of  the  love  that  is  dead  and  done, 

Of  the  days  that,  with  no  token, 
Forevermore  are  gone. — 

Weep  if  yon  can,  beseech  you ! 

There's  no  one  by  to  curb  you  : 
Your  child's  cry  cannot  reach  you: 

Your  lord  will  not  disturb  you : 
Weep!  .  .  .  what  can  weeping  teach 
you  ? 

Your  tears  are  dead  in  you. 

"What    harm,     where    all   things 

change," 
You  say,  "if  we  change  too? 

— The  old  still  sunny  Grange ! 
Ah,  that's  far  off  i'  the  dew. 

"Were  those  not  pleasant  hours, 

Ere  I  was  what  I  am? 
My  garden  of  fresh  flowers  ! 

My  milk-white  weanling  lamb ! 
My  bright  laburnum  bowers ! 

"The  orchard  walls  so  trim! 

The  redbreast  in  the  thorn ! 
The  twilight  soft  and  dim! 

The  child's  heart !  eve  and  morn, 
So  rich  with  thoughts  of  him!" 

Hush!  your  weanling  lamb  is  dead: 

Your  garden  trodden  over. 
They  have  broken  the  farm  shed  : 

They  have  buried  your  first  lover 
With  the  grass  above  his  head. 

Has  the  Past,  then,  so  much  power, 
You  dare  take  not  from  the  shelf 

That  book  with  the  dry  flower, 
Lest  it  make  you  hang  yourself 

For  being  yourself  for^n  hour? 

Why  can't  you  let  thought  be 
For  even  a  little  while  ? 


There's  nought  in  memory 

Can  bring  you  back  the  smile 
Those  lips  have  lost.     Just  see, 

Here  what  a  costly  gem 

To-night  in  your  hair  you  wore  — 
Pearls  on  a  diamond  stem  ! 

When  sweet  things  are  no  more, 
Better  not  think  of  them. 

Are  you  saved  by  pangs  that  pained 

you, 

Is  there  comfort  in  all  it  cost  you, 
Before  the  world  had  gained  you, 

Before  that  God  had  lost  you, 
Or  your  soul  had  quite  disdained  you  1 

For  your  soul  (and  this  is  worst 
To  bear,  as  you  well  know) 

Has  been  watching  you,  from  first, 
As  sadly  as  God  could  do  ; 

And  yourself  yourself  have  curst. 

Talk  of  the  flames  of  Hell  ! 

We  fuel  ourselves,  I  conceive, 
The  fire  the  Fiend  lights.    Well, 

Believe  or  disbelieve, 
We  know  more  than  we  tell  ! 

Surely  you  need  repose  ! 

To-morrow  again  —  the  Ball. 
And  you  must  revive  the  rose 

In  your  cheek,  to  bloom  for  all. 
Not  go  ?  .  .  .  why  the  whole  world 
goes. 

To  bed  !  to  bed  !    »T  is  sad 
To  find  that  Fancy's  wings 

Have  lost  the  hues  they  had. 
In  thinking  of  these  things 

Some  women  have  gone  mad. 


AU 

A  PARTY  of  friends,  all  light-hearted 

and  gay, 
At   a  certain  French   cafe,   where 

everyone  goes, 
Are   met,  in  a  well-curtained  warm 

cabinet, 

Overlooking  a  street  there,  which 
every  one  knows. 

The  guests  are,  three  ladies  well  known 

and  admired  : 
One  adorns  the  Lyriqne  ;  one  ...  1 

oft  have  beheld  her 
At  the  Vaudeville,  with  raptures  :  the 

third  lives  retired 


N  FRANCE. 


199 


" Dansscs  irf :  7,>;Ys"  .  .  .  (we  alt  know 
her  hoube)  .  .  .  Rue  de  Helder. 

Besides  these  is  a  fourth  ...  a  young 

Englishman,  lately 
Presented -the  round  of  the  clubs  in 

the  town. 

A  taciturn  Anglican  coldness  sedately 
Invests  him :  unthawed  by  Clarisse, 
he  sits  down. 

But  little  he  speaks,  and  but  rarely  he 

shares 
In    the    laughter  around  him ;    his 

smiles  are  but  few  : 
There's  a  sneer  in  the  look  that  his 

countenance  wears 
In  repose  ;  and  fatigue  in  the  eyes' 
weary  blue. 

The  rest  are  three  Frenchmen.  Three 

Frenchmen  (thank  Heaven !) 
Are  but  rarely  morose,  with  Cham- 
pagne and  Bordeaux : 
And  their  wit,  and  their  laughter,  suf- 
fices to  leaven 

"With  mirth  their  mute  guest's  imi- 
tation of  snow. 

The  dinner  is  done:  the  Lafitte  in  its 

basket, 
The  Champagne   in    its    cooler,  is 

passed  in  gay  haste  ; 
Whatever  you  wish  for,  you  have  but 

to  ask  it : 

Here  are  coffee,  cigars,  and  liqueurs 
to  your  taste. 

And  forth  from  the  bottles  the  corks 

fly ;  and  chilly, 
The  bright,  wine,  in  bubbling  and 

blushing,  confounds 
Its  warmth  with  the  ice  that  it  seethes 

round ;  and  shrilly 
(Till  stifled  by  kisses)  the  laughter 
resounds. 

Strike,  strike  the  piano,  beat  loud  at 

the  wall ! 

Let  wealthy  old   Lycus  with  jeal- 
ousy groan 
Next  door,  while  fair  Chloris  responds 

to  the  call, 

Too  fair  to  be  supping  with  Lycus 
alone  !* 


"  Atideat  inviaus 
Dementem  strepitum  Lycus 
Et  vicuna  seni  non  liabilis  Lyco." 

HORACE. 


Clarisse,  with  a  smile,  has  subsided, 
opprest, — 

Half,  perhaps,  by  Champagne  .  .  . 

half,  perhaps,  by  affection, — 
In  the  arms  of  the  taciturn,  cold,  Eng- 
lish guest, 

With,  just  rising  athwart  her  im- 
perial complexion, 

0 
One  tinge  that  young  Evian  himself 

might  have  kist 
From  the  fairest  of  Maenads  that 

danced  in  his  troop; 
And  her  deep  hair,  unloosed  from  its 

sumptuous  twist, 

Over  showering  her  throat  and  her 
bosom  a-droop. 

The  soft  snowy  throat,  and  the  round, 

dimpled  chin, 
Upturned  from  the  arm-^fold  where 

hangs  the  rich  head! 
And  the  warm  lips  apart,  while  the 

white  lids  begin 

To  close  over  the  dark  languid  eyes 
which  they  shade ! 

And  next  to  Clarisse  (with  her  wild 

hair  all  wet 
From  the  wine,  in  whose  blush  its 

faint  fire-fly  gold 

She  was  steeping  just  now),  the  blue- 
eyed  Juliette 

Is  murmuring  her  witty  bad  things 
to  Arnold. 

Cries    Arnold  to    the  dumb  English 

guest .  .  .  "  Monami, 
What's  the  matter  ? . . .  you  can't  sing 
.  .  .  well,  speak,  then,  at  least; 
More  grave,  had  a  man  seen  a  ghost, 

could  he  be  ? 

Mais  qncl    drole    de  farceur  /  .  .  . 
comme  II  a  le  viit  triste  !" 

And  says  >  Charles  to  Eugene  (vainly 

seeking  to  borrow 
Ideas  from  a  yawn)  ...   "At  the 

club  there  are  three  of  us 
With  the  Duke,  and  we  play  lansquenet 

till  to-morrow; 

I  am  off  on  the  spur  .  .  .  what  say 
you  ?  .  .  .  will  you  be  of  us  !" 

"J/<m    enfant,    tu    me  toudes — tu  me 

bondes,  clicri," 

Sighs  the  soft  Celestine  on  the  breast 
of  Eugene ; 


200 


THE    WANDERER. 


"All  bah  !  nc  me  fais  pas  poser,  mon 

amie," 

Laughs  her  lover,  and  lifts  to  his 
lips — the  Champagne. 

And  loud  from  the  bottles  the  corks 

fly;  and  chilly 
The  wine  gnrgles  up  to  its  fine  crys- 

stal  bounds. 
While  Charles  rolls   his  paper  cigars 

round,  how  shrilly 
(Till  kist  out)  the  laughter  of  Juli- 
ette resounds ! 

Strike,  strike  the  piano !  beat  loud  at 

the  wall! 
Let  wealthy  old  Lycus  with  jealousy 

groan 
Next  door,  while  fair  Chloris  responds 

to  the  call, 

Too  fair  to  be  supping  with  Lycus 
alone. 

There  is  Celestine  singing,  and  Eugene 

is  swearing. — 
In  the  midst  of  the   laughter,  the 

oaths,  and  the  songs, 
Falls  a  knock  at  the  door;  but  there's 

nobody  hearing ; 

Each,  uninterrupted,  the  revel  pro- 
longs. 

Said  I  ...  "nobody  hearing?"  one 

only ; — the  guest, 
The  morose  English    stranger,   so 

dull  to  the  charms 
Of  Clarisse,  and  Juliette,  Celestine, 

and  the  rest ; 

Who  sits,  cold  as  a  stone,  with  a 
girl  in  his  arms. 

Once,  twice,  and  three  times,  he  has 

heard  it  repeated ; 
And  louder,  and  fiercer,  each  time 

the  sound  falls. 
And  his  cheek  is  death  pale,  'mid  the 

others  so  heated; 

There's  a  step  at  the  door,  too,  his 
fancy  recalls. 

And  he  rises  .  .  .  (just  so  an  automa- 
ton rises, — 
Some  man  of  mechanics  made  up, — 

that  must  move 
In    the  way  that  the   wheel  moves 

within  him ; — there  lies  his 
Sole  path   fixt  before  him,   below 
and  above). 

He  rises  .  .  .  and,  scarcely  a  glance 
casting  on  her, 


Flings  from  him  the  beauty  asleep 

on  his  shoulder ; 
Charles  springs  to  his  feet ;  Eugene 

mutters  of  honor ; 
But  there's  that  in  the  stranger  that 

awes  each  beholder. 
For  the  hue  on  his  cheek,  it  is  whiter 

than  whiteness : 
The  hair  creeps  on  his  head  like  a 

strange  living  thing. 
The  lamp  o'er  the  table,  has  lost  half 

its  brightness ; 

Juliette    cannot   laugh;    Celestine 
cannot  sing. 

He  has  opened  the  door  in  a  silence 

unbroken; 
And  the  gaze  of  all  eyes  where  he 

stands  is  fixed  wholly : 
Not  a  hand  is  there  raised ;   not  a 

word  is  there  spoken  : 
He  has  opened  the  door;  .  .  .  and 
there  comes  through  it  slowly 

A  woman,  as  pale  as  a  dame  on  a 

tombstone, 
With    desolate    violet    eyes,    open 

wide ; 
Her  look,  as  she  turns  it,  turns  all  in 

the  room  stone : 

She    sits  down    on   the  sofa,   the 
stranger  beside. 

Her  hair  it  is  yellow,  as  moonlight  on 

water 
Which  stones  in  some  eddy  torment 

into  waves; 
Her  lips  are  as  red  as  new  blood  spilt 

in  slaughter ; 

Her  cheek   like   a  ghost's  seen  by 
night  o'er  the  graves. 

Her  place  by  the  taciturn  guest  she 

has  taken  ; 
And  the  glass  at  her  side  she  has 

filled  with  Champagne. 
As  she  bows  o'er  the  board,  all  the 

revellers  awaken. 
She  has  pledged  her  mute  friend, 
and  she  fills  up  again. 

Clarisse  has  awaked  ;  and  with  shrieks 

leaves  the  table. 
Juliette   wakes,   and  faints  in  the 

arms  of  Arnold. 
And  Charles  and  Eugene,  with  what 

speed  they  are  able, 
Are  off  to  the  club,  where  this  tale 
shall  be  told. 


IN  FRANCE. 


201 


Celestine  for  her  brougham,    on  the 

stairs,  was  appealing, 
With  hysterical  sobs,  to  the  surly 

concierge, 
When  a   ray    through    the  doorway 

stole  to  her,  revealing 
A  sight  that  soon  changed  her  ap- 
peal to  "  La  vicrgc." 

All  the  light-hearted  friends  from  the 

chamber  are  fled : 
And  the  cat' 6  itself  has  grown  silent 

by  this. 
From  the  dark  street  below,  you  can 

scarce  hear  a  tread, 
Save  the  Gendarme's,  who  reigns 
there  as  gloomy  as  Bis. 

The  shadow  of  night  is  beginning  to 

flit: 
Through  the  gray  window  shimmers 

the  motionless  town. 
The  ghost  and  the  stranger,  together 

they  sit 
Side  by  side  at  the  table — the  place 

is  their  own. 
They  nod  and  change  glances,  that 

pale  man  and  woman ; 
For  they  both  are  well  known  to 

each  other:  and  then, 
Some    ghosts  have    a  look  that's  so 

horribly  human, 

In  the  street  you  might  meet  them, 
and  take  them  for  men. 

"  Thou  art  changed,  my  beloved!  and 

the  lines  have  grown  stronger, 

And  the  curls  have  grown  scanter, 

that  meet  on  thy  brow. 
Ah,  faithless !  and  dost  thou  remember 

no  longer 

The  hour  of  our  passion,  the  words 
of  thy  vow  ? 

"Thy  kiss,  on  my  lips  it  is  burning 

forever ! 
I  cannot  sleep  calm,  for  my  bed  is 

so  cold. 
Embrace  me !  close  .  .  .  closer  .  .  .  O 

let  us  part  never, 

And  let  all  be  again  as  it  once  was 
of  old!" 

So  she  murmurs  repiningly  ever.  Her 

breath 
Lifts  his  hair  like  a  night-wind  in 

winter.     And  he  ... 
"Thy  hand,  O  Irene,  is  icy  as  death, 


But  thy  face  is  unchanged  in  its 
beauty  to  me." 

"'T  is  so  cold,  my  beloved  one,  down 

there,  and  so  drear." 
"  Ah,  thy  sweet  voice,  Irene,  sounds 

hollow  and  strange!" 
"'T  is  the   chills  of  the  grave  that 

have  changed  it,  I  fear: 
But  the  voice  of  my  heart  there's  no 

chill  that  can  change." 

"  Ha !  thy  pale  cheek  is  flusht  "with  a 

heat  like  my  own. 
Is  it  breath,  is  it  flame,  on  thy  lips 

that  is  burning? 
Ha !  thy  heart  flutters  wild,  as  of  old 

'neath  thy  zone. 

And  those   cold  eyes  of  thine  fill 
with  passionate  yearning." 

Thus,    embracing    each   other,    they 

bend  and  they  waver, 
And,   laughing  and  weeping,  con- 
verse.    The  pale  ghost, 
As  the  wine  warms"  the  grave-worm 

within  her,  grown  braver, 
Fills  her  glass  to  the  brim,   and 
proposes  a  toast. 

"Here's  a  health  to  the  glow-worm, 

Death's  sober  lamplighter, 
That  saves  from  the  darkness  below 

the  gravestone 

The  tomb's  pallid  pictures.  .  .the  sad- 
der the  brighter ; 

Shapes  of  beauty  each  stony-eyed 
corpse  there  hath  known: 

"Mere  rough  sketches  of  life,  where 

a  glimpse  goes  for  all, 
Which  the  Master  keeps  (all  the  rest 

let  the  world  have!) 
But  though   only  rough-scrawled  on 

the  blank  charnel  wall, 
Is  their  truth  the  less  sharp,  that 
't  is  sheathed  in  the  grave  ? 

"Here's  to  Love  .  .  .  the  prime  pas- 
sion .  .  .  the  harp  that  we  sung  to 
In  the  orient  of  youth,  in  the  days 

pure  of  pain ; 

The  cup  that  we  quaffed  in  ;  the  stir- 
rup we  sprung  to, 

So  light,  ere  the  journey  was  made— 
and  in  vain ! 

"O  the  life  that  we  lived  once!  tin 
beauty  so  fair  once ! 


202 


THE   WANDERER. 


Let  them  go!  wherefore  weep  fo 

what  tears  could  not  save  ! 
What  old  trick  sets  us  aping  the  fool 
that  we  were  once, 

And  tickles  our  brains  even  under 
the  grave  ? 

"  There's  a  small  stinging  worm  whici 

the  grave  ever  breeds 
From  the  folds  of  the  shroud  that 

aronnd  us  is  spread : 
There's  a  little  blind  maggot  that  re- 
vels and  feeds 
On  the  life  of  the  living,  the  sleep 
of  the  dead. 

"  To  our  friends  !  .  .  .  "    But  the  full 

flood  of  dawn  through  the  pane, 

Having  slowly  rolled  down  the  huge 

street  there  unheard 
(While  the  great,  new,  blue  sky,  o'er 

the  white  Madeleine 
Was  wide  opening  itself),  from  her 

lip  washed  the  word; 
Washed  her  face  faint  and  fainter; 

while,  dimmer  and  dimmer, 
In  its  seat,  the  pale  form  flickered 

out  like  a  flame, 
As  broader,  and  brighter,  and  fuller, 

the  glimmer 

Of  day  through   the  heat-clouded 
window  became. 

And  the  day   mounts  apace.     Some 

one  opens  the  door. 
In  shuffles  a  waiter  with  sleepy  red 

eyes: 
He  stares  at  the  cushions  flung  loose 

on  the  floor, 

On    the    bottles,   the  glasses,   the 
plates,  with  surprise. 

Stranger  still !  he  sees  seated  a  man 

at  the  table, 
With  his  head  on  his  hands:   in  a 

slumber  he  seems, 
So  wild,  and  so  strange,  he  no  longer 

is  able 

In  silence  to  thrid  through  the  path 
of  his  dreams. 

For  he  moans,  and  he  mutters :   he 

moves  and  he  motions  : 
To  the  droam  that  he  droams  o'er 

his  wine-cnp  he  pledges. 
And  his  sighs  sound,   through  sleep, 
like    spent  winds   over  ocean'' s 
Last  verge,  where  the  world  hides 
its  outermost  edges. 


The  gas-lamp  falls  sick  in  the  tube 

and  so,  dying, 

To  the  fumes  of  spilt  wine,  and  ci- 
gars but  half  smoked, 
Adds  the    stench  of   its  last  gasp: 

chairs  broken  are  lying 
All  about  o'er  the  carpet  stained, 
littered,  and  soaked. 

A  touch  starts  the  sleeper.  He  wakes. 

It  is  day. 
And  the   beam  that  dispels  all  the 

phantoms  of  night 
Through  the  rooms  sends  its  kindly 

and  comforting  ray : 
The  streets  are  new-peopled:   the 
morning  is  bright. 

And  the  city's  so  fair !  and  the  dawn 

breaks  so  brightly ! 
With  gay  flowers   in  the   market, 

gay  girls  in  the  street. 
Whate'er  the  strange  beings  that  visit 

us  nightly, 

When  Paris  awakes,  from  her  smile 
they  retreat. 

I  myself   have,   at    morning,  beheld 

them  departing; 
Some  in   masks,  and  in  dominos, 

footing  it  on ; 
Some  like  imps,  some  like  fairies ;  at 

cockcrow  all  starting, 
And  speedily  flitting  from  sight  one 
by  one. 

And    that    wonderful     night-flower, 

Memory,  that,  tearful, 
Unbosoms  to    darkness  her   heart 

full  of  dew, 
Folds    her   leaves  round  again,  and 

from  day  shrinks  up  fearful 
In  the  cleft  of  her  ruin,  the  shade 
of  her  yew. 

This    broad    daylight    life's    strange 

enough :  and  wherever 
We  wander,  or  walk ;  in  the  club, 

in  the  streets ; 

^ot  a  straw  on  the  ground  is  too  triv- 
ial to  sever 

Each  man  in  the  crowd  from  the 
others  he  meets. 

2ach  walks  with  a  spy  or  a  jailer  be- 
hind him 

(Some  word  he  has  spoken,  some 
deed  he  has  done); 

Vndthe  step,  now  and  then,  quickens, 
just  to  remind  him, 


IN  FRANCE. 


203 


In  the  crowd,  iu  the  sun,  that  he  is 
not  alone. 

But  't  is  hard,  when    by  lamplight, 

'mid  laughter  and  songs  too, 
Those  return,  .  .  .  we  have  buried, 
and  mourned  for,  and  prayed  for, 
And  done  with  .  .  .  and,  free  of  the 

grave  it  belongs  to, 
Some  ghost  drinks  your  health  in 
the  wine  you  have  paid  for. 

Wreathe    the  rose,    O    Young  Man! 

pour  the  wine.  What  thou  hast 

That  en  joy  all  the  days  of  thy  youth. 

Spare  thou  naught. 
Yet  beware!  ...  at  the  board  sits  a 

ghost— 't  is  the  Past ; 
In  thy  heart  lurks  a  weird  Necro- 
mancer— 't  is  Thought. 

THE  CHESS-BOARD. 

My  lit^e  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 
Curtaining    warm    from    the    snowy 

weather, 

When  you  and  I  played  chess    to- 
gether. 

Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 

Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  knight. 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand. 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings : 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves  sideling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch ;  our  glances  meet, 

And  falter;  falls  your  golden  hair 

Agaiust    my    cheek;    your   bosom 

sweet 
Is   heaving.      Down   the  field,   your 

Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

And  me !  the  little  battle's  done, 
Disperst  is  all  its  chivalry; 
Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have  we 
'Mid  Life's  perplexing  checkers  made, 
And    many    a    game    with    fortune 
played, — 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least — if  this  alone  ;  — 
That  never,  never,  never  more. 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore 

(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wibe), 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 


Shut    out    the    world,    and    wintry 

weather, 
And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with 

eyes, 
Play  chess,  as  then  we  played,  together! 

SONG. 

If  Sorrow  have  taught  me  anything, 

She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for  you ; 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear 

For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true. 
If  the  one  star  left  by  the  morning. 

Be  dear  to  the  dying  night, 
If  the  late  rose  of  October 

Be  sweetest  to  scent  and  sight, 
If  the  last  of  the  leaves  in  December 

Be  dear  to  the  desolate  tree, 
Remember,  beloved,  0  remember 

How  dear  is  your  beauty  to  me! 

And  more  dear  than  the  gold,  is  the 

silver 
Grief  hath  sown  in  that  hair's  young 

gold; 

And  lovelier  than  youth  is  the  lan- 
guage, 
Of  the  thoughts   that  have  made 

youth  old ; 
We  must  love,  and  unlove,  and  forget, 

dear — 

Fashion  and  shatter  the  spell 
Of  how  many  a  love  in  a  life,  dear — 
Ere  life  learns  to  love  once  and  love 

well. 

Then  what  matters  it,yesterday's  sor- 
row? 

Since  I  have  outlived  it — see! 
And  what  matter  the    cares  of  to- 
morrow, 

Since  you,  dear,  will  share  them 
with  me? 

To  love  it  is  hard,  and  'tis  harder 
Perchance  to  be  loved  again: 
But  you'll  love  me,  I  know,  now  I  love 

you. — 

What  I  seek  I  am  patient  to  gain. 
To  the  tears  I  have  shed,  and  regret 

not, 

What  matter  a  few  more  tears  ? 
Or  a  few  day's  waiting  longer, 

To  one  that  has  waited  for  years? 
Hush !  lay  your  head  on  my  breast, 

there. 
Not  a  word!  .  .  .  while  I  weep  for 

your  sake, 

Sleep,    and     forget     me,    and     rest 
there : 


204 


THE   WANDEREE. 


My  heart  will  wait  warm  till  you 

wake. 

For— if  Sorrow  have  taught  me  any- 
thing 
She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for 

you; 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear 

to  shed 
For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true ! 

THE  LAST  EEMONSTRANCE. 

YES  !  I  am  worse  than  thou  didst  once 

believe  me. 
Worse  than  thou  deem'st  me  now  I 

cannot  be — 
But  say  "the  Fiend's  no  blacker," .  .  . 

canst  thou  leave  me  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  flee? 

Where  wilt  thou  bear  the  relics  of  the 

days 
Squandered  round  this  dethroned 

love  of  thine? 
Hast  thou  the  silver  and  the  gold  to 

raise 
A  new  God's  shrine  ? 

Thy  cheek  hath  lost  its  roundness 

and  its  bloom: 
Who  will  forgive  those  signs  where 

tears  have  fed 
On  thy  once  lustrous  eyes, — save  he 

for  whom 
Those  tears  were  shed  I 

Know  I  not  every  grief  whose  course 

hath  sown 
Lines  on  thy  brow,  and  silver  in  thy 

hair  ? 
Will  new  love   learn  the  language, 

mine  alone 
Hath  graven  there  ? 

Despite  the  blemisht  beauty  of  thy 

brow, 
Thou  wouldst  be  lovely,  couldst  thou 

love  again ; 
For  Love  renews  the  Beautiful :  but 

thou 
Hast  only  pain. 

How  wilt  thou  bear  from  pity  to  im- 
plore 
What  once  those  eyes  from  rapture 

could  command? 
How  wilt  thou  stretch — who  wast  a 

Queen  of  yore — 
A  suppliant's  hand  ? 


Even  were  thy  heart  content  from  love 

to  ask 
No  more  than  needs  to  keep  it  from 

the  chill, 
Hast  thou  the  strength  to  recommence 

the  task 
Of  pardoning  still  ? 

Wilt  thou  to  one,  exacting  all  that  I 
Have  lost  the  right  to  ask  for,  still 

extend 
Forgiveness  on  forgiveness,  with  that 

sigh 

That  dreads  the  end  ? 
Ah,  if  thy  heart  can  pardon  yet,  why 

yet 

Should  not  its  latest  pardon  be  for 

me? 
For  who  will  bend,  the  boon  he  seeks 

to  get, 
On  lowlier  keee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  find  the  unworthier 

heart  than  mine, 
That  it  may  be  more  grateful,  or 

.  more  lowly  ? 

To  whom  else,  pardoning  much,  be- 
come divine 
By  pardoning  wholly  ? 

Hath  not  thy  forehead  paled  beneath 

my  kiss? 
And'  through   thy  life   have  I  not 

writ  my  name? 
Hath  not  my  soul  signed  thine  ?  .  .  .  I 

gave  thee  bliss, 
If  I  gave  shame  : 

The  shame,  but  not  the  bliss,  where'er 

thou  goest, 
Will    haunt    thee  yet :    to    me  no 

shame  thou  hast : 
To  me  alone,  what  now  thou  art,  thou 

knowest 
By  what  thou  wast. 

What  other  hand  will  help  thy  heart 

to  swell 
To  raptures  mine  first  taught  it  how 

to  feel ? 

Or  from  the  unchorded  harp  and  va- 
cant shell 
New  notes  reveal  ? 

Ah,   by  my   dark  and  sullen  nature 

nurst, 
And    rocked    by    passion    on    this 

stormy  heart, 
Be  mine  the  last,  as  thou  wert  mine 

the  first! 
We  dare  not  part! 


y  FRANCE. 


205 


At  best  a  fallen  Angel  to  mankind, 
To  me  be  still  the  seraph  I  have 

dared 
To  show  my  hell  to,  and  whose  love 

resigned 
Its  pain  hath  shared. 

If,  faring  on  together,  1  have  fed 
Thy  lips  on  poisons,  they  were  sweet 

at  least, 
Nor  could st  thou  thrive  where  holier 

Love  hath  spread 
His  simpler  feast. 

Change  would  be  death.     Could  sever- 
ance from  my  side 
Bring  thee  repose,  I  would  not  bid 

thee  stay. 
My  love  should  meet,  as  calmly  as  my 

pride, 
That  parting  day* 

It  may  not  be:  for  thou  couldst  Dot 

forget  me, — 
Not  that  my  own  is  more  than  other 

natures, 
But  that    'tis    different:    and   thou 

wouldst  regret  me 
'Mid  purer  creatures. 

Then,  if  Love's  first  ideal  now  grows 

wan, 
And  thou  wilt  love  again, — again 

love  me, 

For  what  I  am: — no  hero,  but  a  man 
Still  loving  thee. 

SORCERY. 
TO . 

You're  a  milk-white  Panther: 

I  'm  a  Genius  of  the  air, 
You  're  a  Princess  once  enchanted; 

That  is  why  you  seem  so  fair. 

For  a  crime  untold,  unwritten, 
That  was  done  an  age  ago, 

I  have  lost  my  wings,  and  wander 
In  the  wilderness  below. 

In  a  dream  too  long  indulged, 

In  a  Palace  by  the  sea, 
Yon  were  changed  to  what  you  are 

By  a  muttered  sorcery. 

Your  name  came  on  my  lips 

When  I  first  looked  in  your  eyes : 

At  my  feet  you  fawned,  you  knew  me 
In  despite  of  all  disguise. 


The  black  elephants  of  Delhi 
Are  the  wisest  of  their  kind, 

And  the  libbards  of  Soumatra 
Are  full  of  eyes  behind : 

But  they  guessed  not,   they  divined 

not, 

They  believed  me  of  the  earth, 
When  I  walked  among  them,  mourn- 
ing 
For  the  region  of  my  birth. 

Till  I  found  you  in  the  moonlight. 

Then  at  once  I  knew  it  all. 
You  were  sleeping  in  the  sand  here, 

But  you  wakened  to  my  call. 

I  knew  why,  in  your  slumber, 
You  were  moaning  piteously : 

You  heard  a  sound  of  harping 
From  a  Palace  by  the  sea. 

Through  the  wilderness  together 
We  must  wander  everywhere, 

Till  we  find  the  magic  berry 
That  shall  make  us  what  we  were. 

'T  is  a  berry  sweet  and  bitter, 
I  have  heard ;  there  is  but  one : 

On  a  tall  tree,  by  a  fountain, 
In  the  desert  all  alone. 

When  at  last  't  is  foijnd  and  eaten, 
We  shall  both  be  what  we  were ; 

You,  a  Princess  of  the  water, 
I,  a  Genius  of  the  air. 

See !  the  Occident  is  flaring 
Far  behind  us  in  the  skies, 

And  our  shadows  float  before  us. 
Night  is  coming  forth.     Arise ! 

ADIEU,   MIGNONNE,   MA  BELLE. 

ADIEU,  Mignonne,  ma  belle  .  .  .  when 

you  are  gone, 
Vague  thoughts  of  you  will  wander, 

searching  love 
Through  this  dim  heart :  through  this 

dim  room,  Mignonne, 
Vague  fragrance  from  your  hair  and 
dress  will  move. 

How  will  you  think  of  this  poor  heart 

to-morrow, 
This   poor  fond  heart  with   all  its 

joy  in  yon  ? 
Which  you  were  fain  to  lean  on,  once, 

in  sorrow, 

Though  now  you  bid  it  such  a  light 
adieu. 


206 


THE    WANDERER. 


You'll  sing  perchance  ...   "I  passed 

a  night  of  dreams 
Once,  in  an  old  inn's  old  worm-eaten 

bed, 
Passing    on    life's    highway.       How 

strange  it  seems, 
That  never  more  I  there  shall  lean 

my  head !" 

Adieu,  Mignonne,    adieu,  Mignonne, 

ma  belle! 
Ah,  little  witch,  our  greeting  was 

so  gay, 
Our  love   so    painless,   who  'd    have 

thought  "Farewell" 
Could  ever  be  so  sad  a  word  to  say  ? 

I  leave  a  thousand  fond  farewells  with 

you : 
Some  for  your  red  wet  lips,  which 

were  so  sweet : 
Some  for  your  darling  eyes,  so  dear, 

so  blue : 

Some  for  your  wicked,  wanton  little 
feet: 

But   for  your  little    heart,   not    yet 

awake, — 
What  can  I  leave  your  little  heart, 

Mignonne  ? 

It  seems  so  fast  asleep,  I  fear  to  break 
The  poor  thing's  slumber.     Let  it 
still  sleep  011 ! 

TO  MIGNONNE. 

AT  morning,  from  the  sunlight 
I  shall  miss  your  sunny  face, 

Leaning,  laughing,  on  my  shoulder 
With  its  careless  infant  grace ; 
And  your  hand  there, 

With  its  rosy,  inside  color,   • 
And  the  sparkle  of  its  rings  ; 

And  your  soul  from  this  old  chamber 
Missed  in  fifty  little  things, 
When  I  stand  there. 

And  the  roses  in  the  garden 
Droop  stupidly  all  the  day, — 

Red,  thirsty  mouths  wide  open, 
With  not  a  word  to  say  ! 
Their  last  meaning 

Is  all  faded,  like  a  fragrance, 

From  the  languishing  late  flowers, 
With    your    feet,    your    slow    white 

movements, 

And. your  face,  in  silent  hours, 
O'er  them  leaning. 


And,  in  long,  cool  summer  evenings, 
I  shall  never  see  you,  drest 

In  those  pale  violet  colors 
Which  suit  your  sweet  face  best. 
Here's  your  glove,  child, 

Soiled  and  empty  as  you  left  it, 
Yet  your-  hand's  warmth  seems  to 

stay 

In  it  still,  as  though  this  moment 
You  had  drawn  your  hand  away ;. 
Like  your  love,  child, 

Which  still  stays  about  my  fancy. 

See  this  little,  silken  boot. — 
What  a  plaything !  was  there  ever 

Such  a  slight  and  slender  foot  ? 
Is  it  strange  now 

How  that,  when  your  lips  are  nearest 
To  the  lips  they  feed  upon 

For  a  summer  time,  till  bees  sleep, 
On  a  sudden  you  are  gone  ? 
What  new  change  now 

Sets  you  sighing  .  .  .  eyes  uplifted 

To  the  starry  night  above? 
"God  is  great".  .  .  the  soul's  immort- 
al ... 

Must  we  die,  though !  .  .  .  Do  you 
love? 
One  kiss  more,  then : 

"  Life  might  end  now !"  .  .  .  And  next 

moment 

With  those  wicked  little  feet, 
You  have  vanished, — like  a  Fairy 
From  a  fountain  in  the  heat, 
And  all's  o'er,  then. 

Well,  no  matter!  .  .  .  hearts  are  break- 
ing 

Every  day,  but  not  for  you, 
Little  wanton,  ever  making 
Chains    of    rose,    to    break   them 
through. 
I  would  mourn  you. 

But  your  red  smile  was  too  warm, 

Sweet,  _ 

And  your  little  heart  too  cold, 
And  your  blue  eyes  too  blue  merely, 
For  a  strong,  sad  man  to  scold, 
Weep,  or  scorn,  you. 

For  that  smile's  soft,  transient  sun^ 

shine 

At  my  hearth,  when  it  was  chill, 
I  shall  never,  da  your  name  wrong) 


FRANCE. 


207 


But  think  kindly  of  you  still; 
And  each  moment 

Of  your  pretty  infant  angers, 

(Who  could  help  but  smile  at  .  .  . 

when 
Those  small  feet  would  stamp  our  love 

out?) 

Why,  I  pass  them  now,  as  then, 
Without  comment. 

Only,  here,  when  I  am  searching 
For  the  book  I  cannot  find, 

I  must  sometimes  pass  your  boudoir, 
Howsoever  disinclined  ; 

And  must  meet  there 

The  gold  bird-cage  in  the  window, 
Where  no  bird  is  singing  now  ; 

The  small  sofa  and  the  footstool, 
Where  I  miss  .  .  .  I  know  not  how  .  .  . 
Your  young  feet  there, 

Silken-soft  in  each  quaint  slipper  ; 

And  the  jewelled  writing-case, 
Where  you  nevermore  will  write  now  ; 

And  the  vision  of  your  face, 
Just  turned  to  me:  — 

I  would  save  this,  if  I  could,  child, 
But  that's  all  .  .  .  September's   here! 

I  must  write  a  book:  read  twenty: 
Learn  a  language  .  .  .  what  's  to  fear  ? 
Who  grows  gloomy 

Being  free  to  work,  as  I  am  ? 

Yet  these  autumn  nights  are  cold. 
How  I  wonder  how  you  '11  pass  them  ! 

Ah,  .  .  .  could  all'be  as  of  old  ! 
But  't  is  best  so. 

All  good  things  must  go  for  better, 
As  the  primrose  for  the  rose. 

Is  love  free  ?  why  so  is  life,  too  ! 
Holds  the  grave  fast  ?  .  .  .  I  suppose 
Things  must  rest  so. 

COMPENSATION. 


the  days  are  silent  all 

Till  the  drear  light  falls  ; 
And  the  nights  pass  with  the  pall 

Of  Love's  funerals  ; 
When  the  heart  is  weighed  with  years; 
And  the  eyes  too  weak  for  tears  ; 
And  life  like  death  appears  : 

Is  it  naught,  O  soul  of  mine, 
To  hear  i'  the  windy  track 

A  voice  with  a  song  divine 
Calling  thy  footsteps  back 

To  the  laud  thou  lovest  best, 


Toward  the  Garden  in  the  West 
Where  thou  hast  once  been  blest  ? 
Is  it  naught,  O  aching  brow, 

To  feel  in  the  dark  hour, 
Which  came,  though  called,  so  slow, 

And,    though   loathed,   yet  lingers 

slower, 

A  hand  upon  thy  pain, 
Lovingly  laid  again, 
Smoothing  the  ruffled  brain  t 
O  love,  my  own  and  only ! 

The  seraphs  shall  not  see 
By  iny  looks  that  life  was  lonely  ; 

But  that 't  was  blest  by  thee. 
If  few  lives  have  been  more  lone, 
Few  have  more  rapture  known, 
Than  mine  and  thine,  my  own ! 

When  the  lamp  burns  dim  and  dim- 
mer ; 

And  the  curtain  close  is  drawn  ; 
And  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer 

With  a  supernatural  dawn  ; 
And  the  Genius  at  the  door 
Turns  the  torch  down  to  the  floor, 
Till  the  world  is  seen  no  more ; 

In  the  doubt,  the  dark,  the  fear, 

'Mid  the  spirits  come  to  take  thee, 
Shall  mine  to  thine  be  near, 

And  my  kiss  the  first  to  wake  thee. 
Meanwhile,  in  Life's  December, 
On  the  wind  that  strews  the  ember, 
Shall  a  voice  still  moan  .  .  .  "Remem- 
ber!" 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETER 
RONSARD. 

"VOICI LE  BOIS  Q HE  MA  SAINCTE 
ANGELETTE." 

HERE  is  the  wood  that  freshened  to 

her  song ; 
See  here,  the  flowers  that  keep  her 

footprints  yet ; 
Where,  all  alone,  my  saintly  Angel- 

ette 

Went   wandering,    with,  her  maiden 
thoughts,  along. 

Here  is  the  little  rivulet  where  she 

stopped ; 
And  here  the  greenness  of  the  grass 

shows  where 
She  lingered  through  it,  searching 

here  and  there 

Those    daisies    dear,    which    in    her 
breast  she  dropped. 


208 


THE   WANDERER. 


Here   did  she   sing,  and  here  she 

wept,  and  here 
Her  smile  came  back :   and  here  I 

seem  to  hear 
Those    faint   half-words  with  which 

my  thoughts  are  rife ; 
Here   she   did   sit ;  here,  childlike, 

did  she  dance, 
To  some  vague  impulse  of  her  own 

romance — 
Ah,    Love,    on    all    these    thoughts, 

winds  out  my  life ! 
"CACHE  POUR  CETTE  NUICT." 
HIDE,   for  a  night,   thy   horn,    good 

Moon!     Fair  Fortune 
For  this  shall  keep  Endymion  ever 

prest 

Deep-dreaming,  amorous,  on  thine 

argent  breast,  [tune. 

Nor  ever  shall  enchanter  thee  impor- 

Hateful  to  me  the  day ;  most  sweet 

the  night ! 
I  fear  the  myriad  meddling  eyes  of 

day; 
But   courage    comes    with    night. 

Close,  close,  I  pray, 
Your  curtains,   dear  dark  skies,  on 
my  delight! 

Thou  too,  thou  Moon,  thou  too  hast 

felt  love's  power ! 
Pan,  with  a   white  fleece,  won  thee 

for  an  hour ;  [blue, 

And  you,  sidereal  Signs  in  yonder 

Favor  the  fire  to  which  my  heart  is 

moved.  [of  you 

Forget  not  Signs,  the  greater  part 

Was  only  set  in  heaven  for  having 

loved ! 

"  PAGE  STTI MOT." 
FOLLOW,  my  Page,  where  the  green 

grass  embosoms 

The  enamelled  Season's    freshest- 
fallen  dew ; 
Then   home,    and  my  still    house 

with  handfuls  strew 
Of  frail-lived   April's  newliest   nur- 
tured blossoms. 
Take  from   the  wall  now,  my  song- 

tun6d  Lyre  ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  charm  out  the 

sweet  pain 
Of   a  dark  eye  whose  light  hath 

burned  my  brain, 
The  unloving  loveliness  of  my  desire ! 


And  here  my  ink,  and  here  my  papers, 

place  : — 
A  hundred  leaves  of  white,  whereon 

to  trace 

A  hundred  words  of  desultory  woe — 
Words  which  shall  last,  like  graven 

diamonds,  sure ; — 
That,  some  day  hence,  a  future  race 

may  know  [endure. 

And   ponder    on    the    pain   which  I 

"LES  ESPICE  SONT A  CERES." 
CERES  hath  her  harvest  sweet : 

Chlora's  is  the  young  green  grass : 
Woods  for  Fauns  with  cloven  feet: 
His  green  laurel  Phoebus  has : 
Minerva  has  her  Olive-tree : 
And  the  Pine  ;s  for  Cybele. 
Sweet  sounds  are  for  Zephyr's  wings  : 

Sweet  fruit  for  Pomona's  bosom : 
For  the  Nymphs  are  crystal  springs 

And  for  Flora  bud  and  blossom  : 
But  sighs  and  tears,  and  sad  ideas, 
These  alone  are  Cytherea's. 

"MA  DOUCE  JOTJVENCE." 
MY  sweet  youth  now  is  all  done ; 
The  strength  and  the  beauty  are  gone. 
The  tooth  now  is  black,  and  the 

head  now  is  white, 
And  the  nerves  now  are  loosed :  in  the 

veins 

Only  water  (not  blood  now)  remains, 
Where  the  pulse  beat  of  old  with 

delight. 

Adieu,  O  my  lyre,  O  adieu,  [you 

You  sweet  women,  my  lost  loves,  and 

Each  dead  passion!  .  .  .    The  end 

creepeth  nigher.  [pace 

Not  one  pastime  of  youth  hath  kept 

With  my  age.     Nought  remains  in 

their  place  fire. 

But  the  bed,  and  the  cup,  and  the 

My  head  is  confused  with  low  fears, 

And  sickness,  and  too  many  years  ; 

Some  care  in  each  corner  I  meet — 
And,  wherever  I  linger  or  go, 
I  turn  back,  and  look  after,  to  know 
If  the   Death  be  still  doggiug  mv 
feet : — 

Dogging  me  down  the  dark  stair, 
Which  windeth,  I  cannot  tell  where, 

To  some  Pluto  that  opens  forever 
His  cave  to  all  comers— Alas! 
How  easily  down  it  all  pass, 

And  return   from    it— never,    ah, 
never ! 


N  EXGLAND. 


209 


BOOK  III.  -  IN  ENGLAND. 


THE    ALOE. 

A  STRANGER  sent  from  burning  lands, 
In  realms  where  buz  and  mutter  yet 

Old    gods,  with  hundred  heads   and 

hands, 
On  jeweled  thrones  of  jet, — 

(Old  gods  as  old  as  Time  itself,) 
And,  in  a  hot  and  level  calm, 

Recline  o'er  many  a  sandy  shelf 
Dusk  forms  beneath  the  palm, — 

To  Lady  Eve,  who  dwells  beside 
The  river-meads,  and  oak-trees  tall, 

Whose  dewy  shades  encircle  wide 
Her  old  Baronial  Hall, 

An  Indian  plant  with  leaves  like  horn, 
And,  all  along  its  stubborn  spine, 

Mere   humps,    with  angry  spike   and 

thorn 
Armed  like  the  porcupine. 

In  midst  of  which  one  sullen  bud 
Surveyed  the  world,  with  head  aslant, 

High-throned,  and  looking  like  the  god 
Of  this  strange  Indian  plant. 

A  stubborn  plant,  from  looking  cross 
It  seemed  no  kindness  could  retrieve! 

But  for  his  sake  whose  gift  it  was 
It  pleased  the  Lady  Eve. 

She  set  it  on  the  terraced  walk, 

Within  her  own  fair  garden-ground ; 
And  every  morn  and  eve  its  stalk 

Was  duly  watered  round. 
And  every  eve  and  morn,  the  while 

She  tended  this  uncourteous  thing, 
I  stood    beside     her,  —  watched    her 
smile, 

And  often  heard  her  sing. 

The  roses  I  at  times  would  twist 
To  deck  her  hair,  she  oft  forgot ; 

But  never  that  dark  aloe  missed 
The  daily  watering-pot. 

She  seemed  so  gay, — I  felt  so  sad, — 
Her  laugh  but  made  me  frown  the 
more: 


For  each  light  word  of  hers  I  had 
Some  sharp  reply  in  store. 

Until  she  laughed.  .  .  "This  aloe 
shows 

A  kindlier  nature  than  your  own  ".  . . 
Ah.  Eve,  you  little  dreamed  what  foes 

The  plant  and  I  had  grown  ! 

At  last,  one  summer  night,  when  all 
The  garden  flowers  were  dreaming 
still, 

And  still  the  old  Baronial  Hall, 
The  oak-trees  on  the  hill, 

A  loud  and  sudden  sound  there  stirred, 
As  when  a  thunder-cloud  is  torn  ; 

Such  thunder-claps  are  only  heard 
When  little  gods  are  born. 

The  echo  went  from  place  to  place, 
And  wakened  every  early  sleeper. 

Some  said  that  poachers  in  the  chase 
Had  slain  a  buck — or  keeper. 

Some  hinted  burglars  at  the  door : 
Some  questioned  if  it  had  not  light- 
ened : 

While  all  the  maids,  as  each  one  swore, 
From  their  seven  wits  were  fright- 
ened. 

The  peacocks  screamed,  and  every  rook 
Upon  the  elms  at  roost  did  caw  : 

Each  inmate  straight  the  house  forsook: 
They  searched— and,  last,— they  saw 

That  sullen  bud  to  flower  had  burst 
Upon  the  sharp-leaved  aloe  there; — 

A   wondrous    flower,    whose    breath 

disperst 
Rich  odors  on  the  air. 

A  flower,  colossal — dazzling  white, 
And  fair  as  is  a  Sphinx's  face, 

Turned  broadly  to  the  moon  by  night 
From  some  vast  temple's  base. 

Yes,  Eve  !  your  aloe  paid  the  pains 
With  which  its  sullen  growth  you 
nurst. 

But  ah !  my  nature  yet  remains 
As  churlish  as  at  first. 


210 


THE    WANDERER. 


And    yet,    and    yet— it    might    have 

proved 

Not  all  unworth  your  heart's  approv- 
ing. 

Ah.  had  I  only  been  beloved, — 
(Beloved  as  I  was  loving ! ) 

I  might  have  been  .  .  .   how  much, 
how  much, 

I  am  not  now,  and  shall  not  be  1 
One  gentle  look,  one  tender  touch, 

Had  done  so  much  for  me ! 

I  too,  perchance,  if  kindly  tended, 
Had  roused  the  napping  generation, 

With  something    novel,    strange   and 

splendid, 
Deserving  admiration : 

For  all  the  while  there  grew,  and  grew 
A  germ, — a  bud,  within  my  bosom : 

No  flower,  fair  Eve  !  for,  thanks  to  you, 
It  never  eame  to  blossom. 

"MEDIO  DE  FONTE  LEPORUM 
SURGIT  AMARI  ALIQUID." 

LUCRETIUS. 
WE  walked  about  at  Plampton  Court, 

Alone  in  sunny  weather, 
And    talked — half     earnest,   and  half 

sport, 
Linked  arm  in  arm  together. 

I  pressed  her  hand  upon  the  steps. 

Its  warmest  light  the  sky  lent. 
She  sought  the  shade  :  I  sought  her  lips, 

We  kissed  :  and  then  were  silent. 

Clare   thought,   no    doubt,    of    many 
things, 

Besides  the  kiss  I  stole  there  ; — 
The  sun,  and  sunny  founts  in  rings, 

The  bliss  of  soul  with  soul  there, 

The  bonnet,  fresh  from  France,   she 
wore, 

My  praise  of  how  she  wore  it, 
The  arms  above  the  carven  door, 

The  orange-trees  before  it ; — 

But  I  could  only  think,  as,  mute 
I  watched  her  happy  smile  there, 

With  rising  pain,  of  this  curst  boot, 
That  pinched  me  all  the  while  there. 

THE  DEATH  OF  KING  HACON. 

IT  was  Odin  that  whispered  inVingolf, 
"  Go  forth  to  the  heath  by  the  sea; 

Find  Hacon  before  the  moon  rises, 
And  bid  him  to  supper  with  me." 


They  go  forth  to  choose  from  the 
Princes 

Of  Yugvon,  and  summons  from  fight 
A  man  who  must  perish  in  battle, 

And  sup  where  the  gods  sup  to-night. 

Leaning  over  her  brazen  spear,  Gon- 

dula 
Thus bespake her  companions,  "The 

feast 

Of  the  gods  shall,  in  Vingolf,  this  eve- 
ning, 
O  ye  Daughters  of  War,  be  increast. 

"  For  Odin  hath  beckoned  unto  me. 
For  Odin  hath  whispered  me  forth. 

To  bid  to  his  supper  King  Hacon 
With   the  half  of  the  hosts  of  the 
North. 

Their  horses  gleamed  white  through 

the  vapor : 

In  the  moonlight  their  corselets  did 

shine :  [gether, 

As  they  wavered  and  whispered  to- 

And  fashioned  their  solemn  design. 

Hacon  heard  them  discoursing— "Why 

hast  thou 
Thus  disposed  of  the  battle  so  soon  ? 

O,  were  we  not  worthy  of  conquest  ? 
Lo!  we  die  by  the  rise  of  the  moon." 
It  is  not  the  moon  that  is  rising, 
But  the  glory  which  penetrates  death, 

When  heroes  to  Odin  arc  summoned  . 
Rise,  Hacon,  and  stand  on  the  heath  ! 

"It  is  we,"  she  replied,  "that  have 
given 

To  thy  pasture  the  flower  of  the  fight 
It  is  we,  it  is  we  that  have  scattered 

Thine  enemies  yonder  in  flight. 

Come  now.  let  us  push  on  our  horses, 
Over  yonder  given  worlds  in  the  east, 
Where  the  grout  gods  are  gathered  to- 
gether, 
And  the  tables  arc  piled  for  the  feast! 

"Betimes  to  give  notice  to  Odin, 

Who  waits  in  his  sovran  abodes, 
That  the  King  to  his  palace  is  coming 

This  evening  to  visit  the  gods." 
Odin  rose  when  he  heard  it,  and  with 
him 

Rose  the  gods,  every  god  to  his  feet: 
He  beckoned  Hermoder^nd  Brago, 

They  came  to  him,  each  from  his 
seat. 


ENGLAND. 


211 


"  Go  forth,  O  my  sons,  to  King  Hacon, 
And  meet  him  and  greet  him  from 
all, 

A  King  that  we  know  by  his  valor 
Is  coming  to-night  to  our  hall." 

Then  faintly  King  Haeon  approaches, 
Arriving  from  battle,  and  sore 

With    the    wounds    that    yet    bleed 

through  his  armor 
Bedabbled  and  dripping  with  gore. 

His  visage  is  pallid  and  awful 
With  the  awe  and  the  pallor  of  death, 

Like  the  moon  that  at  midnight  arises 
Where  the  battle  lies  strewn  on  the 
heath. 

To  him  spake  Hermoder  and  Brago, 
"  We  meet  thee  and  greet  thee  from 

all, 
To  the  gods  thou  art  known  by  thy 

valor, 

And  they  bid  thee  a  guest  to  their 
hall. 

"Come    hither,    come    hither,    King 

Hacon, 
And  join  those  eight  brothers  of 

thine, 

Who  already,  awaiting  thy  coming, 
With  the  gods  in  Walhalla  recline. 

"And  loosen,  0  Hacon,  thy  corselet, 
For  thy  wounds  are  yet  ghastly  to 

see. 

Go  pour  ale  in  the  circle  of  heroes, 
And  drink,  for  the  gods  drink  to 
thee." 

But  he  answered,  the  hero,  "I  never 
Will  part  with  the  armor  I  wear. 

Shall  a  warrior  stand  before  Odin 
Unshamed-,    without     helmet     and 
spear?" 

Black  Fenris,  the  wolf,  the  destroyer, 
Shall  arise  and  break  loose  from  his 
chain 

Before  that  a  hero  like  Hacon 
Shall  stand  in  the  battle  again. 

"CARPE  DIEM." 

HORACE. 

To-morrow  is  a  cay  too  far 
To  trust,  whate'er  the  day  be. 

We  know,  a  little,  what  we  are, 
But  who  knows  what  he  may  be? 


The  oak  that  on  the  mountain  grows 

A  goodly  ship  may  be, 
Next  year;    but  it  is   as  well  (who 

knows?) 
May  be  a  gallows-tree. 

'Tis  God  made  man,  no  doubt, — not 
Chance : 

He  made  us,  great  and  small ; 
But,  being  made,  'tis  Circumstance 

That  finishes  us  all. 

The  Author  of  this  world's  great  plan 
The  same  results  will  draw 

From  human  life,  however  man 
May  keep,  or  break,  His  law. 

The  artist  to  his  Art  doth  look; 

And  Art's  great  laws  exact 
That    those    portrayed    in    Nature's 
Book, 

Should  freely  move  and  act. 

The  moral  of  the  work  unchanged 

Endures  eternally, 
Howe'er  by  human  wills  arranged 

The  work's  details  may  be. 

"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread, 
The  morrow  shall  take  heed 

Unto  itself."    The  Master  said 
No  more.     No  more  we  need. 

To-morrow  cannot  make  or  mar 
To-day,  whate'er  the  day  be: 

Nor  can  the  men  which  now  we  are 
Foresee  the  men  we  may  be. 

THE  FOUNT  OF  TRUTH. 

It  was  the  place  by  legends  told. 

I  read  the  tale  when  yet  a  child. 
The  castle  on  the  mountain  hold, 

The  woodland  in  the  wild. 

The  wrecks  of  nnremembered  days 
Were  heaped  around.     It  was  the 

hour 
When  bold  men  fear,  and  timorous 

fays 
Grow  bold,  and  know  their  power. 

The  month  was  in  the  downward  year. 

The   breath  of  Autumn  chilled  the 

sky: 
And  useless  leaves,  too  early  sere, 

Muttered  and  eddied  by. 

It  seemed  that  I  was  wending  back 
Among  the  ruins  of  my  youth, 


212 


THE    WANDERER. 


Along  a  wild  ni ght-haunted  track 
To  seek  the  Fount  of  Truth. 

The  Fount  of  Truth,— that  wondrous 

fount ! 
Its  solemn  sound  I  seemed  to  hear 

Wind-borne  a  down  the  clouded  mount, 
Desolate,  cold,  and  clear. 

By  clews  long  lost,  and  found  again 
I  know  not  how,  my  course  was  led 

Through  lands  remote  from  living  men, 
As  life  is  from  the  dead. 

Yet  up  that  wild  road,  here  and  there, 
Large,  awful  footprints  did  I  meet: 

Footprints   of    gods  perchance  they 

were, 
Prints — not  of  human  feet. 

The  mandrake  underneath  my  foot 
Gave  forth  a  shriek  of  angry  pain. 

I  heai-cl  the  roar  of  some  wild  brute 
Pro^vliug  the  windy  plain. 

I   reached    the    gate.    I   blew   with 

power 

A  blast  upon  the  darkness  wide. 
"Who  art  thou?"    from  the  gloomy 

tower 
The  sullen  warder  cried. 

"A  Pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of  Truth." 
He    laughed  a  laugh    of    scornful 

spleen. 
"Art    thou    not   from    the  Land    of 

Youth  ? 
Eeport  where  thou  hast  been." 

"The  Land  of  Youth!  an  alien  race 
There,  in  my  old  dominions,  reign  ; 

And,  with  them,  one  in  whose  false 

face 
I  will  not  gaze  again. 

"  From  to  and  fro  the  world  I  come, 
Where  I  have  fared  as  exiles  fare, 

Mocked  by  the  memories  of  home 
And  homeless  everywhere. 

"  The  snake  that  slid  through  Para- 
dise 

Yet  on  my  pathway  slides  and  slips : 
The  apple  plucked  in  Eden  twice 

Is  yet  upon  my  lips. 

"  I  can  report  the  world  is  still 
Where  it  hath  been  since  it  began: 

And  Wisdom,  with  bewildered  will, 
Is  still  the  same  sick  man, 


Whom  yet  the  self-same  visions  fool, 
The    self-same    nightmares    haunt 

and  scare. 

Folly  still  breeds  the  Public  Fool, 
Knowledge  increaseth  care : 

Joy  hath    its  tears,  and  Grief  her 

smile ; 
And    still    both    tears     and    smiles 

deceive ; 
And  in  the  Valley  of  the  Nile 
I  hear — and  I  believe — 

The  Fiend  and  Michael,  as  of  yore, 
Yet  wage  the  ancient  war:  but  how 
This  strife  will  end  at  last,  is  more 
Than  our  new  sages  know." 

I  heard  the  gate  behind  me  close. 

It  closed  with  a  reluctant  wail. 
Boused  by  the  sound  from  her  repose 

Started  the  Portress  pale: 

In  pity,  or  in  scorn  ..."  Forbear, 
Madman,"    she    cried,    .  .  .    "thy 
search  for  Truth. 

The  curl  is  in  thy  careless  hair. 
Return  to  Love  and  Youth. 

"  What  lured  thee  here,  through  dark, 

and  doubt, 

The  many-perilled  prize  to  win?"— 
"The  dearth"  .  .  .  I  said  ...  "of  all 

without, 
The  thirst  of  all  within. 

"Age  comes  not  with  the  wrinkled 
brow 

But  earlier,  with  the  ravaged  heart ; 
Full  oft  hath  fallen  the  winter  snow 

Since  Love  from  me  did  part. 

"Long  in  dry  places,  void  of  cheer, 
Long  have  I  roamed.     These  fea- 
tures scan : 

If  magic  lore  be  thine,  look  here, 
Behold  the  Talisman!" 

I  crossed  the  court.  The  bloodhound 
bayed 

Behind  me  from  the  outer  wall. 
The  drowsy  grooms  my  call  obeyed 

And  lit  the  haunted  hall. 

They  brought  me  horse,  and  lance, 

and  helm, 
They  bound   the   buckler    on    my 

breast, 
Spread  the  wierd  chart  of  that  wild 

realm, 


IN  ENGLAND, 


213 


And  armed  me  for  the  quest. 

Uprose  the  Giant  of  the  Keep. 

"Rash  fool,  ride   011!"  ...  I  heard 

him  say, 
"  The  night  is  late,    the  heights  are 

steep, 
And  Truth  is  far  away !" 

And  .  .  .  "  Far  away !"  .  .  .  the  echoes 

fell 

Behind,  as  from  that  grisly  hold 
I  turned.      No  tongue   of  man  may 

tell 
What  mine  must  leave  untold. 

The  Fount  of  Truth, — that  wondrous 
fount! 

Far  off  I  heard  its  waters  play. 
But  ere  I  scaled  the  solemn  mount, 

Dawn  broke.     The  trivial  day 

To  its  accustomed  course  flowed  back, 
And  all  the  glamour  faded  round. 

Is  it  forever  lost, — that  track? 
Or — was  it  never  found? 

MIDGES. 

SHE    is  talking   aesthetics,  the  dear 

clever  creature ! 
Upon  Man,  and  his  functions,  she 

speaks  with  a  smile. 
Her  ideas  are  divine  upon  Art,  upon 

Nature, 

The  Sublime,  the  Heroic,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

I  no  more  am  found  worthy  to  join  in 

the  talk,  now ; 
So  1  follow  with  my  surreptitious 

cigar  ; 
While  she  leads  our  poetical  friend  up 

the  walk,  now, 

Who  quotes  Wordsworth  and  praises 
her  "  Thoughts  on  a  Star." 

Meanwhile,  there  is  dancing  in  yonder 

green  bower 
A  swarm  of  young  midges.     They 

dance  high  and  low. 
'T  is  a  sweet  little  species  that  lives 

but  one  hour, 
And  the  eldest  was  born  half  an 

hour  ago. 

One  impulsive  young  midge  I  hear  ar- 
dently pouring 

In  the  ears  of  a  shy  little  wanton  in 
gauze, 


His  eternal  devotion;    his  ceaseless 

adoring; 
Which  shall  last  till  the  Universe 

breaks  from  its  laws: 
His  passion  is  not,  he  declares,  the 

mere  fever 
Of  a  rapturous  moment.     It  knows 

no  control : 

It  will  burn  in  his  breast  through  ex- 
istence forever, 

Immutably  fixed  in  the  deeps  of  the 
soul! 

She  wavers :   she  flutters :  .  .  .  male 

midges  are  fickle : 
Dare  she  trust  him  her  future  ?  .  .  . 

she  asks  with  a  sigh : 
He  implores,  .  .  .  and  a  tear  is  begin- 
ning to  trickle  : 

She  is  weak  :  they  embrace,  and  .  . . 
the  lovers  pass  by. 

While  they  pass  me,  down  here  on  a 

rose  leaf  has  lighted 
A  pale  midge,  his  feelers  all  droop- 
ing and  torn : 
His  existence  is  withered ;  its  future 

is  blighted  : 

His  hopes  are  betrayed:   and  his 
breast  is  forlorn. 

By  the  midge  his  heart  trusted  his 

heart  is  deceived,  now 
In  the  virtue  of  midges  no  more  he 

believes  : 

From  love  in  its  falsehood,  once  wild- 
ly believed,  now 

He  will  bury  his  desolate  life  in  the 
leaves. 

His  friends  would  console  him  .  .  .  the 

noblest  and  sagest 
Of  midges  have  held  that  a  midge 

lives  again. 
In  Eternity,  say  they,  the  strife  thou 

now  wagest 

With    sorrow    shall    cease  .  .  .  but 
their  words  are  in  vain! 

Can  Eternity  bring  back  the  seconds 

now  wasted 
In  hopeless  desire  ?  or  restore  to  his 

breast 
The  belief  he  has  lost,  with  the  bliss 

he  once  tasted, 

Embracing  the  midge  that  his  being 
loved  best? 

His  friends  would  console   him  .   .  , 
life  yet  is  before  him ; 


214 


THE  WANDERER. 


Many  hundred  long  seconds  he  still 

has  to  live  : 
In    the    state    yet  a  mighty    career 

spreads  before  him: 
Let  him  seek  in  the  great  world  of 

action  to  strive! 

There   is   Fame!    there's    Ambition! 

and,  grander  than  either, 
There  is  Freedom!  .  .  .  the  progress 

and  mai-ch  of  the  race!  .  .  . 
But  to  Freedom  his  breast  beats  no 

longer,  and  neither 
Ambition  nor  action  her  loss  can 
replace. 

If  the  time  had  been   spent  in  ac- 

qxiiring  aesthetics 
I  have  squandered  in  learning  this 

language  of  midges, 
There  might,  for  my  friend  in  her  pe- 
ripatetics, 

Have  been  now  two  asses  to  help 
o'er  the  bridges. 

As  it  is,  ...  I'll  report  her  the  whole 

conversation. 
It  would  have   been  longer;   but, 

somehow  or  other 
(In  the  midst  of  that  misanthrope's 

long  lamentation), 
A  midge  in  my  right  eye  became  a 

young  mother. 

Since  my  friend  is  so  clever,  I'll  ask 

her  to  tell  me 
Why  the  least  living  thing  (a  mere 

midge  in  the  egg!) 
Can  make  a  man's  tears  flow,  as  now 

it  befell  me  ... 

O  you  dear  clever  woman,  explain 
it,  I  beg! 

THE   LAST  TIME  THAT  I    MET 

LADY  RUTH. 

THERE  are  some  things  hard  to  un- 
derstand. 

O  help  me,  my  God,  to  trust  in  thee ! 
But  I  never  shall  forget  her  soft  white 

hand, 

And  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at 
me. 

It  is  hard    to  pray   the  very    same 

prayer 
Which  once  at  our  mother's  knee 

we  prayed — 
When,  where  we  trusted  our  whole 

heart,  there 


Our  trust  hath  been  betrayed. 

I  swear  that  the  milk-white  muslin  so 

light 
On  her  virgin  breast,  where  it  lay 

demure, 

Seemed  to  be  toucht  to  a  purer  white 
By  the  touch  of  a  breast  so  pure. 

I  deemed  her  the  one  thing  undefined 
By  the  air  we  breathe,  in  a  world 
of  sin : 

The  truest,  the  tenderest,  purest  child 
A  man  ever  trusted  in! 

When  she  blamed  me  (she,  with  her 

fair  child's  face!) 
That  never  with  her  to  the  Church 

I  went 
To  partake  of  the  Gospel  of  truth  and 

grace, 

And  the  Christian  sacrament, 
And  I  said  I  would  go  for  her  own 

sweet  sake, 
Though  it  was  but  herself  I  should 

worship  there, 
How  that  happy  child's  face  strove  to 

take 

On  its  dimples  a  serious  air! 
I  remember  the  chair  she  would  set 

for  me, 
By  the  flowers,  when  all  the  house 

was  gone 
To  drive  in  the  Park,  and  I  and  she 

Were  left  to  be  happy  alone. 
There  she  leaned  her  head  on  my 

knees,  my  Ruth, 

With  the  primrose  loose  iu  her  half- 
closed  hands: 
And  I  told  her  tales  of  my  wandering 

youth 

In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands. — 
The  last  time  I  met  her  was  here  in 

town, 
At  a  fancy  ball  at  the  Duchess  of 

D., 
On  the  stairs,  where  her  husband  was 

handing  her  down. 
— There  we  met,  and  she  talked  to 

me. 
She,  with  powder  in  hair,  and  patch 

on  chin, 
And  I,  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim 

Priest, 
And  between  us  both,  without  and 

within, 
A  hundred  years  at  least! 


IN  ENGLAND. 


215 


We  talked  of  the  House,  and  the  late 

long  rains, 

And  the  crush  at  the  French  Am- 
bassador's ball, 
And  .  .  .  well,  I  have  not  blown  out 

my  brains. 
You  see  I  can  laugh.    That  is  all. 

MATRIMONIAL  COUNSELS. 

You  arc  going  to  marry  my  pretty  re- 
lation, 
My  dove-like  young  cousin,  so  soft 

in  the  eyes, 

You  are  entering  on  life's  settled  dis- 
simulation, 

And,  if  you  'd  be  happy,  in  season 
be  wise. 

Take  my  counsel.     The  more  that,  in 

church,  you  are  tempted 
To  yawn  at  the  sermon,  the  more 

you'll  attend. 
The  more  you  'd  from  milliner's  bills 

be  exempted, 

The  more  on  your  wife's  little  wishes 
you  '11  spend. 

You  '11  be  sure,  every  Christmas,  to 

send  to  the  rector 
A  dozen  of  wine,  and  a  hamper  or 

two. 
The  more  your  wife  plagues  you,  the 

more  you  '11  respect  her, 
She  '11  be  pleasing  your  friend,  if 
she's  not  plaguing  you. 

For  women  of  course,  like  ourselves, 

need  emotion; 

And  happy  the  husband,  whose  fail- 
ings afford 
To  the  wrife  of  his  heart,  such  good 

cause  for  emotion, 
That  she  seeks  no  excitement,  save 
plaguing  her  lord. 

Above  all,  you  '11    be    careful    that 

nothing  offends,  too, 
Your  wife's  lady's  maid,  though  she 

give  herself  airs. 
"With  the  friend  of  a  friend  it  is  well 

to  be  friends  too, 
And  especially  so,  when  that  friend 

lives  up  stairs. 
Under  no  provocation    you   '11  ever 

avow  yourself 
A  little  put  out,  when  you  're  kept 

at  the  door, 

And  you  never,  I  scarcely  need  say, 
will  allow  yourself 


To  call  your  wife's  mother  a  vulgar 
old  bore. 

However  she  dresses,   you  '11  never 

suggest  to  her 
That  her  taste,  as  to  colors,  could 

scarcely  be  worse, 
Of  the  rooms  in  your  house,  you  will 

give  up  the  best  to  her, 
And  you  never  will  ask  for  the  car- 
riage, of  course. 

If,  at  times  with  a  doubt  on  the  soul 

and  her  future, 
Revelation    and  reason,    existence 

should  trouble  you, 
You  '11  be  always  on  guard  to  keep 

carefully  mute  your 
Ideas  on  the  subject,  and  read  Dr.  W. 

Bring  a  shawl  with  you,  home,  when 

you  come  from  the  Club,  sir, 
Or  a  ring,  lest  your  wife,  when  you 

meet  her,  should  pout ; 
And  don't  fly  in  a  rage  and  behave 

like  a  cub,  sir, 

If  you  find  that  the  fire,  like  your- 
self, has  gone  out. 

In  eleven  good  instances  out  of  a  dozen, 
'T  is  the  husband's  a  cur,  when  the 

wife  is  a  cat. 
She  is  meekness  itself,  my  soft-eyed 

little  cousin, 

But  a  wife  has  her  rights,  and  I  'd 
have  you  know  that. 

Keep  my  counsel.      Life's  struggles 

are  brief  to  be  borne,  friend. 
In  heaven  there's  no  marriage  nor 

giving  in  marriage. 
When  Death  comes,  think  how  truly 
your  widow  will  mourn,  friend, 
And  your  worth   not  the  best  of 
your  friends  will  disparage ! 

SEE-SAW. 

SHE  was  a  harlot,  and  I  was  a  thief : 
But  we  loved  each  other  beyond  belief : 
She  lived  in  the  garret,  and  I  in  the 

kitchen, 
And  love  was  all  that  we  both  were 

rich  in. 

When  they  sent  her  at  last  to  the  hos- 
pital, 

Both  day  and  m<rht  my  tears  did  fall ; 

They  fell  so  fast  that,  to  dry  their 
grief, 


21G 


THE   WANDERER. 


-I  borrowed  my  neighbor's  handker- 
chief. 

The  world,  which,  as  it  is   brutally 

taught, 
Still  judges  the   act  in  lieu  of  the 

thought, 
Found    my  hand   in    my  neighbor's 

pocket, 
And  clapped  me,  at  once,  under  chain 

and  locket. 

When  they  asked  me  about  it,  I  told 

them  plain, 
Love  it  was    that    had    turned   my 

brain : 
How  should  I  heed  where  my  hand 

had  been, 
When  my  heart  was  dreaming  of  Cel- 

estine  ? 

Twelve  friends  were  so  struck  by  my 
woful  air, 

That  they  sent  me  abroad  for  change 
of  air : 

And,  to  prove  me  the  kindness  of  their 
intent, 

They  sent  me  at  charge  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. 

When  I  came  back  again, — whom, 

think  you,  I  meet 

But  Celestine, here, in  Regent  Street? 
In  a  carriage  adorned  with  a  coronet, 
And  a  dress,  all  flounces,  and  lace, 

and  jet: 

For  her  carriage  drew  up  to  the  book- 
seller's door. 

Where  they  publish  those  nice  little 
books  for  the  poor: 

I  took  off  my  hat:  and  my  face  she 
knew, 

And  gave  me— a  sermon  by  Mr.  Bel- 
lew. 

But  she  gave  me  (God    bless  her!) 

along  with  the  book, 
Such  a  sweet  sort  of  smile,  such  a 

heavenly  look, 
That,  as  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  'never 

forget 
Celestine,  in  .her  coach  with  the  earl's 

coronet. 

There's  a  game  that  men  play  at  in 

great  London-town; 
Whereby  some  must  go  up,  sir,  and 

some  must  go  down : 


And,  since  the  mud  sticks  to  your 

coat  if  you  fall, 
Why,  the   strongest  among  us  keep 

close  to  the  wall. 

But  some  day,  soon  or  late,  in  my 

shoes  I  shall  stand, 
More  exalted  than  any  great  duke  in 

the  land; 
A  clean  shirt  on  my  back,  and  a  rose 

in  my  coat, 
And  a  collar  conferred  by  the  Queen 

round  my  throat. 

And  I  know  that  my  Celestine  will 

not  forget 
To  be  there,  in  her  coach  with  my 

lord's  coronet: 
She  will  smile  to  me   then,  as    she 

smiled  to  me  now: 
I  shall  nod  to  her  gayly,  and  make 

her  my  bow ; — 

Before  I  rejoin  all  those  famous  old 
thieves 

Whose  deeds  have  immortalized 
Rome,  sir,  and  Greece : 

Whose  names  are  inscribed  upon  His- 
tory's leaves, 

Like  my  own  on  the  books  of  the 
City  Police:— 

Alexander,  and  Csesar,  and  other  great 
robbers, 

Who  once  tried  to  pocket  the  whole 
universe : 

Not  to  speak  of  our  own  parliament- 
ary jobbers, 

With  their  hands,  bless  them  all,  in 
the  popular  purse! 

BABYLONIA. 

ENOUGH  of  simpering  and  grimace! 
Enough  of  damming  one's  soul  for 

nothing! 

Enough  of  Vacuity  trimmed  with  lace ! 
And  Poverty  proud  of  her  purple 

clothing! 

In  Babylon,  whene'er  there's  a  wind 
(Whether  it  blow  rain,  or  whether 

it  blow  sand), 
The  weathercocks  change  their  mighty 

mind; 
And  the    weathercocks    are    forty 

thousand. 

Forty  thousand  weathercocks, 
Each  well-minded  to  keep  his  place, 
Turning  about  in  the  great  and 
small  ways ! 


ENGLAND. 


217 


Each  knows,  -whatever  the  weather's 

shocks, 
That  the  wind  will  never  blow  in 

his  face ; 

And  in  Babylon  the  wind  blows 
always. 

I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  strike  you, 
But  it  strikes  me  now,  for  the  first 

and  last  time, 

That  there  maybe  better  things  to  do, 
Than  watching  the    weathercocks 

for  pastime. 
And  I  wish  I  were  out  of  Babylon, 

Out  of  sight  of  column  and  steeple, 
Out  of  fashion  and  form,  for  one, 
And  out  of  the  midst  of  this  double- 
faced  people. 
Enough  of   catgut.     Enough  of    the 

sight 
Of  the  dolls  it  sets  dancing  all  the 

night ! 
For  there  is  a  notion  come  to  me, 

As  here,  in  Babylon,  I  am  lying, 
That  far  away,  over  the  sea, 

And  under  another  moon  and  star, 
Braver,   more  beautiful    beings    are 

dying 

(Dying,  not  dancing,    dying,  dying!) 
To  a  music  nobler  far. 

Full  well  I  know  that,  before  it  came 
To    inhabit    this     feeble,    faltering 

frame, 
My  soul  was  weary ;  and,  ever  since 

then, 
It  has  seemed  to  me,  in  the  stir 

and  bustle 
Of  this  eager  world  of  women  and 

men, 

That  my  life  was  tired  before  it  began, 
That  even  the  child  had  fatigued  the 

man, 
And    brain    and  heart    have  done 

their  part 
To  wear  out  sinew  and  muscle. 

Yet,  sometimes,  a  wish  has  come  to 

me, 
To  wander,    wander,   I  know  not 

where, 

Out  of  the  sight  of  all  that  I  see, 
Out  of  the  hearing  of  all  that  I 

hear; 
Where  only  the   tawny,   bold,   wild 

beast 

Roams  his  realms ;  and  find,  at  least, 
The  strength  which  even  the  beast 
finds  there, 


A  joy,  though  but  a  savage  joy  ; — 

Were  it  only  to  find  the  food  I  need, 
The  scent  to  track,  and  the  force  to 

destroy, 

And  the  very  appetite  to  feed  ; 
The  bliss  of  the  sense  without  the 

thought, 
And  the  freedom,  for  once  in  my  life, 

from  aught 
That  fills  my  life  with  care. 

And  never  this  thought  hath  so  wildly 

crost 
My  mind,  with  its  wilderiug,  strange 

temptation, 

As  justjwhen  I  was  enjoying  the  most 
The    blessings    of  what    is  called 

Civilization : — 
The  glossy  boot  which  tightens  the 

foot; 
The  club  at  which  my  friend  was 

black-balled 
(I  am  sorry,  of  course,  but  one 

must  be  exclusive); 
The  yellow  kid  glove  whose  shape  I 

approve, 
And    the  journal  in  which   I  am 

kindly  called 
Whatever 's  not  libellous  —  only 

allusive : 

The  ball  to  which  I  am  careful  to  go, 
Where  the  folks  are  so  cool,  and 

the  rooms  are  so  hot ; 
The  opera,  which  shows  one  what 

music — is  not ; 

And  the  simper  from  Lady  .  .  .  but 
why  should  you  know  ? 

Yes,  I    am    a  part    of   the  things  I 

despise, 
Since  my  life  is  bound  by  their 

common  span: 
And  each  idler  I  meet,  in  square 

or  in  street, 

Hath  within  him  what  all  that's  with- 
out him  belies, — 
The  miraculous,  infinite  heart    of 

man, 

With  its  countless  capabilities  ! 
The    sleekest    guest  at    the  general 

feast, 
That  at  every  sip,  as  he  sups,  says 

grace, 
Hath  in  him  a  touch  of  the  untamed 

beast; 

And  change  of  nature  is  change  of 
place. 


218 


THE   WANDERER. 


The  judge  on  the  bench  and  the  scamp 

at  the  dock, 
Have,  in  each  of  them,  much  that 

is  common  to  both  ; 
Each  is  part  of  the  parent  stock, 
And  their  difference  comes  of  their 

different  cloth. 
'Twixt  the   Seven  Dials  and  Exeter 

Hall 

The  gulf  that  is  fixed  is  not  so  wide: 
And  the  fool  that,  last  year,  at  Her 

Majesty's  Ball, 
Sickened  me  so  with  his  simper  of 

pride, 
Is  the  hero  now  heard  of,  the  first  on 

the  wall, 
With  the  bayonet-wound  in  his  side. 

O.  for  the  times  which  were  (if  any 
Time  be  heroic)  heroic  indeed ! 
When  the  men  were  few, 
And  the  deeds  to  do, 
Were  mighty  and  many, 
And  each  man  in  his  hand  held  a 

noble  deed. 

Now  the  deeds  are  few, 
And  the  men  are  many, 
And  each  man  has,  at  most,  but  a 
noble  need. 

Blind  fool !  .  .  .  I  know  that  all  acted 

time 
By  that  which  succeeds  it,  is  ever 

received 

As  calmer,  completer,  and  more  sub- 
lime, 

Only  because  it  is  finished :  because 

We  only  behold  the  thing  it  achieved; 

We  behold  not  the  thing  that  it 

was. 

For,  while  it  stands  whole  and  im- 
mutable, 
In  the  marble  of  memory — we,  who 

have  seen 
But  the  statue  before  us, — how  can 

we  tell 
What  the  men  that  have  hewn  at 

the  block  may  have  been  ? 
Their  passion  is  merged  in  itspassion- 

lessness; 
Their  strife  in  its  stillness  closed 

forever : 
Their  change   upon    change    in    its 

changelessness; 

In  itsfinal  achievement,  their  fever- 
ish endeavor : 

Who  knows  how  sculptor  on  sculptor 
starved 


With  the  thought  in  the  head  by  the 

hand  uncarved ? 
And  he  that  spread  out  in  its  ample 

repose 

That  grand,  indifferent,  godlike  brow, 
How  vainly  his  own  may  have  ached, 

\vho  knows, 
'Twixt   the   laurel    above   and  the 

wrinkle  below  ? 

So  again  to  Babylon  I  come  back, 
Where  this  fettered  giant  of  Human 

Nature 
Cramped  in  limb,  and  constrained 

in  stature, 
In  the  torture-chamber  of  Vanity 

lies; 
Helpless  and  weak,  and  compelled  to 

speak 

The  things  he  must  despise. 
You  stars,  so  still  in  the  midnight  blue, 
Which  over  these  huddlingroof  si  view, 
Out    of  reach   of  this  Babylonian 

riot,— 

We  so  restless,  and  you  so  quiet, 
What  is  difference  'twixt  us  and  you  ? 

You  each  may  have  pined  with  a  pain 
divine, 

For  aught  I  know, 
As  wildly  as  this  weak  heart  of  mine, 

In  an  Age  ago : 
For  whence  should  you  have  that  stern 

repose, 
Which,  here,  dwells  but  on  the  brows 

of  those 
Who  have  lived,  and  survived  life's 

fever, 
Plad  you  never  known  the  ravage  and 

fire 

Of  that  inexpressible  Desire, 
Which  wastes  and  calcines  whatever 

is  less 

In  the  soul,  than  the  soul's  deep  con- 
sciousness 
Of  a  life  that  shall  last  forever? 

Doubtless,  doubtless,  again  and  again, 
Many  a  mouth  has  starved  for  bread 
In  a  city  whose  wharves  are  choked 

with  corn 
And  many  a  heart  hath  perished 

dead 

From  being  too  utterly  forlorn, 
In  a  city  whose  streets  'are  choked 

with  men. 

Yet  the  bread  is  there,  could  one  find 

it  out :  [doubt, 

And  there  is  a  heart  for  a  heart,  no 


JLV  SWITZERLAND. 


219 


Wherever  a  human  heart  may  beat ; 
And  room  for  courage,  and  truth,  and 

love, 
To  move,  wherever  a  man  may  move, 

In  the  thickliest  crowded  street. 

O  Lord  of  the  soul  of  man,  whose  will 
Made  earth  for  man,  and  man  for 
heaven, 

Help  all  thy  creatures  to  fulfil 
The  hopes  to  each  one  given ! 

So  fair  thou  madest,  and  so  complete, 
The  little  daisies  at  our  feet; 
80  sound,  and  sx>  robust  in  heart, 
The  patient  beasts,  that  bear  their 

part 

In  this  world's  labor,  never  asking 
The  reason  of  its  ceaseless  tasking; 
Hast  thou  made  man,  though  more  in 

kind, 

By  reason  of  his  soul  and  mind, 
Yet  less  in  unison  with  life, 
By  reason  of  an  inward  strife, 
Than  these,  thy  simpler  creatures,are, 
Submitted  to  his  use  and  care  ? 

For  these,  indeed,  appear  to  live 
To   the    full  verge    of    their  own 

power 

Nor  ever  need  that  time  should  give 
To  life  one  space  beyond  the  hour. 
They  do  not  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Nor  quarrel  with  the  things  which 

are; 
Their  yesterdays  are  all  forgot ; 


Their  morrows  are  not  feared  from 

far: 
They  do    not    weep,  and   wail,  and 

moan, 

For  what  is  past,  or  what's  to  be, 
Or  what's  not  yet,  and  may  be 

never; 

They  do  not  their  own  lives  disown, 
Nor  haggle  with  eternity 
For  some  unknown  Forever. 

Ah  yet, —  in  this  must  I  believe 
That  man  is  nobler  than  the  rest : — 
That,  looking  in  on  his  own  breast, 
He  measures  thus  his  strength 

and  size 
With  supernatural  destinies, 

Whose  shades  o'er  all  his  be- 
ing fall; 

And,  in  that  dread  comparison 
'Twixt  what  is  deemed  and  what 

is  done, 
He  can,  at  intervals,  perceive 

How  weak  he  is,  and  small. 

Therefore,  he  knows  himself  a  child, 
Set  in  this  rudimental  star, 

To  learn  the  alphabet  of  Being; 
By  straws  dismayed,  by  toys  beguiled, 
Yet  conscious  of  a  home  afar ;      [ing, 

With  all  things  here  but  ill  agree- 
Because    he    trusts,    In    manhood's 

pi-ime, 

To  walk  in  some  celestial  clime; 
Sit  in  his  Father's  house;  and  be 
The  inmate  of  Eternity, 


BOOK  IV. -IN  SWITZERLAND. 


THE  HEART  AND  NATURE. 

The  lake  is   calm;    and,   calm,   the 

skies 

In  yonder  silent  sunset  glow, 
Where,  o'er  the  woodland,  homeward 

flies 
The  solitary  crow; 

The  woodman  to  his  hut  is  gone; 

The  wood-dove  in  the  elm  is  still; 
The  last  sheep  drinks,  and  wanders  on 

To  graze  at  will. 


Nor  aught  the  pensive  prospect  breaks, 
Save  where  my  slow  feet  stir  the 
grass, 

Or  where  the  trout  to  diamonds  breaks 
The  lake's  pale  glass. 

No  moan  the  cushat  makes,  to  heave 
A  leaflet  round  her  windless  nest ; 

The  air  is  silent  in  the  eve; 
The  world  's  at  rest. 

All  bright  below;  all  calm  above; 

No  sen«e  of  pain,  no  sign  of  wrong; 
Save  in  thy  heart  of  hopeless  love, 

Poor  child  of  Song! 


220 


THE  WANDERER. 


Why  must  the  soul  through  Nature 
rove, 

At  variance  with  her  general  plan  ? 
A  stranger  to  the  Power,  whose  love 

Soothes  all  save  Man  ? 

Why  lack    the    strength  of  meaner 

creatures  ? 
The  wandering  sheep,  the  grazing 

kine, 

Are  surer  of  their  simple  natures 
Than  I  of  mine. 

For  all  their  wants  the  poorest  land 
Affords   supply;   they  browse   and 
breed ; 

I  scarce  divine,  and  ne'er  have  found, 
What  most  I  need. 

O  God,  that  in  this  human  heart 
Hath  made  Belief  so  hard  to  grow, 

And   set    the    doubt,  the    pang,  the 

smart, 
In  all  we  know  — 

Why  hast  thou,  too,  in  solemn  jest 

At  this  tormented  thinking-power, 
Inscribed,  in  flame  on  yonder  West, 

In  hues  on  every  flower, 
Through  all  the  vast  unthinking  sphere 

Of  mere  material  Force  without, 
Rebuke  so  vehement  and  severe 

To  the  least  doubt  ?  [night, 

And  robed  the  world  and  hung  the 

With  silent,  stern,  and  solemn  forms; 

And  strown  with  sounds  of  awe  and 

might, 
The  seas  and  storms, — 

All  lacking  power  to  impart 

To  man  the  secret  he  assails, 
But  armed  to  crush  him,  if  his  heart 

Once  doubts  or  fails ! 
To  make  him  feel  the  same  forlorn 

Despair  the  Fiend  hath  felt  ere  now, 
In  gazing  at  the  stern  sweet  scorn 

On  Michael's  brow. 

A  QUIET  MOMENT. 

STAY  with  me,  Lady,  while  you  may ! 

For  life  's  so  sad, — this  hour  's  so 

sweet; 
Ah,  Lady, — life  too  long  will  stay : 

Too  soon  this  hour  will  fleet. 

How  fair  this  mountain's  purple  bust, 
Alone  in  high  and  glimmering  air! 

And  see,  .  .  .  those  village  spires,  up- 
thrust 
From  yon  dark  plain, — how  fair! 


How  sweet  yon  lone  and  lovely  scene, 
And  yonder  dropping  fiery  ball, 

And  eve's    sweet  spirit,   that  steals, 

unseen, 
With  darkness  over  all ! 

This  blessed  hour  is  yours,  and  eve's ; 

And  this  is  why  it  seems  so  sweet 
To  lie,  as  husht  as  fallen  leaves 

In  autumn,  at  your  feet ; 

And  watch,  awhile  released  from  care, 
The  twilight  in  yon  quiet  skies, 

The  twilight  in  your  quiet  hair, 
The  twilight  in  your  eyes : 

Till  in  my  soul  the  twilight  stays, 
—Eve's  twilight,   since  the  dawn's 

is  o'er! 
And  life's  too  well-known  worthless 

days 
Become  unknown  once  more. 

Your  face  is  no  uncommon  face ; 

Like  it,  I  have  seen  many  a  one, 
And  may  again,  before  my  race 

Of  care  be  wholly  run. 

But  not  the  less,  those  earnest  brows, 
And   that    pure    oval    cheek    can 
charm  ; — 

Those  eyes  of  tender  deep  repose  ; 
That  breast,  the  heart  keeps  warm. 

Because  a  sense  of  goodness  sleeps 

In  every  sober,  soft,  brown  tress, 
That  o'er  those  brows,  uiicared  for, 
keeps 

Its  shadowy  quietness  : 
Because  that  lip's  soft  silence  shows, 

Though  passion  it  hath  never  known, 
That  well,  to  kiss  one  kiss,  it  knows— 

— A  woman's  holiest  one  ! 
Yours  is  the  charm  of  calm  good  sense, 

Of  wholesome  views  of  earth  and 

heaven, 
Of  pity,  touched  with  reverence, 

Too  all  things  freely  given. 
Your  face  no  sleepless  midnight  fills, 

For  all  its  serious  sweet  endeavor ; 
It  plants  no  pang,  no  rapture  thrills, 

But  ah  ! — it  pleases  ever! 

Not  yours  is  Cleopatra's  eye, 
And  Juliet's  tears  you  never  knew : 

Never  will  amorous  Antony 
Kiss  kingdoms  out  for  you  ! 

Never  for  you  will  Romeo's  love, 
From    deeps    of   moonlit    musing, 
break 


IN  ENGLAND. 


221 


To  poetry  about  the  glove 
Whose  touch  may  press  your  cheek. 

But  ah,  in  one,— no  Antony 
Nor  Komeo  now,  nor  like  to  these, — 

(Whom  neither  Cleopatra's  eye, 
Nor  Juliet's  tears,  could  please) 

How  well  they  lull  the  lurking  care 

Which    else    within   the  mind  en- 
dures,— hair, 
That  soft  white  hand,  that  soft  dark 

And  that  soft  voice  of  yours ! 
So,  while  you  stand,  a  fragile  form, 

With  that  close   shawl  around  you 

drawn, 
And  eve's  last  ardors  fading  warm 

Adown  the  mountain  lawn, 

'Tis    sweet,    although    we    part    to- 
morrow, 
And  ne'er,   the   same,  shall   meet 

again, 

Awhile  from  old  habitual  sorrow 
To  cease  ;  to  cease  from  pain ; 

To  feel  that,  ages  past,  the  soul 
Hath    lived — and  ages  hence  will 

live; 
And  taste,   in    hours  like    this,  the 

whole 
Of  all  the  years  can  give. 

Then,  Lady,  yet  one  moment  stay, 
While  your  sweet  face  makes  all 
things  sweet, 

For  ah,  the  charm  will  pass  away 
Before  again  we  meet' 

K^ENLE. 
SOFT,  soft  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of 

the  West, 
Fated  maiden ! 
Fair  lie  the  flowers,  love,  and  light, 

on  thy  breast 
Passion-laden, 
In  the  place  where  thou  art,   by  the 

storm-beaten  strand 
Of  the  moaning  Atlantic, 
While,  alone  with  my  sorrow,  I  roam 

through  thy  land, 
The  beloved,  the  romantic! 
And  thy  faults,  child,  sleep  where  in 

those  dark  eyes  Death  closes 
All  their  doings  and  undoings  ; 
For  who  counts  the   thorns   on  last 

year's  perisht  roses? 
Smile,  dead  rose,  in  thy  ruins! 
With  thy  beauty,  its  frailty  is  over. 
No  token 


Of  all  which  thou  wast ! 
Not  so  much  as  the  stem  whence  the 

blossom  was  broken 
Hath  been  spared  by  the  frost. 
With  thy  lips  and  thine  eyes,  and  thy 

long  golden  tresses, 
Cold  .  .  .  and  so  young,  too! 
All  lost,   like    the    sweetness  which 

died  with  our  kisses, 
On  the  lips  we  once  clung  to. 
Be  it  so !  O  too  loved,  and  too  lovely, 

to  linger 

Where  Age  in  its  bareness 
Creeps  slowly,  and  Time  with  his  ter- 
rible finger 
Effaces  all  fairness. 
Thy  being  was  but  beauty,  thy  life 

only  rapture, 
And,  ere  both  were  over, 
Or  yet  one  delight  had  escaped  from 

thy  capture, 

Death  came,— thy  last  lover, 
And  found  thee,  ...  no  care  on  thy 

brow,  in  thy  tresses 
No  silver — all  gold  there! 
On  thy  lips,  when  he  kissed  them, 

their  last  human  kisses 
Had  scarcely  grown  cold  there. 
Thine  was  only  earth's  joy,  not  its  sor- 
row, its  sinning, 
Its  friends  that  are  foes  too. 
O,  fair  was  thy  life  in  its  lovely  be- 
ginning, 

And  fair  in  its  close  too! 
But  I?  ...  since    we    parted,    both 

mournful  and  many 
Life's  changes  have  been  to  me  : 
And  of    all  the  love-garlands  Youth 

wove  me,  not  any 
Remain  that  are  green  to  me. 
O,  where  are   the  nights,  with  thy 
touch  and  thy  breath  in  them, 
Faint  with  heart-beating? 
The  fragrance,  the  darkness,  the  life 

and  the  death  in  them, 
— Parting  and  meeting? 
All  the  world  purs  in  that  hour!  .  .  . 

O,  the  silence, 

The  moonlight,  and,  far  in  it, 
,  the  one  nightingale  singing  a  mile 

hence ! 

The  oped  window — one  star  in  it! 
Sole    witness    of    stolen    sweet    mo- 
ments, unguest  of 
By  the  world  in  its  primness  ; — 
Just  one  smile  to  adore  by  the  star- 
light :  the  rest  of 


222 


THE    WANDERER. 


Thy  soul  in  the  dimness! 
If  I  glide   through   the   door  of  thy 

chamber,  and  sit  there, 
The  old,  faint,  uncertain 
Fragrance,  that  followed  thee,  surely 

will  flit  there,— 
O'er  the  chair, — in  the  curtain: 
But  thou  ?  .  .  .    O  thou  missed,  and 

thou  mourned  one!  O  never, 
Nevermore,  shall  we  rove 
Through  chamber  or  garden,  or  by 

the  dark  river 
Soft  lamps  burn  above ! 

O  dead,   child,    dead,    dead — all  the 

shrunken  romance 
Of  the  dream  life  begun  with ! 
But  thou,  love,  canst  alter  no  more — 

smile  or  glance  ; 
Thy  last  change  is  clone  with. 
As  a  moon  that  is  sunken,  a  sunset 

that's  o'er, 

So  thy  face  keeps  the  semblance 
.Of  the  last  look  of  love,  the  last  grace 

that  it  wore, 
In  my  mourning  remembrance. 


As  a  strain  from  the  last  of  thy  songs, 

when  we  parted, 
Whose  echoes  thrill  yet, 
Through  the  long  dreamless  nights  of 

sad  years,  lonely-hearted, 

With  their  haunting  regret, — 

Though  nerveless  the  hand  now,  and 

shattered  the  lute  too, 
Once  vocal  for  me, 
There  floats  through  life's  ruins,  when 

all's  dark  and  mute  too, 
The  music  of  thee ! 
Beauty,  how  brief!   Life,  how  long! 

.  .  .  well,  love's  done  now ! 
Down  the  path  fate  arranged  for  me 
I  tread  faster,  because  I  must  tread  it 

alone  now. 

— This  is  all  that  is  changed  forme 
My    heart   must  have  broken,  ere  I 

broke  the  fetter 
Thyself  didst  undo,  love. 
— Ah,  there's  many  a  purer,  and  many 

a  better, 

But  more  loved,  .  .  .  O,  how  few, 
love  ! 


BOOK  V.-IN  HOLLAOTX 


AUTUMN. 
So  now,  then,  Summer's  over — by  de- 


Hark  1  Jt  is  the  wind  in  yon  red  re- 
gion grieves. 
Who  says  the  world  grows  better, 

growing  old  ? 
See!  what  poor  trumpery  on  those 

pauper  trees, 
That  cannot  keep,  for  all  their  fine 

gold  leaves, 
Their  last  bird  from  the  cold. 

This  is  Dame  Nature,  puckered,  pinch- 
ed, and  sour, 
Of  all  the  charms  her  poets  praised, 

bereft, 
Scowling  and  scolding  (only  hear 

her,  there !) 
Like  that  old  spiteful  Queen,  in  her 

last  hour, 
Whom  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  sung 

to  ...  nothing  left 
But  wrinkles  and  red  hair! 


LEAFLESS  HOUKS. 
THE  pale  sun,  through  the  spectral 

wood 

Gleams  sparely,  where  I  pass  : 
My  footstep,  silent  as  my  mood, 

Falls  in  the  silent  grass. 
Only  my  shadow  points  before  me, 

Where  I  am  moving  now : 
Only  sad  memories  murmur  o'er  me 

From  every  leafless  bough : 
And  out  of   the  nest  of  last  year's 

Red-breast 
Is  stolen  the  very  snow. 

ON  MY  TWENTY-FOURTH  YEAR. 

THE  night's  in  November :  the  winds 

are  at  strife : 
The  snow's  on  the  hill,  and  the  ice 

on  the  mere : 
The  world  to  its  winter  is  turned :  and 

my  life 
To  its  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  swallows  are  flown  to  the  south 
long  ago : 


IN  HOLLAND. 


223 


The  roses  are  fallen :  the  woodland 

is  sere. 
Hope's     flown    with    the    swallows: 

Love's  rose  will  not  grow 
In  iny  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  snow  on  tho  threshold:  the  cold 

at  the  heart : 
But    the   fagot  to   warm,  and    the 

wine-cup  to  cheer: 
God's  help  to  lookup  to:  and  courage 

to  start 
On  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

And  't  is  well  that  the  month  of  the 

roses  is  o'er ! 
The  last,  which  I  plucked  for  Nersea 

to  wear, 
She  gave  her  new  lover.    A  man  should 

do  more 
With  his  twenty-fourth  year 

Than  mourn  for  a  woman,  because 

she's  unkind, 
Or  pine  for  a  woman,  because  she 

is  fair. 
Ah,  I  loved  yon,  Nersea!  But  now  .  .  . 

never  mind, 
'T  is  my  twenty-fourth  year! 

What  a  thing!  to  have  done  with  the 

follies  of  Youth, 
Ere    Age    brings    ITS    follies!  .  .  . 

though  many  a  tear 
It  should  cost,  to  see  Love  fly  away, 

and  find  Truth 
In  one's  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  Past's  golden  valleys  are  drained. 

I  must  plant 
On  the  Future's  rough  upland  new 

harvests,  I  fear. . 
Ho,  the  plough  and  the  team !  .  .  . 

who  would  perish  of  want 
In  his  twenty-fourth  year  ? 

Man's  heart  is  a  well,  which  forever 

renews 
The  void  at  the  bottom,  no  sounding 

comes  near: 
And  Love  does  not  die,  though  its 

object  I  lose 
In  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  great  and  the  little  are  only  in 

name. 
The  smoke  from  my  chimney  casts 

shadows  as  drear 

On  the  heart,  as  the  smoke  from.  Ves- 
uvius in  flame : 
And  my  twenty-f  ourth  year, 


From  the  joys  that  have   cheered  it, 

the  cares  that  have  troubled, 
What  is  wise  to  pursue,  what  is  well 

to  revere, 
May  judge  all  as  fully  as  though  life 

were  doubled 
To  its  forty-eighth  year ! 
If  the  prospect  grow  dim, 'tis  because 

it  grows  wide. 
Every  loss  hath  its  gain.     So,  from 

sphere  on  to  sphere, 
Man  mounts  up  the  ladder  of  Time : 

so  I  stride 
Up  my  twenty-fourth  year ! 

Exulting  ?  ...  no  ...  sorrowing  ?  .  .  . 

no  ...  with  a  mind 
Whose  regret  chastens  hope,  whose 

faith  triumphs  o'er  fear : 
Not  repining:  not  confident:  no,  but 

resigned 
To  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

JACQUELINE, 

COUNTESS  OF  HOLLAND  AND  HAINAT7LT.* 

Is  it  the  twilight,  or  my  fading  sight, 

Llakes  all  so  dim  around  me  ?  No, 
the  night 

Is  come  already.  See  !  through  yon- 
der pane, 

Alone  in  the  gray  air,  that  staragain — 

Which  shines  so  wan,  I  used  to  call  it 
mine 

For  its  pale  face :  like  Countess  Jac- 
queline 

Who  reigned  in  Brabant  once  .  .  . 
that's  years  ago 

I  called  so  much  mine,  then:  so  much 
seemed  so  ! 

And  see,  my  own ! — of  all  those  things, 
my  star 

(Because  God  hung  it  there,  inheaven, 
so  far 

Above  the  reach  and  want  of  those 
hard  men) 

Is  all  they  have  not  taken  from  me. 
Then 


*  Who  was  married  to  the  impotent  and 
•worthless  John  of  Brabant,  affianced  to  "good 
Duke  Humphry,"  of  Gloucester,  and  finally 
wedded  to  Frank  von  Borselen.  a  gentleman 
of  Zealand,  in  consequence  of  which  marriage 
she  lost  even  the  title  of  Countess.  She  died 
at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  after  a  life  of  unpar- 
alleled adventure  and  misfortune.  See  any 
Biographical  Dictionary,  or  any  History  of 
the  Netherlands. 


224 


THE   WANDERER. 


I  call  it  still  My  Star.  Why  not  ?  The 

dust 
Hath  claimed  the  dust :  no  more.  And 

moth  and  rust 
May  rot  the  throne,  the  kingly  purple 

fray  : — 
What  then  ?     Yon  star  saw  kingdoms 

rolled  away 

Ere  mine  was  taken  from  me.     It  sur- 
vives. 
But  think,  Beloved,— in  that  high  life 

of  lives, 

When  our  souls  see  the  suns  them- 
selves burn  low 
Before  that  Sun  of  Righteousness,— 

and  know 
What  is,    and  was,    before  the  suns 

were  lit, — 
How  Love  is  all  in  all  ...  Look,  look 

at  it, 
My  star,— God's  star,— for  being  God's 

't  is  mine : 
Had  it  been  man's  ...  no  matter  .  .  . 

see  it  shine — 
The  old    wan  beam,   which  I    have 

watched  ere  now 
So  many  a  wretched  night,  when  this 

poor  brow 
Ached  'ueath  the  sorrows  of  its  thorny 

crown. 
Its  crown  !  ...  ah,  droop  not,  dear, 

those  fond  eyes  down. 
No  gem  in  all  that  shattered  coronet 
Was  half  so  precious  as  the  tear  which 

wet 
Just  now  this  pale  sick  forehead.    O 

my  own, 
My  husband,  need  was,  that  I  should 

have  known 
Much      sorrow, — more      than      most 

Queens, — all  know  some, — 
Ere,  dying,  I  could  bless  thee  for  the 

home 
Far  dearer  than  the  Palace, — call  thy 

tear, 
The  costliest  gem  that  ever  sparkled 

here. 

Infold  me,  my  Belove'd.  One  more 
kiss. 

0,  I  must  go !  'T  was  willed  I  should 
not  miss 

Life's  secret,  ere  I  left  it.  And  now 
see,— 

My  lips  touch  thine— thine  arm  en- 
circles me — 

The  secret's  found— God  beckons— I 
must  go. 


Earth's  best  is  given. — Heaven's  turn 

is  come  to  show 
How  much  its  best  earth's  best  may 

yet  exceed, 
Lest  earth's  should  seem  the  very  best 

indeed. 

So  we  must  part  a  little ;  but  not  long. 
I  seem  to  see  it  all.  My  lands  belong 
To  Philip  still ;  but  thine  will  be  my 

grave, 
(The  only  strip  of  land  which  I  could 

save!) 
Not  much,  but  wide  enough  for  some 

few  flowers, 
Thou 'It  plant  there,  by  and  by,  in 

later  hours : 
Duke  Humphry,  when  they  tell  him  I 

am  dead 
(And  so  young    too !)  will  sigh,  and 

shake  his  head, 
And  if  his  wife  should  chide,  "Poor 

Jacqueline," 
He'll   add,    "You    know    she    never 

could  be  mine.'7 
And  men  will  say,  when  some  one 

speaks  of  me, 

"  Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  history. 
The  life  of  that  poor  countess  !"    For 

the  rest 
Will  never  know,  my  love,  how  I  was 

blest. 
Some  few  of    my  poor   Zealanders, 

perchance, 
Will  keep  kind  memories  of  me ;  and 

in  France 

Some  minstrel  sing  my  story.     Piti- 
less John 
Will  prosper  still,  no  doubt,  as  he  has 

done, 
And  still  praise  God  with  blood  upon 

the  Eood. 
Philip  will,  doubtless,  still  be  called 

"The  Good." 
And  men  will  curse  and  kill :  and  the 

old  game 
Will  weary  out  new  hands  :  the  love 

of  fame 
Will  sow  new  sins :  thou  wilt  not  be 

renowned : 
And  I   shall    lie    quite    quiet  under 

ground. 
My  life  is  a  torn  book.     But   at  the 

end 
A  little  page,  quite  fair,  is  saved,  my 

friend, 
Where  thou  didst  write  thy  name.    No 

stain  is  there, 


/.Y  HOLLAND. 


225' 


No  blot,: — from   marge  to  marge, "all 

pure — no  tear ; — 
The  last  page,  saved  from  all,  and 

writ  by  thee, 
Which  I  shall  take  safe  up  to  Heaven 

with  me. 
All's  not  in' vain,  since  this  be  so. 

Dost  grieve  ? 

Beloved,  I  beseech  thee  to  believe 
Although  this  be  the  last  page  of  my 

life, 
It  is  my  heart's  first,  only  one.     Thy 

wife, 
Poor  though  she  be,  O  thou  sole  wealth 

of  mine, 

Is  happier  than  the  Countess  Jacque- 
line! 
And  since  my  heart  owns  thine,  say, — 

am  I  not 
A  Queen,  my  chosen,  though  by  all 

forgot  ? 
Though  all  forsake,  yet  is  not  this  thy 

hand? 

I,  a  lone  wanderer  in  a  darkened  land, 
I,  a  poor  pilgrim  with  no  staff  of  hope, 
I,  a  late  traveler  down  the  evening 

slope, 
Where  any  spark,  the  glow-worm's  by 

the  way, 
Had  been  a  light  to  bless  .  .  .  have  I, 

Osay, 
Not  found,   Beloved,   in  thy  tender 

eyes, 
A  light  more  sweet  than  morning's  ? 

As  there  dies 
Some  day  of  storm  all  glorious  in  its 

even, 
My  life  grows  loveliest  as  it  fades  in 

heaven, 
This  earthly  house  breaks  up.     This 

flesh  must  fade. 
So  many  shocks  of  grief  slow  breach 

have  made 
In  the  poor  frame.     Wrongs,  insults, 

treacheries, 
Hopes    broken    down,  and    memory 

which  sighs 
In, like  a  night- wind!  Life  was  never 

meant 

To  bear  so  much  in  such  frail  tene- 
ment. 
Why  should  we  seek  to  patch  and 

plaster  o'er 
This  shattered  roof,  crusht  windows, 

broken  door 
The   light    already  shines   through? 

Let  them  break. 


Yet  would  I  gladly  live  for  thy  dear 

sake, 
O  my  heart's  first  and  last,  if  that 

could  be! 
In  vain !  .  .  .  yet  grieve  not  thou.    I 

shall  not  see 
England  again,  and  those  white  cliffs ; 

nor  ever 
Again  those  four  gray  towers  beside 

the  river, 
And  London's  roaring  bridges :  never 

more 
Those  windows  with  the  market-stalls 

before, 
Where   the    red-kirtled    market-girls 

went  by 
In  the  great  square,  beneath  the  great 

gray  sky, 
In  Brussels :  nor  in  Holland,  night  or 

day, 
Watch  those  long  lines  of  siege,  and 

fight  at  bay 

Among  my  broken  army,  in  default 
Of  Gloucester's  failing  forces    from 

Hainault : 
Nor  shall  I  pace  again  those  gardens 

green, 
With  their  dipt  alleys,  where  they 

called  me  Queen, 
In  Brabant  once.  For  all  these  things 

are  gone. 
But  thee  I  shall  behold,  my  chosen 

one, 
Though  we  should  seem  whole  worlds 

on  worlds  apart, 

Because  thou  wilt  be  ever  in  my  heart. 
Nor  shall  I  leave  thee  wholly.  I  shall 

be 
An    evening    thought,  —  a    morning 

dream  to  thee, — 
A  silence  in  thy  life  when,  through  the 

night, 

The  bell  strikes,  or  the  sun  with  sink- 
ing light, 
Smites  all  the  empty  windows.     As 

there  sprout 
Daisies  and  dimpling  tufts  of  violets, 

out 
Among  the  grass  where  some  corpse 

lies  asleep, 
So  round  thy  life,  where  I  lie  buried 

deep, 
A  thousand  little  tender  thoughts  shall 

spring, 
A  thousand  gentle  memories  wind  and 

cling.  [sonl 

O,  promise  me,  my  own,  before  my 


226 


THE  WANDERER. 


Is  houseless, — let  the  great  world  turn 

and  roll 
Upon  its  way  unvext  ...  Its  pompc, 

its  powers ! 
The  dust  says  to  the  dust,  .  .  .  "the 

earth  is  ours." 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  Qneen  again 
For  all  the  walls  of  the  wide  world 

contain. 
Be  thou  content  with  silence.     Who 

would  raise 
A    little    dust  and  noise   of  human 

praise,  [dim, 

If  he  could  see,   in  yonder  distance 
The  silent  eye  of  God  that  watches 

him? 

Oh !  couldst  thou  see  all  that  I  see  to- 
night 

Upon  the  brinks  of  the  great  Infinite ! 
Come  out  of  her,  my  people,  lest  ye 

be 
Partakers  of  her  sins !"  .  .  .  My  love, 

but  we 
Our  treasure  where  no  thieves  break 

in  and  steal, 
Have  stored,  I  trust.     Earth's  weal  is 

not  our  weal. 
Let  the  worldmindits  business — peace 

or  war, 
Ours  is  elsewhere.     Look,  look, — my 

star,  my  star! 
It  grows,  it  glows,  it  spreads  in  light 

unfurled ; — 
Said  I  "  my  star"  ?    No  star — a  world 

—God's  world ! 
What  hymns  adown  the  jasper  sea  are 

rolled, 

Even  to  these  sick  pillows !  Who  infold 
White  wings  about  me  ?    Rest,  rest, 

rest ...  I  come  ! 
O  Love  !    I  think  that  I  am  near  my 

home. 
Whence    was  that    music  ?    Was   it 

Heaven's  I  heard  ? 
Write  "Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die 

i'  the  Lord, 
Because  they  rest,"  .  .  .  because  their 

toil  is  o'er. 
The  voice  of  weeping  shall  be  heard 

no  more 

In  the  Eternal  city.    Neither  dying 
Nor  sickness,  pain  nor  sorrow,  neither 

crying, 
For  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears. 

Rest,  rest, 
Thy   hand,    my  husband, — so — upon 

thj  breast ! 


MACROMICROS. 

IT  is  the  star  of  solitude,  • 

Alight  in  yon  lonely  sky. 
The  sea  is  silent  in  its  mood, 

Motherlike  moaning  a  lullaby, 

To  hush  the   hungering  mystery 
To  sleep  on  its  breast  subdued. 

The  night  is  alone,  and  I. 

It  is  not  the  scene  I  am  seeing, 

The  lonely  sky  and  the  sea, 
It  is  the  pathos  of  Being 

That  is  making  so  dark  in  me 
This  silent  and  solemn  hour : — 
The  bale  of  baffled  power, 

The  wail  of  unbaffled  desire, 
The  fire  that  must  ever  devour 

The  source  by  which  it  is  fire. 

My  spirit  expands,  expands ! 

I  spread  out  my  soul  on  the  sea. 
I  feel  for  yet  unfound  lands, 

And  I  find  but  the  land  where  She 
Sits,  with  her  sad  white  hands, 

At  her  golden  broidery, 
In  sight  of  the  sorrowful  sands, 

In  an  antique  gallery, 
Where,  ever  beside  her,  stands 

(Moodily  mimicking  me) 
The  ghost  of  a  something  her  heart 
demands 

For  a  blessing  which  cannot  be. 

And  broider,  broider  by  night  and  day 
The  brede  of  thy  blazing  broidery ! 

Till  thy  beauty  be  wholly  woven  away 
Into  the  desolate  tapestry. 

Let  the  thread  be  scarlet,  the  gold  be 

gay> 

For  the  damp  to  dim,  and  the  moth 

to  fray  : 
Weave  in  the  azure,  and  crimson, 

and  green ! 
Till  the  slow  threads,   needling  out 

and  in, 

To  take  a  fashion  and  form  begin  : 
Yet,  for  all  the  time  and  toil,  I  see 
The  work  is  vain,  and  will  not  be 
Like  what  it  was  meant  to  have  been. 

0  woman,  woman,  with  face  so  pale ! 
Pale  woman,  weaving  away 

A  frustrate  life  at  a  lifeless  loom, 
Early  or  late,  't  is  of  little  avail 

That  thou  lightest  the  lamp  in 

the  gloom. 

Full  well,  I  see,  there  is  coming  a  day 
When  the  work  shall  forever  rest 
incomplete. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


227 


Fling,  fling  the  foolish  blazon  away, 
And  weave  me  a  winding-sheet ! 

[t  is  not  for  thee,  in  this  dreary  hour, 

That  I  walk,  companionless  here  by 

the  shore.  [a  power 

[  am  caught  in  the  eddy  and  whirl  of 

Which  is  not  grief,  and  is  not  love, 

Though  it  loves  and  grieves, 
Within  me,  without  me,  wherever  I 

move 

In  the  going  out  of  the  ghastly  eves, 

And  is  changing  me  more  and  more. 

[  am  not  mourning  for  thee,  although 

I  love  thee,  and  thou  art  lost : 
Nor  yet  for  myself,  albeit  I  know 

Thai  my  life  is  flawed  and  crost : 
But  for  that  lightless,  sorrowing  Soul 
That  is  feeling,  blind  with  immortal 

pain, 

All  round,    for  what  it  can  never 

attain ;  [soul, 

That  prisoned,  pining,  and  passionate 

So  vast,  and  yet  so  small ; 

That  seems,  now  nothing,  now  all, 
That  moves  me  to  pity  beyond  control, 

And  repulses  pity  again. 
[  am  mourning,  since  mourn  I  must, 

With  those  patient  Powers  that  bear, 

'Neath    the    unattainable    stars   up 

there, 

With  the  pomp  and  pall  of  funeral, 
Subject  and  yet  august, 
The  weight  of  this  world's  dust : — 

The  ruined  giant  under  the  rock : 
The  stricken  spirit  below  the  ocean  : 

And  the  winged  things  wounded  of  old 

by  the  shock 
That  set  the  earth  in  motion. 

Ah  yet,  .  .  .  and  yet,  and  jret, 

If  She  were  here  with  me, 

If  she  were  here  by  the  sea, 
With  the  face  I  cannot  forget, 

Then  all  things  would  not  be 
So  fraught  with  my  own  regret, 

But  what  I  should  feel  and  see, 
And  seize  it  at  last,  at  last. — 
The  secret  known  and  lost  in  the  past, 

To  unseal  the  Genii  that  sleep 

In  vials  long  hid  in  the  deep: 
By  forgotten,  fashionless  spells    held 

fast, 

Where  through  streets  of  the  cities  of 
coral,  aghast, 

The  sea-nymphs  wander  and  weep. 


MYSTERY. 

THE  hour  was  one  of  mystery, 
When  we  were  sailing,  I  aad  she, 

Down  the  dark,  the  silent  stream. 
The  stars  above  were  pale  with  love, 
And  a  wizard  wind  did  faintly  move, 

Like  a  whisper  through  a  dream. 
Her  head  was  on  my  breast, 

Her  loving  little  head! 
Her  hand  in  mine  was  prest, 

And  not  a  word  we  said ; 
But  round   and  round  the  night  we 
wound  [Fays ; 

Till  we  came  at  last  to  the  Isle  of 
And,  all  the  while,  from  the  magic  isle, 

Came  that  music  of  other  days ! 

The  lamps  in  the  garden  gleamed. 

Tho  Palace  was  all  alight. 
The  sound  of  the  viols  streamed 

Through  the  windows  over  the  night. 
We  saw  the  dancers  pass 

At  the  windows,  two  by  two. 
The  dew  was  on  the  grass 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  dew. 

We  came    through  the  grass  to  the 

cypress-tree. 

We  stood  in  its  shadow,  I  and  she. 
"  Thy  face  is  pale,  thine'  eyes  are  wild. 
What  aileth  thee,  what  aileth  thee  ?" 

"Naught  aileth  me,"   she  murmured 

mild, 

"Only  the  moonlight  makes  me  pale; 
The  moonlight,   shining    through  the 

veil 
Of  this  black  cypress-tree." 

"By  yonder  moon,  whose  light  so  soon 

Will  fade  upon  the  gloom, 
And  this  black  tree,  whose  mystery 

Is  mingled  with  the  tomb, — 
By  Love's  brief    moon,  and  Death's 

dark  tree, 
Lovest  thou  me  ?" 

Upon  my  breast  she  leaned  her  head  ; 

"By  yonder  moon  and  tree, 
I  swear  that  all  my  soul,"  she  said, 

"  Is  given  to  thee." 

"  I  know  not  what  thy  soul  may  be, 
Nor  canst  thou  make  it  mine. 

Yon  stars  may  all  be  worlds  :  for  me 
Enough  to  know  they  shine. 

Thou  art  mine  evening  star.     I  know 
At  dawn  star-distant  thou  wilt  be  : 

I  shall  not  hour  thee  uiumiuriug  law ; 


228 


THE    WANDERER. 


Thy  face  I  shall  not  see. 
I  love  thy  beauty  :  't  will  not  stay  : 
Let  it  be  all  mine  while  it  may. 
I  have  no  bliss  save  in  the  kiss 

Thou  givest  me." 

We  came  to  the  statue  carved  in  stone, 
Over  the  fountain.      We  stood  there 

alone. 
* '  What  aileth  th ee,  that  thou  dost  sigh? 

And  why  is  thy  hand  so  cold  ?" 
"  'T  is  the  fountain  that  sighs,"  .  .  . 

she  said,  "not  I; 
And  the  statue,  whose  hand  thou 

dost  hold." 

"By  yonder  fount,  that  flows  forever, 

And  this  statue,  that  cann ot  move,— 

By  the  fountain  of  Time,  that  ceases 

never, 

And  the  fixedness  of  Love, — 
By  motion  and  immutability 
Lovest  thou  me?" 
"By  the  fountain  of  Time,  with  its 

ceaseless  flow, 
And  the  image  of  Love  that  rests," 

sighed  she, 
"  I  love  thee,  I  swear,  come  joy,  come 

woe, 
For  eternity !" 

"Eternity  is  a  word  so  long 
That  I  cannot  spell  it  now  : 

For  the  nightingale  is  singing  her  song 
From  yon  pomegranate  bough. 

Let  it  mean  what  it  may — Eternity. 

If  thou  lovest  me  now  as  I  love  thee, 

As  I  love  thee!" 

We  came  to  the  Palace.    We  mounted 

the  stair, 

The  great  hall-doors  wide  open  were. 
And  all  the  dancers  that  danced  in 

the  hall 
Greeted  us  to  the  festival. 

There  were  ladies,  as  fair  as  fair  might 

be, 

But  not  one  of  them  all  was  fair'as  she. 
There  were  knights,  that  looked  at 

them  lovingly, 
But  not  one  of  them  all  was  loving  as  I. 

Only,  each  noble  cavalier 
Had  his  throat  red  lined  from  ear  to  ear; 
'T  was  a  collar  of  merit,  I  have  heard, 
Which  a  Queen  upon  each  had  once 

conferred, 

And  each  lovely  lady  that  oped  her  lip 
Let  a  little  mouse's  tail  outslip ; 


'T  was  the  fashion  there,  I  know  not 
why, 

But  fashions  are  changing  constantly. 

From  the  crescented  naphtha  lamps 
each  ray 

Beamed  into  a  still  enchanted  blaze ; — 

And  forth  from  the  deep-toned  orches- 
tra 

That   music,   that  music  of   other 
days ! 

My  arm  enlaced  her  winsome  waist, 

And  down  the  dance  we  flew : 
We  flew,  we  raced:  our  lips  embraced; 

And  our  breath  was  mingled  too. 
Eouiid,  and  round,  to  a  magic  sound — 
(A  wizard  waltz  to  a  wizard  air!) 
Eound  and  round,   we  whirled,  wo 

wound, 

In  a  circle  light  and  fine  : 
My  cheek  was  fanned  by  her  fra- 
grant hair, 

And  her  bosom  beat  on  mine : 
And  all  the  while,   in  the  winding 

ways, 

That  music,  that  music  of  other  days, 
With  its  melodies  divine ! 

The  palace  clock  stands  in  the  hall, 
And  talks,  unheard,  of  the  flight  of 
time: 

With  a  face  too  pale  for  a  festival 
It  telleth  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme. 

The  palace  clock,  with  a  silver  note, 
Is  chanting  the  death  of  the  hour 
that  dies. 

"  What  aileth  thee  ?  for  I  see  float 
A  shade  into  thine  eyes." 

"Naught  aileth,  me,"  .  .  .  low  mur- 
mured she, 

"lam  faint  with  the  dance,  my  love, 
Give  me  thine  arm :  the  air  is  warm : 

Lead  me  unto  the  grove." 

We  wanderedinto  the  grove.We  found 
A  bower  by  woodbine  woven  round. 

Upon  my  breast  she  leaned  her  head : 
I  drew  her  into  the  bower  apart. 

"  I  swear  to  thee,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Thou  hast  my  heart!" 

"  Ah,  leave  thy  little  heart  at  rest! 
For  it  is  so  light,  I  think,  so  light, 
Some  wind  would  blow  it  away  to- 
night, 

If  it  were  not  safe  in  thy  breast. 
But  the  wondrous  brightness  on  thine 
hair  . 


'  IN  HOLLAND. 


229 


Did  never  seem  more  bright : 
And  thy  beauty  never  looked  more  fair 

Than  thy  beauty  looks  to-night : 
And  this    dim  hour,    and  this  wild 
bower, 

Were  made  for  our  delight : 
Here  we  will  stay,  until  the  day, 

In  yon  dark  east  grows  white." 
"This  may  not  be,"  .  .  .  she  answered 
me, 

"For  I  was  lately  wed 
With  a  diamond  ring  to  an  Ogre-King, 

And  I  am  his  wife,"  she  said. 
"My  husband  is  old;  but  his  crown  is 
of  gold : 

And  he  hath  a  cruel  eye : 
And  his  arm  is  long,  and  his  hand  is 
strong, 

And  his  body  is  seven  ells  high : 
And  alas!  I  fear,  if  he  found  us  here, 

That  we  both  should  surely  die. 

"All  day  I  take  my  harp,  and  play 

To  him  on  a  golden  string: 
Through  the  weary  livelong  day 

I  play  to  him,  and  sing: 
I  sing  to  him  till  his  white  hair 

Begins  to  curl  and  creep: 
And  his  wrinkles  old  slowly  unfold, 

And  his  brows  grow  smooth  as  sleep. 
But  at  night,  when  he  calls  for  his 

golden  cup, 
Into  his  wine  I  pour 
A  juice  which  he  drinks  duly  up, 
And  sleeps  till  the  night  is  o'er. 
For  one  moment  I  wait :  I  look  at  him 

straight, 
And  teirhim  for  once  how  much  I 

detest  him : 

I  have  no  fear  lest  he  should  hear, 
The  drug  he  hath  drained  hath  so 

opprest  him. 

Then  finger  on  lip,  away  I  slip, 
And  down  the  hills,  till  I  reach  the 

stream : 

I  call  to  thee  clear,  till  the  boat  ap- 
pear, 
And  wo  sail   together  through  dark 

and  dream. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  this  Isle  of  Fays, 
To  wander  at  will  through  a  garden 

of  flowers, 
While  the  flowers  that  bloom,  and  the 

lamps  that  blaze, 
And    the    very  nigihtngales  seem 

ours! 
And  sweeter  it  is,  in  the  winding  ways 


Of  the  waltz,  while  the  music  falls 

in  showers, 

While  the  minstrel  plays,  and  the  mo- 
ment stays, 

And  the  sweet  brief  rapture  of  love 
is  ours! 

"But  the  night  is  far  spent;  and  be- 
fore the  first  rent 
In  yon  dark  blue  sky  overhead, 
My  husband  will  wake,  and  the  spell 

will  break, 

And  peril  is  near,"  ...  she  said. 
"For  if  he  should  wake,  and  not  find 

me, 
By  bower  and  brake,  through  bush  and 

tree, 

He  will  come  to  seek  me  here ; 
And  the  Palace  of  Fays,  in  one  vast 

blaze, 

Will  sink  and  disappear ; 
And  the  nightingales  will  die  in  the 

vales, 

And  all  will  be  changed  and  drear; 
For  the  fays  and  elves  can  take  care 

of  themselves: 
They  will  slip  on  their  slippers,  and 

go: 
In  their  little  green  cloaks  they  will 

hide  in  the  oaks, 
And  the  forests  and  brakes,  for  their 

sweet  sakes, 

Will  cover  and  keep  them,  I  know. 
And  the  knights,  with  their  spurs,  and 

velvets  and  furs, 

Will  take  off  their  heads,  each  one, 
And  to  horse,  and  away,  as  fast  as  they 

may, 

Over  brook,  and  bramble,  and  stone ; 
And  each  dame  of  the  house  has  a  lit- 
tle dun  mouse, 
That  will  whisper  her  when  to  be 

gone; 
But  we,   my  love,   in  this    desolate 

grove, 

We  shall  be  left  alone ; 
And  my  husband  will  find  us,  take  us 

and  bind  us : 

In  his  cave  he  will  lock  me  up, 

And  pledge  me  for  spite  in  thy  blood 

by  night  cup." 

When  he  drains  down   his  golden 

"Thy  husband,  dear,  is  a  monster,  'tis 

clear, 

But  just  now  I  will  not  tarry 
Thy  choice  to  dispute — how  on  earth 
such  a  brute 


230 


THE 


Thou  hadst  ever  the  fancy  to  many. 
For  whe'ref ore,  meanwhile,  are  we  two 

here, 

In  a  fairy  island  under  a  spell, 
By  night,  in  a  magical  atmosphere, 
In  a  lone  enchanted  dell, 
If  we  are  to  say  and  do  no  more 
Than  is  said  and  done  by  the  dull 

daylight, 
In  that  dry  old  world  where  both  must 

ignore, 
To-morrow,  the  dream  of  to-night. 

Her  head  drooped  on  my  breast, 

Fair  foolish  little  head! 
Her  lips  to  mine  were  prest. 

Never  a  word  was  said. 

If  it  were  but  a  dream  of  the  night, 
A  dream  that  I  dreamed  in  sleep — 

Why,  then,  is  my  face  so  white, 
And  this  wound  so  red  and  deep  ? 

But  whatever  it  was,  it  all  took  place 
In  a  land  where  never  your  steps 
will  go, 

Though  they  wander,  wherever  they 

will,  through  space; 
In  an  hour  you  never  will  know, 
Though  you  should  outlive  the  crow 

That  is  like  to  outlive  your  race. 

And  if  it  were  but  a  dream,  it  broke 
Too  soon,  albeit  too  late  I  woke, 
Waked  by  the  smart  of  a  sounding 

stroke 

Which  has  so  confused  my  wits, 
That  I  cannot  remember,  and  never 

shall, 

What  was  the  close  of  that  festival, 
Nor  how  the  Palace  was  shatter- 
ed to  bits : 

For  all  that,  just  now,  I  think  I  know, 
Is  what  is  the  force  of  an  Ogre's  blow, 

As  my  head,  by  starts  and  fits, 
Aches  and  throbs ;  and,  when  I  look 

round, 

All  that  I  hear  is  the  sickening  sound 
Of  the  nurse's  watch,  and  the  doc- 
tor's boots, 

Instead  of  the  magical  fairy  flutes ; 
And  all  that  I  see,  in  my  love's  lost 

place, 
Is    that   gin-drinking  hag,   with  her 

nut-cracker  face, 

By    the    hearth's   half-burned    out 
And  the  only  stream  is  this  stream 

of  blood 

That  flows  from  me,  red  and  wide  : 
Yet  still  I  hear,— as  sharp  and  clear, 


In  the  horrible,  horrible  silence  out- 
side, 

The  clock  that  stands  in  the  empty 
hall,  [time ; 

And  talks  to  my  soul  of  the  flight  of 
With  a  face  like  a  face  at  a  funeral, 
Telling  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme  : 
And  still  I  hear,  with  as  little  cheer, 
In  the  yet  more  horrible  silence  in- 
side, 

Chanted,  perchance,  by  elves  and  fays, 

From  some  far  island,  out  of  my  gaze, 

Where  a  house  has  fallen,  and  some 

one  has  died, 
That  music,  that  music  of  other  days, 

With  its  minstrelsy  undescried ! 
For  Time,  which  surviveth  everything, 
And     Memory     which     surviveth 

Time  :— 

These  two  sit  by  my  side,  and  sing, 
A  song  too  sad  for  rhyme. 

THE  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE. 

I  ONCE  heard  an  angel,  by  night,  in 

the  sky,  .[golden  lute  ; 

Singing   softly  a  song  to  a  deep 

The  polestar,  the  seven  little  planets, 

and  I,  [mute, 

To  the  song  that  he  sung  listened 

For  the   song  that  he  sung  was  so 

strange  and  so  sweet, 
And  so  tender  the  tones  of  his  lute's 

golden  strings, 
That  the  Seraphs  of  Heaven  sat  husht 

at  his  feet, 
And  folded  their  heads  in  their  wings. 

And  the  song  that  he  sung  by  those 

Seraphs  up  there 
Is  called .  .  .  "  Love."    Butthe  words, 

I  had  heard  them  elsewhere. 

For,  when  I  was  last  in  the  nethermost 

Hell. 
On    a   rock    'mid    the    sulphurous 

surges,  I  heard 

A  pale  spirit  si  ng  to  a  wild  hollow  shell, 
And  his  song  was  the  same,  every 

word. 
But  so  sad  was  his  singing,  all  Hell  to 

the  sound 
Moaned,  and  wailing,  complained 

like  a  monster  in  pain, 
While  the  fiends  hovered  near  o'erthe 

dismal  profound, 

With    their    black   wings  weighed 
down  by  the  strain. 


AY   UCLLAXD. 


233 


And  the  song  that  was  sung  by  the 

Lost  Ones  down  there 
Is  called  .  .  .  "Love."     But  the  spirit 

that  sung  was  Despair. 

When  the  moon  sets  to-night,  I  will 

go  down  to  ocean, 
Bare  my  brow  to  the  breeze,  and 

my  heart  to  its  anguish  ; 
And  sing  till  the  Siren,  with  pining 

emotion 
(Unroused  in  her  sea-caves)  shall 

languish. 
And  the  Sylphs  of  the  water  shall 

crouch  at  my  feet, 
With    their    white    wistful     faces 

turned  upward  to  hear, 
And  the  soft  Salamanders  shall  float, 

in  the  heat 
Of  the  ocean  volcanoes,  more  near. 

For  the  song  I  have  learned,  all  that 

listen  shall  move: 
But  there's  one  will  not  listen,  and 

that  one  I  love. 

THE  PEDLEB. 

There  was  a  man  whom  you  might  see, 
Toward  nightfall,  on  the  dusty  track, 
Faring,  footsore  and  wearily — 
A  strong  box  on  his  back. 

A  speck  against  the  flaring  sky, 
You  saw  him  pass  the  line  of  dates, 

The  camel-drivers  loitering  by, 
From  Bagdadt's  dusking  gates. 

The  merchants  from  Bassora  stared, 
And  of  his  wares  would  question 
him, 

But,  without  answer,  on  he  fared 
Into  the  evening  dim. 

Nor  only  in  the  east :  but  oft 

In  northern  lands  of  ice  and  snow, 

You  might  have  seen,  past  field  and 

croft, 
That  figure  faring  slow. 

His  cheek  was  worn;  his  back  bent 

double 

Beneath  the  iron  box  he  bore  ; 
And  in  his  walk  there  seemed  such 

trouble, 
You  saw  his  feet  were  sore. 

You  wondered  if  he  ever  had 
A  settled  home,  a  wife,  a  child : 

You  marveled  if  a  face  so  sad 
At  any  time  had  smiled. 

The  cheery  housewife  oft  would  fling 


A  pitying  alms  as  on  he  strode, 
Where,  round  the  hearth  a  rosy  ring, 
Her  children's  faces  glowed: 

In  the  dark  doorway,  oft  the  maid, 
Late-lingering  on  her  lover's  arm, 

Watched  through  the  twilight,  half 

afraid, 
That  solitary  form. 

The  traveler  hailed  him  of  t, .  .  ."Good 
night : 

The  town  is  far :  the  road  is  lone : 
God  speed !"  .  .  .  already  out  of  sight, 

The  wayfarer  was  gone. 

But,  when  the  night  was  late  and  still, 

And  the  last  star  of  all  had  crept 
Into  his  place  above  the  hill, 

He  laid  him  down  and  slept. 
His  head  on  that  strong  box  he  laid: 

And  there,   beneath  the  star-cold 

skies, 
In  slumber,  I  have  heard  it  said, 

There  rose  before  his  eyes 

A  lovely  dream,  a  vision  fair 
Of  some  far-off  forgotten  land, 

And  of  a  girl  with  golden  hair, 
And  violets  in  her  hand. 

He  sprang  to  kiss  her  .  .  .  "  Ah!  once 
more       .  [thee 

Eeturn,    beloved,   and   bring  with 
The  glory  and  delight  of  yore, — 

Lost  evermore  to  me !" 
Then,  ere  she  answered,  o'er  his  back 

There    fell    a    brisk   and    sudden 

stroke, — 
So  sound  and  resolute  a  thwack 

That,  with  the  blow,  he  woke  .  .  , 
There  comes  out  of  that  iron  box 

An  ugly  hag,  an  angry  crone ; 
Her  crutch  about  his  ears  she  knocks: 

She  leaves  him  not  alone : 

"Thou  lazy  vagabond!  come,  budge, 
And  carry  me  again,".  .  .  she  says: 

"Not  half  the  journey's  over  .  .  . 
trudge ! " 

...  He  groans,  and  he  obeys. 

Oft  in  the  sea  he  sought  to  fling 
That  iron  box.     But  witches  swim : 

And  wave  and  wind  were  sure  to  bring 
The  old  hag  back  to  him ; 

Who  all  the  more  about  his  brains 
Belabored  him  with  such  hard  blows, 

That  the  poor  devil,  for  his  pains, 
Wished  himself  dead,  heaven  knows! 


232 


THE  WANDEEEB. 


Love  is  it  thy  Jiand  in  wine?  .  .  .  Behold ! 

I  see  the  crutch  uplifted  high. 
The  angry  hag  prepares  to  scold. 

Ot  yet  we  migh  t Good  by! 

A  GHOST  STORY. 

I  LAY  awake  past  midnight : 
The  moon  set  o'er  the  snow: 

The  very  cocks,  for  coldness, 
Could  neither  sleep  nor  crow. 

There  came  to  me,  near  morning, 

A  woman  pale  and  fair : 
She  seemed  a  monarch's  daughter^ 

By  the  red  gold  round  her  hair. 

The  ring  upon  her  finger 
Was  one  that  well  I  know : 

I  knew  her  fair  face  also, 
For  I  had  loved  it  so ! 

But  I  felt  I  saw  a  spirit, 

And  I  was  sore  afraid ; 
For  it  is  many  and  many  a  year 

Ago,  since  she  was  dead. 
I  would  have  spoken  to  her, 

But  I  could  not  speak,  for  fear : 
Because  it  was  a  homeless  ghost 

That  walked  beyond  its  sphere  ; 

Till  her  head  from  her  white  shoulders 
She  lifted  up ;  and  said  .  .  . 

"  Look  in  !  you  'II  find  I'm  hollow. 
Pray  do  not  be  afraid !" 

SMALL  PEOPLE. 

THE  warm  moon  was  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  warm  summer  out  on  the 
land. 

There  trembled  a  tear  from  her  eye : 
There  trembled  a  tear  on  my  hand. 

Her  sweet  face  I  could  not  see  clear, 
For  the  shade  was  so  dark  in  the 

tree : 

I  only  felt  touched  by  a  tear, 
And  I  thought  that  the  tear  was  for 
me. 

In  her  small  ear  I  whispered  a  word, — 
With  her  sweet  lips  she  laughed  in 

my  face 
And,  as  light  through  the  leaves  as  a 

bird, 

She  flitted  away  from  the  place. 

Then  she  told  to  her  sister,  the  Snake, 

All  I  said ;  and  her  cousin  the  Toad. 

The  Snake  slipped  away  to  t  lie  brake, 

The  Toad  went  to  town  by  the  road. 


The  Toad  told  the  Devil's  coach-horse, 
Who  cocked  up  his  tail  at  the  news. 

The  Snake  hissed  the  secret,  of  course, 
To  the  Newt,  who  was  changing  her 
shoes. 

The  Newt  drove  away  to  the  ball, 
And  told  it  the  Scorpion  and  Asp. 

The  Spider,  who  lives  in  the  wall, 
Overheard  it,  and  told  it  the  Wasp. 

The  Wasp  told  the  Midge  and  the  Gnat: 
And  the  Gnat  told  the  Flea  and  the 

'Nit. 

The  Nit  dropped  an  egg  as  she  sat : 
The  Flea  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  bit. 

The  Nit  and  the  Flea  are  too  small, 
And  the  Snake  slips  from  under  my 
foot: 

I  wish  I  could  find  'mid  them  all 
A  man, — to  insult  and  to  shoot ! 

METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

SHE  fanned  my  life  out  with  her  soft 

little  sighs: 
She  hushed  me  to  death  with  her 

face  so  fair : 
I  was  drunk  with  the  light  of  her  wild 

blue  eyes, 

And  strangled  dumb  in  her  long  gold 
hair. 

So  now  I  'm  a  blessed  and  wandering 

ghost, 
Though  I  cannot  quite  find  out  my 

way  up  to  heaven : 
But  I  hover  about  o'er  the  long  reedy 

coast, 
In  the  wistful  light  of  a  low  red  even. 

I  have  borrowed  the  coat  of  a  little 

gray  gnat; 
There  's  a  small  sharp  song  I  have 

learned  how  to  sing: 
I  know  a  green  place  she  is  sure  to  be 

at; 

I  shall  light  on  her  neck  there,  and 
sting,  and  sting. 

Tra-la-la,  tra-la-la,  life  never  pleased 

me ! 
I  fly  where  I  list  now,  and  sleep  at 

my  ease. 
Buzz,  buzz,  buzz !  the  dead  only  are 

free. 

Yonder's  my  way  now.     Give  place, 
if  you  jolease. 


y  HOLLAND. 


233 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  SEEPENTS. 

I  TRUST  that  never  more  in  this  world's 

shade 
Thine  eyes  will  be  upon  me  :  never 

more 

Thy  face  come  back  to  me.     For  thou 
hast  made 

My  whole  life  sore : 

And  I  might  curse  thee,  if  thou  earnest 

again 
To  mock  me  with  the  memory  in  thy 

face 

OC  days  I  would  had  been  not.     So 
much  pain 

Hath  made  me  base — 

Enough  to  wreak  the  wrath  of  years 

of  wrong 
Even  on  so  frail  and  weak  a  thing 

as  thou ! 

Fare  hence,  and  be  forgotten  .  .  .  Sing 
thy  song, 

And  braid  thy  brow, 

And  be  beloved,  and  beautiful,— and 

be 
In  beauty  baleful  still .  .  .  a  Serpent 

Queen 

To  others  not  yet  curst  by  kissing  thee, 
As  I  have  been. 

But  come  not  nigh  me  till  my  end  be 

near, 

And  I  have  turned  a  dj-ing  face  to- 
ward heaven. 

Then,  if  thou  wilt,   approach,— and 
have  no  fear, 

And  be  forgiven. 

Close,  if  thou  wilt,   mine  eyes,   and 

smooth  my  hair : 

Fond  words  will  come  upon  my  part- 
ing breath. 

Nor,  having  desolated  life,  forbear 
Kind  offices  to  death. 

BLUEBEARD. 

I  WAS  to  wed  young  Fatima, 
As  pure  as  April's  snowdrops  are, 

In  whose  love  lay  hid  my  crooked  life, 
As  in  its  sheath  my  scimitar. 

Among  the  hot  pomegranate  boughs, 
At  sunset,  here  alone  we  sat. 

To  call  back  something  from  that  hour 
I'd  give  away  my  Caliphat. 

She  broke  her  song  to  gaze  at  me  : 
Her  lips  she  leaned  my  lips  above , 


"  Why  art  thou  silent  all  this  while, 
Lord  of  my  life,  and  of  my  love  ?" 

"  Silent  I  am,  young  Fatimat 

For  silent  is  my  soul  in  me, 
And  language  will  not  help  the  want 

Of  that  which  cannot  ever  be." 

"  But  wherefore  is  thy  spirit  sad, 
My  lord,  my  love,  my  life  ?" .  .  .  she 

said. 

"  Because  thy  face  is  wondrous  like 
The  face  of  one  I  knew,  that's  dead." 
Ah  cruel,  cruel,"  cried  Fatima, 
' '  That  I  should  not  possess  the  past ! 
What  woman's  lips  first  kissed  the  lips 
Where  my  kiss  lived  and  lingered 

last? 
"And  she  that's  dead  was  loved  by 

thee, 
That  so  her  memory  moves  thee 

yet?... 
Thy  face  grows  cold  and  white,  as 

looks 

The  moon  o'er  yonder  minaret!" 
"  Ay,  Fatima  I  I  loved  her  well, 

With  all  of  love's  and  life's  despair, 
Or  else  I  had  not  strangled  her, 
That  night,  in  her  own  fatal  hair." 

FATIMA. 
A  YEAR  ago  thy  cheek  was  bright, 

As  oleander  buds  that  break 
The  dark  of  yonder  dells  by  night 

Above  the  lamp-lit  lake. 

Pale  as  a  snowdrop  in  Cashmere 

Thy  face  to-night,  fair  infant,  seems. 
Ah,  wretched  child !  What  dost  thou 

hear 
When  I  talk  in  my  dreams! 

GOING  BACK  AGAIN. 
I  DREAMED  that  I  walked  in  Italy 

When  the  day  was  going  down, 
By  a  water  that  flowed  quite  silently 

Through,  an  old  dim-lighted  town : 
Till  I  came  to  a  Palace  fair  to  see  : 

Wide  open  the  windows  were : 
My  love  at  a  window  sat,  and  she 

Beckoned  me  up  the  stair. 
I  roamed  through  many  a  corridor 

And  many  a  chamber  of  state  : 
I  passed  through  many  an  open  door, 

While  the  day  was  growing  late : 
Till  I  came  to  the  Bridal  chamber  at 
last, 


234 


THE  WANDERER. 


All  dim  in  the  darkening  weather. 
The  flowers  at  the  window  were  talk- 
ing fast, 

And  whispering  all  together. 
The  place  was  so  still  that  I  could  hear 

Every  word  that  they  said  : 
They  were    whispering    under  their 

breath  with  fear, 
For  somebody  there  was  dead. 

When  I  came  to  the  little  rose-color- 
ed room, 

From  the  window  there  flew  a  bat. 
The  window  was  opened  upon  the 

gloom: 

My  love  at  the  window  sat : 
She  sat  with  her  guitar  on  her  knee, 

But  she  was  not  singing  a  note, 
For  some   one  had  drawn   (ah,  who 

could  it  be?) 
A  knife  across  her  throat. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  KING  MACBETH. 
THIS  is  the  castle  of  King  Macbeth. 
And  here  he  feasts — when  the  day- 
light wanes,  [heath — 
And  the  moon  goes  softly  over  the 

His  Earls  and  Thanes. 
A  hundred  harpers  with  harps  of  gold 
Harp  through  the  night  high  festi- 
val : 
And  the  sound  of  the  music  they  make 

is  rolled 

From  hall  to  hall. 

They  drink  deep  healths  till  the  raf- 
ters rock 
In  the  Banquet  Hall ;  and  the  shout 

is  borne 

To  the  courts  outside,  where  the  crow- 
ing cock 

Is  waked  ere  morn. 
And  the  castle  is  all  in  a  blaze  of  light 
From  cresset,  and  torch,  and  sconce: 

and  there 
Each  warrior  dances  all  the  night 

With  his  lady  fair. 
They  dance  and  sing  till  the  raven  is 

stirred 
On  the  wicked  elm-tree  outside  in 

the  gloom; 
And  the  rustle  of  silken  robes  is  heard 

From  room  to  room. 
But  there  is  one  room  in  that  castle  old, 
In  a  lonely  turret  where  no  one  goes, 
And  a  dead  man  sits  there,  stark  and 

cold, 
Whom  no  one  knows. 


DEATH-IN-LIFE. 

BLEST  is  the  babe  that  dies  within  the 

womb. 
Blest  is  the  corpse  which  lies  within 

the  tomb. 
And  blest  that  death  for  which  this 

life  makes  room. 

But  dreary   is  the   tomb  where  the 

corpse  lies : 
And  wretched  is  the  womb  where  the 

child  dies : 
And  curst  that  death  which  steals  this 

life's  disguise. 

KING  LIMOS. 
THERE  once  was  a  wicked,  old,  gray 

king- 
Long  damned,  as  I  have  reason  to 

know. 

For  he  was  buried(and  no  bad  thing!) 
Hundreds  of  years  ago. 

His  wicked  old  heart  had  grown  so 

chilled 
That  the  leech,  to  warm  him,  did 

not  shrink 
To   c^ive   him    each  night  a  goblet. 

•    filled 
With  a  virgin's  blood,  to  drink. 

"  A  splenetic  legend,"  .  .  .  you  say,  of 

course ! 
Yet  there  may  be  something  in  it, 

too. 
Kill,    or  be   killed  .  .  .  which  choice 

were  the  worse  ? 
I  know  not.     Solve  it  you. 
But  even  the  wolf  must  have  his  prey: 
And  even  the  gallows  will  have  her 

food: 
And  a  king,  my  friend,  will  have  his 

way, 
Though  that  way  may  lie  through 

blood. 

My  heart  is  hungry,  and  must  be  fed  ; 

My  life  is  empty,  and  must  be  filled; 

One  is  not  a  Ghoul,  to  live  on  the  dead: 

What  then  if  fresh  blood  be  spilled? 

We  follow  the  way  that  nature  leads. 
What 's  the  very  first  thing  that  we 

learn?     To  devour. 
Each  life   the   death   of  some   other 

needs 
To  help  it  from  hour  to  hour. 

From  the  animalcule   that   swallows 

his  friends,  [rolls, 

Nothing  loath,   in  the  wave  as  it 


IN  HOLLAND. 


235 


To  man,  as  we  see  him,  this  law  as- 
cends ; 

'Tis  the  same  in  the  world  of  souls. 
The  law  of  the  one  is  still  to  absorb : 

To  be  absorbed  is  the  other's  lot : — 
The  lesser  orb,  by  the  larger  orb, 

The  weak,  by  the  strong .  .  .  why  not? 

My  wants  at  the  worst :  so  why  should 

[I  spare 
(Since  just  such  a  thing  my  wants 

supplies) 

This  little  girl  with  the  silky  hair, 
And  the  love  in  her  two  large  eyes? 

THE  FUGITIVE, 
THERE  is  no  quiet  left  in  life, 

Not  any  moment  brings  me  rest : 
Forevermore,  from  shore  to  shore, 

I  bear  about  a  laden  breast. 
I  see  new  lands :  I  meet  new  men : 
I  learn  strange  tongues  in  novel 

places. 
I  cannot  chase  one  phantom  face 

That  haunts  me,  spite  of  newer  faces. 
For  me  the  wine  is  poured  by  night, 
And  deep  enough  to  drown  much 

sadness; 
But  from  the  cup  that  face  looks  up, 


And  mirth  and  music  turn  to  mad- 
ness. 

There  's  many  a  lip  that 's  warm  for 
me :  [ing : 

Many  a  heart  with   passion  bound- 
But  ah,  my  breast,  when  closest  prest, 
Creeps  to  a  cold  step  near  me  sound- 
ing. 

To  this  dark  penthouse  of  the  mind 
I  lure  the  bat-winged  Sleep  in  vain ; 
For  on  his  wings  a  dream  he  brings 
That  deepens  all  the  dark  with  pain. 

I  may  write  books  which  friends  will 

praise, 

I  may  win  fame,  I  may  win  treasure; 

But  hope  grows  less  with  each  success, 

And  pain  grows  more   with   every 

pleasure.  [thirst 

The   draughts  I   drain   to   slake  my 

But  fuel  more  the  infernal  flame. 
There  tangs  a  sting  in  everything:— 
The  more   I  change,  the  more  the 

same! 

A  man  that  flies  before  the  pest, 
From   wind  to  wind  my  course  is 

whirled. 

This  fly  acciirst  stung  lo  first, 
And  drove  her  wild  across  the  world! 


THE  SHORE. 

CAN  it  be  women  that  walk  in  the  sea-mist  under  the  cliffs  there  ? 

Where,  'neath  a  briny  bow,  creaming,  advances  the  lip 
Of  the  foam,  and  out  from  the  sand-choked  anchors,  on  to  the  skiffs  there, 

The  long  ropes  swing  through  the  surge,  as  it  tumbles;  and  glitter,  and  drip. 

All  the  place  in  a  lurid,  glimmering,  emerald  glory, 

Glares  like  a  Titan  world  come  back  under  heaven  again  : 
Yonder,  up  there,  are  the  steeps  of  the  sea-kings,  famous  in  story  ; 

But  who  are  they  on  the  beach  ?    They  are  neither  women,  nor  men. 

Who  knows,  are  they  the  land's,  or  the  water's,  living  creatures  ? 

Born  of  the  boiling  sea  ?  nurst  in  the  seething  storms  ? 
With  their  woman's  hair  dishevelled  over  their  stern  male  features, 

Striding,  bare  to  the  knee ;  magnified  maritime  forms ! 

They  may  be  the  mothers  and  wives,  they  may  be  the  sisters  and  daughters 
Of  men  on  the  dark  mid-seas,  alone  in  those  black-coiled  hulls, 

That  toil  'neath  3ron  white  cloud,  whence  the  moon  will  rise  o'er  the  waters 
To-night,  with  her  face  on  fire,  if  the  wind  in  the  evening  lulls. 

But  they  may  be  merely  visions,  such  as  only  sick  men  witness 

(Sitting  as  I  sit  here,  filled  with  a  wild  regret), 
Framed  from  the  sea's  misshapen  spume  with  a  horrible  fitness, 

To  the  winds  in  -which  they  walk,  and  the  surges  by  which  they  are  wet : — 

Salamanders,  sea- wolves,  witches,  warlocks  ;  marine  monsters, 
Which  the  dying  seaman  beholds,  when  the  rats  are  swimming  away, 


236  THE   WANDEEEE. 


And  an  Indian  wind  'gins  hiss  from  an  unknown  isle  and  alone  stirs 
The  broken  cloud  which  burns  on  the  verge  of,  the  dead,  red  day. 

I  know  not.     All  in  my  mind  is  confused  ;  nor  can  I  dissever 
The  mould  of  the  visible  world  from  the  shape  of  my  thoughts  in  me. 

The  Inward  and  Outer  are  fused:  and,  through  them,  murmur  forever 
The  sorrow  whose  sound  is  the  wind,  and  the  roar  of  the  limitless  sea. 

THE  NORTH  SEA. 

BY  the  gray  sand-hills,  o'er  the  cold  sea-shore;  where,  dumbly  peering, 

Pass  the  pale-sailed  ships,  scornfully,  silently ;  wheeling  and  veering 

Swift  out  of  sight  again  ;  while  the  wind  searches  what  it  finds  never, 

O'er  the  sand-reaches,  bays,  billows,  blown  beaches,— homeless  forever ! 

And,  in  a  vision  of  the  bare  heaven  seen  and  soon  lost  again, 

Over  the  rolling  foam,  out  in  the  mid-seas,  round  by  the  coast  again, 

Hovers  the  sea-gull,  poised  in  the  wind  above,  o'er  the  bleak  surges, 

In  the  green  briny  gleam,  briefly  revealed  and  gone  ;  .  ,  .  fleet,  as  emerges 

Out  of  the  tumult  of  some  brain  where  memory  labors,  and  fretfully 

Moans  all  the  night-long, — a  wild  winged  hope,  soon  fading  regretfully. 

Here  walk  the  lost  God's  o'  dark  Scandinavia,  morning  and  even  ; 

Faint  pale  divinities,  realmless  and  sorrowful,  exiled  from  Heaven  ; 

Burthened  with  memories  of  old  theogenies ;  each  ruined  monarchy 

Roaming  amazed  by  seas  oblivious  of  ancient  fealty. 

Never,  again  at  the  tables  of  Odin,  in  their  lost  Banquet  Hall, 

Shall  they  from  golden  cups  drink,  hearing  golden  harps,  harping  high  festival,. 

Never  praise  bright-haired  Freya,  in  Yingolf,  for  her  lost  loveliness  1 

Never,  with  Egir,  sail  round  cool  moonlit  isles  of  green  wilderness! 

Here,  on  the  lone  wind,  through  the  long  twilight,  when  day  is  waning, 

Many  a  hopeless  voice  near  the  night  is  heard  coldly  complaining, 

Here,  in  the  glimmering  darkness,  when  winds  are  dropped,  and  not  a  seaman 

sings 

From  cape  or  foreland,  pause,  and  pass  silently,  forms  of  discrowned  kings, 
With  sweeping,  floating  folds  of  dim  garments;  wandering  in  wonder 
Of  their  own  aspect ;  trooping  towards  midnight ;  feeling  for  thunder, 
Here,  in  the  afternoon  ;  while,  in  her  father's  boat,  heavily  laden, 
Mending  the  torn  nets,  sings  up  the  bleak  bay  the  Fisher-Maiden, 
I,  too,  forlornly  wandering,  wandering  see,  with  the  mind's  eye, 
Shadows  beside  me, .  .  .  (hearing  the  wave  moan,  hearing  the  wind  sigh .  . 
Shadows,  and  images  balef ally  beautiful,  of  days  departed : 
Sounds  of  faint  footsteps,  gleams  of  pale  foreheads,  make  me  sad-hearted  ; 
Sad  for  the  lost  irretrievable  sweetness  of  former  hours  ; 
Sad  with  delirious,  desolate  odors,  from  faded  flowers ; 
Sad  for  the  beautiful  gold  hair,  the  exquisite,  exquisite  graces 
Of  a  divine  face,  hopelessly  unlike  all  other  faces ! 

O'er  the  gray  sand-hills  (where  I  sit  sullenly,  full  of  black  fancies), 
Nipt  by  the  sea-wind,  drenched  by  the  sea-salt,  little  wild  pansies 
Flower,  and  freshly  tremble,  and  twinkle  ;  sweet  sisterhoods, 
Lone,  and  how  lovely,  with  their  frail  green  stems,  and  dark  purple  hoods ! 
Here,  even  here  in  the  midst  of  monotonous,  flxt  desolation, 
Nature  has  touches  of  tenderness,  beauties  of  young  variation  ; 
Where,  O  my  heart,  in  thy  ruined,  and  desolate,  desolate  places, 
Springs,  there  a  floweret,  or  gleams  there  the  gleam  of  a  single  oasis? 
Hidden  it  may  be  perchance,  and  I  know  it  not  .  ,  .  hidden  yet  inviolate, 
Pushes  the  germ  of  an  unconscious  rapture  in  me,  like  the  violet 
Which,  on  the  bosom  of  March,  the  snows  cover  and  keep  till  the  coming 


iy   HOLLAND. 


237 


Of  April,  the  first  bee  shall  find, when  he  wanders,  and  welcome  it  humming. 

Teach  me,  thou  North  where  the  winds  lay  in  ambush ;  the  rains  and  foul 
weather 

Are  stored  iu  the  house  of  the  storms  ;  and  the  snow-flakes  are  garnered  to- 
gether ; 

Where  man's  stern,  dominate,  sovereign  intelligence  holds  in  allegiance 

Whatever  blue  Sirius  beholds  on  this  Earth-ball, — all  seas,  and  all  regions; 

The  iron  iu  the  hills  heart ;  the  spirit  inthe  loadstone ;  the  ice  in  the  poles  ; 

All  powers,  all  dominions;  ships;  merchandise;  armaments;  beasts;  human 
souls ; 

Teach  me  thy  secrets  :  teach  to  refrain,  to  restrain,  to  be  still ; 

Teach  me  unspoken,  steadfast  endurance: — the  silence  of  Will! 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  FISHERMAN'S 
HUT. 

PART  I. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

IF  the  wind  had  been  blowing  the 

Devil  this  way 
The  midnight  could  scarcely  have 

grown  more  unholy, 
Or  the  sea  have  found  secrets  more 

wicked  to  say 

To  the  toothless  old  crags  it  is  hid- 
ing there  wholly. 

I  love  well  the  darkness.    I  love  well 

the  sound 
Of  the  thunder-drift,  howling  this 

way  over  ocean. 
For  't  is  though  as  in  nature  my  spirit 

had  found 
A  trouble   akin  to  its  own  fierce 

emotion. 
The  hoarse  night  may  howl  herself 

silent  for  me. 
When  the  silence  comes,  then  comes 

the  howling  within. 
I  am  drenched  to  my  knees  in  the  surf 

of  the  sea, 

And  wet  with  the  salt  bitter  rain  to 
the  skin. 

Let  it  thunder  and  lighten !  this  world's 

ruined  angel 

Is  but  fooled  by  desire  like  the  frail- 
est of  men; 
Both  seek  in  hysterics  life's  awful 

evangel, 

Then  both  settle  down  to  life's  si- 
lence again. 
Well  I  know  the  wild  spirits  of  water 

and  air, 

When  the  lean  morrow  turns  up  its- 
cynical  gray, 

Will,  baffled,  revert  with  familiar  de- 
spair 


To  their  old  listless  work,  in  their 
old  helpless  way. 

Tender's  the  light  in  the  Fisherman's 
hut: 

But  the  old  wolf  himself  is,  I  know, 

off  at  sea. 
And  I  see  through  the  chinks,  though 

the  shutters  be  shut, 
By  the  fire-light  that  some  one  is 

watching  for  me. 
'Three  years  ago,  on  this  very  same 

night, 
I  walked  in  a  ball-room  of  perfume 

and  splendor 
With  a  pearl-bedecked  lady  below  the 

lamplight : — 

Now  I   walk  with  the  wild  wind, 
whose  breath  is  more  tender. 

Hark!  the  horses  of  ocean  that  crouch 

at  my  feet, 
They  are  moaning  in  impotent  pain 

on  the  beach! 
Lo!  the  storm-light,  that  swathes  in 

its  blue  winding-sheet 
That  lone  desert  of  sky,  where  the 
stars  are  dead,  each ! 

Holloa,  there!   open,  you  little"  wild 

girl ! 
Hush,  ...  't  is  her  soft  little  feet 

o'er  the  floor. 

Stay  not  to  tie  up  a  single  dark  curl, 
But  quick  with  the  candle,  and  open 
the  door. 

One  kiss  ?  .  .  .  there's  twenty !  .  .  .  but 

first,  take  my  coat  there, 
Salt  as  a  sea-sponge,  and  dripping ' 

all  through. 
The  old  wolf,  your  father,  is  out  in 

the  boat  there. 

Hark  to    the  thunder !  .  .  .  we're 

safe,  —I  and  you.  [cask 

Put  on  the  kettle.    And  now  for  the 


238 


THE   WANDERER. 


Of  that  famous  old  rum  of  your 

father's,  the  king 
Would  have  clawed  on  our  frontier. 

There,  fill  me  the  flask. 
Ah,  what  a  quick,  little,  neat-hand- 
ed thing ! 

There's  my  pipe.    Stuff  it  with  black 

negro-head. 
Soon  I  shall  be  in  the  cloud-land  of 

glory. 
Faith,  't  is  better  with  you,  dear,  than 

'fore  the  mast-head, 
With  such  lights  at  the  windows  of 

night's  upper  story ! 
Next,  over  the  round  open  hole  in  the 

shutter 
You  may  pin  up  your  shawl,  .  .  .  lest 

a  mermaid  should  peep. 
Come,  now,  the  kettle 's  beginning  to 
splutter,  [sleep. 

And  the  cat  recomposes  herself  into 

?oor  little  naked  feet,  .  .  .  put  them 

up  there  .  .  . 
Little  white  foam-flakes!  and  now 

the  soft  head, 
lere,  on  my  shoulder ;  while  all  the 

dark  hair 

Falls  round  us  like  sea-weed.  "What 
matter  the  bed 

f  sleep  will  visit  it,  if  kisses  feel 

there 
Sweet  as  they  feel  under  curtains  of 

silk? 
So,  shut  your  eyes,  while  the  firelight 

will  steal  there 

O'er  the  black  bear-skin,  the  arm 
white  as  milk! 

Meanwhile  I'll  tell  to  you  all  I  re- 
member 

Of  the  old  legend,  the  northern  ro- 
mance 

heard  of  in  Sweden,  that  snowy  De- 
cember 

I  passed  there,  about  the  wild  Lord 
Eosencrantz. 

"hen,   when  you're  tired,   take  the 

cards  from  the  cupboard, 
Thumbed  over  by  every  old  thief  in 
our  crew, 

\nd  I  '11  tell  you  your  fortune,  you 

little  Dame  Hubbard : 
My  own  has  been  squandered  on 
witches  like  you. 

£nave,  King,  and  Queen,  all  the  villa- 
nous  pack  of  'em, 


I  know  what  they're  worth  in  the 

game,  and  have  found 
Upon  all  the  trump-cards  the  small 
mark  at  the  back  of  'em, 

The    Devil's  nail-mark,   who    still 
cheats  us  all  round. 

PART  II. 
THE  LEGEND  OF  LORD  ROSENCRANTZ. 

THE  lamps  in  the  castle  hall  burn 

bright, 
And  the  music  sounds,    and   the 

dancers  dance, 

And  lovely  the  young  Queen  looks  to- 
night. 
But  pale  is  Lord  Eosencrantz. 

Lord  Eosencrantz  is  always  pale, 
But  never  more  deadly  pale  than. 

now  .  .  . 
O,   there  is  a  whisper, — an  ancient 

tale,— 

A  rumor,  .  .  .  but  who  should  know? 

He  has  stepped  to  the  da'is.     He  has 

taken  her  hand.  [glance. 

And  she  gives  it  him  with  a  tender 

And  the    hautboys    sound,   and  the 

dancers  stand, 
And  envy  Lord  Eosencrantz. 

That   jewelled  hand  to  his  lips  he 

prest  ; 
And  lightly  he  leads  her  towards 

the  dance : 
And  the  blush  on  the  young  Queen's 

cheek  confest 
Her  love  for  Lord  Eosencrantz. 

The  moon  at  the  mullioned  window 

shone ; 
There  a  face  and  a  hand  in  the 

moon-light  glance  ; 
But  that  face   and  that  hand  were 

seen  of  none, 

Save  only  Lord  Eosencrantz. 
A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land 
There's  a  dead  black  pool,  where  a 

man  by  chance 
.  .  Again,    again,   that   beckoning 

hand ! 

And  it  beckons  Lord  Eosencrantz. 

While    the  young   Queen  turned  to 

whisper  him,  gone ; 

Lord  Rosencrantz  from  the  hall  was 

And  the   hautboys   ceased,    and  the 

lamps  grew  dim, 

And  the  castle  clock  stmck  Oa§ ! 
*  «  *  » 


IN  HOLLAND. 


239 


It  is  a  bleak  December  night, 
And  the  snow  on  the  highway  gleams 

by  fits : 
But  the  fire   011    the  cottage-hearth 

burns  bright, 

Where  the  little  maiden  sits. 
Her  spinning-wheel  she  has  laid  aside; 
And  her  blue  eyes  soft  in  the  fire- 
light glance; 
As  she  leans  with  love,  and  she  leans 

with  pride, 
On  the  breast  of  Lord  Eoseucrantz. 

Mother's  asleep,  up  stairs  in  bed  ; 
And  the  black  cat,  she  looks  won- 
drous wise 
As  she  licks  her  paws  in  the  firelight 

red, 

And  glares  with  her  two  green  eyes : 
And  the  little  maiden  is  half  afraid, 
And  closely  she  clings  to  Lord  Ros- 

encrantz  ; 
For  she  has  been  reading,  that  little 

maid, 

All  day,  in  an  old  romance, 
A  legend  wild  of  a  wicked  pool 

A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land, 
And  a  crime  done  there,  and  a  sinful 

soul, 
And  an  awful  face  and  hand. 

"Our    little    cottage    is    bleak    and 

drear," 
Says  the  little  maid  to  Lord  Rosen- 

crantz ; 
"  And  this  is  the  loneliest  time  of  the 

year, 
And  oft,  when  the  wind,  by  chance, 

"  The  ivy  beats  on  the  window-pane, 
I  wake  to  the  sound  in  the  gusty 

nights ; 
And  often,  outside,  in  the  drift  and 

rain, 

There  seem  to  pass  strange  sights. 
"  And  0,  it  is  dreary  here  alone! 
When  mother's  asleep,  in  bed,  up 

stairs, 
And  the  black  cat,  there,  to  the  forest 

is  gone, 
—Look  at  her,  how  she  glares  !" 

"Thou  little  maiden,  my  heart's  own 

bliss, 
Have  thou  no  fear,  for  I  love  thee 

well; 
And  sweetest  it  is  upon  nights  like 

this, 


When  the  wind,  like  the   blast  of 
hell, 

' '  Roars  up  and  down  in  the  chimneys 

old, 
And  the  wolf  howls  over  the  distant 

snow, 
To  kiss  away  both  the  night  and  the 

cold 
With  such  kisses  as  we  kiss  now." 

"Ah!    more    than  life    I  love  thee, 

dear !" 

Says  the  little  maiden  with  eyes  so 
blue ;  [fear, 

"And,  when  thou  art  near,  I  have  no 
Whatever  the  night  may  do. 

"But  O,  it  is  dreary  when  thou  art 

away! 

And  in  bed  all  night  I  pray  for  thee  : 
Now  tell  me,  thou  dearest  heart,  and 

say, 
Dost  thou  ever  pray  for  me  ?" 

"  Thou  little  maiden,  I  thank  thee 

much, 
And  well  I  would  thou  should  pray 

for  me ; 

But  I  am  a  sinful  man,  and  such 
As  ill  should  pray  for  thee." 

Hist !  .  .  .  was  it  a  face  at  the  window 
past? 

Or  was  it  the  ivy  leaf,  by  chance, 
Tapping  the  pane  in  the  fitful  blast, 

That  startled  Lord  Rosencrantz? 

The  little  maid,  she  has  seen  it  plain, 
For  she  shrieked,  and  down  she  fell 

in  a  swoon: 

Mutely  it  came,  and  went  again, 
In  the  light  of  the  winter  moon. 
*  #  *  # 

The  young  Queen, — O,  but  her  face 

was  sweet ! — 
She  died  on  the  night  that  she  was 

wed  : 

And  they  laid  her  out  in  her  winding- 
sheet, 
Stark  on  her  marriage-bed. 

The  little  maiden,  she  went  mad ; 
But  her  soft  blue  eyes  still  smiled 

the  same, 
With    ever  that  wistful  smile   they 

had: 
Her  mother,  she  died  of  shame. 

The  black  cat  lived  from  Louse  to 
house, 


240 


THE    WANDERER. 


And  every  night  to  the  forest  hied ; 
And  she  killed  many  a  rat  and  mouse 

Before  the  day  she  died. 
And  do  you  wish  that  I  should  de- 
clare [erantz  ? 
What  was  the  end  of  Lord  Rosen- 
Ah !  look  in  my  heart,  you  will  find  it 

there, 
— The  end  of  the  old  romance! 

PART  III. 

DAYBREAK. 

YES,  you  have  guessed  it.    The  wild 

Rosencrantz, 
It  is  I,  dear,  the  wicked  one  ;  who 

but  I,  maiden  ? 

My  life  is  a  tattered  and  worn-out  ro- 
mance, 

And  my  heart  with  the  curse  of  the 
Past  hath  been  laden  : 

For  still,  where  I  wander  or  linger, 

forever 

Comes  a  skeleton  hand  that  is  beck- 
oning for  me ; 
And  still,  dogging  my  footsteps,  life's 

long  Never-never 

Pursues  me,  wherever  my  footsteps 
may  be: 

The  star  of  my  course  hath  been  long 

ago  set,  dear: 
And  the  wind  is  my  pilot,  wherever 

he  blows : 
He  cannot  blow  from  me  what  I  would 

forget,  dear, 

Nor  blow  to  me  that  which  I  seek 
for, — repose. 

What!   if  I  were  the  Devil  himself, 

would  you  cling  to  me, 
Bear  my  ill-humors,  and  share  my 

wild  nights? 
Crouch  by  me,  fear  me  not,  stay  by 

me,  sing  to  me, 

While  the    dark    haunts    us    with 
sounds  and  with  sights  ? 

Follow  me  far  away,  pine  not,  but 

smile  to  me,  [gay  ? 

Never  ask  questions,  and  always  be 

Still  the  dear  eyes  meekly  turned  all 

the  while  to  me, 
Watchful  the  night  through,   and 

patient  the  day  ? 
What !  if  this  hand,  that  now  strays 

through  your  tresses, 
Three  years  ago  had  been  dabbled 
in  gore  f 


What !  if  this  lip,  that  your  lip  noTO 

caresses, 

A   corpse  had  been  pressing  but 
three  years  before  ? 

Well  then,  behold  !  ...  't  is  the  gray 

light  of  morning 
That  breaks  o'er  the  desolate  waters 

.  .  .  and  hark! 
'T  is  the  first  signal  shot  from  my  boat 

gives  me  warning : 
The  dark  moves  away :  and  I  follow 
the  lark. 

On  with  your  hat  and  your  cloak  !  you 

are  mine,  child, 
Mine  and  the  fiend's  that  pursues 

me,  henceforth  ! 
We  must  be  far,  ere  day  breaks,  o'er 

the  brine,  child : 

It  may  be  south  I  go,  it  may  be 
north. 

What !  really  fetching  your  hat  and 

your  cloak,  dear? 
Sweet  little  fool.     Kiss  me  quick 

now,  and  laugh ! 
All  I  have  said  to  you  was  but  a  joke, 

dear  : 

Half  was  in  folly,  in  wantonness 
half. 

PAET  IV. 

BREAKFAST. 

AT,  maiden  :  the  whole  of  my  story 

to  you  [mance  : 

Was  but  a  deception,  a  silly  ro- 

From  the  first  to  the   last  word,  no 

word  of  it  true ; 

And  my  name's  Owen  Meredith,  not 
Rosencrantz. 

I  never  was  loved  by  a  Queen,  I  de- 
clare : 
And  no  little  maiden  for  me  has 

gone  mad : 

I  never  committed  a  murder,  I  swear ; 
And  I  probably  should  have  been 

hanged  if  I  had. 
I  never  have  sold  to  the  Devil  my 

soul ; 
And  but  small  is  the  price  he  would 

give  me,  I  know: 
[  live  much  as  other  folks  live,  on  thq 

whole  : 

And  the  worst  thing  in  me  'a  my  di- 
gestion .  .  .  heigh  ho ! 

Let  us  leave  to  the  night-wind  the 
thoughts  which  he  brings, 


Y  HOLLAND. 


241 


And  leave  to  the  darkness  the  pow- 
ers of  the  dark ; 

For  my  hopes  o'er  the  sea  lightly  flit, 
like  the  wings 

Of  the  curlews  that  hover  and  poise 
round  my  bark. 

Leave  the  wind  and  the  water  to  mut- 
ter together 
Their  weird  metaphysical  grief,  as 

of  old, 
For  day's  business  begins,  and  the 

clerk  of  the  weather 
To  the  powers  of  the  air  doth  his 
purpose  unfold. 

Be  you  sure  those  dread  Titans,  what- 
ever they  be, 
That  sport  with  this  ball  in  the  great 

courts  of  Time, 
To   play  practical   jokes  upon  you, 

dear,  and  me, 

Will  never  desist  from  a  sport  so 
sublime. 

The  old    Oligarchy  of  Greece,   now 

abolished,  [arts, 

Were  idle  aristocrats  fond  of  the 

But  though    thus  refined,   all    their 

tastes  were  so  polished, 
They  were  turbulent,  dissolutegods, 
without  hearts. 

They  neglected  their  business,  they 

gave  themselves  airs, 
Bead  the  poets  in  Greek,  sipped 

their  wine,  took  their  rest, 
Never  troubling  their  beautiful  heads 

with  affairs, 

And  as  for  their  morals,  the  least 
said,  the  best. 

The  scandal  grew  greater  and  great- 
er :  and  then 

An  appeal  to  the  people  was  form- 
ally made. 
The  old  gods  were  displaced  by  the 

suffrage  of  men, 
And  a  popular  government  formed 

in  their  stead. 
But  these  are  high  matters  of  state, — 

I  and  you 
May   be  thankful,  meanwhile,   we 

have  something  to  eat, 
And  nothing,  just  now,  more  impor- 
tant to  do, 

Than  to  sit  down  at  once,  and  say 
grace  before  meat 

You  may  boil  me  some  coffee,  an  egg, 
if  it's  handy, 


The    sea's  rolling  mountains   just 

now. 

I  shall  wait 
For  King  Neptune's  mollissima  tempor 

fandi, 
Who  will  presently  lift  up  his  curly 

white  pate, 

Lid  Eurus  and  Notus  to  mind  their 

own  business, 

And  make  me  a  speech  in  Hexame- 
ters slow; 

While  I,  by  the  honor  elated  to  dizzi- 
ness, 

Shall  yield  him  my  offerings,  and 
make  him  my  bow. 

A  DKEAM. 

I  HAD  a  quiet  dream  last  night : 
For  I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead; 

Wrapt   around  in  my  grave-clothes 

white, 
With  my  gravestone  at  my  head. 

I  lay  in  a  land  I  have  not  seen, 

In  a  place  I  do  not  know, 
And  the*  grass  was  deathly,  deathly 
green 

Which  over  my  grave  did  grow. 

The  place  was  as  still  as  still  could  be, 
With  a  few  stars  in  the  sky, 

And  an  ocean  whose  waves  I  could 

not  see, 
Though  I  heard  them  moan  hard  by. 

There  was  a  bird  in  a  branch  of  yew, 

Building  a  little  nest. 
The  stars  looked  far  and  very  few, 

And  I  lay  all  at  rest. 

There  came  a  footstep  through  the 
grass, 

And  a  feeling  through  the  mould : 
And  a  woman  pale  did  over  me  pass, 

With  hair  like  snakes  of  gold. 

She  read  my  name  upon  my  grave : 
She  read  my  name  with  a  smile. 

A  wild  moan  came  from  a  wandering 

wave, 
But  the  stars  smiled  all  the  while. 

The  stars  smiled  soft.    That  woman 
pale 

Over  my  grave  did  move, 
Singing  all  to  herself  a  tale 

Of  one  that  died  for  love. 

There  came  a  sparrow-hawk  to  the 

tree, 
The  little  bird  to  slay: 


242; 


There  carao  a  ship  from  over  the  sea, 

To  take  that  woman  away. 
The  little  bird  I  wished  to  save, 

To  finish  his  nest  so  sweet : 
But  so  deep  I  lay  within  my  grave 

That  I  could  not  move  my  feet. 
That  woman  pale  I  wished  to  keep 

To  finish  the  tale  I  heard : 
But  within  my  grave  I  lay  so  deep 

That  I  could  not  speak  a  word. 

KING  SOLOMON. 
KING  Solomon  stood,  in  his  crown  of 

gold, 

Between  the  pillars,  before  the  al- 
tar 
In  the  house  of  the  Lord.    And  the 

King  was  old, 

And  his  strength  began  to  falter, 
So  that  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff, 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Pente- 
graph. 

All  of  the  golden  fretted  work, 
Without  and   within  so  rich  and 

rare, 
As  high  as  the*  nest  of  the  building 

stork, 

Those  pillars  of  cedar  were  : — 
Wrought  up  to  the  brazen  chapiters 
Of  the  Sidonian  artificers. 

And  the  King  stood  still  as  a  carven 

king, 

The  carven  cedarn  beams  below, 
In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet- 
ring, 

And  his  beard  as  white  as  snow, 
And  his  face  to  the  Oracle,  where  the 

hymn 
Dies  under  the  wing  of  the  cherubim. 

The  wings  fold  over  the  Oracle, 
And  cover  the  heart  and  eyes  of 

God: 
The  Spouse  with  pomegranate,  lily, 

and  bell, 

Is  glorious  in  her  abode  ; 
For  with  gold  of  Ophir    and  scent  of 

myrrh, 
And  purple  of  Tyre,  the  King  clothed 

her. 

By  the  soul  of  each  slumbrous  instru- 
ment 

Drawn    soft  through   the  musical 
misty  air, 

The  stream  of  the  folk  that  came  and 
went, 


For  worship,  and  praise,  and  prayer, 
Flowed  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 
And  round  the  King  in  his  golden 
crown. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  King 

stood  there, 

And  looked  on  the  house  he  had 
built  with  pride, 

That  the  Hand  of  the  Lord  came  una- 
ware, 
And  touched  him;  so  that  he  died, 

In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet- 
ring 

And  the  crown  wherewith  they  had 
crowned  him  king. 

And  the  stream  of  the  folk  that  carflQ 

and  went 

To  worship  the  Lord  with  prayer 
and  praise, 

Went  softly  over,  in  wonderment, 
For  the  King  stood  there  always: 

And  it  was  solemn  and  strange  to  be- 
hold 

That  dead  king  crowned  with  a  crown 
of  gold. 

For  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff  up- 
right : 

And  over  his  shoulders  the  purple 
robe ; 

And  his  hair  and  his  beard  were  both 

snow-white 
And  the  fear  of  him  filled  the  globe  ; 

So  that  none  dared  touch  him,  though 
he  was  dead, 

He  looked  so  royal  about  the  head. 

And  the  moons  were  changed :  and 

the  years  rolled  on  : 
And  the  new  king  reigned  in  the 

old  king's  stead : 
And  men  were  married  and  buried 

anon ; 

But  the  King  stood,  stark  and  dead ; 
Leaning  upright  on  his  ebony  staff; 
Preserved  by  the  sign  of  the  Pente- 

graph.  [came, 

And  the  stream  of  life,  as  it  went  and 

Ever  for  worship  and  praise  and 

prayer, 
Was  awed  by  the  face,  and  the  fear, 

and  the  fame 

Of  the  dead  king  standing  there ; 
For  his  hair  was  so  white,  and  his 

eyes  so  cold, 
That  they  left  him  alone  with  his 

crown  of  gold. 


JN  HOLLAND. 


243 


So  King  Solomon  stood  up,  dead,  in 

the  House 
Of  the  Lord,  held  there  by  the  Pen- 

tegraph, 
Until  out  from  a  pillar  there  ran  a 

red  mouse, 

And    gnawed    through    his    ebony 

staff: 
Then,  flat  on  his  face,  the  King  fell 

down: 
And  they  picked  from    the    dust  a 

golden  crown.* 

CORDELIA. 

THOUGH  thou  never  hast  sought  to 
divine  it, 

Though  to  know  it  thou  hast  not  a 
care, 

Yet  my  heart  can  no  longer  confine  it, 

Though  my  lip  may  be  blanched  to 
declare  [thee, 

That  I  love  thee,  revere  thee,  adore 

0  my  dream,  my  desire,  my  despair ! 

Though  in  life  it  may  never  be  given 

To  my  heart  to  repose  upon  thine  ; 

Though  neither  on  earth,  nor  in 
heaven, 

May  the  bliss  I  have  dreamed  of  be 
mine ; 

Yet  thou  canst  not  forbid  me,  in  dis- 
tance, 

And  silence,  and  long  lonely  years, 

To  love  thee,  despite  thy  resistance, 

And  bless  thee,  despite  of  my  tears. 

Ah  me,  couldst  thou  love  me !  ...  Be- 
lieve me, 

How  I  hang  on  the  tones  of  thy  voice; 

How  the  least  sigh  thou  sighest  can 
grieve  me, 

The  least  smile  thou  smilest  rejoice  : 

In  thy  face,  how  I  watch_every  shade 
there : 

In  thine  eyes,  how  I  learn  every  look ; 

How  the  least  sign  thy  spirit  hath 
made  there 

My  heart  reads,  and  writes  in  its 
book! 

And  each  day  of  my  life  my  love 
shapes  me 


*My  knowledge  of  the  Rabbinical  legend 
which  suggested  this  Poem  is  one  among  the 
many  debts  I  owe  to  my  friend  Robert 
Browning.  I  hope  these  lines  may  remind  him 
of  hours  which  his  society  rendered  precious 
and  delightful  to  me,  and  which  are  among 
tho  most  pleasant  memories  of  my  life. 


From  the  mien  that    thou  wearest, 

Beloved. 
Thou  hast  not  a  grace  that  escapes 

me, 

Nor  a  movement  that  leaves  me  un- 
moved. 

I  live  but  to  see  thee,  to  hear  thee ; 
I  count  but  the  hours  where  thou  art; 
I  ask — only  ask — to  be  near  thee, 
Albeit  so  far  from  thy  heart. 
In  my  life's  lonely  galleries  never 
Will  be  silenced  thy  lightest  footfall: 
For  it  lingers,  and  echoes,  forever 
Unto  Memory  mourning  o'er  all. 
All  thy  fair  little  footsteps  are  bright 
O'er  the  dark  troubled  spirit  in  me, 
As  the  tracks  of  some  sweet  water 

sprite 

O'er  the  heaving  and  desolate  sea. 
And  though  cold  and  unkind  be  thine 

eyes 

Yet,  uuchilled  theirunkindness  below, 
In  my  heart  all  its  love  for  thee  lies, 
Like  a  violet  covered  by  snow. 

Little  child!  .  .  .  were  it  mine  to 
watch  o'er  thee, 

To  guide  and  to  guard,  and  to  soothe ; 

To  shape  the  long  pathway  before 
thee, 

And  all  that  was  rugged  to  smooth ; 

To  kneel  at  one  bedside  by  night, 

And  mingle  our  souls  in  one  prayer ; 

And,  awaked  by  the  same  morning- 
light, 

The  same  daily  duties  to  share ; 

Until  Age  with  his    silver   dimmed 

slowly 

Those  dear  golden  tresses  of  thine ; 
And  Memory  rendered  thrice  holy 
The  love  in  this  poor  heart  of  mine  ; 
Ah,  never  .  .  .  (recalling  together, 
By  one  hearth,   in    our  life's  winter 

time, 
Our   youth,    with    its    lost    summer 

weather, 
And    our    love,   in    its    first    golden 

prime,) 
Should  those  loved  lips  have  cause  to 

record 

One  word  of  unkindness  from  me, 
Or  my  heart  cease  to  bless  the  least 

word 

Of  kindness  once  spoken  by  thee  ! 
But,   whatever  my  path,  and  what- 
ever 
The  future  may  fashion  for  thine, 


244 


THE   WANDERER. 


Thy  life,  0  believe  me,  can  never, 
My  beloved,  be  indifferent  to  mine. 
When   far   from    the    sight    of    thy 

beauty, 

Pursuing,  unaided,  alone, 
The  path  of  man's  difficult  duty 
In  the  land  where  my  lot  may  be 

thrown ; 
Where  my  steps  move  no  more  in  the 

place 
Where  thou  art :  and  the  brief  days 

of  yore 

Are  forgotten  :  and  even  my  face 
In  thy  life  is  remembered  no  more  ; 
Yet  in  my  life  will  live  thy  least  fea- 
ture; [eyes; 
I  shall  mourn  the  lost  light  of  thine 
And  on  earth  there  will  yet  be  one 

nature 
That  must  yearn  after  thine  till  it 

dies. 

"  YE  SEEK  JESUS  OF  NAZARETH 
WHICH  WAS  CRUCIFIED:  HE 
IS  RISEN:  HE  IS  NOT  HERE." 

MARK  xvi.  6. 

IP  Jesus  came  to  earth  again, 
And  walked,  and  talked,  in  field  and 
street, 

Who  would  not  lay  his  human  pain 
Low  at  those  heavenly  feet  ? 

And  leave  the  loom,  and  leave  the 
lute, 

And  leave  the  volume  on  the  shelf, 
To  follow  Him,  unquestioning,  mute, 

If  't  were  the  Lord  himself? 

How  many  a  brow  with  care  o'erworn, 
How  many  a  heart  with  grief  o'er- 
laden, 

How  many  a  youth  with  love  forlorn, 
How  many  a  mourning  maiden, 

Would  leave  the  baffling  earthly  prize 

Which  fails  the  earthly,  weak  en- 
deavor, 
To  gaze  into  those  holy  eyes, 

And  drink  content  forever ! 
The  mortal  hope,  I  ask  with  tears 

Of  Heaven,  to  soothe  this  mortal 

pain,  — 
The  dream  of  all  my  darkened  years, — 

I  should  not  cling  to  then. 

The    pride  that   promps    the  bitter 

jest— 
(Sharp styptic  of  a  bleeding  heart!) 


Would  fail,  and  humbly  leave  confest 
The  sin  that  brought  the  smart, 

If  I  might  crouch  within  the  fold 
Of  that   white    robe    (a    wouuded 
bird); 

The  face  that  Mary  saw  behold, 
And  hear  the  words  she  heard. 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  all 
That    now  my    nature    yearns   to 
know  ; — 

The  legend  of  the  ancient  Fall; 
The  source  of  human  woe  : 

What  hopes  in  other  worlds  may  hide ; 

What  griefs  yet  unexplored  in  this ; 
How  fares  the  spirit  within  the  wide 

Waste  tract  of  that  abyss 

Which  scares  the  heart  (since  all  we 
know 

Of  life  is  only  conscious  sorrow) 
Lest  novel  life  be  novel  woe 

In  death's  undawned  to-morrow ; 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  this, 
If  I  might  only  hide  my  head 

On  that  beloved  breast,  and  kiss 
The  wounds  where  Jesus  bled. 

And  I,  where'er  He  went,  would  go, 
Nor  question  where  the  path  might 
lead, 

Enough  to  know  that,  here  below, 
I  walked  with  God  indeed! 

His  sheep  along  the  cool,  the  shade 
By  the  still  watercourse  He  leads, 

His  lambs  upon  His  breast  are  laid, 
His  hungry  ones  He  feeds. 

Safe  in  His  bosom  I  should  lie, 
Hearing,  where'er  His  steps  might 

be, 
Calm  waters,  murmuring,  murmuring 

by. 
To  meet  the  mighty  sea. 

If  this  be  thus,  O  Lord  of  mine, 
In  absence  is  Thy  love  forgot  ? 

And  must  I,  where  I  walk,  repine 
Because  I  see  thee  not? 

If  this  be  thus,  if  this  be  thus, 
And   our  poor  prayers  yet    reach 
Thee,  Lord, 

Since  we  are  weak,  once  more  to  us 
Reveal  the  Living  Word ! 

Yet  is  my  heart,  indeed,  so  weak 
My  course  alone  I  dare  not  trace? 

Alas !  I  know  my  heart  must  break 
Before  I  see  Thy  face. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


245 


I  loved,  with  all  my  human  soul, 

A  human  creature,  here  below, 
And,  though  thou  bad'st  thy  sea  to 
roll 

Forever  'wixt  us  two, 
And  though  her  form  I  may  not  see 

Through  all  my  long  and  lonely  life, 
And  though 'she  never  now  may  be 

My  helpmate  and  my  wife, 
Yet  in  my  dreams  her  dear  eyes  shine, 

Yet  in  my  heart  her  face  I  bear, 
And  yet  each  holiest  thought  of  mine 

I  seem  with  her  to  share. 
But,  Lord,  Thy  face  I  never  saw, 

Nor  ever  heard  Thy  human  voice : 
My  life,  beneath  an  iron  law, 

Moves  on  without  my  choice. 
No  memory  of  a  happier  time,      [slept 

When  in  Thine  arms,  perchance,  I 
In  some  lost  ante-natal  clime, 

My  mortal  frame  hath  kept : 
And  all  is  dark— before— behind,  [art, 

I  cannot  reach  Thee,  where   Thou 
I  cannot  bring  Thee  to  my  mind, 

Nor  clasp  Thee  to  my  heart. 

And  this  is  why,  by  night  and  day, 
Still  with  so  many  an  unseen  tear 

These  lonely  lips  have  learned  to  pray 
That  God  would  spare  me  here, 

While  yet  my  doubtful  course  I  go 

Along  the  vale  of  mortal  years, 
By  Life's  dull  stream,  that  will  not 
flow 

As  fast  as  flow  my  tears, 
One  human  hand,  my  hand  to  take  : 

One  human  heart,  my  own  to  raise: 
One  loving  human  voice  to  break 

The  silence  of  my  days. 

Saviour,  if  this  wild  prayer  be  wrong 

And  what  I  seek  I  may  not  find, 
O,  make  more  hard,  and  stern,  and 
strong, 

The  framework  of  my  mind 
Or,  nearer  to  me,  in  the  dark 

Of  life's    low  hours,   one  moment 

stand, 
And  give  me  keener  eyes  to  mark 

The  moving  of  Thy  hand. 

TO  CORDELIA. 
I  DO  not  blame  thee,  that  my  life 

Is  lonelier  now  than  even  before ; 
For  hadst  thou  been,  indeed,  my  wife, 

(Vain  dream  that  cheats  no  more !) 


The  fate,  which  from  my  earliest  years 
Hath  made  so  dark  the  path  I  tread, 

Had  taught  thee  too,  perchance,  such 

tears 
As  I  have  learned  to  shed. 

And  that  fixed  gloom,  which  souls  like 

mine 
Are  schooled  to  wear  with  stubborn 

pride, 

Had  cast  too  dark  a  shade  o'er  thine,— * 
Hadst  thou  been  by  my  side. 

I  blame  thee  not,  that  thou  shouldst 

flee 
From  paths  where  only  weeds  have, 

sprung, 

Though  loss  of  thee  is  loss  to  me 
Of  all  that  made  youth  young. 

For  'tis  not    mine,   and    'twas  not 

thine, 
To  shape  our  course  as  first  we 

strove : 

And  powers  which  I  could  not  com- 
bine 
Divide  me  from  thy  love. 

Alas!  we  cannot  choose  our  lives, — 
We  can  but  bear  the  burthen  given. 

In  vain  the  feverish  spirit  strives 
With  unrelenting  heaven. 

For  who  can  bid  those  tyrant  stars 
The  injustice  of  their  laws  repeal  ? 

Why  ask  who  makes  our  prison  bars, 
Since  they  are  made  of  steel  ? 

The  star  that  rules  my  darkened  hour 
Is  fixt  in  reachless  spheres  on  high  : 

The    curse    which   foils    my  baffled 

power 
Is  scrawled  across  the  sky. 

My  heart  knows  all  it  felt,  and  feels: 
But  more  than  this  I  shall  not  know, 

Till  He  that  made  the  heart  reveals 
Why  mine  must  suffer  so. 

I  only  know  that,  never  yet, 
My  life  hath    found  what    others 

find.— 
That  peace  of  heart  which  will  not 

fret 
The  fibres  of  the  mind. 

I  only  know  that  not  for  me 

The  human  love,  the  clasp,  the  kiss; 
My  love  in  other  worlds  must  be, — 

Why  was  I  born  in  this  ? 

The  bee  is  framed  to  find  her  food 
In  every  wayside  flower  and  bell, 


24(3 


THE    WANDERER. 


And  build  within  the  hollow  wood 
Her  own  ambrosial  cell : 

The  spider  hath  not  learned  her  art, 
A  home  in  ruined  towers  to  spin ; 

But  what  it  seeks,  my  heart,  my  heart 
Is  all  unskillled  to  win 

The  world  was  filled,  ere  I  was  born, 
With  man  and  maid,   and  bower 

and  brake, 
And  nothing  but  the  barren  thorn 

Remained  for  me  to  take  : 
I  took  the  thorn,  I  wove  it  round, 

I  made  a  piercing  crown  to  wear : 
My   own    sad    hands    myself   have 

crowned, 

Lord  of  my  despair. 

That  which  we  are,  we  are.  'Twere 

vain  [grow. 

To  plant  with  toil  what  will  not 

The  cloud  will  break,  and  bring  the 

rain, 
Whether  we  reap  or  sow. 

I  cannot  turn  the  thunder-blast, 
Nor  pluck  the  levin's  lurid  root ; 

I  cannot  change  the  changeless  past, 
Nor  make  the  ocean  mute. 

And  if  the  bolt  of  death  must  fall 

Where,  bare  of    head,  I  walk  my 

way, 
Why  let  it  fall!    I  will  not  call 

To  bid  the  Thunderer  stay. 
'T  is  much  to  know,  whate'er  betide 

The  pilgrim  path  I  pace  alone, 
Thou  wilt  not  miss  me  from  thy  side 

When  its  brief  course  is  done. 
Hadst  thou  been  mine, — when  skies 
were  drear 

And  waves    were   rough,  for   thy 

sweet  sake 
I  should  have  found  in  all  some  fear 

My  inmost  breast  to  shake : 

But  now,  his  fill  the  blast  may  blow, 

The  sea  may  rage,  the  thunder  roll, 
For  every  path  by  which  I  go 

Will  re'ach  the  self-same  goal. 
Too  proud  to  fly,  too  weak  to  cope, 

I  yet  will  wait,  nor  bow  my  head. 
Those  who  have  nothing  left  to  hopo, 

Have  nothing  left  to  dread. 

A  LETTER  TO  CORDELIA. 
PERCHANCE,  on  earth,  I  shall  not  see 

thee  ever 
Ever  again :  and  my  unwritten  years 


Are    signed    out    by  that    desolating 

"  Never," 
And  blurred  with  tears. 

'Tis  hard,  so  young — so  young  as  I 

am  still, 

To  feel  forevermore  from  life  depart 
All  that  can  flatter  the  poor  human 

will, 
Or  fill  the  heart. 

Yet,  there  was  nothing  in  that  sweet, 

and  brief, 
And  perisht  intercourse,  now  closed 

for  me, 
To  add  one  thought  unto  my  bitterest 

grief 
Upbraiding  thee. 

'Tis  somewhat  to  have  known,  albeit 

in  vain, 

One  woman  in  this  sorrowful  bad  earth, 
Whose  very  loss  can  yet  bequeathe  to 

pain 
New  faith  in  worth. 

If  I  have  overrated,  in  the  wild 
Blind  heat  of   hope,  the    sense    of 

aught  which  hath 
From  the  lost  vision  of  thy  beauty 

smiled 
On  my  lone  path, 

My  retribution  is,  that  to  the  last 
I  have  overrated,  too,  my  power  to 

cope 
With  this  fierce  thought .  .  .  that  life 

must  all  be  past 
Without  life's  hope ; 

And  I  would  bless  the  chance  which 

let  me  see 
Once  more  the  comfort  of  thy  face, 

although 

It  were  with  beauty  never  born  for  me 
That  face  should  glow. 

To  see  thee— all  thou  wilt  be— loved 

and  loving — 
Even  though  another's— in  the  years 

to  come — 
To  watch,    once  more,    thy  gracious 

sweetness  moving 
Through  its  pure  home, — 
Even  this  would  seem  less  desolate, 

less  drear, 
Than  never,    never  to  behold  thee 

more — 

Never  on  those  beloved  lips  to  hear 
The  voice  of  yore  1 


HOLLAND. 


247 


These  weak  words,  O  my  friend,  fell 

not  more  fast 
Than  the  weak  scalding  tears  that 

with  theui  fell. 
Nor  tears,  nor  words  came,  when  I  saw 

thee  last  .  .  . 
Enough  I  -.  .  .  Farewell. 

Farewell.     If  that  dread  Power  which 

fashioned  man 
To  till  this  planet,  free  to  search  and 

find 

The  secret  of  his  source  as  best  he  can, 
In  his  own  mind, 

Hath  any  care,  apart  from  that  which 

moves 
Earth's  myriads  through  Time's  ages 

as  they  roll, 
For  any  single  human  life,  or  loves 

One  separate  soul, 
May  He,  whose  wisdom  portions  out 

for  me 
The  moonless,  changeless  midnight 

of  the  heart, 
Still  all  his  softest  sunshine  save  for 

thee, 
Where'er  thou  art : 

And  if,  indeed,  not  any  human  eyes 
From  human  tears   be  free, — may 
Sorrow  bring  [sigh's 

Only  to   thee   her  April-rain,   whose 
Soothe  flowers  in  Spring. 
FAILURE. 

I  HAVE  seen  those  that  wore  Heaven's 

armor  worsted; 
I  have  heard  Truth  lie  : 
Seen  Life,  beside  the  founts  for  which 

it  thirsted, 
Curse  God  and  die  : 

I  have  felt  the  hand,  whose  touch  was 

rapture,  braiding 
Among  my  hair 
Love's  choicest  flowerets,  and  have 

found  how  fading 
Those  garlands  were : 
I  have  watched  my  first  and  holiest 

hopes  depart, 
One  after  one : 
I  have  held  the  hand  of  Death  upon 

my  heart, 
And  made  no  moan : 

I  have  seen  her  whom  life's  whole 
sacrifice 
Was  made  to  keep, 


Pass  coldly  by  me  with  a  stranger's 

eyes, 
Yet  did  not  weep : 

Now  even  my  body  fails  me  ;  and  my 
brow 

Aches  night  and  day : 
I  am  weak  with  over-work  :  how  can 

I  now 

Go  forth  and  play  ? 

What  I  now  that  Youth's  forgotten  as- 
pirations 
Are  all  no  more, 
Rest  there,  indeed,  all  Youth's  glad 

recreations, 
— An  untried  store  ? 

Alas,  what  skills  this  heart  of  sad  ex- 
perience, 

This  frame  o'erwrought, 
This  memory  with  life's  motion  all  at 

variance, 
This  aching  thought  ? 

How  shall  I  come,  with  these,  to  fol- 
low pleasure 
Where  others  find  it  f 
Will  not  their  sad  steps  mar  the  mer- 
riest measure, 
Or  lag  behind  it  I 

Still  must  the  man  move  sadlier  for 
the  dreams 

That  mocked  the  boy ; 
And,  having  failed  to  achieve,  must 

still,  it  seems, 

Fail  to  enjoy. 
It  is  no  common  failure,  to  have  failed 

Where  man  hath  given 
A  whole  life's  efforts  to  the  task  as- 
sailed— 

Spent  earth  on  heaven. 

If  error  and  if  failure  enter  here, 
What  helps  repentance  ? 

Remember  this,  O  Lord,  in  thy  severe 
Last  sentence ! 

MISANTHROPOS. 

lavra  Kovig  Kat  iravTO.  ye/luf  nal 


DAY'S  last  light  is  dying  out. 

All  the  place  grows  dim  and  drear : 
See  !  the  grisly  bat 's  about. 

There  is  nothing  left  to  fear. 
Little  left  to  doubt. 
Not  a  note  of  musie  flits  [der 

O'er  the  slackened  harpstrings  yon- 


248 


THE   WAXDERE& 


From  the  skeleton  that  sits 

By  the  broken  harp,  to  ponder 
(While  the  spider  knits 

Webs  in  each  black  socket-hole) 

Where  all  the  music  fled. 
Music,  hath  it,  then,  a  goal  ?  .  .  . 

Broken  harp  and  brainless  head ! 
Silent  song  and  soul ! 
Not  a  light  in  yonder  sky, 

Save  that  single  wicked  star, 
Leering  with  its  wanton  eye 

Through  the  shattered  window-bar 
Come  to  see  me  die ! 
All,  save  this,  the  monstrous  night 

Hath  erased  and  blotted  bare 
As  the  fool's  brain  .  .  .  God's  last  light 

Winking  at  the  Fiend's  work  there, — 
Wrong  made  worse  by  right ! 

Gone  the  voice,  the  face,  of  yore ! 

Gone  the  dream  of  golden  hair  ! 
Gone  the  garb  that  falsehood  wore ! 

Gone  the  shame  of  being  bare ! 
We  may  close  the  door. 
All  the  guests  are  slunk  away. 

Not  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  I 
Not  a  friend  here,  left  to  say 

"  Amen"  to  a  sinner's  prayers, 
If  he  cared  to  pray  ! 

Gone  is  Friendship's  friendliness, 

After  Love's  fidelity : 
Gone  is  Honor  in  the  mess, 

Spat  upon  by  Charity  : 
Faith  has  fled  Distress. 

Those  grim  tipstaves  at  the  gate 
Freely  may  their  work  begin. 

Let  them  in !  they  shall  not  wait. 
There  is  little  now  within 

Left  for  Scorn  and  Hate. 

O,  no  doubt  the  air  is  foul  I 
'T  is  the  last  lamp  spits  and  stinks, 

Shuddering  downward  in  the  bowl 
Of  the  socket,  from  the  brinks. 

What 's  a  burned-out  soul  ? 

Let  them  all  go  unreproved  1 
For  the  source  of  tears  is  dried. 

What!  .  .  .  One  rests!  .  .  .  hath  noth- 

ing  moved 
That  pale  woman  from  my  side, 

Whom  I  never  loved  ? 

You,  with  those  dim  eyes  of  yours, 

Sadder  than  all  eyes  save  mine ! 

That  dim  forehead  which  immures 


Such  faint,  helpless  griefs,  that  pine 
For  such  hopeless  cures ! 

Must  you  love  me,  spite  of  loathing? 

Can't  you  leave  me  where  I'm  lying  ? 
O,  .  .  .  you  wait  for  our  betrothing? 

I  escape  you,  though, — by  dying! 
Lay  out  my  death-clothing. 

Well  I  would  that  your  white  face 

Were  abolisht  out  of  sight, 
With  the  glory  and  the  grace 

Swallowed  long  ago  in  night, — 
Gone, — without  a  trace! 

Reach  me  down  my  golden  harp. 

Set  it  here,  beside  my  knee. 
Never  fear  that  I  shall  warp 

All  the  chords  of  ecstas}'-, 
Striking  them  too  sharp  I 

Crown  me  with  my  crown  of  flowers. 

Faded  roses  every  one  1 
Pluckt  in  those  long-perisht  bowers, 
By  the  nightshade  overrun, — 
Fit  for  brows  like  ours! 

Fill  me,  now,  rny  golden  cup. 

Pour  the  black  wine  to  the  brim ! 
Till  within  me,  while  I  sup, 

All  the  fires,  long-quenched  and  dim, 
Flare,  one  moment,  up. 

[  will  sing  you  a  last  song. 

I  will  pledge  yon  a  last  health  .  .  . 
Here's  to  Weakness  seeming  strong ! 

Here's  to  Want  that  follows  Wealth ! 
Here 's  to  right  gone  wrong ! 

Curse  me  now  the  Oppressor's  rod, 
And  the  meanness  of  the  weak ; 

And  the  fool  that  apes  the  nod ; 
And  the  world  at  hide-and-seek 

With  the  wrath  of  God. 

Dreams  of  man's  unvalued  good, 
By  mankind's  unholy  means! 

Curse  the  people  in  their  mud ! 
And  the  wicked  Kings  and  Queens, 
lying  by  the  Rood. 

ill !  to  every  plague  .  .  .  and  first, 
Love,  that  breeds  its  own  decay  ; 

lotten,  ere  the  blossom  burst. 
Next,  the  friend  that  slinks  away, 
hen  you  need  him  worst, 

0  the  world's  inhuman  ways! 

And  the  heartless  social 'lie! 

nd  the  coward,  cheapening  praise! 

And  the  patience  of  the  sky, 
.lighting  such  bad  days ! 


PALINGENESIS. 


240 


Cursed  be  the  heritage 

Of  the  sins  we  have  not  sinned  I 
Cursed  be  this  boasting  age, 

And  the  blind  that  lead  the  blind 
O'er  its  creaking  stage  1 

O  the  vice  within  the  blood, 
And  the  sin' within  the  sense  1 

And  the  fallen  angelhood, 

With  its  yearnings,  too  immense 

To  be  understood ! 

Curse  the  hound  with  beaten  hide, 
When  he  turns  and  licks  the  hand. 

Curse  this  woman  at  my  side  1 
And  the  memory  of  the  land 

Where  my  first  love  died. 


Cursed  be  the  next  and  most 

(With  whatever  curse  most  kills), 

Me  .  .  .  the  man  whose  soul  is  lost ; 
Fouled  by  each  of  all  these  ills, — 

Filled  with  death  and  dust ! 

Take  away  the  harp  of  gold, 
And  the  empty  wine-cup  too. 

Lay  me  out :  for  I  grow  cold. 
There  is  something  dim  in  view, 

Which  must  pass  untold: — 

Something  dim  and  something  vast,- 

Out  of  reach  of  all  I  say. 
Language  ceases  .  .  .  husht,|aghast. 

What  am  I,  to  curse  or  pray  ? 
God  succeeds  at  last ! 


BOOK  VI.  -PALINGENESIS. 


A  PEAYEE. 

MY  Saviour,  dare  I  come  to  Thee, 
Who  let  the  little  children  come  t 
But  I  ?  .  .  .  my  soul  is  faint  in  me ! 
I  come  from  wandering  to  and  fro 
This  weary  world.      There  still  his 

round 

The  Accuser  goes  :  but  Thee  I  found 
Not  anywhere.    Both  joy  and  woe 
Have  passed  me  by.    I  am  too  weak 
To  grieve  or  smile.     And  yet  I  know 
That  tears  lie  deep  in  all  I  do. 
The  homeless  that  are  sick  for  home 
Are  not  so  wretched.    Ere  it  break, 
Receive  my  heart ;  and  for  the  sake, 
Not  of  my  sorrows,  but  of  Thine, 
Bend  down  Thy  holy  eyes  on  mine, 
Which  are  too  full  of  misery 
To  see  Thee  clearly,  though  they  seek, 
Yet,  if  I  heard  Thy  voice  say  ... 

"  Come," 

So  might  I,  dying,  die  near  Thee. 
It  shames  me  not,  to  have  passed  by 
The  temple-doors  in  every  street 
Where  men  profaned  Thee  :  but  that  I 
Have  left  neglected,  choked  with  weed, 
Defrauded  of  its  incense  sweet 
From  holy  thoughts  and  loyal  deeds, 
The  fane  Thou  gavest  me  to  enshrine 
Thee  in,  this  wretched  heart  of  mine. 
The  Satyr  there  hath  entered  in ; 
The  Owl  that  loves  the  darkened  hour ; 
And  obscene  shapes  of  night  and  sin 
Still  haunt,  where  God  designed  a 

bower 


For  angels. 

Yet  I  will  not  say 
How  oft  I  have  aspired  in  vain, 
How  toiled  along  the  rugged  way, 
And  held  my  faith  above  my  pain, 
For  this  Thou  kuowest.     Thou  know- 

est  when 

I  faltered,  and  when  I  was  strong ; 
And  how  from  that  of  other  men 
My  fate  was  different :  all  the  wrong 
Which  devastated  hope  in  me : 
The  ravaged  years  ;  the  excited  heart, 
That  found  in  pain  its  only  part 
Of  love:  the  master  misery 
That  shattered  all  my  early  years, 
From  which,  in  vain,  I  sought  to  flee : 
Thou  knowest  the  long  repentant  tears, 
Thou    heard'st    me  cry  against  the 

spheres, 

So  sharp  my  anguish  seemed  to  be  ! 
All  this  Thou    knowest.     Though  I 

should  keep  [free 

Silence,  Thou  knowest  my  hands  were 
From  sin,  when  all  things  cried  to  me 
To  sin.  Thou  knowest  that,  had  I 

rolled 

My  soul  in  hell-flame  fifty-fold, 
My  sorrow  could  not  be  more  deep. 
Lord !  there  is  nothing  hid  from  Thee. 
EUTHANASIA. 

(WKITTEN  AFTKR  A  SEVERE  ILLNESS.) 

SPRING  to  the  world,  and  strength  to 

me,  returns ; 

And  flowers  return, — but  not  the 
flowers  I  knew, 


250 


THE  WANDERER. 


I  live :    the  fire  of   life  within   me 

burns; 

But  all  my  life  is  dead.     The  land  I 

view  [regain. 

I    know  not;    nor  the  life  which  I 

Within  the  hollow  of  the  hand  of 

death  [the  breath 

I  have  lain  so  long,  that  now  I  draw 

Of  life  as  unfamiliar,  and  with  pain. 

Of  life :  but  not  the  life  which  is  no 
more: —         [passionate  thing; 
That    tender,   tearful,   warm,    and 
That  wayward,  restless,  wistful  life 
of  yore ;  [clasp  of  Spring, 

"Which  now  lies,  cold,  beneath  the 
As  last  year's  leaves :  but  such  a  life 
as  seems  [afraid. 

A  strange  new-comer,  coy  and  all- 
No  motion  heaves  the  heart  where 
it  is  laid,  [dreams. 

Save  when  the  past  returns  to  me  in 

In  dreams,  like  memories  of  another 
world ;  [pain, 

The  beauty,  and  the  passion,  and  the 
The  wizardry  by  which  my  youth  was 
whirled  [so  vain! 

Round  vain  desires, — so  violent,  yet 
The  love  which  desolated  life,   yet 
made  [creeds 

So    dear   its  desolation:    and  the 
Which,  one  by  one,  snapped  in  my 
hold  like  reeds,  [laid! 

Beneath  the  weight  of  need  upon  them 
For  each  man  deems  his  own  sand- 
house  secure  [yet  who  can  say, 
While  life's  wild  waves  are  lulled  ; 
If  yet  his  faith's  foundations  do  endure, 
It  is  not  that  no  wind  hath  blown 

that  way  ? 

Must  we,  even  for  their  beauty's  sake, 

keep  furled  [sully  them, 

Our  fairest  creeds,  lest  earth  should 

And  take  what  ruder  help  chance 

sends,  to  stem          [ous  world  ? 

The  rubs  and  wrenches  of  this  boister- 

Alas!  'tis  not  the  creed  that  saves  the 

man : 

It  is  the  man  that  justifies  the  creed: 

And  each  must  save  his  own  soul  as 

he  can,  [ferent  need. 

Since  each  is  burthened  with  a  dif- 

Round  each  the  bandit  passions  lurk  : 

and,  fast  [grim  bare  ; 

And  furious,  swarm  to  strip  the  pil- 

Then  oft,  in  lonely  places  unaware, 

Fall  on  him,  and  do  murder  him  at  last.  ' 


And  oft  the    light   of    truth,   which 

through  the  dark  [detect, 

We  fetched  such  toilful  compass  to 

Glares  through  the  broken  cloud  on 

the  lost  bark, 

And  shows  the  rock — too  late,  when 

all  is  wrecked  !  [alone, 

Not  from  one  watch-tower  o'er  the  deep 

It  streams,  but  lightens  there  and 

lightens  here 

With  lights  so  numberless  (like  hea- 
ven's eighth  sphere)    [but  one. 
That  all  their  myriad  splendors  seem 

Time  was,  when  it  seemed  possible  to 

be  [felt  the  foam) 

(Then,  when  this  shattered  prow  first 

Columbus  to  some  far  Philosophy, 

And  bring,   perchance,  the  golden 

Indies  home. 

O  siren  isles  of  the  enchanted  main 
Through  which  I  lingered!   altars, 

temples,  groves, 
Whelmed  in  the  salt  sea  wave,  that 

rolls  and  roves 
Around  each  desolated  lost  domain ! 

Over  all  these  hath  passed  the  deluge, 
And,  [face 

Saved  from  the  sea,  forlornly  face  to 
With  the  gaunt  ruin  of  a  world,  I  stand. 
But  two  alone  of  all  that  perish t  race 
Survive  to  share  with  me  my  wander- 
ings ;  [steps  attend, 
Doubt  and  Experience.     These  my 
Ever  ;  and  oft  above  my  heart  they 
bend,  [strings. 
And,  weeping  with  me,  weep  among  its 

Yet, — saved,  though  in  a  land  uncon- 

secrate 

By  any  memory,  it  seems  good  to  me 
To  build  an  altar  to  the  Lord ;  and  wait 
Some  token,  either  from  the  land  or 
sea,  [be  near. 

To  point  me  to  my  rest,  which  should 
Kude  is  the  work,  and  simple  is  my 
skill ;  [will, 

Yet,  if  the  hand  could  answer  to  the 
This    pile  should    lack  not  incense. 
Father,  hear 

My  cry  unto  thee.  Make  tny  covenant 
Fast  with  my  spirit.    Bind  within 

Thy  bow 

The  whole  horizon  of  my  tears.  I  pant 
For  Thy  refreshing.   Bid  Thy  foun- 
tains flow.  [I  see. 
In  this  dry  desert,  where  no  springs 
Before  I  venture  in  an  unknown  land, 


PALANtiENESlS. 


251 


Here  will  I  clear  the  ground  on  which 

I  stand, 
And  justify  the  hope  Thou  gavest  me. 

I  cannot  make  quite  clear  what  comes 

and  goes 

In  fitful  light,  by  waning  gleams  de- 
scried; 
The  Spirit,  blowing  where  it  listeth, 

blows 

Only  at  times,  some  single  fold  aside 
Of  that  great  veil  which  hangs  o'er 

the  Unknown: 

Yet  do  the  feeble,fleeting  lights  that 

fall,  [all: 

Reveal  enough,  in  part,  for  hope  in 

And  that    seems    surest  which    the 

least  is  shown. 

God  is  a  spirit.    It  is  also  said 

Man  is  a  Spirit.  Can  I  therefore  deem 

The  two  in  nature  separate?  The  made 

Hath  in  it  of  the  Maker.     Hence 

I  seem 
A  step  towards  light; — since  'tis  the 

property 

Of  Spirit  to  possess  itself  in  all 
It  is  possest  by; — halved  yet  inte- 
gral; 
One  person,  various  personality. 

To  say  the  Infinite  is  that  which  lies 
Beyond  the  Finite,  .  .  .  were  it  not 
to  set 

A  border  mark  to  the  immensities? 
Far  as  these  mortal  senses  measure 

Their  little  region  of  the  mighty  plan, 
Through  valves  of  birth  and  death — 

are  heard  forever 

The  finite  steps  of  infinite  endeavor 
Moving  through  Nature  and  the  mind 
of  man. 

If  man, — the  finite  spirit, — in  infinity 

Alone  can  find  the  truth  of  his  ideal, 

Dare  I  not  deem  that  infinite  Divinity 

Within  the  finite  must  assume  the 

real  f  [hurled 

For  what  so  feverish  fancy,  reckless 

Through  a  ruined  brain, did  ever  yet 

descry 

A  symbol  sad  enough  to  signify 
The  conscious  God  of  an  unconscious 
world? 

Wherefore  thus  much  perceived,  to 

recognize 

In  God,  the  infinite  spirit  of  Unity, 
Jn  man,  the  finite  spirit,  here  implies 


An  interchanged  perception;— Deity 
Within  humanity  made  manifest : 
Not  here  man  lonely,  there  a  lonely 
God ;  [trod, 

But,  in  all  paths  by  human  nature 
Infinity  in  Finity  exprest. 
This  interchange,  upon  man's  part,  I 

call 

Religion :  revelation  on  the  part 
Of  Deity:  wherefrom  there  seems  to 

fall 
'Tis   consequence   (the  point  from 

which  I  start) 

If  God  and  man  be  one  (a  unity 
Of  which  religion  is  the  human  side) 
This  must  in  man's  religion  be  de- 
scried, 

A  consciousness  and  a  reality. 

Whilst  man  in  nature  dwells,  his  God 

is  still  [tervenes 

In  nature ;  thence,  in  time,  there  in- 

The  Law :  he  learns  to  fortify  his  will 

Against  his  passions,  by  external 

means: 

And  God  becomes  the  Lawgiver:  but 

when  [see, 

Corruption  in  the  natural  state  we 

And  in  the  legal  hopeless  tyranny, 

We  seem  to  need  (if  needed  not  till 

then) 

That  which  doth  uplift  nature,  and 
yet  makes  [law. 

More  light  the  heavy  letter  of  the 
Then  for  the  Perfect  the  Imperfect 
aches,  [awe. 

Till  love  is  born  upon  the  deeps  of 
Yet  what  of  this,  .  .  .  that  God  in  man 
may  be,  [divine, 

And  man,  though  mortal,  of  a  race 
If  no  assurance  lives  which  may  in- 
cline 

The  heart  of  man  to  man's  divinity! 
"  There  is  no  God" ...  the  Fool  saith 

— to  his  heart, 

Yet  shapes  a  godhead  from  his  in- 
tellect. 
Is  mind  than  heart  less  human,  .  .  . 

that  we  part 
Thought  from  affection,  and  from 

mind  erect 
A  deity  merely  intellectual? 

If  God  there  be,  devoid  of  sympathy 
For  man,  he  is  not  man's  divinity. 
A  God  unloving  were  no  God  at  all. 

This  felt,  ...  I  ask  not  ...  "What  is 
God?"  but  "What 


252 


Are  my  relations  with  Him?"  this 

alone 

Concerns  me  now:   since,  if  I  know 

this  not,  [of  the  sun, 

Though  I  should  know  the  sources 

Or  what  within  the  hot  heart  of  the 

earth  [though 

Lull's  the  soft  spirit  of  the  fire,  al- 

The  mandate  of  the  thunder  I  should 

know,  [worth. 

To  me  my  knowledge  would  be  nothing 

What  message,  or  wrhat  messenger  to 

man?  [soul? 

Whereby  shall  revelation  reach  the 

For  who,  by  searching,  finds  out  God  ? 

How  can  [goal 

My  utmost  steps,  unguided,  gain  the 

Of  necessary  knowledge  ?    It  is  clear 

I  cannot  reach  the  gates  of  heaven, 

and  knock  [rock 

And  enter:  though  I  stood  upon  the 

Like  Moses,  God  must  speak  ere  I  can 

hear, 

And  touch  me  ere  I  feel  him.  He  must 

come  [cloud), 

To  me  (I  cannot  join   him  in  the 

Stand  at  the  dim  doors  of  my  mortal 

home;  [bowed 

Lift  the  low  latch  of  life ;  and  enter, 

Unto  this  earthly  roof;  and  sit  within 

The  "circle  of  the  senses ;  at  the 

hearth  [earth, 

Of  the  affections:  be  my  guest  on 

Loving  my  love,  and  sorrowing  in  my 

sin. 

Since,  though  I  stripped  Divinity,  in 

thought, 

From  passion,  which  is  personality, 
My  God  would  still  be  human:  though 
I  sought  [eye, 

In  the  bird's  wing  or  in  the  insect's 
Rather  than  in  this  broken  heart  of 
mine,  [would  be 

His  presence,  human  still:  human 
All  human  thought  conceives.    Hu- 
manity, 

Being  less  human,  is  not  more  divine. 
The  soul,  then,  cannot  stipulate  or  re- 
fuse [bassy. 
The  fashion  of  the  heavenly  em- 
Since  God  is  here  the  speaker,  He 

must  choose 

The  words  He  wills.  Already  I  descry 
That  God  and  man  are  one,  divided 
here, 


Yet  reconcilable.     One  doubt  sur- 
vives. 
There  is  a  dread  condition  to  men's 

lives: 
We  die :  and,  from  its  death,  it  would 

appear 

Our  nature  is  not  one  with  the  divine. 

Not  so.    The  Man-God  dies;  and  by 

his  death  [combine 

Doth  with  his  own  immortal  death 

The   spirit    pining  in  this  mortal 

breath. 

Who  from  himself  himself  did  alienate 
That  he,returning  to  himself,might 
pave  [the  grave, 

A  pathway  hence,  to  heaven  from 
For  man  to  follow — through  the  heav- 
enly gate. 

Wert  thou,  my  Christ,  not  ignorant  of 
grief?  [sake 

A  man  of  sorrows  ?  Not  for  sorrow's 
(Lord,  I  believe:  help  thou  mine  un- 
belief!) 
Beneath  the  thorns  did  thy  pure 

forehead  ache: 

But  that  in  sorrow  only,  unto  sorrow, 
Can    comfort  come;    in  manhood 
only,  man  [plan 

Perceive  man's  destiny.  In  Nature's 
Our  path  is  over  Midnight    to  To- 
morrow. 

And  so  the  Prince  of  Life,  in  dying, 

gave  [stood 

Undying  life  to  mortals.     Once  he 

Among  his  fellows,  on  this  side  the 

grave,  [blood : 

A  man,   perceptible  to  flesh   and 

Now,  taken  from  our  sight,  he  dwells 

no  less  [thought.; 

Within    our   mortal    memory  and 

The  mystery  of  all  he  was,   and 

wrought,  [ness. 

Is  made  a  part  of  general  conscious- 

And  in  this    consciousness  I  reach 
repose.  [desert  sand 

Spent  with  the  howling  main  and 
Almost  too  faint  to  pluck  the  unfad- 
ing rose  [hand. 
Of  peace, that  bows  its  beauty  to  my 
Here  Reason  fails,  and  leaves  me ;  my 

pale  guide 

Across  the  wilderness — by  a  stern 
command,  [ist  Land. 

Shut  out,  like  Moses,  from  the  Prom- 
Touchingits own  achievement,  it  hath 
died. 


PALINGENESIS. 


253 


Ah  yet !  I  have  but  wrung  the  victory 
From  Thought!      Not   passionless 

will  be  my  path. 

Yet  on  my  life's  pale  forehead  I  can  see 
The  flush  of  squandered  fires.    Pas- 
sion hath  [place. 
Yet,  in  the  purpose  of  my  days,  its 
But  changed  in  aspect :  turned  unto 
the  East,               [high,  at  least 
Whence  grows  the  daysprhigfromoii 
A  finer  fervor  trembles  on  its  face. 

THE  SOUL'S  SCIENCE. 

CAN  History  prove   the  truth  which 
hath 

Its  record  in  the  silent  soul  ? 
Or  Mathematics  mete  the  path 

Whereby  the  spirit  seeks  its  goal  ? 

Can  Love  of  aught  but  Love  inherit, 
The  blessing  which  is  born  of  Love? 

The  spirit  knoweth  of  the  spirit: 
The  soul  alone  the  soul  can  prove. 

The  eye  to  see  :  the  ear  to  hear : 
The  working  hand  to  help  the  will : 

To  every  sense  his  separate  sphere  ; 
And  unto  each  his  several  skill. 

The  ear  to  sight,  the  eye  to  sound, 
Is  callous  ;  unto  each  is  given 

His  lorddom  in  his  proper  bound. 
The  soul,  the  soul  to  find  out  heaven ! 

There  is  a  glory  veiled  to  sight ; 

A  voice  which  never  ear  hath  heard  ; 
There  is  a  law  no  hand  can  write, 

Yet  stronger  than  the  written  word. 

JQ 

And  hast  thou  tidings  for  my  soul, 
O  teacher?  to  my  soul  intrust 

Alone  the  purport  of  thy  scroll: 
Or  vex  me  not  with  learned  dust. 

A  PSALM  OP  CONFESSION. 

FULL    soon  doth    Sorrow  make  her 

covenant  [the  door : 

With  Life ;  and  leave  her  shadow  in 

And  all  those  future  days,  for  which 

we  pant,  [yore. 

Bo  come  in  mourning  for  the  days  of 

Still  through  the  worldgleams  Memory 

seeking  Love,  [bore, 

Pale  as  the  torch  which  grieving  Ceres 

Seeking  Proserpina,  on  that  dark 

shore  [light  move. 

Where  only  phantoms  thro  ugh  the  twi- 

The  more  we  change,  the  more  is  all 

the  same, 
Our  last  grief  was  a  tale  of  other  years 


Quite  outworn,  till  to  our  own  hearts 

it  came.  [Tears. 

Wishes  are  pilgrims  to  the  Vale  of 

Our  brightest  joys  are  but  as  airy 

shapes  [glimmering  slope ; 

Of  cloud,   that  fade   on  evening's 

And     disappointment    hawks    the 

hovering  hope 
Forever  pecking  at  the  painted  grapes. 

Why  can  we  not  one  moment  pause, 

and  cherish        [for  hope's  sake 

Love,  though  love  turn  to  tears  ?  or 

Bless  hope,  albeit  the  thing  we  hope 

may  perish  ?  [take, 

For  happiness  is  not  in  what  we 

But    what   we    give.     What    matter 

though  the  thing  [dust  to  dust, 

We   cling  to  most  should  fail  us? 

It  is  the  feeling  for  the  thing, — the 

trust  [should  cling. 

In  beauty  somewhere,  to  which  souls 

My  youth  has  failed,  if  failure  lies  in 

aught  [working  hand 

The  warm  heart  dreams,  or  which  the 

Is  set  to  do.     I  have  failed  in  aidless 

thought,  [command. 

And  steadfast  purpose,  and  in  self- 

I   have  failed  in  hope,  in  health,  in 

love  :  failed  in  the  word, 
And  in  the  deed  too  I  have  failed. 
Ah  yet,  [ings  wet, 

Albeit  with  eyes  from  recent  weep- 
Siug  thou,  my  Soul,  thy  psalm  unto 
the  Lord ! 

The  burthen  of  the  desert  and  the  sea ! 

The  burthen  of  the  vision  in  the  vale! 

My  threshing-floor,  my  threshing-floor! 

ah  me,  [spoiled  the  flail ! 

Thy  wind  hath  strewn  my  corn,  and 
The  burthen  of  Dumah  and  of  Dedanim! 

What  of  the  night,  O  watchman,  of 
the  night?  [might 

The  glory  of  Kedar  faileth:  and  the 
Of  mighty  men  is  rnimshed  and  dim. 

The  morning  cometh,  and  the  night, 

he  cries.  [is  nigher, 

The  watchman  cries  the  morning,  too, 

And,  if  ye  would  inquire,  lift  up  your 

eyes, 

Inquire  of  the  Lord,  return,  inquire ! 

I  stand  upon  the  watchtower  all  day 

long:  [ward. 

And  all  the  night  long  I  am  set  in 

Is  it  thy  feet  upon  the  mountains, 

Lord?  [song! 

I  sing  against  the  darkness ;  hear  my 


254 


THE    WANDERER. 


The    majesty    of   Kedar   hath    been 

spoiled :  [bow. 

Bound  are  the  arrows :  broken  is  the 

I  come  before  the  Lord  with  garments 

soiled. 

The  ashes  of  my  life  are  on  my  brow. 

Take  thou  thy  harp,  and  go  about  the 

city.  [torn : 

O  daughter  of  Desire,  with  garments 

Sing  many  songs,  make  melody,  and 

mourn,  [pity. 

That  thou  may'st  be  remembered  unto 

Just,  awful  God  !  here  at  thy  feet  I  lay 
My  life's  most  precious  offering : 

dearly  bought, 

Thou  knowest  with  what  toil  by  night 
and  day;          [and  the  thought. 
Thou  knowest  the  pain,  the  passion, 
I  bring  thce  my  youth's  failure.  I  have 
spent  [here. 

My  youth  upon  it.    All  I  have  is 
Were  it  worth  all  it  is  not,  price 
more  dear  [ment. 

Could  I  have  paid  for  its  accomplish- 
Yet  it  is  much.     If  I  could  say  to  thee, 
"Acquit  me,  Judge;  for  I  am  thus, 
and  thus;  [ — should  I  be 

And  have  achieved — even  so  much," 
Thus  wholly  fearless  and  impetuous 
To  rush  into  thy  presence?  I  might 
weigh  [much : 

The  little  done  against  the  undone 
My  merit  with  thy  mercy :  and,  as 

such, 
Haggle  with  pardon  for  a  price  to  pay. 

But  now  the  fulness  of  its  failure  make 
My  spirit  fearless ;  and  despair  grows 
bold.  [edge  aches. 

My  brow,  beneath  its  sad  self-knowl- 
Life's  presence  passes  Thine  a  thou- 
sand-fold 

In  contemplated  ten'or.     Can  I  lose 
Aught  by  that  desperate  temerity 
Which  leaves  no  choice  but  to  sur- 
render Thee  [choose 
My  life  without  condition  ?    Could  I 

A  stipulated  sentence,  I  might  ask 

For  ceded  dalliance  to  somecherisht 

vice :  _  [task  : 

Or  half-remission   of  some  desperate 

Now,  all  I  have  is  hateful.     What  is 

the  price  ? 

Speak,  Lord!     I  hear  the  Fiend's  hand 

at  the  door.          [it  the  choice  ? 

Hell's  slavery  or  heaven's  service  is 


How  can  I  palter  with  the  terms  ?  O 

voice,  [sin  no  more"! 

Whence  do  I  hear  thee  .  .  .  ' '  Go :  and 

No  more,  no  more  ?    But  I  have  kist 

dead  white  [harlot  hides 

The  cheek  of  Vice.     No  more  the 

Her  loathsomeness  of  lineament  from 

my  sight. 
No  more  within    my  bosom  there 

abides 

Her  poisoned  perfume.    O,  the  witch's 

mice  [per, 

Have  eat  her  scarlet  robe  and  dia- 

And  she  fares  naked!    Part  from 

her — from  her  ?  [price  ? 

Is  this  the  price,  O  Lord,  is  this  the 

Yet,  though  her  web  be  broken,  bonds, 

I  know,  [forge  of  time, 

Slow  custom  frames  in  the  strong 

Which  outlast  love,  and  will  not  wear 

with  woe,  [of  crime. 

Nor  break  beneath  the  cognizance 

The  witch  goes  bare.     But  he,— the 

father  fiend,  [my  days, 

That  roams  the  unthrifty  furrows  of 

Yet  walks  the  field  of    life ;  and, 

where  he  strays,  [gleaned. 

The  husbandry  of  heaven  for  hell  is 

Lulls  are  there  in  man's  life  which  are 

not  peace. 

Tumults  which  are  not  triumphs. 

Do  I  take  [cease? 

The  pause  of  passion  for  the  fiend's  de- 

This  frost  of  grief  hath  numbered 

the  drowsing  snake  ; 

Which  yet  may  wake,  and  fating  me 

in  the  heat  [the  door 

Of  new  emotions.     What  shall  bar 

Against  the   old  familiar,   that   of 

yore  [seat? 

Came  without  call,  and  sat  within  my 

When  evening  brings   its  dim   grim 
hour  again,  [awhile, 

And  hell  lets  loose  its  dusky  brood 
Shall  I  not  find  him  in  the  darkness 
then  ?  [lent  smile  ? 

The  same  subservient  and  yet  inso- 
The    same    indifferent    ignominious 
face?  [horror,  come 

The  same  old  sense  of  household 
Like  a  tame  creature,  back  into  its 
home  ?  [place, 

Meeting  me,    haply,   in   my  wonted 
With  the  loathed  freedom  of  an  un- 
loved mate, 
Or  crouching  on  my  pillow  as  of 


PALANGENESIS. 


205 


Knowing  I    hate    him,   impotent    in 

[hate ! 

Therefore  more  subtle,  strenuous, 

and  bold.  [will, 

Thus  ancient  habit  will  usurp  young 

And  each  new  effort  rivet  the  old 

thrall.    •  [count  to  fall, 

No  matter !    those  who  climb  must 

But  each  new  fall  will  prove  them 

climbing  still.  [death 

0  wretched  man  !    the  body  of  this 

Which,  groaning  in  the  spirit,  I  yet 

bear  [breath 

On  to  the  end  (so  that  I  breath  the 

Of    its     corruption,     even    though 

breathing  prayer), 

What  shall  take    from  me  ?    Must  I 

drag  forever          [I  have  killed 

The  cold  corpse  of  the  life  which 

But  cannot  bury  ?     Must  my  heart 

be  filled  [endeavor  ? 

With  the    dry    dust    of  every    dead 

For  often,   at  the   mid  of  the  long 

night,  [clay 

Some   devil  enters    into  the  dead 

And  gives  it  life  unnatural  in  my 

sight.  [away, 

The  dead  man  rises  up  ;  and  roams 

Back  to  the  mouldered  mansions  of 

the  Past : 

And  lights  a  lurid  revel  in  the  halls 

Of  vacant  years  ;  and  lifts  his  voice, 

and  calls,  [him  fast. 

Till  troops  of  phantoms  gather  round 

Frail  gold-haired  corpses,  in  whose 

eyes  there  lives 
A  strange  regret  too  wild  to  let 

them  rest: 

Crowds  of  pale  maidens,   who  were 
never  wives  [breast 

And  infants  that  all  died  upon  the 
That  suckled  them.     And  these  make 
revelry  [night  through, 

Mingled  with  wailing  all  the  mid- 
Till  the  sad  day  doth  with  stern 
light  renew  ing  sea. 

The  toiling  land,  and  the  complain- 
Full  well  I  know  that  in  this  world  of 
ours  [ceeds  all  change  ; 

The    dreadful    Commonplace    suc- 
We  catch  at  times  a  gleam  of  flying 
powers  [mountain  range : 

That  pass    in    storm  some    windy 
But,  while  we  gaze,  the  cloud  returns 
o'er  all.  [vious  height, 

And  each,  to  guide  him  up  the  de- 


Must    take,   and    bless,    whatever 

earthly  light      [fires,  may  fall. 

From  household  hearths,  or  shepherd 

This  wave,  that  groans  and  writhes 
upon  the  beach,  [calm  ; 

To-morrow    will    submit    itself  to 
That  wind  that  rushes,  moaning,  out 
of  reach,  [less  palm  ; 

Will    die    beneath    some    breath- 
These  tears,  these  sighs,  these  mo- 
tions of  the  soul,  [mind, 
This  inexpressible    pining  of    the 
The   stern  indifferent  laws  of  life 

shall  bind, 
And  fix  forever  in  their  old  control. 

Behold  this    half-tamed  universe  of 
things!  [its  chain. 

That  cannot  break,  nor  wholly  bear, 
Its  heart  by  fits  grows  wild :  it  leaps, 
it  springs  :  [it  again. 

Then  the  chain  galls,  and  kennels 
If  man  were  formed  with  all  his  fac- 
ulties [him  less. 
For  sorrow,   I  should    sorrow  for 
Considering    a    life    so    brief,   the 
stress  [despise : 
Of    its    short   passion  I    might  well 

But  all  man's  faculties  are  for  de- 
light ;  [what  seems 
But  all  man's  life  is  compassed  with 
Framed  for  enjoyment :  but  from  all 
that  sight  [streams 
And  sense  reveal  a  magic  murmur 
Into    man's    heart,    which    says,    or 

seems  to  say, 
"Be  happy!"  .  .  .  and  the  heart  of 

man  replies, 
" Leave    happiness    to    brutes:    I 

would  be  wise : 

Give    me,    not    peace,    but    science, 
glory,  art." 

Therefore,  age,  sickness,  and  mortal- 
ity [pain : 
Are  but  the  lightest  portion  of  his 
Therefore,  shut  out  from  joy,  inces- 
santly                      [that's  vain. 
Death  finds  him  toiling  at  a  task 
I  weep  the  want  of  all  he  pines  to  have : 
I  weep  the  loss  of  all  he  leaves  be- 
hind :—                          [of  mind, 
Contentment,  and  repose,  and  peace 
Pawned  for  the  purchase  of  a  little 
grave : 

I  weep  the  hundred  centuries  of  timej 


256 


THE    WANDERER. 


I  weep  the  millions  that  have  squan- 
dered them 

In  error,  doubt,  anxiety,  and  crime, 

Here,  where  the  free  birds  sing  from 

leaf  and  stem :  [I  deplore 

I  weep  .  .  .  but  what  are  tears  ?    What 

I  knew  not,  half  a  hundred  years  ago: 

And  half  a  hundred  years  from  hence 

I  know 

That  what  I  weep  for  I  shall  know  no 
more. 

The  spirit  of  that  wide  and  leafless 

wind  [ioned  sea, 

That  wanders  o'er  the  uncompan- 

Searching  for  what  it  never  seems  to 

find, 
Stirred  in  my  hair,  and  moved  my 

heart  in  me, 

To  follow  it,  far  over  land  and  main: 

And  everywhere  over  this  earth's 

scarred  face  [trace ; 

The  footsteps  of  a  God  I  seemed  to 

But  everywhere  steps  of  a  God  in  pain. 

If,  haply,  he  that  made  this  heart  of 

mine,  [ere  while, 

Himself  in  sorrow  walked  the  world 

"What  then  am  I,  to  marvel  or  repine 

That  I  go  mourning  ever  in  the  smile 

Of  universal  nature,  searching  ever 

The  phantom  of  a  joy  which  here  I 

miss?  [this, 

My  heart  inhabits  other  worlds  than 

Therefore  my  search  is  here  a  vain 

endeavor. 

Methought,  ...  (it  was  the  midnight 

of  my  soul,  [vary  : 

Dead  midnight)  that  I  stood  on  Cal- 

I  found  the  cross,  but  not  the  Christ. 

The  whole  [bitterly 

Of  heaven  was  dark  :  and  I  went 

Weeping,  because  I  found  him  not. 

Meth  ought,  .  .  .  [mist) 

(It  was  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  and 

I    stood   before  the    sepulchre    of 

Christ :  [aught 

The  sepulchre   was  vacant,   void  of 

Saving  the  cere-clothes  of  the  grave, 
which  were  [terly 

Upf  olden  straight  and  empty:  bit- 
Weeping  I  stood,  because  not  even 
there  [unto  me, 

I  found  him.     Then  a  voice  spake 
"Whom  seekest  thou?    Why  is  thy 

heart  dismayed? 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  he  is  not  here : 


Behold,   the  Lord  is  risen.    Be  of 
cheer:  [was  laid". 

Approach,  behold  the  place  where  he 
And  while  he  spake,  the  sunrise  smote 
the  world.         [spake  the  voice : 
"  Go  forth,  and  tell  thy  brethren," 
"  The  Lord  is  risen."    Suddenly  un- 
furled, [joice 
The  whole  unclouded  Orient  did  re- 
in glory.     Wherefore  should  I  mourn 
that  here                         [needs? 
My  heart  feels  vacant  of  what  most  it 
Christ  is  arisen !  . .  .  the  cere-clothes 
and  the  weeds  [chre 
That  wrapped  him  lying  in  this  sepul- 

Of  earth,  he  hath  abandoned ;  being 
gone  [turn 

Back  into  heaven,  where  we  too  must 
Our  gaze  to  find  him.    Pour,  O  risen 
Sun  [I  yearn 

Of  Righteousness,  the  light  for  which 
Upon  the  darkness  of  this  mortal  hour, 
This  tract  of  night  in  which  I  walk 
forlorn:  [The  morn 

Behold  the  night  is  now  far  spent. 
Breaks,  breaking  from  afar  through  a 
night  shower. 

BEQUIESCAT. 

I  SOUGHT  to  build  a  deathless  monu- 
ment [to  place 
To  my  dead  love.    Therein  I  mean 
All  precious  things,  and  rare :  as  Na- 
ture blent  [face. 
All  single  sweetnessess  in  one  sweet 
I  could  not  build  it  worthy  her  mute 
merit,                                 [eyes, 
Nor  worthy  her  white  brows  and  holy 
Nor  worthy  of  her  perfect  and  pure 

spirit, 

Nor  of  my  own  immortal  memories. 

But,  as  some  rapt  artificer  of  old, 

To  enshrine  the  ashes  of  a  virgin 

saint,  [and  fine  gold, 

Might    scheme  to  work  with  ivory, 

And  carvcn  gems,  and  legendedand 

quaint  [lands, 

Seraphic    heraldries ;    searching    far 

Orient  and  Occident,  for  all  things 

rare,  [hands, 

To   consecrate  the    toil   of  reverent 

Andmake  his  labor,  like  her  virtue, 

fair; 

Knowing  no  beauty  beautiful  as  she, 
And  all  his  labor  void,  but  to  beguile 


PALINGENESIS. 


257 


A  sacred  sorrow  :  so  I  worked.     Ah, 

see  [tered  pile. 

Here  are  the  fragments  of  my  shat- 

I  keep  them,    aud  the  flowers  that 

sprang  between 

Their    broken    workmanship — the 

flowers  and  weeds !     [Queen, — 

Sleep  soft  among  the  violets,  O  my 

Lie  calm  among  my  ruined  thoughts 

and  deeds. 

EPILOGUE. 

PART  I. 

CHANGE    without   term,    and   strife 

without  result,  [remain, 

Persons  that  pass,  and  shadows  that 

One  strange,  impenetrable,  and  occult 

Suggestion  of  a  hope,  that 's  hoped 

in  vain,  [delight 

Behold  the  world  man  reigns  in  !  His 

Deceives :  his  power  fatigues ;  his 

strength  is  brief ; 

Even  his  religion  presupposes  grief. 
His  morning  is  not  certain  of  the  night. 

I  have    beheld,  without  regret,   the 
trunk,          [mers  on  its  boughs, 
Which  propped  three  hundred  sum- 
Which  housed,  of  old,  the  merry  bird, 
and  drunk  [carouse 

The  divine  dews  of  air,  and  gave 
To  the  free  winds  of  heaven,  lie  over- 
thrown [age  bore. 
Amidst  the  trees  which  its  own  fruit- 
Its  promise  is  fulfilled.  It  is  no  more. 
But  it  hath  been.     Its  destiny  is  done, 

But  the  wild  ash,  that  springs  above 

the  marsh !  [wild. 

Strong  and  superb  it  rises  o'er  the 

Vain  energy  of  being !    For  the  harsh 

And  fetid  ooze  already  hath  denied 

The    roots   whose   sap    it  lives    by. 

Heaven  doth  give  [wind 

No  blessing  to  its  boughs.  The  humid 

Rots  them.     The  vapors  warp  them. 

All  declined,  [to  live, 

Its  life  hath  ceased,  ere  it  hath  ceased 

Child  of  the  waste,   and  nursling  of 

the  pest !          [^Tept  thine  own. 

A  kindred  fate  hath  watched  and 

Thine  epitaph  is  written  in  my  breast. 

Years  change.     Bay  treads  out  day. 

For  me  alone 


No  change  is  nurst  within  the  brood- 
ing bud. 

Satiety  I  have  not  known,  and  yet, 
I  wither  in  the  void  of  life,  and  fret 
A  futile  time,    with  an  unpeaceful 
blood. 

The  days  are  all  too  long,  the  nights 

too  fair,  [rose. 

And  too  much  redness  satiates  the 

0  blissful  season !  blest  and  balmy  air ! 
Waves  !  moonlight  !  silence  !  years 

of  lost  repose  !  [tread 

Bowers  and  shades  that  echoed  to  the 

Of  young  Romance !  birds  that,  from 

woodland  bars,  [stars ! 

Sang,   serenading  forth  the  timid 

Youth  !  beauty  !  passion  !  whither  are 

ye  fled  ?  [wait 

1  wait,  and  long  have  waited,  and  yet 
The  coming  of  the  footsteps  which 

ye  told  [is  late, 

My  heart  to  watch  for.     Yet  the  hour 
And  ye  have  left  me.    Did  they  lie, 
of  old,  [bliss? 

Your    thousand    voices    prophesying 
That  Doubled  all  the  current  of  a 
fate  [f ul !  I  await 

Which  else  might  have  been  peace- 
The  thing  I  have  not  found,  yet  would 
not  miss. 

To  face  out  childhood,  and  grow  up  to 
man,  [sees, 

To  make  anoise,  and  question  all  one 
The  astral  orbit  of  a  world  to  span, 
And,  after  a  few  days,  to  take  one's 
ease    .  [my  friend, 

Under  the  graveyard  grasses, — this, 
Appears  to  me  a  thing  too  strange 
but  what  [not 

I  wish  to  know  its  meaning.  I  would 
Depart  before  I  have  perceived  the 
end. 

And  I  would  know  what,  here  below 

the  sun,  [ing  which  seems 

He  is,  and  what  his  place,  that  be- 

The  end  of  all  means,  yet  the  means 

of  none  ;  [and  dreams  ; 

Who  searches  and  combines,  aspires 

Seeking  new  things  with  ever  the  same 

hope,  [thing ; 

Seeking  new  hopes  in  ever  the  same 

A  king  without  the  powers  of  a  king, 

A  beggar  with  a  kingdom  in  his  scope ; 

Who  only  sees  in  what  he  hath    at- 
tained 


The  means  whereby  he  may  attain  to 

more. 

Who  only  finds  in  that  which  he  hath 

gained  [before ; 

The  want  of  what  he  did  not  want 

Whom  weakness  strengthens  ;  who  is 

soothed  by  strife ; 
Who  seeks  new  joys  to  prize  the 

absent  most ; 

Still  from  illusion  to  illusion  tost, 

Himself  the  great  illusion  of  his  life  ! 

Why  is  it,  all  deep  emotion  makes  us 

sigh  [thing  than  death 

To  quit  this  world  ?      What  better 

Can  follow  after  rapture  ?     "Let  us 

die !"  [breath. 

This  is  the  last  wish  on  the  lover's 

If  thou  wouldst  live,  content  thee.  To 

enjoy 

Is  to  begin  to  perish.  What  is  bliss, 

But  transit  to  some  other  state  from 

this  ?  [destroy. 

That  which  we  live  for  must  our  life 

Hast  thou  not  ever  longed  for  death  ? 

If  not,  [tained. 

Not  yet  thy  life's  experience  is  at- 

But  if  thy  days  be  favored,  i*  thy  lot 

Be  easy,  if  hope's  summit  thou  hast 

gained,  [thee. 

Die !  Death  is  the  sole  future  left  to 

The  knowledge  of  this  life  is  bound, 

for  each,  [tween  our  reach 

By  his  own  powers.     Death  lies  be- 

And  all  which,  living,  we  have  lived 

to  be. 

Death  is  no  evil,  since  it  comes  to  all. 

For  evil  is  the  exception,  not  the  law. 

What  is  it  in  the  tempest  that  doth  call 

Our  spirits  down  its  pathways?  or 

the  awe 

Of  that  abyss  and  solitude  beneath 

High  mountain  passes,  which  doth 

aye  attract  [ract  ? 

Such  strange  desire  ?  or  in  the  cata- 

The  sea  ?    It  is  the  sentiment  of  death. 

If  life  no  more  than  a  mere  seeming  be, 

Away  with  the  imposture!     If  it 

tend  pngly 

To  nothing,  and  to  have  lived  seeni- 

Prove  to  be  vain  and  futile  in  the  end, 

Then  let  us  die,  that  we  may  really 

live,  [possess 

Or  cease  to  feign  to  live.     Let  us 

Lasting  delight,  or  lasting  quietness. 

What  life  desires,  death,  only  death, 

can  give.    • 


Where  are  the  violets  of  vanisht  years  ? 
The  sunsets  Rachel  watched  by  La- 
ban's  well  ?  [tears  ? 
Where  is  Fidele's  face  ?  where  Juliet's 
There  conies  no  answer.     There  is 
none  to  tell      [mouths  are  stopt 
What    we    go    questioning,    till    our 
By  a  clod  of  earth.      Ask  of  the 
plangent  sea,           [leafless  tree, 
The  wild  wind  wailing  through  the 
Ask  of  the  meteor  from  the  midnight 
dropt. 

Come,  Death,  and  bring  the  beauty 

back  to  all  1  [shun. 

I  do  not  seek  thee,  but  I  will  not 

And  let  thy  coming  be  at  even-fall, 

Thy  pathway  through  the  setting  of 

the  sun. 

And  let  us  go  together,  I  with  thee, 
What  time  the  lamps  in  Eden's  bow- 
ers are  lit, 

And  Melanchoty,  all  alone,  doth  sit 
By  the  wide  marge  of  some  neglected 


PART  II. 

ONE  hour  of    English  twilight  once 

again ! 

Lo !  in  the  rosy  regions  of  the  dew 

The  confines  of  the  world  begin  to 

wane,  [renew. 

And  Hesper  doth  his  trembling  lamp 

Now  is  the  inauguration  of  the  night ! 

Nature's   release  to  wearied   earth 

and  skies  [armistice ! 

Sweet  truce  of  Care  !      Labor's  brief 

Best,  loveliest  interlude  of  dark  and 

light ! 

The  rookery,  babbling  in  the  sunken 

wood ;  [tant  farm, 

The  watchdog,  barking  from  the  dis- 

The  dim  light  fading  from  the  horne'd 

flood, 

That  winds  the  woodland  in  its  sil- 
ver arm ;  [whose  leaves 
The   massed    and   immemorial    oaks, 
And  husht  in  yonder  heathy  dells 

below ; 

The  fragrance  of  the  meadows  that 

I  know  [weaves 

The  bat,  that  now  his  wavering  circle 

Around  these  antique  towers  and  case- 
ments deep 


PALINGENESIS. 


259 


That  glimmer  through  the  ivy  and  the 

rose. 

To  the  faint  moon  which  doth  begin  to 

creep  [ens'  repose, 

Out  of  the  inmost  heart  o'  the  heav- 

To  wander  all  night    long  without  a 

sound,  [ered  once ; 

Above  the  fields  my  feet  oft  waud- 

Tlie  larches  tall  and  dark,  which  do 

ensconce  [lowed  ground 

The  little  churchyard  in  whose  hal- 

Sleep  half  the  simple  friends  my  child- 
hood knew ;  [blest  hour, 
All,  all  the  sounds  and  sights  of  this 
Sinking  within    my  heart  of    hearts, 
like  dew,  [flower 
Revive  that  so  longparcht  and  drooping 
Of  youth,  the  world's  hot  breath  for 
many  years     [more,  once  more, 
Hath  burned  4and  withered ;   till  once 
The  revelation  and  the  dream  of  yore 
Return  to  solace  these  sad  eyes  with 
tears ! 

Where  now,  alone,  a  solitary  man, 
I  pace  once  more  the  pathways  of 

my  home, 

Light-hearted,  and  together,  once  we 
ran,  [to  roam 

I,  and  the  infant  guide  that   used 
With    me,  the   meads    and  meadow- 
banks  among,  [little  feet 
At  dusk  and  dawn.  How  light  those 
Danced  through  the  dancing  grass 
and  waving  wheat  [song  ! 
Where'er  far  off,  we  heard  the  cuckoo's 

I  know,  now,  little  Ella,  what  the  flowers 
Said  to  you  then  to  make  your  cheek 

so  pale ; 

And  why  the  blackbird  in  our  laurel 

bowers  [pink  snail 

Spake  to  you,  only ;  and  the  poor, 

Feared  less  your  steps  than  those  of  the 

May-shower.          [loved  you  so, 

It  was  not  strange  these  creatures 

And  told  you  all.  'T  was  not  so  long 

ago  [a  flower. 

You   were,   yourself,   a  bird,  or  else 

And,  little  Ella,  you  were  pale,  because 

So  soon  you  were   to  die.     I  know 

that  now.  [gauze 

And  why  there  ever  seemed  a  sort  of 

Over  your  deep  blue  eyes  and  sad 

young  brow.  [you, 

You  were  too  good  to  grow  up,  Ella, 


And  be  a  woman  such  as  I  have 
known !  [stone, 

And  so  upon  your  heart  they  put  a 
And  left  you,  dear,  amongst  the  flowers 
and  dew. 

God's  will  is   good,     He  knew  what 
would  be  best.  [more  ; 

I  will   not   weep  thee,  darling,  any 
I  have   not   wept  thee  :  though    my 
heart  opprest  [sore. 

With  many  memories,  for  thy  sake  is 
God's  will  is  good,  and  great  His  wis- 
dom is.  [shine 
Thou  wast  a  little  star,  and  thou  didst 
Upon  my  cradle  ;  but  thou  wast  not 
mine,                               [art  His. 
Thou  wast  not  mine,  my  darling;  thou 

My  morning  star!  twin  sister  of  my 

soul! 

My  little  elfin  friend  from  Fairy-Land! 
Whose  memory  is  yet  innocent  of  the 
whole  [thy  hand, 

Of  that  which  makes  me  doubly  need 
Thy  little  guiding  hand  so  soon  with- 
drawn !  [thee. 
Here  where  I  find  so  little  like   to 
For    thou    wert    as  the    breath  of 
dawn  to  me,                      [dawn. 
Starry  and  pure,  and  brief  as  is  the 

Thy  knight  was  I,  and  thou  my  Fairy 

Queen.  [airy !) 

('T  was  in  the  days  of  love  and  chiv- 

And  thou  didst  hide  thee  in  a  bower  of 

green.  [that  I 

But  thou  so  well  hast  hidden  thee, 

Have   never  found  thee  since.      And 

thou  didst  set  [emprise, 

Many   a  task,  and   quest,  and  high 

Ere  I  should  win  my  guerdon  from 

thine  eyes, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  that  not  yet 

My  tasks  are  ended  or  my  wanderings 

o'er  [the  main 

But  some  day  thou  wilt  send  across 

A  magic  bark,  and  I   shall  quit  this 

shore  [again ; 

Of  care,  and  find  thee,  in  thy  bower 

And  thou  wilt  say,  "My  brother,  hast 

thou  found          [answer,  Sweet, 

Our  home,  at  .last  ?"  . .  .  Whilst  I,  in 

Shall  heap  my  life's  last  booty  at  thy 

feet,  [ing  wound. 

And  bare  my  breast  with  many  a  bleed- 


THE   WANDERER. 


The  spoils  of  time !  the  trophies  of  the 

world  !  [captived  kings : 

The  ke}rs  of  conquered   towns  and 

And  many  a  broken  sword,  and  banner 

furled ;  [dan's  rings ; 

The  heads  of  giants,  and  swart  Sol- 

And    many    a    maiden's    scarf ;    and 

many  a  wand 

Of  baffled  wizard ;  many  an  amulet; 

And  many  a  shield,  with  miue  own 

heart's  blood  wet ;  [land ! 

And  jewels,  dear,  from  many  a  distant 

God's  will  is  good.     He  knew  what 

would  be  best.  life. 

I  thought  last  year  to  pass  away  from 

I  thought  my  toils  were  ended,  and  my 

quest  [world's  strife 

Completed,    and    my    part  in   this 

Accomplish!,      And,    behold!     About 

me  now  [the  awe 

There  rest  the  gloom,  the  glory,  and 

Of  a  new   martyrdom,   no   dreams 

foresaw ;  [on  my  brow. 

And  the  thorn-crown  hath  blossomed 

A  martyrdom,  but  with  a  martyr's  joy! 

A  hope  I  never  hoped  for !  and  a  sense 
That  nothing  henceforth  ever  can  de- 
stroy :—  [dence 

Within  my  breast  the  serene  conn- 
Of  mercy  in  the  misery  of  things  ; 

Of  meaning  in  the  mystery  of  all ; 

Of  blessing  in  whatever  may  befall ; 
Of  rest  predestined  to  all  wanderings. 

How  sweet,  with  thee,  my  sister,  to 
renew,  [bright  birds 

In  lands  of  light,  the  search  for  those 
Of  plumage  so  ethereal  in  its  hue, 
And  music  sweeter  than  all  mortal 
words,  [hood  sent 

Which  some  good  angel  to  our  child- 
With  messages  from  Paradisal  flow- 
ers, [bowers 
So  lately  left,    the  scent  of  Eden 
Yet  lingered  in  our  hair,  where'er  we 
went! 

Now,  they  are  all  fled  by,  this  many  a 

year,  [wind, 

Adorn  the  viewless  valleys  of   the 

And  never  more  will  cross  this  hemi- 

spliere,  [I  find, 

Those  birds  of  passage  !   Never  shall 

Dropt  from  the  flight,  you  followed, 

dear,  so  far  [know, 


That  you  will  never  come  again,  I 

One  plumelet  on  the  paths  by  which 

I  go,  [ing start 

Missing  thy  light  there,   O  my  morn. 

Soft,  over  all,  doth  ancient  twilight  cast 

Her  dim  gray  robe,  vague  as  futurity, 

And  sad  and  hoary  as  the  ghostly  past, 

Till  earth  assumes  invisibility. 
I  hear  the  night-bird's  note,  wherewith 

she  starts 
The  bee  within  the  blossom  from  his 

dream. 

A  light,  like  hope,  from  yonder  pane 
doth  beam,  [parts. 

And  now,   like  hope  it  silently    de- 
Hush  !  from  the  clock  within  yon  dark 

church  spire, 
Another  hour,  broke,  clanging,  out  of 

time, 
And  passed  me,   throbbing  like    my 

own  desire, 
Into  the  seven-fold  heavens.     And 

now,  the  chime 

Over  the  vale,  the  woodland,  and  the 
river  [strays 

Morefaiut,  more  far,  a  quivering  echo 
From  that  small  twelve-houred  cir- 
cle of  our  days, 

And  spreads,  and  spreads,  to  the  great 
round  Forever 

Pensive,    the    sombre  ivied    porch  I 

pass, 
Through  the  dark  hall,  the  sound 

of  my  own  feet 
Into  this  silent  chamber,   where  I 

meet  [race ; 

From  wall  to  wall  the  fathers  of  my 

The  pictures  of  the  past  from  wall 

to  wall ; 
Wandering    o'er    which    my    wistful 

glances  fall, 
To  sink,  at  last,  on  little  Ella's  face. 

This  is  my  home.     And  hither  I  re- 
turn, [men, 
After  much  wandering  in  the  ways  of 
Weary,  but  not  outworu.     Here,  with 
her  urn  [zen. 
Shall  Memory  come  and  be  my  deni- 
And  blue-eyed  Hope  shall  through  the 

window  look, 

And  lean  her  fair  child's  face  into  the 
room, 


PALINGENESIS. 


£61 


What  time  the  hawthorn  buds  anew, 

and  bloom  [brook. 

The  bright  forget  me-nots  beside  the 

Father  of  all  which  is,  or  yet  may  be, 
Ere  to  the  pillow  which   my  child- 
hood prest  [by  Thee 
This  night  restores  my  troubled  brows 
May    this,    the  last  prayer  I  have 
learned,  be  blest !  [life 
Grant  me  to  live  that  I  may  need  from 
No  more  than  life  hath  given  me, 
and  to  die                          [than  I 
That  I  may  give  to  death  no  more. 
Have  long  abandoned.     And,   if  toil, 
and  strife 

Yet  in  the  portion  of  my  days  must  be, 

Firm  be  my  faith,  and  auiet  be  my 

heart !  [  agree, 

That  so  my  work  may  with  my  will 

And  strength  be  mine  to  calmly  fill 

my  part  f  the  end 

In   Nature's  purpose,  questioning  not 

For,   love  is    more  than  raiment  or 

than  food.  [good  ? 

Shall  I  not  take  the  evil  with  the 

Blessed  to  me  be  all  which  thou  dost 

send  I 

Nor  blest  the  least,  recalling  what  hath 

been,  [known 

The  knowledge  of  the  evil  I  have 

Without  me,  and  within  me.     Since, 

to  lean  [own 

Upon  a  strength  far  mightier  than  my 

Such    knowledge    brought    me.      In 

whose  strength  I  stand 
Firmly  upheld,  even  though,  in  ruin 

hurled, 

The  fixed  foundations  of  this  rolling 

world  [hand. 

Should  topple  at  the   waving  of  Thy 


HAIL  thou!  sole  Muse  that,  in  an  age 

of  toil, 

Of  all  the  old  Uranian  sisterhood, 

Art  left  to  light  us  o'er  the  furrowed 

soil  [dued 

Of  this  laborious  star.    Muse,  unsub- 

By  that  strong  hand  which  hath  in 

ruin  razed 
The  temples  of  dread  Jove.     Muse 

most  divine, 

Albeit  but  ill  by  these  pale  lips  of 
mine,  [praised ! 


In  days  degenerate,  first  named    and 
Now  the  high  airy  kingdoms  of  the 
day  [seas 

Hyperion  holds  not.     The  disloyal 
Have  broken  from  Poseidon's  purple 
sway.  [en  palaces 

Through  Heaven's  harmonious  gold- 
No  more  the  silver-sandalled  messen- 
gers [brow 
Slide  to  sweet  airs.   Upon  Olympus' 
The  gods'  great  citadel  is  vacant  now. 
And  not  a  lute  to  Love  in  Lesbos  stirs. 

But  thouwert  born  not  on  the  Forked 
Hill,  [bees, 

Nor  fed  from  Hybla's  hives  by  Attic 
Nor  on  the  honey  Cretan  oaks  distil, 
Or  once  distilled,  when  gods  had 
homes  in  trees,  [thou 

And  young  Apollo  knew  thee  not.  Yet 
With  Ceres  wast,   when  the  pale 
mother  trod  [god, 

The  gloomy  pathway  to  the  nether 
And  spake  with  that  dim  Power  which, 
dwells  below 

The  surface  of  whatever,   where  he 
wends,  [thou 

The  circling  sun  illummeth.     And 
Wast  aye  a  friend  to  man.     Of  all  his 
Perchance  the  friend  most  needed : 

needed  now 
Yet  more  than  ever ;  in  a  complex  age 

friends, 

Which  changes  while  we  gaze  at  it ; 
from  heaven  [given, 

Seeking  a  sign,  and  finding  no  sign 
And  questioning  Life's  worn  book  at 
every  page. 

Nor  ever  yet,  was  song,  untaught  by 

thee, 

Worthy  to  live  immortally  with  man. 

Wherefore,  divine  Experience,  bend  on 

me  [life  began, 

Thy  deep  and  searching  eyes.  Since 

Meek  at  thy  mighty  knees,  though  oft 

reproved, 
I  have  sat,  spelling  out  slow  time 

with  tears, 

Where  down  the  riddling  alphabet 

of  years  [moved. 

Thy  guiding  finger  o'er  the  horn-book 

And  I  have  put  together  many  names  : 

Sorrow,  and  Joy,  and  Hope,   and 

Memory,  •      [frames 

And  Love,  and  Anger  j  as  an  infant 


262 


THE   WANDEHER. 


The  initials  of  a  language  wherein  he 
In  manhood  must  with  men  communi- 
cate, [derstand, 
And  oft,  the  words  were  hard  to  un- 
Harder  to  utter :   still  the   solemn 
hand                 [move,  and  wait ; 
Would  pause,  and  point,  and  wait,  and 

Till  words  grew  into  language.     Lan- 
guage grew  [passed. 
To  utterance.  Utterance  into  music 
I  sang  of  all  I  learned,  and  all  I  knew. 
And,  looking  upward  in  thy  face,  at 

last, 

Beh  eld  it  flusht,  as  when  a  mother  he  ars 
Her  infant  feebly  singing  his  first 
hymn,  [of  him, 

And  dreams  she  sees,  albeit  unseen 
Some  radiant  listener  lured  from  other 
spheres. 

Such  songs  have  been  my  solace  many 

a  while  [none, 

And  oft,  when   other  solace  1  had 

From  grief,  which  lay  heart-broken  on 

a  smile,  [sun, 

And  joy  that  glittered  like  a  winter 

And  froze,  and  fevered :  from  the  great 

man's  scorn,     [unfriendliness; 

The    mean    man's    envy ;    friend's 

Love's  want   of  human    kindness, 

and  the  stress 

Of  nights  that  hoped  for  nothing  from 
the  morn. 

Prom  these,  and  worse  than  these, 

did  song  unbar  [dreams, 

A  refuge  through  the  ivory  gate  of 

Wherein  my  spirit  grew  familiar 

With  spirits  that  glide  by  spiritual 

streams ;  [sleeping 

Song  hath,  for  me,  unsealed  the  genii 

Under  mid  seas,  and^  lured    out  of 

their  lair  [wondrous  hair, 

Beings  with   wondering   eyes,  and 

lame  to  my  feet  at  twilight   softly 

creeping. 

nd  song  hath  been  my  cymbal  in 

the  hours  [away. 

Of  triumph ;  when  behind  me,  far 
ay  Egypt,  with  its    plagues;   and, 

by  strange  powers, 
Not    mine,    upheld    life's    heaped 

ocean  lay 

3n  either  side  a  passage  for  my  soul. 
A  passage  to  the  Land  of  Promise  ! 

trod  [of  God 

By  giants,  where  the  chosen  race 


Shall  find,  at  last,  its  long  predes- 
tined goal. 

The  breath  which  stirred  these  songs 

a  little  while  [too 

Has  fleeted  by ;  and,  with  it,  fleeted 

The  days  I  sought,  thus  singing,  to 

beguile 
Of  thoughts  that  spring  like  weeds 

which  will  creep  through 
The  blank  interstices  of  ruined  fanes, 
Where  Youth,  adored,  sacrificed — 

its  heart, 
To  gods  for  forever  fallen. 

Now,  we  part, 

My  songs  and  I.     We  part,  and  what 
remains  ? 

Perchance  an  echo,  and  perchance  no 

more,  [music  dwells 

Harp  of  my  heart,  from  thy  brief 

In  hearts,  unknown,  afar:  as  the  wide 

shore  [shells 

Ketains  within  its  hundred  hollow 

The  voices  of  the  spirits  of  the  foam, 

Which  murmur  in  the  language  of 

the  deeps, 
Though  haply  far  away,  to  one  who 

keeps 

Such  ocean  wealth  to  grace  an  inland 
home. 

Within  these  cells  of  song,  how  frail 

soe'r  [human  life 

The  vast  and  wandering  tides  of 

Have  murmured  once ;  and  left,  in 

passing,  there,  [strife 

Faint  echoes  of  the  tumult  and  the 

Of  the  great  ocean  of  humanity. 

Fairies  have  danced  within  these 

hollow  caves, 
And    Memory   mused    above    the 

moonlit  waves, 

And  Youth,  the  lover,  here  hath  lin- 
gered by. 

T  sung  of  life,  as  life  would  have  me 

sing.  [wrong; 

Of  falsehood,  and  of  evil,  and  of 

For  many  a  false,  and  many  an  evil 

thing,  [song 

I  found  in  life;  and  by  my  life  my 

Was  shaped  within  me  while  I  sung : 

I  sung  [tined  end  ; 

Of  Good,  for  good  is  life's  predes- 

Of  Sorrow,  for  I  knew  her  as  my 

friend  ;  [was  strung 

Of  Love,  for  by  his  hand  my  harp 


PALANGENESIS. 


263 


I  have  not  scrawled  above  the  tomb 
of  Youth  [resent 

Those  lying  epitaphs,   which  rep- 
All  virtues,  and  all  excellence,  save 

truth. 
'T  were  easy,   thus,  to  have  been 

eloquent, 

If  I  had  held  the  fashion  of  the  age 
Which  loves  to  hear  its  sounding 

flattery 
Blown  by  all  dusty  winds  from  sky 

to  sky, 

And  find  its  praises  blotting  every 
page. 

And  yet,  the  Poet  and  the  Age  are 

one.  [minute, 

And  if  the  age  be  flawed,  howe'er 

Deep  through  the  poet's  heart  that 

rent  doth  run, 
And  shakes  and  mars  the  music  of 

his  lute. 

It  is  not  that  his  sympthy  is  less 
With  all  that  lives  and  all  that  feels 

around  him, 
But  that  so  close  a  sympathy  hath 

bound  him 

To  these,  that  he  must  utter  their 
distress. 

We  build  the  bridge,  and  swing  the 

wondrous  wire, 
Bind  with  an  iron  hoop  the  rolling 

world ; 
Sport  with  the  spirits  of  the  ductile 

fire; 
And  leave  our  spells  upon  the  vapor 

furled ; 

And  cry— Behold  the  progress  of  the 
time !  [land, 

Yet  are  we  tending  in  an  unknown 
Whither,  we  neither  ask  nor  under- 
stand, [prime  I 
Far  from  the  peace  of  our  unvalued 

And  strength  and  Force,  the    fiends 

which  minister 
To  some  new-risen  Power  beyond  our 

span, 
On  either  hand,  with  hook  and  nail, 

confer 

To  rivet  the  Promethean  heart  of  man 
Under  the  raving  and  relentless  beak 

Of  unappeasable  Desire,  which  yet 
The  very  vitals  of  the  age  doth  fret. 
The  limbs  are  mighty,  but  the  heart  is 
weak. 


Writhe  on,   Prometheus!  or  whate'er 
thou  art,  [race 

Thou  giant  sufferer !  groaning  for  a 
Thou  canst  not  save,  for  all  thy  bleed- 
ing heart ! 
Thy  wail  my  harp  hath  wakened ; 

and  my  place 

Shall  be  beside  thee ;   and  my  bless- 
ing be  [share 
On  all  that  makes  me  worthy  yet  to 
Thy  lonely  martyrdom,    and  with 

thee  wear 

That  crown  of  anguish  given  to  poets, 
and  thee  1 

If  to  have  wept,   and  wildly  ;  to  have 

loved 
Till  love  grew'torture;  to  have  grieved 

till  grief 
Became   a   part  of  life;  if  to   have 

proved 
The  want  of  all  things ;    if,  to  draw 

relief 

From  poesy  for  passion,  this  avail, 
I  lack  no  title  to  my  crown.    The  sea 
Hath  sent  up  nymphs  for  my  society, 
The  mountains  have  been  moved  to 
hear  my  wail. 

Nature  and  man  were  children  long 

ago. 

In  glad  simplicity  of  heart  and  speech. 

Now  they  are  strangers  to  each  other's 

woe ;  [from  each. 

And  each  hath  language    different 

The  simplest  songs  sound  sweetest  and 

most  good.  [ing  ones. 

The  simplest  loves  are  the  most  lov- 

Happier  were  song's  forefathers  than 

their  sons. 
And  Homer  sung  as  Byron  never  could. 

But  Homer  cannot  come  again :  nor 

ever  [sung. 

The  quiet  of  the  age  in  which  he 

This  age  is  one  of  tumult  and  endeavor, 

And  by  a  fevered  hand  its  harps  are 

strung,  [time ; 

And  yet,  I  do  not  quarrel  with  the 

Nor  quarrel  with  the  tumult  of  my 

heart,  [part ; 

Which  of  the  tumult  of  the  age  is 

Because  its  very  weakness  is  sublime. 

The  passions  are  as  winds  on  the  wide 

sea  [the  sails 

Of  human   life;    which  do   impel 


2G4 


THE  WANDEEER. 


Of    man's  gi'eat   enterprise,    whate'er 
that  be.  these  gales, 

The  reckless  helmsman  caught  upon 
Under  the  roaring  gulfs  goes  down 
aghast ;  [ing  breeze 

The  prudent    pilot    to  the  steady- 
Sparely  gives  head ;  and  over  peril- 
ous seas,  [at  last. 
Drops  anchor  'mid  the  Fortunate  Isles, 

p  We  pray  against  the  tempest  and  the 

strife,  [troublous  hour, 

The  storm,  the  whirlwind,  and  the 

Which  vex  the  fretful  element  of  life. 

Me  rather  save,  O  dread  disposing 

Power,  [hopeless  lull, 

From  those  dull  calms,  that  flat  and 

In  which  the  dull  sea  rots  around 

the  bark, 

And  nothing  moves  save  the  sure- 
creeping  dark. 
That  slowly  settles  o'er  an  idle  hull. 

For  in  the  storm,  the  tumult,  and  the 

stir  [power  and  place 

That  shakes  the  soul,  man  finds  his 

Among   the   elements.     Deeps    with 

deeps  confer, 
And  Nature's  secret  settles  in  her 

face, 

Let   ocean   to  his  inmost  caves  be 

stirred;  [the  cloud. 

Let  the  wild  light  be  smitten  from 

The  decks  may  reel,  the  masts  be 

snapt  and  bowed, 

But  God  hath  spoken  out,  and  man 
hath  heard! 

Farewell,  you  lost  inhabitants  of  my 

mind, 

You  fair  ephemerals  of  faded  hours ! 
Farewell,  you  lands  of  exile,  whence 

each  wind 
Of    memory  steals  with  fragrance 

over  flowers ! 

Farewell,  Cordelia !  Ella!  .  .  .  But  not 

so  [I  have 

Fare  well  the  memories  of  you  which 

Till  strangers  shall  be  sitting  on  my 

grave  [below. 

And  babbling  of  the  dust  which  lies 

Blessed  the  man  whose  life,  how  sad 

soe'er,  [the  trace 

Hath  felt  the  presence,  and  yet  keeps 

Of  one  pure  woman!     With  religious 

care  [feet  we  pace 

We  close  the  doors,  with  reverent 


The  vacant  chambers,  where,  of  yore, 
a  Queen  [Past's  pale  walls 

One  night  hath  rested.     From  my 
Yet  gleam  the  unfaded  fair  memo- 
rials ;  [harh  been. 
Of  her  whose  beauty  there,  awhile, 

She   passed,   into  my  youth,   at  its 

night-time,  [music  husht. 

When  low  the  lamplight,  and  the 

She  passed  and  passed  away.     Some 

broken  rhyme 
Scrawled  on  the  panel  or  the  pane : 

the  crusht 
And  faded  rose  she  dropped :  the  page 

she  turned 
And  finished  not :  the  ribbon  or  the 

knot 
That  fluttered  from  her. . .  Stranger, 

harm  them  not ! 
I  keep  these  sacred  relics  undiscerned. 

Men's    truths    are    often    lies,    and 

women's  lies 
Often  the  setting  of  a  truth  most 

tender  •  ' 

In  an  unconscious  poesy.     The  child 
cries  [splendor 

To  clutch  the  starthat  lights  its  rosy 
In  airy  Edens  of  the  west  afar. 

"Ah,  folly!"  sighs  the  father,  o'er 

his  book. 
"  Millions  of  miles  above  thy  foolish 

nook 
Of  infantile  desire,  the  Hesperus-star 

"Descends  not,  child,  to  twinkle  on 
thy  cot."  [tacles, 

Then  readjusts  his  blind-wise  spec- 
While  tears    to   sobs  are    changing, 

were  it  not 

The  mother,  with  those  tender  sylla- 
bles 
Which  even  Dutch  mothers  can  make 

musical  too, 
Murmurs,   "Sleep,  sleep,  my  little 

one !  and  I 
Will  pluck  thy  star  for  thee,  and  by 

and  by 

Lay  it  upon  thy  pillow  bright  with 
dew." 

And  the  child  sleeps,  and  dreams  of 

stars  whose  light 
Beams  in  his  own  bright  eyes  when 

he  awakes. 
So  sleep !  so  dream !    If  aught  I  read 

aright 


PALINGENESIS. 


265 


That  star,  poor  babe,  which  o'er  thy 

cradle  shakes, 

Thy  fate  may  fall,  in  after  years,  to  be 
That  other   child    that,   like  thee, 

loves  the  star, 
And,  like  thee,  weeps  to  find  it  all  so 

far, 
Feeling  its  force  in  his  nativity: — 

That  other  infant,  all  as  weak,  as  wild, 
As  passionate,  and  as  helpless,  as 

thou  art, 
Whom  men  will  call  a  Poet  (Poet,  or 

child, 
The  star  is  still  so  distant  from  the 

heart!) 
If  so,  heaven  grant  that  thou  mayst 

find  at  last, 
Since  such  there  are,  some  woman, 

Whose  sweet  smile, 
Pitying,   may  thy  fond  fancy  yet 

beguile 

To  dream  the  star,  which  thou  hast 
sought,  thou  hast ! 

For    men,     if    thou    shouldst  heed 

what  they  may  say, 
Will  break  thy  heart,  or  leave  thee, 

like  themselves 
No  heart  for  breaking.     Wherefore  I 

do  pray 
My  book  may  lie  upon  no  learned 

shelves, 

But  that  in  some  deep  summer  eve, 

perchance,  [pale, 

Some  woman,  melancholy-eyed  and 


Whose  heart,  like  mine,  hath  suf- 
fered, may  this  tale 
Read  by  the  soft  light  of  her  own 
romance. 

Go  forth  over  the  wide  world,  Song 

of  mine ! 
As  Noah's  dove  out  of  his  bosom 

flew 

Over  the  desolate,  vast,  and  wander- 
ing brine. 
Seek    thou    thy    nest    afar.      Thy 

plaint  renew 
From  heart  to  heart,  and  on  from 

land  to  land 

Fly  boldly,  till  thou  find  that  un- 
known friend 
Whose  face,  in  dreams,  above  my 

own  doth  bend, 

Then  tell  that  spirit  what  it  will  un- 
derstand, 

Why  men  can  tell  to  strangers  all  the 

tale 
From  friends  reserved.    And  tell 

that  spirit,  my  Song, 
Wherefore  I  have  not  faltered  to  un- 
veil [wrong 
The  cryptic  forms  of  error  and  of 
And  say,  I  suffered  more  than  I  re- 
corded, 
That  each  man's  life  is  all  men's 

lesson.     Say, 
And  let  the  world  believe  thee,  as 

it  may, 

Thy  tale  is   true,    however    weakly 
worded. 


TANNHATJSER;* 


OB, 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   BARDS. 


A  portion  of  this  poem  was  written  by  another  hand. 


THIS  is  the  Land,  the  happy  valleys 

these, 
Broad  breadths  of  plain,  blue- veined 

by  many  a  stream, 
Umbrageous  hills,  sweet  glades,   and 

forests  fair, 
O'er  which  our  good  liege,  Landgrave 

Herman,  rules. 
This   is   Thuringia:    yonder,  on    the 

heights, 
Is  Wartburg,  seat  of  our  dear  lord's 

abode, 
Famous    through    Christendom     for 

many  a  feat 
Of    deftest   knights,    chief    stars    of 

chivalry, 

At  tourney  in  its  courts ;  nor  more  re- 
nowned 
For  deeds  of  Prowess  than  exploits  of 

Art, 
Achieved  when,  vocal  in  its  Muses' 

hall, 
The    minstrel-knights    their    glorious 

jousts  renew, 
And  for  the  laurel  wage  harmonious 

war. 
On    this  side  spreads  the   Chase    in 

wooded  slopes 


And  sweet  acclivities;  and,  all  be- 
yond, 

The  open  flats  lie  fruitful  to  the 
sun 

Full  many  a  league ;  till,  dark  against 
the  sky, 

Bounding  the  limits  of  our  lord's  do-, 
main, 

The  Hill  of  Horsel  rears  his  horrid 
front. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  wanders  in  the 
vast 

Of  those  unhallowed  solitudes,  if 
Sin, 

Quickening  the  lust  of  carnal  appe- 
tite, 

Lurk  secret  in  his  heart:  for  all  their 
caves 

Echo  weird  strains  of  magic,  direful- 
sweet, 

That  lap  the  wanton  sense  in  blissful 
ease; 

While  through  the  ear  a  reptile  music 
creeps, 

And,  blandly-busy,  round  about  the 
soul 

Weaves  its  fell  web  of  sounds.  The 
unhappy  wight 


*  The  reader  is  solicited  to  adopt  the  German  pronunciation  of  TANNH"USEB,  by  sounding 
as  if  it  were  written,  in  English.  "  Tannhoiser." 


OK,  TH%  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


267 


Thus  captive  made  in  soft  and  silken 

bands 
Of  tangled  harmony,  is  led  away  — 

Away     adown     the     ever  -  darkening 

caves, 
Away  from  fairness  and  the   face   of 

God, 
Away    into    the    mountain's    mystic 

womb, 
Co  where,  reclining  on  her  impious 

couch 
All  the  fair  length  of  her  lascivious 

limbs, 
Languid  in  light  from  roseate  tapers 

flung, 
incensed  with  perfumes,  tended  on  by 

fays, 
The  lustful  Queen,  waiting  damnation, 

holds 
Her   bestial    revels.     The    Queen    of 

Beauty  once, 
A  goddess  called  and  worshipped  in  the 

days 
When     men     their    own    infirmities 

adored, 
Deeming  divine  who    in    themselves 

summed  up 
The  full-blown  passions  of    humani- 
ty. 
Large  fame  and  lavish  service  had  she 

then, 
Venus  ycleped,   of  all  the  Olympian 

crew 
Least  continent  of  Spirits  and  most 

fair. 
So  reaped   she    honor    of    unwistful 

men, 
Roman,  or  Greek,  or  dwellers  on  the 

plains 
Of    Egypt,    or   the    isles    to    utmost 

Ind; 
Till  came  the  crack  of  that  tremendous 

Doom 
That  lent  the  false  gods  shivering  from 

their  seats, 
Shattered  the  superstitious  dome  that 

bleared 
Heaven's  face  to  man,  and  on  the  lurid 

world 


Let  in  effulgence  of  untainted  light. 

As  when,  laid  bare  beneath  the  delver's 
toil 

On  some  huge  bulk  of  buried  ma- 
sonry 

In  hoar  Assyria,  suddenly  revealed 

A  chamber,  gay  with  sculpture  and  the 

pomp 
Of  pictured    tracery  on  its    glowing 

walls, 
No    sooner  breathes    the  wholesome 

heavenly  air 
Than  fast  its  colored  bravery  fades, 

and  fall 
Its  ruined  statues,  crumbled  from  their 

crypts, 
And  all  its  gauds  grow  dark  at  sight  of 

day; 
So    darkened     and     to    dusty    ruin 

fell 
The     fleeting    glories    of     a    Pagan 

faith, 
Bared  to  Truth's  influences  bland,  and 

smit 

Blind  by  the  splendors  of  the  Bethle- 
hem Dawn. 
Then  from  their  shattered  temple  in 

the  minds 
Of  men,  and  from  their  long  familiar 

homes, 
Their  altars,  fanes,  and  shrines,   the 

sumptuous  seats 

Of   their    mendacious    oracles,    out- 
slunk 
The  wantons  of  Olympus.     Forth  they 

fled, 
Forth  from  Dodona,  Delos,   and  the 

depths 
Of  wooded  Ida;  from  Athense  forth, 

Cithaeron,  Paphos,  Thebes,  and  all 
their  groves 

Of  oak  or  poplar,  dismally  to 
roam 

About  the  new-baptized  earth;  ex- 
iled, 

Bearing  the  curse,  yet  suffered  for  a 
space, 

By  Heaven's  clear  sapience  and  inscru- 
table ken, 


268 


TANNHAUSEE; 


To  range  the  wide  world,  and  assay 

Of  their  libidinous  goddess.     But,  ere- 

their powers 

long, 

To     unregenerate     redeemed     man- 
kind: 

Comes  lothing  of  the  sensual  air  they 
breathe, 

If  haply  they    by  shadows    and  by 

lioathing  of  light  unhallowed,  sicken- 

sliows 

IHj^  H6HS6 

Phantasmagoria,  and  illusions  wrought 

Of    surfeited   enjoyment;    and   their 
lips, 

Of    sight  or   sound  by  sorcery,   may 

Spurning  the  reeky  pasture,  yearn  for 

draw 

draughts 

Unwary     men,    or    weak,    into     the 
nets 

Of  rock-rebounding  rills,  their  eyes  for 
sight 

Of  Satan,  their  great  Captain.     She  re- 
nowned 

Of  Heaven,  their  limbs  for  lengths  of 
dewy  grass: 

"  The  fairest,  "  fleeing  from  her  Cyprian 
isle, 

What  time  sharp   Conscience    pricks 
them,  and  awake 

Swept  to    the    northwards  many    a 

Starts  the  requickened  soul  with  all 

league,  and  lodged 

her  powers, 

At  length  on  Horsel,  into  whose  dark 

And  breaks,  if  so  she  will,  the  murder- 

womb 

ous  spell, 

She  crept  confounded.     Thither  soon 

Calling  on  God.     God  to  her  rescue 

she  drew 

sends 

Lewd  Spirits  .to    herself,   and    there 

Voiced  seraphims  that  lead  the  sinner 

abides, 

forth 

Holding  her  devilish  orgies;  and  has 

From  darkness  unto  day,  from  foul  em- 

power 

brace 

"With    siren    voices    crafty    to    com- 

Of that  bloat  Queen  into  the  mother- 

pel 

lap 

Into     her     wanton     home    unhappy 

Of  earth,   and  the    caressent  airs  of 

men 

Heaven; 

Whose  souls  to  sin    are  prone.     The 

Where  he,  by    strong  persistency  ol 

pure  at  heart 

prayer, 

Nathless  may  roam  about  her  pestilent 

By  painful  pilgrimage,  by  lengths  ol 

hill 

fast 

Untainted,    proof    against    perfidious 

That  tame  the  rebel  flesh,  by  many  s 

sounds 

night 

Within   whose    ears     an    angel    ever 

Of    vigil,    days    of    deep    repentanl 

sings 

tears, 

Good  tidings  of  great  joy.     Nor  even 

May  cleanse  his  soul  of  her  adulterate 

they, 

stains, 

Whose  hearts  are  gross,  and  who  in- 

May   from    his     sin-incrusted    spiri 

flamed  with  lust 

shake 

Enter  entrapped  by  sorceries,  to  her 

The  leprous  scales,  —  and,   purely  a 

cave, 

the  feet 

Are  damned  beyond  redemption.     For 

Of     his     Kedemption     falling,     maj 

a  while, 

arise 

Slaves  of  their  bodies,  in  the  sloughs  of 

Of  Christ  accepted.      Whoso  doubt 

Sin, 

the  truth, 

They  roll  contented,  wallowing  in  the 

Doubting  how  deep  divine  Compassioi 

arms 

is, 

OR,  THE  BATTLE  VF  THE  SARDS. 


Lend  to  my  tale  a  willing    ear,   and 

learn. 
Full  twenty  summers  have  fled  o'er  the 

land, 
A  score  of  winters  on  our  Landgrave's 

head 
Have  showered  their  snowy   honors, 

since  .he  days 
When  in  his  court  no  nobler  knight 

w:  s  known, 
And  in  his  halls  no  happier  bard  was 

heard, 
Then  bright   Tannhauser.      Warrior, 

minstrel,  he 
Throve  for  a  while  within  the  general 

eye, 
As    some   king  -  cedar,    in    Crusader 

tales, 
The  stateliest  growth  of  Lebanonian 

groves: 
For  now  I  sing  him  in  his  matchless 

prime, 
Not,  as  in  latter  days,   defaced  and 

marred 
By   secret  sin,  and    like    the  wasted 

torch 
Found  in  the  dank  grass  at  the  ghastly 

dawn, 
After   a   witches'    revel.      He  was  a 

man 
In  whom  prompt  Nature,  as  in  those 

soft  chimes 

Where  life  is  indolently  opulent, 
Blossomed    unbid    to     graces    barely 

won 
From  tedious  culture,  where  less  kindly 

stars 
Cold  influence  keep;  and  trothful  men, 

who  once 
Looked  into  his  lordly,  luminous  eyes, 

and  scanned 
His  sinewous  frame,  compact  of  pliant 

power, 
Aver    he    was    the    fairest  -  favored 

knight 
That    ever,    in    the    light    of    ladies' 

looks, 
Made  gay  these  goodly  halls.       Oh  ! 

deeper  dole, 
That  so  august  a  Spirit,  sphered  so 

fair, 
Should  from  the  starry  sessions  of  his 

peers 

Decline,  to  quench  so  bright  a  brill- 
iancy 
In  Hell's  sick  spume.      Ay  me,  the 

deeper  dole ! 


From  yonder  tower  the  wheeling  lap- 
wing loves 

Beyond  all  others,  that  o'ertops  the 
pines, 

And  from  his  one  white,  wistful  window 
stares 

Into  the  sullen  heart  o'  the  land, — ere- 
while 

The  wandering  woodman  oft,  at  night- 
fall, heard 

A  sad,  wild  strain  of  solitary  song 

Float  o'er  the  forest.  Whoso  heard  it, 
paused 

Compassionately,  crossed  himself,  and 
sighed, 

"Alas  !  poor  Princess,  to  thy  piteous 
moan 

Heaven  sent  sweet  peace  !  "  Heaven 
heard,  and  now  she  lies 

Under  the  marble  'mid  the  silent 
tombs, 

Calm  with  her  kindred;  as  her  soul 
above 

Bests  with  the  saints  of  God. 

The  brother's  child 
Of  our  good  lord  the  Landgrave  was 

this  maid, 
And  here  with  him  abode;  for  in  the 

breach 

At  Ascalon,  her  sire  in  Holy  Land 
Had  fallen,  fighting    for  the    Cross. 

These  halls 
Sheltered  her  infancy,   and  here  she 

grew 
Among  the   shaggy  barons,  like  the 

pale, 
Mild-eyed,  March- violet  of  the  North, 

that  blows 
Bleak  under  bergs  of  ice.     Full  fair  she 

grew, 

And    all    men   loved   the  fair   Eliza- 
beth; 
But  she,  of  all  men,  loved  one  man  the 

most, 
Tannhauser,  minstrel,  knight,  the  man 

in  whom 
All  mankind  flowered.     Fairer  growth, 

indeed, 
Of  knighthood  never  blossomed  to  the 

eye; 
But,  furled  beneath  that  florid  surface, 

lurked 
A  vice  of  nature,  breeding  death,  not 

life; 
Suoh  as  where  some  rich  Roman,  to 

delight 


270 


TANNHXUSER; 


Luxurious      days    with    labyrinthian 
walks 

Of  rose    and  lily,   marble  fountains, 
forms 

Wanton  of  Grace  or  Nymph,  and  wind- 
ing frieze 

With  sculpture  rough,  hath  decked  the 
summer  haunts 

Of  his  voluptuous  villa, — there,  fes- 
tooned 

With  flowers,  among  the  Graces  and 
the  Gods, 

The  lurking  fever  glides. 

A  dangerous  skill, 

Caught  from  the  custom  of  those  trou- 
badours 

That  roam  the  wanton  Sonth,  too  near 
the  homes 

Of  the  lost  gods,  had  crept  in  careless 
use 

Among  our  northern  bards;  to  play  the 
thief 

Upon  the  poets  of  a  pagan  time, 

And  steal  to  purfle  their  embroidered 
lays, 

Voluptuous    trappings    of    lascivious 
lore. 

Hence  had  Tannhauser,  from  of  old, 
indulged 

In   song    too    lavish    license  to  mis- 
lead 

The    sense    among    those    fair    but 
phantom  forms 

That    haunt    the    unhallowed    past: 
wherefrom  One  Shape 

Forth  of    the  cloudy    circle    gradual 
grew 

Distinct,  in  dissolute  beauty.     She  of 
old, 

Who  from  the  idle  foam  uprose,   to 
reign 

In    fancies    all    as    idle,  —  that    fair 
fiend, 

Venus,  whose  temples  are  the  veins  in 
youth. 


Now  more  and  ever  more  she  mixed 
herself 

With  all  his  moods,  and  whispered  in 
his  walks; 

Or  through  the  misty  minster,  when 
he  kneeled 

Meek,  on  the  flint,  athwart  the  incense- 
smoke 

She  stole  on  sleeping  sunbeams, 
sprinkled  sounds 


Of  cymbals  through  the  silver  psalms, 
and  marred 

His  adoration:  most  of  all,  when- 
e'er 

He  sought  to  fan  those  fires  of  holy 
love 

That,  sleeping  oftenest,  sometimes 
leapt  to  flame, 

Kindled  by  kindred  passion  in  the 
eyes 

Of  sweet  Elizabeth,  round  him  rose 
and  rolled 

That  misei able  magic;  and,  at  times, 

It  drove  him  forth  to  wander  in  the 

waste 

And  desert  places,  there  where  prayer- 
less  man 
Is  most  within  the  power  of  prowling 

fiends. 
Time    put   his    sickle    in  among  the 

days. 
Outcropped  the  coming  harvest;  and 

there  came 
An  evening  with  the  Princess,  when 

they  twain 
Together    ranged    the     terrace    that 

o'erlaps 
The  great  south  garden.  All  her  simple 

hair 
A    single   sunbeam   from    the  sleepy 


O'erfloated;  swam  her  soft  blue  eyes 

suffused 
With  tender  ruth,  and  her  meek  face 

was  moved 
To  one  slow,  serious  smile,  that  stole 

to  find 
Its  resting-place  on  his. 

Then,  while  he  looked 

On  that  pure  lovliness,  within  him- 
self 

He  faintly  felt  a  mystery  like  pure 
love: 

For  through  the  arid  hollows  of  a 
heart 

Sered  by  delirious  dreams,  the  dewy 


Of  innocent  worship  stole.     The  one 

great  word 
That  long  had  hovered  in  the    silent 

mind 
Now  on  the  lip  half  settled;  for  not 

yet 
Had  love  between  them  been  a  spoken 

sound 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


271 


For   after   speech    to  lean  on;    only 

here 
And   there,   where    scattered    pauses 

strewed  their  talk, 
Love  seemed  to  o'erpoise  the  silence, 

like  a  star 
Seen  through  a  tender  trouble  of  light 

clouds. 
But,  in  that  moment,  some  mysterious 

%       touch, 
A  thought  —  who  knows  ?  —  a  memory 

—  something  caught 
Perchance  from  flying  fancies,  taking 

form 
Among  the  sunset  clouds,  or  scented 

gusts 
Of    evening    through    the    gorgeous 

glooms,  shrunk  up 
His  better  angel,  and  at  once  awaked 
The  carnal  creature   sleeping  in  the 

flesh. 
Then  died  within  his  heart  that  word 

of  life 
Unspoken,  which,    if    spoken,  might 

have  saved 
The    dreadful  doom   impending.     So 

they  twain 
Parted,  and  nothing  said:  she  to   her 

tower, 
There  with  meek  wonder  to  renew  the 

calm 

And  customary  labor  of  the  loom; 
And    he     into    the     gradual-creeping 

dark 
"Which  now  began  to  draw  the  rooks  to 

roost 
Along  the  windless  woods. 

His  soul  that  eve 
Shook  strangely    if    some   flickering 

shadow  stole 

Across  the  slopes  where  sunset,  sleep- 
ing out 
The  day's  last  dream,  yet  lingered  low. 

Old  songs 
Were  sweet  about  his  brain,  old  fancies 

fair 
O'erflowed  with  lurid  life  the  lonely 

land: 
The  twilight  trooped  with  antic  shapes, 

and  swarmed 
Above  him,  and  the  deep  mysterious 

woods 
With  mystic  music  drew  him   to   his 

doom. 
So  rapt,  with  idle  and    with    errant 

foot 


He  wandered  on  to  Horsel,  and  those 
glades 

Of  melancholy  fame,  whose  poisonous 
glooms, 

Decked  with  the  gleaming  hemlock, 
darkly  fringe 

The  Mount  of  V^nus.  There,  a  drowsy 
sense 

Of  languor  seized  him;  and  he  sat  him 
down 

Among  a  litter    of  loose  stones  and 
blocks 

Of    broken    columns,    overrun    with 
weed, 

Remnants  of  heathen  work  that  some- 
time propped 

A  pagan  temple. 

Suddenly,  the  moon, 

Slant  from  the  shoulder  of  the  mon- 
strous hill, 

Swung  o'er  a  sullen  lake,  and  softly 
touched 

With  light  a  shattered  statue  in  the 
weed. 

He  lifted    up  his    eyes,   and    all    at 
once, 

Bright  in  her  baleful  beauty,  he  be- 
held 

The  goddess  of  his  dreams.     Behold- 
ing whom, 

Lost    to    his    love,  forgetful    of    his 
faith, 

And  fevered  by  the  stimulated  sense 

Of    reprobate    desire,    the    madman 
cried : 

"Descend,  Dn me  Venus,  on  my  soul 
descend ! 

Break  up  the  marble  sleep  of  those 
si  ill  brows 

Where  beauty  broods  !     Down  all  my 
senses  swim, 

As  yonder  moon    to    yonder  love-lit 


Swims  down  in  glory  !" 

Hell  the  horrid  prayer 

Accorded  with  a  curse.     Scarce  those 
wild  words 

Were  uttered,    when    like    mist    the 
marble  moved, 

Flusht   with    false    life.     Deep    in    a 
sleepy  cloud 

He  seemed  to  sink  beneath  the  sumptu- 
ous face 

Leaned  o'er  him,  — all  the  whiteness, 
all  the  warmth, 

And  all  the  luxury  of  languid  limbs, 


272 


TANNHAUSER  ; 


Where    violet    vein-streaks,    lost    in 

limpid  lengths 
Of  snowy  surface,  wander  faint  and 

fine; 
Whilst  cymballed  music,  stolen  from 

underneath, 
Creeps  through  a  throbbing  light  that 

grows  and  glows 
From  glare  to  greater  glare,  until  it 

gluts 
And  gulfs  him  in. 

And  from  that  hour,  in  court, 
And  chase,  and  tilted  tourney,  many  a 

month 
From  mass  in  holy  church,  and  mirth 

in  hall, 
From  all  the  fair  assemblage  of  his 

peers, 

And  all  the  feudatory  festivals, 
Men  missed  Tannhauser. 

At  the  first,  as  when 
From  some  great    oak    his  goodliest 

branch  is  lopped, 

The  little  noisy  birds,  that  built  about 
The  foliage,  gather  in  the  gap  with 

shrill 

And  querulous  curiosity;  even  so, 
From  all  the  twittering  tongues  that 

thronged  the  court 
Rose  general  hubbub  of  astonishment, 
And  vext  surmise  about  the  absent 

man: 
Why  absent?  whither  wandered?    on 

what  quest 
Of  errant  prowess?  —  for,  as  yet,  none 

knew 

His  miserable  fall.     But  time  wore  on, 
The  wonder  wore  away;    round  ab- 
sence crept 
The  weed  of  custom,  and  the  absent 

one 

Became  at  last  a  memory,  and  no  more. 
One  heart  within  that  memory  lived 

aloof; 
One  face,  remembering  his,  forgot  to 

smile; 
Our  Landgrave's  niece  the  old  familiar 

ways 
Walked  like  a  ghost  with  unfamiliar 

looks. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the  days. 
The  rose  burned  out;  red  Autumn  lit 

the  woods; 
The  last  snows,  melting,  changed  to 

snowy  clouds; 

And  Spring  once  more  with  incanta- 
tions came 


To  wake  the  buried  year.     Then  did 

our  liege, 
Lord    Landgrave    Herman,  —  for    he 

loved  his  niece, 
And  lightly  from  her  simple  heart  had 

won 
The  secret  of  lost  smiles,  and  why  she 

drooped, 

A  wilted  flower,  — thinking  to  dispel. 
If  that  might  be,  her  mournfulness, 

let  cry 

By  heralds  that,  at  coming  Whitsun- 
tide, 
The    minstrel-knights    in    Wartburg 

should  convene 
To  hold  high  combat  in  the  craft  of 

song; 
And  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize. 

But,  ere  that  time,  it  fell  upon  a  day 
When  our  good  lord  went  forth  to  hunt 

the  heart 
That  he  with  certain  of  his  court,  'mid 

whom 
Was    Wolfram,— once   Tannhauser's 

friend,  himself 

Among  the  minstrels  held  in  high  re- 
nown, — 
Came    down    the  Wartburgh   valley, 

where  they  deemed 
To  hold  the  hart  at  siege,  and  found 

him  not: 
But  found,  far  down,  at  bottom  of  the 

glade, 

Beneath  a  broken  cross,  a  lonely  knight 
Who  sat  on  a  great  stone,  watching  the 

clouds. 

And  Wolfram,  being  a  little  in  the  van 
Of  all  his  fellows,  eager  for  the  hunt, 
Hurriedly  ran  to  question  ot  the  knight 
If  he  had  viewed  the  hart.  But  when 

he  came 

To  parley  with  him,  suddenly  he  gave 
A  shout  of  great  good  cheer;  for  all  at 

once, 
In  that  same  knight  he  saw,  and  knew, 

though  changed, 

Tannhauser,  his  old  friend  and  fellow- 
bard. 

Now  Wolfram  long  had  loved  Elizabeth 
As  one  should  love  a  star  in  heaven, 

who  knows 
The  distance  of  it,  and  the  reachless- 


But  when  he  knew  Tannhauaer  in  her 
heart 


OK,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


273 


(For  loving  eyes,  in  eyes  beloved  are 

swift 
To  search  out  secrets)  not  the  less  his 

own 
Clave  unto  both ;  and,  from  that  time, 

his  love 

Lived  like  an  orphan  child  in  charity, 
Whose  loss  came  early,  and  is  gently 

borne, 
Too  deep  for  tears,  too  constant  for 

complaint. 
And,  therefore,  in  the  absence  of  his 

friend 
His  inmost  heart  was  heavy,  when  he 

saw 

The  shadow  of  that  absence  in  the  face 
He  loved  beyond  all  faces  upon  earth. 
So  that  when  now  he  foundthat  friend 

again 
Whom  he  had  missed  and  mourned, 

right  glad  was  he 
Both  for  his  own  and  for  the  Princess' 

sake: 
And  ran  and  fell  upon  Tannhauser's 

neck, 
And  all  for  joy  constrained  him  to  his 

heart, 

Calling  his  fellows  from   the    neigh- 
boring hills, 
Who,  crowding,  came,  great  hearts  and 

open  arms 
To   welcome    back   their    peer.     The 

Landgrave  then, 
When  he  perceived  his  well-beloved 

knight, 
Was    passing  glad,    and  would  have 

questioned  him 
Of  his  long  absence.     But  the  man 

himself 
Could  answer  nothing;    staring  with 

blank  eyes 
From  face  to  face,  then  up  into  the 

blue 
Bland  heavens  above,  astonied,   and 

like  one 

Who,  suddenly  awaking  out  of  sleep 
After  sore  sickness,  knows  his  friends 

again, 
And  would  peruse  their  faces,    but 

breaks  off 

To  list  the  frolic  bleating  of  the  lamb 
In  far-off  fields,  and  wonder  at  the 

world 
And  all  its  strangeness.    Then,  while 

the  glad  knights 
Clung  round  him,  wrung  his  hands, 

and  dinned  his  ears 


With  clattering  query,   our   fair  lord 

himself 

Unfolded  how,  upon  the  morrow  morn, 
There  should  be  holden  festive  in  his 

halls 
High  meeting  of  the  minstrels  of  the 

land, 
To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize: 
Whereto  he  bade  him  with,  "  0  sir,  be 

sure 
There  lives  a  young  voice  that  shall  tax 

your  wit 
To   justify   this  absence    from    your 

friends. 
We   trust,    at   least,    that  you   have 

brought  us  back 
A  score  of  giants'  beards,  or  dragons' 

tails, 
To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  our  fair 

niece. 

For  think  not  truant,  that  Elizabeth 
Will  hold  you  lightly  quitted." 

At  that  name, 

Elizabeth,  he  started  as  a  man 
That  hears  on  foreign  shores,   from 

alien  lips, 

Some  name  familar  to  his  fatherland; 
And  all  at  once  the  man's  heart  inly 

yearns 
For  brooks  that  bubble,  and  for  woods 

that  wave 
Before   his    father's    door,    while    he 

forgets 
The  forms  about  him.   So  Tannhauser 

mused 
A  little  space,  then  faltered  :  "0  my 

liege, 
Fares  my  good  lady  well  ?— I  pray  my 

lord 
That  I  may  draw  me  hence  a  little 

while, 

For  all  my  mind  is  troubled:  and,  in- 
deed, 
I  know  not  if  my  harp  have  lost  his 

skill, 
But,  skilled,  or  skilless,  it  shall  find 

some  tone 

To  render  thanks  to-morrow  to  my  lord ; 
To  whose  behests  a  bondsman,  in  so  far 
As  my  poor  service  holds,  I  will  assay 
To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize." 
Then,  on  the  morrow  morn,  from  far 

and  near 
Flowed  in  the  feudatory  lords.     The 

hills 


274 


TANNHAUSER; 


Broke  out  ablaze  with  banners,   anc 

rung  loud 
With  tinglingtrumpet  notes,  and  neigh- 

ing steeds. 

For  all  the  land,  elate  with  lusty  life, 
Buzzed  like  a  beehive  in  the  sun;  and 

all 
The  castle  swarmed  from  bridge  to 

barbican 
With  mantle  and  with    mail,   whilst 

minister-bells 
Eang  hoarse  their  happy  chimes,  till 

the  high  noon 
Clanged  from  the  towers.     Then,  o'er 

the  platform  stoled 
And  canopied  in  crimson,  lightly  blew 
The  sceptred  heralds    on    the  silver 

trump 

Intense  sonorous  music,  sounding  in 
The  knights  to  hall.     Shrill  clinked 

the  corridors 
Through  all  the  courts  with  clashing 

heels,  or  moved 
With    silken    murmurs,    and    elastic 

sounds 
Of   lady  laughters  light;  aa    in    they 


y 
fl 


owed 
Lord,  Liegeman,  Peer,  and  Prince,  and 

Paladin, 
And  dame  and  damsel,  clad  in  dimp- 

ling silk 
And  gleaming  pearl;  who,   while  the 

groaning  roofs 

Ee-echoed  royal  music,  swept  adown 
The  spacious  hall,  with  due  obeisance 

made 
To  the  high  dais,   and  on  glittering 

seats 
Dropped  one  by  one,  like  flocks  of  bur- 

nished birds 
That  settle  down  with  sunset-painted 

plums 
On  gorgeous  woods.     Again  from  the 

outer  wall 
The  intermitted  trumpet  blared;  and 

each 
Pert  page,  a-tiptoe,  from  the  benches 

leaned 
To  see  the  minstrel-knights,  gold-fil- 

leted, 
That  entered  now  the  hall:  Sir  Mande- 

ville, 
The  Swan  of  Eisnach;  Wilfrid  of  the 

Hills; 
Wolfram,  surnamed  of  Willow-brook; 

and  next 


Tannhauser,  christened  of  the  golden 
harp; 

With  Walter  of  the  Heron-chase;  and 
Max, 

The  seer;  SirKudolph,  of  the  Haven- 
crest; 

And  Franz,  the  falconer.  They  enter- 
ed, each 

In  order,  followed  by  a  blooming  boy 

That  bore  his  harp,  and,  pacing  for- 
ward, bowed 

Before  the  Landgrave  and  Elizabeth. 

Pale  sat  the  Princess  in  her  chair  of 
state, 

Perusing  with  fixed  eyes,  that  all  be- 
lied 

Her  throbbing  heart,  the  carven  archi- 
trave, 

Whereon  the  intricate  much-vexed  de- 
sign 

Of  leaf  and  stem  disinterwined  itself 

With  infinite  laboriousness,  at  last 

Escaping  in  a  flight  of  angel  forms; 

As  though  the  carver's  thought  had 
been  to  show 

The  weary  struggle  rf  the  soul  to  free 

Her  flight  from  earth's  bewilderment, 
and  all 

That  frets  her  in  the  flesh.  But  when, 
ere  while, 

The  minstrels  entered,  and  Tannhauser 
bowed 

Before  the  dais,  the  Landgrave,  at  her 
side, 

Saw,  as  he  mused  what  theme  to  give 
for  song, 

The  pallid  forehead  of  Elizabeth 

Flush  to  the  fair  roots  of  her  golden 
hair, 

And  thought  within  himself:  "  Our 
knight  delays 

To  own  a  love  that  aims  so  near  our 
throne; 

Hence,  haply,  this  late  absence  from 
our  court, 

And  those  bewildered  moods  which  I 
have  marked : 

But  since  love  lightly  catches,  where  it 
can, 

At  any  means  to  make  itself  approved, 

A.nd  since  the  singer  may  to  song  con- 
fide 

What  the  man  dares  not  trust  to  simple 
speech, 

I,  therefore,  so  to  ease  two  hearts  at 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


27. 


And  signify  our  favor  unto  both, 

Will  to  our  well-beloved  minstrels 
give 

No  theme  less  sweet  than  Love:  for, 
surely,  he 

That  loves  the  best,  will  sing  the  best, 
and  bear 

The  prize  from  all."  Therewith  the 
Landgrave  rose, 

And  all  the  murmuring  Hall  was  hush- 
ed to  hear. 

"O    well-beloved    minstrels,    in    my 

mind 

I  do  embrace  you  all,  and  heartily 
Bid  you  a  lavish  welcome    to    these 

halls. 
Oft  have  you  flooded  this  fair  space 

with  song, 
"Waked  these  voiced  walls,  and  vocal 

made  yon  roof, 
As  waves   of   surging  music    lapped 

against 
Its  resonant  rafters.     Often  have  your 

strains 

Ennobled  souls  of  true  nobility, 
Kapt  by  your  perfect  pleadings  in  the 

cause 

Of  all  things  pure  unto  a  purer  sense 
Of   their   exceeding   loveliness.      No 

power 
Is  subtler  o'er  the  spirit  of  man  than 

Song- 
Sweet  echo  of  great  thoughts,  that,  in 

the  mind 
Of  him  who  hears  congenial  echoes 

waking, 
Bemultiplies  the    praise    of    what   is 

good. 
Song  cheers  the  emulous  spirit  to  the 

top 
Of  Virtue's  rugged  steep,  from  whence, 

all  heights 
Of  human  worth  attained,  the  mortal 

may 

Conjecture  of  God's  unattainable, 
Which  is  Perfection. — Faith,  with  her 

sisters  twain 
Of  Hope  and   Charity,    ye  oft    have 

sung, 
And  loyal  Truth  have  lauded,  and  have 

wreathed 

A  coronal  of  music  round  the  brows 
Of  stainless  Chastity;    nor    less  have 

praised 
High-minded  Valor,  in  whose  righteous 

hand 


Burns  the  great  sword  of  flaming  For- 
titude, 
And  have  stirred  up  to  deeds  of  high 

emprize 
Our  noble  knights  (yourselves  among 

the  noblest) 
Whether  on  German  soil  for  me,  their 

prince, 
Fighting,  or  in  the  Land  of  Christ  for 

God. 

Sing  ye  to-day  another  theme;  to-day 
Within  our  glad  society  we  see, 
To  fellowship  of    loving  friends    re- 
stored, 
A  long-missed  face;  and  hungerly  our 

ears 

Wait  the  melodious  murmurs  of  a  harp 
That    wont  to    feed    them  daintily. 

What  drew 
Our  singer  forth,  and  led  the  fairest 

light 

Of  all  our  galaxy  to  swerve  astray 
From  his  fixed  orbit,  and  what  now 

respheres, 

After  deflection  long,  our  errant  orb, 
Implies  a  secret  that  the  subtle  power 
Of  Song,  perchance,  may  solve.     Be 

then  your  theme 
As  universal  as  the  heart  of  man, 
Giving  you  scope  to  touch  its  deepest 

depths, 
Its  highest  heights,  and  reverently  to 

explore 
Its  mystery    of    mysteries.     Sing    of 

Love: 
Tell  us,  ye  noble  poets,   from  what 

source 
Springs  the  prime  passion;  to   what 

goal  it  tends ! 
Sing  it  how  brave,  how  beautiful,  how 

bright, 

In  essence  how  ethereal,  in  effect 
How  palpable,  how  human  yet  divine. 
Up  !  up  !  loved  singer,  smite  into  the 

chords, 
The  lists  are  opened,  set  your  lays  in 

rest, 

And  who  of  Love  best  chants  the  per- 
fect praise, 

Him  shall  Elizabeth  as  conqueror  hail 
And  round  his  royal  temples  bind  the 


He  said,  and  sat.  And  from  the  mid- 
dle-hall 

Four  pages,  bearers  of  the  blazoned 
urn 


276 


TANNIIAUSER; 


That  held    the    name-scrolls   of    the 

listed  bards, 
Moved  to    Elizabeth.       Daintily    her 

hand 
Dipped  in  the  bowl,  and  one  drawn 

scroll  delivered 
Back  to    the    pages,   who,    perusing, 

cried: 
"  Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Willow-brook, — 

begin." 

Up  rose  the  gentle  singer — he  whose 

lays, 
Melodious-melancholy,    through     the 

Land 
Live  to  this  day — and,  fair  obeisance 

made, 
Assumed  his  harp  and  stood  in  act  to 

sing. 
Awhile,  his  dreamy    fingers  o'er    the 

chords 
Wandered  at  will,  and  to  the  roof  was 

turned 

His  meditative  face;  till,  suddenly, 
A  soft  light  from  his  spiritual  eyes 
Broke,  and  his  canticle  he    thus  be- 
gan:— 

"  Love  among  the  saints  of  God, 

Love  within  the  hearts  of  men, 

Love  in  every  kindly  sod 

That  breeds  a  violet  in  the  glen; 

Love  in  heaven,  and  Love  on  earth, 

Love  in  all  the  amorous  air; 

Whence  comes   Love?    ah!   tell  me 

where 

Had  such  a  gracious  Presence  birth  ? 
Lift  thy  thoughts  to  Him,  all-knowing, 
In  the  hallowed  courts  above; 
From  His  throne,  forever  flowing, 
Springs  the  fountain  of  all  Love: 
Down  to  earth  the  stream  descending 
Meets  the  hills,  and  murmurs  then, 


Through  the  happy  haunta  of  men. 

Blessed  ye,  earth's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, 

Love  among  you  flowing  free; 

Guard,  oh  !  guard  its  sacred  waters, 

Tend  on  then  religiously: 

Let  them  through  your  hearts  steal 
sweetly, 

With  the  Spirit,  wise  and  bland, 

Minister  unto  them  meetly, 

Touch  them  not  with  carnal  hand. 

"Maiden,  fashioned  so  devinely, 
Whom  I  worship  from  afar, 


Smile  thou  on  my  soul  benignly 
Sweet,  my  solitary  star: 
Gentle  harbinger  of  gladness, 
Still  be  with  me  on  the  way; 
.Only  soother  of  my  sadness, 
Always  near,  though  far  away: 
Always  near,  since  first  upon  me 
Fell  thy  brightness  from  above, 
And  my  troubled  heart  within  me 
Felt  the  sudden  flow  of  Love; 
At  thy  sight  that  gushing  river 
Paused,  and  fell  to  perfect  rest, 
And  the  pool  of  Love  forever 
Took  thy  image  to  its  breast. 

"Let  me  keep  my  passion  purely, 
Guard  its  waters  free  from  blame, 
Hallow  Love,  as  knowing  surely 
It  returneth  whence  it  came; 
From  all  channels,  good  or  evil, 
Love,  to  its  pure  source  enticed, 
Finds  its  own  immortal  level 
In  the  charity  of  Christ. 

"  Ye  who  hear,  behold  the  river, 
Whence  it  cometh,  whither  goes; 
Glory  be  to  God,  the  Giver, 
From  whose  grace  the  fountain  flows, 
Flows    and    spreads    through    all 

creation, 

Counter-charm  of  every  curse, 
Love,  the  waters  of  Salvation, 
Flowing  through  the  universe  !" 
And  still  the  rapt  bard,  though  his 

voice  had  ceased, 
And  all  the  Hall  had  murmured  into 

praise, 
Pursued  his  plaintive  theme  among 

the  chords, 
Blending  with  instinct  fine  the  intricate 

throng 
Of  thoughts  that  flowed  beneath  his 

touch  to  find 

Harmonious  resolution.  As  he  closed, 
Tannhiiuser  rising,  fretted  with  delay, 
Sent  flying  fingers  o'er  the  strings,  and 

sang  :— 

"Love  be  my  theme!  Sing  her  awake, 
My  harp,  for  she  hath  tamely  slept 
In  Wolfram's  song,  a  stagnant  lake 
O'er  which    a    shivering  star  hath 

crept. 
"Awake,    dull    waters,  from   your 

sleep, 

Rise,  Love,  from  thy  delicious  well, 
A  fountain!  —yea,  but  flowing  deep 
With  nectar  and  with  hydromel; 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


277 


"  With  gurgling  murmurs  sweet,  that 

teach 

My  soul  a  sleep-distracting  dream, 
Till  on  the  marge  I  lie,  and  reach 
My  long  lips  towards  the  stream; 
"  Whose  waves  leap  upwards  to  the 

brink 

With  drowning  kisses  to  invite 
And  drag  me,  willing,  down  to  drink 
Delirious  draughts  of  rare  Delight; 
"Who  careless  drink,   as  knowing 

well 

The  happy  pastime  shall  not  tire, 
For  Love  is  inexhaustible, 
And  all-unfailing  my  Desire. 


"Love's    fountain-marge    is    fairly 

spread 
With     every     incense-flower     that 

blows, 
With  flossy  sedge,   and  moss  that 

grows 

For  fervid  limbs  a  dewy  bed; 
"And fays  and  fairies  flit  and  wend 
To  keep  the  sweet  stream  flowing 

free, 

And  on  Love's  languid  votary 
The  little  elves  delighted  tend; 
"And  bring  him  honey-dews  to  sip, 
Kare  balms  to  cool  him  after  play, 
Or  with  sweet  unguents  smooth  away 
The  kiss-crease  on  his  ruffled  lip  ; 
"  And  lily-white  his  limbs  they  lave, 
And  roses  in  his  cheeks  renew, 
That  he,  refreshed,  return  to  glue 
His  lips  to  Love's  caressent  wave; 
"And  feel,  in  that  immortal  kiss, 
His  mortal  instincts  die  the  death,. 
And  human  fancy  fade  beneath 
The  taste  of  unimagined  bliss  ! 


"Thus,  gentle  audience,  since  your 

ear 

Best  loves  a  metaphoric  lay, 
Of  mighty  Love  I  warble  here 
In  figures,  such  as  Fancy  may: 
"  Now  know  ye  how  of  Love  I  think 
As  of  a  fountain,  failing  never, 
On  whose  soft  marge  I  lie,  and  drink 
Delicious  draughts  of  Joy  forever." 
Abrupt  he  ceased,  and  sat.     And  for  a 

space, 
No  longer  than  the  subtle  lightning 

rests 
Upon  a  sultry  cloud  at  eventide, 


The  Princess  smiled,  and  on  her  parted 

lips 

Hung  inarticulate  applause ;  but  she 
Sudden  was  'ware  that  all  the  hall  was 

mute 
With  blank  disapprobation;  and  her 

smile 
Died,  and  vague  fear  was  quickened  in 

her  heart 
As  Walter  of  the  Heron-chase  began  :— 

"  O  fountain  ever  fair  and  bright, 
He  hath  beheld  thee,  source  of  Love, 
Who    sung    thee    springing    from 

above, 
Celestial  from  the  founts  of  Light; 

"  But  he  who  from  thy  waters  rare 
Hath  thought  to  drain  a  gross  delight, 
Blind  in  his  spiritual  sight, 
Hath  ne'er  beheld  thee,  fountain  fair! 

"  Hath  never  seen  the  silver  glow 
Of  thy  glad  waves,  crystalline  clear, 
Hath  never  heard  within  his  ear 
The  music  of  thj  murmurous  flow. 

"The  essence  of  all  Good  thou  art, 
Thy  waters  are  immortal  Kuth, 
Thy  murmurs  are  the  voice  of  Truth, 
And  music  in  the  human  heart: 

"  Thou  yieldest  Faith  that  soars  on 

high, 

And  Sympathy  that  dwells  on  earth; 
The  tender  trust  in  human  worth, 
The  hope  that  lives  beyond  the  sky. 

"  Oh  !  waters  of  the  living  Word, 
Oh !  fair  vouchsafed  us  from  above, 
Oh  !  fountain  of  immortal  Love, 
What  song  of  thee  erewhile  I  heard ! 
"Learn,  sacrilegious  bard,  from  me 
How  all  ignoble  was  thy  strain, 
That  sought  with  trivial  song  to  stain 
The  fountain  of  Love's  purity; 
"  That  fountain    thou    hast    never 

found 
And  shouldst  thou  come  with  lips  of 

fire 

To  slake  the  thirst  of  brute  Desire, 
'T  would  shrink  and  shrivel  to  the 

ground: 
"Who  seeks  in  Love's  pure  stream  to 

lave 
His    gross    heart,   finds  damnation 

near; 

Who  laves  in  love  his  spirit  dear 
Shall  win  Salvation  from  the  wave." 


273 


TANNHAUSER; 


And  now  again,  as  when  the  plaintive 

lay 
Of  Wolfram  warbled    to  harmonious 

close, 
The  crowd  grew  glad  with  plaudits; 


Tannhauser,  ruffled,  rose  his  height, 

and  smote 
Rude  in  the  chords   his  prelude    of 

reply:— 
"What  Love  is  this  that  melts  with 

Ruth, 
Whose  murmurs  are  the  voice    of 

Truth  ? 

Te  dazed  singers,  cease  to  dream, 
And  learn  of  me  your  human  theme: 
Of  that  great  Pas»ion  at  whose  feet 
The-vassal-world  lies  low, 
Of  Love  the  mighty,  Love  the  sweet, 
I  sing,  who  reigns  below ; 

Who  makes  men  fierce,  tame,  wild, 

or  kind, 

Sovran  of  every  mood, 
Who  rules  the  heart,  and  rules  the 

mind, 

And,  courses  through  the  blood: 
Slave  of  that  lavish  Power  I  sing, 
Dispenser  of  all  good, 
Whose    pleasure-fountain     is     the 

spring 
Of  sole  beatitude. 

"  Sing  ye  of  Love  ye  ne'er  possessed 
In  wretched  tropes — a  vain  employ- 
ment! 

I  sing  the  passion  in  nay  breast, 
And  know  Love  only  in  Enjoyment. " 

To  whom,  while  all  the  rustling  hall 

was  moved 

With  stormy  indignation,  stern  uprose, 
Sharp  in  retort,  (Sir  Wilfrid  of  the  Hills : 
"  Up,  minstrels !  rally  to  the  cry 
Of  outraged  Love  and  Loyalty; 
Drive    on    this   slanderer,    all    the 

throng, 

And  slay  him  in  a  storm  of  song. 
O  lecher  !  shall  I  sing  to  thee 
Of  love's  untainted  purity, 
Of  simple  Faith,  and  tender  Ruth, 
Of  Chastity  and  loyal  Truth  ? 
As  well  sing  Day's  resplendent  birth 
To  the  blind  mole  that  delves  the 

earth, 
As  seek  from  gross  hearts,  sloughed 

in  sin, 
Approval  of  pure  Love  to  win ! 


Rather  from  thee  I  '11  wring  applause 
For  Love,  the  Avenger  of  his  cause ; 
Great  Love,  the  chivalrous  and 

strong, 

To  whose  wide  grasp  all  arms  belong, 
The  lance,  the  battle-axe,  and 

thong,  — 

And  eke  the  mastery  in  song. 
"  Love  in  my  heart  in  all  the  pride 
Of  kinghood  sit^,  and  at  his  side, 
To  do  the  bidding  of  his  lord, 
Martial  Valor  holds  the  sword; 
He  strikes  for  Honor,  in  the  name 
Of  Virtue  and  fair  woman's  fame, 
And  bids  me  shed  my  dearest  blood 
To  venge  aspersed  maidenhood: 
Who  soils  her  with  licentious  lie, 
Him  will  I  hew  both  hip  and  thigh, 
Or  in  her  cause  will  dearly  die. 
But  thou,  who  in  thy  flashy  song 
Has  sought  to  do  all  Honor  wrong, 
Pass  on,  —I  will  not  stoop  my  crest 
To  smite  thee,  nor  lay  lance  in  rest. 
Thy  brawling  words,  of  riot  born, 
Are  worthy  only  of  my  scorn; 
Thus  at  thy  ears  this  song  I  fling, 
Which  in  thy  heart  may  plant  its 

sting, 

If  ruined  Conscience  yet  may  wring 
Remorse  from  such  a  guilty  thing." 

Scarce  from  his  lips  had  parted  the 

last  word 
When,  through  the  rapturous  praise 

that  rang  around, 
Fierce  from  his  seat,  uprising  red  with 

rage, 
With  scornful  lip,  and  contumelious 

eye» 

Tannhauser  clanged  among  the  chords, 

and  sang: 
"Floutest    thou    me,    thou 'grisly 

Bard? 

Beware,  lest  I  the  just  reward 
On  thy  puffed  insolence  bestow, 
And  cleave  thee  with  my  falchion's 

blow, — 

When  I  in  song  have  laid  thee  low 
I  serve  a  Mistress  mightier  far 
Than  tinkling  rill,  or  twinkling  star, 
And,  as  in  IB  y  great  Passion's  glow 
Thy    passion-dream  will  melt  like 

snow 

So  I,  Love's  champion,  at  her  call, 
Will  make  thee  shrink  in  field  or 

hall, 
And  roll  before  me  like  a  ball. 


OR,    THE  BATTLE  OF*  THE  BARDS. 


"  Thou  pauper-minded  pedant  dim, 
Thou  starveling-soul,  lean  heart  and 

grim, 
Wouldst    thou  of  Love  the  praises 

hymn  ? 

Then  let  the  gaunt  hyena  howl 
In  praise  of  Pity;  let  the  owl 
Whoop  the  high  glories  of  the  noon, 
And  the  hoarse  chough  becroak  the 

moon  ! 
What  canst  thou  prate  of  Love  ?    I 

trow 

She  never  graced  thy  open  brow, 
Nor  flushed  thy  cheek,   nor  blos- 
somed fair 

Upon  thy  parted  lips;  nor  e'er 
Bade  unpent  passion  wildly  start 
Through  the  forced  portals  of  thy 

heart 
To  stream  in  triumph  from  thine 

eye. 

Or  else  delicious  death  to  die 
On  other  lips,  in  sigh  on  sigh. 

"  Of  Love,  dispenser  of  all  bliss, 
Of  Love,  that  crowns  me  with  a  kiss, 
I    here    proclaim     me    champion- 
knight  ; 

And  in  her  cause  will  dearly  fight 
With  sword  or  song,  in  hall  or  plain, 
And  make  the  welkin  ring  again 
With    my  fierce  blows,   or  fervent 

strain. 

But  for  such  love  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Thou  wisely  hast  abjured  the  steel, 
Averse  to  lay  thy  hand  on  hilt, 
Or  in  her  honor  ride  a  tilt: 
Tame  Love  full  tamely  may'st  thou 

jilt, 
And  keep  bone  whole,  and  blood  un- 

spilt." 
Out  flushed  Sir  Wilfred's  weapon,  and 

outleapt 
From    every    angry    eye  a    thousand 

darts 
Of    unsheathed    indignation,    and    a 

shout 
Went  up  among  the  rafters,  and  the 


Swayed  to  and  fro  with  tumult ;  till  the 

voice 
Of  our  liege  lord  roared  "Peace  !"  and 

midst  the  clang 
Of    those    who  parted  the    incensed 

bards, 
Sounded  the  harp  of  Wolfram.     Calm 

he  stood, 


He    only  calm    of    all    the    brawling 

crowd, 
Which  yet,  as  is  its  wont,  contagion 

caught 
From  neighboring  nobleness,   and  a 

stillness  fell 
On  all,  and  in  the  stillness  soft  he 

sang: 

"  O,  from  your  sacred  seats    look 

down, 

Angels  and  ministers  of  good; 
With  sanctity  our  spirits  crown, 
And  crush  the  vices  of  the  blood, 
"  Open  our  hearts  and  set  them  free 
That  heavenly  light  may  enter  in; 
And  from  this  fair  society 
Obliterate  the  taint  of  sin. 
"Thee,  holy  Love,  I  bid  arise 
Propitious  to  my  votive  lay; 
Shine  thou  upon  our  darkened  eyes, 
And  lead  us  on  the  perfect  way; 
"  As,  in  the  likeness  of  a  Star, 
Thou  once  arosest,  guidance  meet, 
And  led'st  the  pages  from  afar 
To  sit  at  Holy  Jesu's  feet: 

"So  guide  us,  safe   from    Satan's 

snares, 
Shine    out,    sweet    Star,     around, 

above, 

Till  we  have  scaled  the  mighty  stairs, 
And  reached  thy  mansions,  Heaven- 
ly Love  !" 

Then  while  great  shouts  went  up  of 
"Give  the  prize 

To  Wolf  ram,  "leapt  Tannhauser  from 
his  seat, 

Fierce  passion  flaming  from  his  lus- 
trous orbs. 

And,  as  a  sinner,  desperate  to  add 

Depth   to    damnation    by  one   latest 
crime, 

Dies  boastful  of  his  blasphemies — even 
so, 

Tannhauser,  conscious  of  the  last  dis- 
grace 

Incurred  by  such  song  in  such  com- 
pany, 

Intent  to  vaunt  the  vastness  of  his 
sin, 

Thus,  as  in  ecstasy,  the  song  renewed: 

"  Goddess  of  Beauty,  thee  I  hymn, 
And  ever  worship  at  thy  shrine; 
Thou,  who  on  mortal  senses  dim 
Descending,  makest  man  divine. 


"Who  hath   embraced    thee  on    thy 
throne, 

And  pastured  on  tby  royal  kiss, 
He,  happy,  knows,  and  knows  alone, 
Love's  full  beatitude  of  bliss. 

"Grim  bards,  of  Love  who  nothing 

know, 
Now  cease  the  unequal  strife  between 

us; 
t     Dare  as  I  dared ;  to  Horsel  go, 

And  taste  Love  on  the  lips  of  Venus. " 

Uproseon  every  side  and  rustled  down 
The  affrighted   dames;  and,  like  the 

shuddering  crowd 

Of  party-colored  leaves  that  flit  before 
The  gust  of  mid  October,  all  at  once 
A  hundred  jewelled  shoulders,  hud- 
dling, swept 
The  hall,  and  slanted  to  the  doors,  and 

fled 
Before  the  storm,  which  now    from 

shaggy  brows 
'Gan  dart  indignant  lightnings.     One 

alone 

Of  all  that  awe-struck  womanhood  re- 
mained, 
The  Princess.     She,  a  purple  harebell 

frail, 
That  swathed  with  whirlwind,  to  the 

bleak  rock  clings 
When  half  a  forest  falls  before  the 

blast, 
Booted   in   utter   wretchedness,  and 

robed 

In  mockery  of  splendid  state,  still  sat; 
Still  watched  the  waste  that  widened 

in  her  life; 
And  looked  as  one  that  in  a  nightmare 

hangs 
Upon  an  edge  of  horror,  while  from 

beneath 

The  creeping  billow  of  calamity 
Sprays  all  his  hair  with  cold;  but  hand 

or  foot 

He  may  not  move,  because  the  form- 
less Fear 
Gapes  vast  behind  him.     Grief  within 

the  void 
Of  her  stark  eyes  stood  tearless:  terror 

blanched 
Her"  countenance;    and,   over  cloudy 

brows, 
The  shaken  diamond  made  a  restless 

light, 


Aad  trembled  as  the  trembling  star 

that  hangs 
O'er  Cassiopeia  i'  the  windy  north. 

But  now,  from  farthest  end  to  end  of 
all 

The  sullen  movement  swarming  under- 
neath, 

Uprolled  deep  hollow  groans  of  grow- 
.  ing  wrath. 

And,  where  erewhile  in  rainbow  cres- 
cent ranged 

The  bright-eyed  beauties  of  the  court, 
fast  thronged 

Faces  inflamed  with  wrath,  that  rose 
and  fell 

Tumultuously  gathering  from  between 

Sharp-slanting    lanes    of    steel.     For 
every  sword 

Flashed  bare  upon  a  sudden;  and  over 
these, 

Through  the  wide  bursten  doors  the 
sinking  sun 

Streamed  lurid,  lighting  up  that  steely 
sea; 

Which,    spotted    white    with    foamy 
plumes,  and  ridged 

With  glittering  iron,  clashed  together 
and  closed 

About  Tannhauser.     Careless  of  the 
wrath 

Boused  by  his  own   rash  song,   the 
singer  stood; 

Bapt  in  remembrance,   or  by  fancy 
fooled 

A  visionary  Venus  to  pursue, 

With  eyes  that  roamed  in  rapture  the 
blank  air. 

Until  the  sharp  light  of  a   hundred 
swords 

Smote  on  the  fatal  trance,  and  scat- 
tered all 

Its    fervid    fascination.      Swift    from 
sheath 

Then  leapt  the  glaive  and  glittered  in 
his  hand, 

And  warily,  with  eye  upon  the  watch, 

Receding  to  the  mighty  main  support 

That,   from  the  centre,   propped  the 
ponderous  roof, 

There,  based  against  the  pillar,  front- 
ing full 

His  sudden  foes,  he  rested  resolute, 

Waiting  assault. 

But,  hollow  as  a  bell, 

That  tolls  for  tempest  from  a  storm- 
clad  tower, 


OH,   THE  &ATTLE  Off  THE  BAUDS. 


281 


Hang  through  the  jangling  shock    oi 

arms  and  men 
The  loud  voice  of  the  Landgrave.   Wide 

he  swept 
The  solemn  sceptre,  crying  "  Peace  !  " 

then  said: 

"Ye  Lieges  of  Thuringia  !  whose  just 

scorn, 
In  judgment  sitting  on  your  righteous 

brows, 

Would  seem  to  have  forecast  the  dubi- 
ous doom 

Awaiting  our  dicision;  ye  have  heard, 
Not  wrung  by  torture  from  reluctant 

lips, 
Nor  yet  breathed  forth  with  penitential 

pain 
In  prayer  for  pardon,  nay,  but  rather 

fledged 
And  barbed  with  boastful  insolence, 

such  a  crime 
Confest,  as  turns  to  burning  coals  of 

wrath 

The  dewy  eyes  of  Pity,  nor  to  Hope 
One  refuge  spares,  save  such  as  rests 

perchance 
Within  the  bounteous  bosom  of   the 

Church ; 
Who,  caring  for    the    frailty    of    her 

flock, 
Holds  mercy  measureless  as  heaven  is 

high. 
Shuddering,  ourselves  have  listened  to 

what  breaks 
All  bonds  that  bound  to  this  unhappy 

man 

The  covenanted  courtesies  of  knights, 
The  loyalties  of  lives  by  faith  knit  fast 
In  spiritual  communion.      What  be- 
hoves, 

After  deliberation,  to  award 
In  sentence,  I    to  your  high  council 

leave, 
Undoubting.     What  may  mitigate  in 

aught 

The  weight  of  this  acknowledged  in- 
famy 
Weigh  with  due  balance.      What  to 

justice  stern 

Mild-minded  mercy  yet  may  reconcile 
Search  inly.     Not  with  rashness,  not  in 

wrath, 
Invoking  from  the  right  hand  of  high 

God 

His  dread  irrevocable  angel,  Death ; 
Yet  not  unwary  how  one  spark  of  hell, 


If  unexlinguished,  down  the  night  of 

time 
May,  like  the  wrecker's  beacon  from 

the  reefs, 

Lure  many  to  destruction:  nor  indeed 
Unmindtul  of  the  doom  by  fire  or  steel 
This  realm's  supreme  tribunals  have 

reserved 
For  those  that,  dealing  in  damnation, 

hold 
Dark  commerce  with  the  common  foe 

of  man. 
Weigh  you  in  all  its  circumstance  this 

crime: 
And,  worthily  judging,   though  your 

judgement  be 

As  sharp  as  conscience,  be  it  as  con- 
science clear." 

He  ended :  and  a  bitter  interval 
Of  silence  o'er  the  solemn  hall  con- 
gealed, 

Like  frost  on  a  waste  water,  in  a  place 
Where  rocks  confront  each  other. 

Marshalled  round, 
Black-bearded  cheek  and  chin,  with 

hand  on  heft 
Bent  o'er  the  pommels  of  their  planted 

swords 

A  dreary  cirque  of  faces  ominous, 
The  sullen  barons  on  each  other  stared 
Significant.    As,    ere    the    storm    de- 
scends 
Upon  a  Druid  grove,  the  grer.t  trees 

stand 
Looking  one  way,  and  stiller  than  their 

wont, 
Until  the  thunder,   rolling,  frees  the 

wind 

That  rocks  them  together;  even  so, 
That   savage  circle    of    grim-gnarled 

men, 
Awhile    in    silence     storing    stormy 

thoughts, 
Stood  breathless ;  till  a  murmur  moved 

them  all, 
And  louder  growing,  and  louder,  burst 

at  last 

To  a  universal  irrepressible  roar 
Of  voices  roaring,  "Let  him   die  the 

death  !  " 
And,  in  that  roar  released,  a  hundred 

swords 
Rushed  forward,    and  in    narrowing 

circle  sloped 
Sharp  rims  of  shining  horror  round  the 

doomed, 


TANNHAUSEH; 


Undaunted  minstrel.     Then  a  piteous 

cry; 
And  from  the  purple  baldachin  down 

sprang 
The  Princess,  gleaming  like  a  ghost, 

and  slid 
Among  the  swords,  and  standing  in 

the  midst 
Swept  a  wild  arm  of  prohibitien  forth. 

Cowering,  recoiled  the  angry,  baffled 

surge, 
Leaving  on  either  side  a  horrid  hedge 

Of  rifted  glare,  as  when  the  Bed  Sea 

waves 
Hung  heaped  and  sundered,  ere  they 

roaring  fell 
On  Egypt's  chariots.     So  there  came  a 

hush; 
And  in  the  hush  her  voice,  heavy  with 

scorn: 
"Or  shall  I  call  you  men?  or  beasts? 

who  seem 
No  nobler  than  the  bloodhound  and 

the  wolf 
"Which  scorn  to  prey  upon  their  proper 

kind! 

Christains  I  will  not  call  you  !  who  de- 
fraud 
That  much-misapprehended  holy  name 

Of  reverence  due  by  such  a  deed  as, 

done, 
Will  clash    against    the    charities    of 

Christ, 
And  make  a  marred  thing  and  a  mock- 

«ry 
Of  the  fair  face  of  Mercy.     You  dull 

hearts, 

And  hard  !  have  ye  no  pity  for  your- 
selves ? 

For  man  no  pity?  and  man  whose  com- 
mon cause 
Is  shamed  and  saddened  by  the  stain 

that  falls 
Upon  a    noble   nature!    You    blind 

hands, 
Thrust  put  so  fast  to  smite  a  fallen 

friend ! 
Did  ye  not  all  conspire,  whilst  yet  he 

stood 
The  stateliest  soul  among  you,  to  set 

forth 
And  fix  him  in  the  foremost  ranks  of 

men? 
Content  that  he,  your  best,  should  bear 

the  brunt, 


And  head  the  van  against  the  scornful 
fiend 

That  will  not  waste  his  weapons  on  the 
herd, 

But  saves  them  for  the  noblest.    And 
shall  Hell 

Triumph  through  you,  that  triumph  in 
the  shame 

Of  this  eclipse  that  blots  your  bright- 
est out, 

And  leaves  you  dark  in  his  extinguish- 
ed light  ? 

0,  who  that  lives  but  hath  within  his 
heart 

Some  cause  to  dread  the  suddenness 
of  death  ? 

And  God  is  merciful;  and  suffers  us, 

Even  for  our  sins'  sake ;  and  doth  spare 
us  time, 

Time  to  grow  ready,  time  to  take  fare- 
well! 

And  sends  us  monitors  and  ministers — 

Old  age,  that  steals  the  fulness  from 
the  veins ; 

And  griefs,  that  take  the  glory  from 
the  eyes; 

And  pains,  that  bring  us  timely  news 
of  death; 

And  tears,  that  teach  us  to  be  glad  of 
him. 

For  who  can  take  farewell  of  all  his 
sins 

On  such  a  sudden  summons  to  the 
grave? 

Against  high  Heaven  hath  this  man  sin- 
ned, or  you  ? 

O,  if  it  be  against  high   Heaven,  to 
Heaven 

Eemit    the  compt !     less,    from  the 
armory 

Of  the  Eternal  Justice  ye  pluck  down, 

Heedless,  that  bolt  the  Highest  yet 
withholds 

From     this     low-fallen     head, — how 
fallen !  how  low  ? 

Yet  not  so  fallen,  not  so  low  fallen, 
but  what 

Divine  Eedemption,   reaching  every- 
where, 

May  reach  at  last  even  to  this  wretch- 
edness, 

And,  out  of  late  repentance,  raise  it  up 

With  pardon  into  peace." 

She  paused:  she  touched, 

As  with  an  angel's  finger,  him  whose 
pride 


,   TffE  BAl'TLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


man 
all  that  lived  in 


Obdurate  now  had  yielded,  and  he  lay, 
Vanquished  by  Pity,    broken  at  her 

feet. 
She,    lingering,    waited    answer,   but 

none  came 
Across   the    silence.      And   again  she 

spake: 

"  O  not  for  him   alone,  and  not  for 

that 
Which  to  remember  now  makes  life  for 

me 
A    wilderness    of   homeless  griefs,   I 

plead 

Before  you ;  but,  0  Princess,  for  your- 
selves; 

For  all  that  in  your  nobler  nature  stirs 
To  vindicate  Forgiveness  and  enlarge 
The  lovely  laws  of  Pity  !    Which  of 

you, 

Herein  the  witness  of  all-judging  God, 
Stands  spotless?    Which  of  you  will 

boast  himself 

More  miserably  injured  by  this  i 
Than  I,  whose  heart  of  all  that  li 

it 

He  hath  untenanted  ?     0,  horrible  ! 
Unheard  of !  from  the  blessed  lap  of 

life 

To  send  the  soul,  asleep  in  all  her  sins, 
Down  to  perdition  !    Be  not  yours  the 

hands 
To  do  this  desperate  wrong  in  sight  of 

all 
The  ruthful  faces   of  the   Saints    in 

Heaven." 

She    passionately  pleading  thus,    her 

voice 
Over  their    hearts    moved    like    that 

earnest  wind 
That,  laboring  long  against  some  great 

nigh  cloud, 

Sets  free,  at  last,  a  solitary  star, 
Then  sinks;  but  leaves  the  night  not 

all  forlorn 
Ere  the  soft  rain  o'ercomes  it. 

This  long  while 
Wolfram,  whose  harp  and  voice  were 

overborne 

By  burly  brawlers  in  the  turbulence 
That  shook  that  stormy  senate,  stood 

apart 
With  vainly-vigilant  eye,  and  writhen 

hands, 

All  in  mute  trouble:  too  gentle  to  ap- 
prove, 


To  gentle  to  prevent,  what  passed:  and 

still 
Divided    in  himself    'twixt    sharpest 

grief 

To  see  his  friend  so  fallen,  and  a  drear 
Strange  horror  of  the  crime  whereby 

he  fell. 
So,  like  a  headland  light  tnat  down 

dark  waves 
Shines  o'er  some  sinking  ship  it  fails 

to  save, 
Looked  the  pale  singer  down  the  lurid 

hall. 

But  when  the  pure  voice  of  Elizabeth 
Ceased,  and  clear-lighted  all  with  noble 

thoughts 
Her  face  glowed    as    an  angel's,   the 

sweet  Bard, 
Whose  generous  heart  had  scaled  with 

that  loved  voice 

Up  to  the  lofty  levels  where  it  ceased, 
Stood  forth,  and  from  the    dubious 

silence  caught 
And  carried  up  the  purpose    of  her 

prayer; 
And  drew  it  out,  and  drove  it  to  the 

heart, 
And  clenched  it  with  conviction  in  the 

mind, 
And  fixed  it  firm  in  judgement. 

From  deep  muse 
The  Landgrave  started,  toward  Tann- 

hiluser  strode, 
And,  standing  o'er  him  with  an  eye 

wherein 

Salt  sorrow  and  a  moody  pity  gleamed, 
Spake  hoarse  of  utterance: 

"Arise!  go  forth! 
Go  from  us,  mantled  in  the  shames 

which  make 
Thee,  stranger  whom  mine  eye  hence- 
forth abhors, 
The  mockery  of  the  man  I  loved,  and 

mourn. 
Go  from  these  halls  yet  holy  with  the 

voice 
Of    her   whose  intercession    for    thy 

sake,  — 

If  any  sacred  sorrow  yet  survive 
All  ruined  virtues,  —  in  remorse  shall 

steep 
The  memory  of  her  wrongs.     For  thee 

remains 

One  hope,  unhappiest !  reject  it  not. 
There  goeth  a  holy  pilgrimage  to  Home, 
Which  not  yet  from  the  borders  of  our 
land 


284 


Is  parted;  pious  souls  and  meek,  whom 

tkou 
Haply  may'st  join,  and  of  those  holy 

hands, 
Which  sole  have  power  to  bind  or  loose, 

receive 

Kemission  of  thy  sin.     For  save  alone 
The  hand  of  Christ's  high  Vicar  upon 

earth 
A  hurt  so  heinous  what  may  heal? 

What  save 
A  soul  so  fallen  ?     Go  forth  upon  thy 

ways, 
Which  are  not  ours:  for  we  no  more 

may  mix 
Congenial  minds  in  converse  sweet,  no 

more 
Together  pace  these  halls,  nor  ever 

hear 
Thy  harp  as  once  when  all  was  pure 

and  glad, 
Among  the  days  which  have  been.   All 

thy  paths 
Henceforth  be  paths  of  penitence  and 

prayer, 
Whilst  over  ours  thy  memory  moving 

makes 

A  shadow,  and  a  silence  in  our  talk. 
Get  thee  from  hence,  O  all  that  now  re- 
mains 
Of  one  we  honored?    Till  the  hand 

that  holds 
The  keys  of  heaven  hath  oped  for  thee 

the  doors 

Of  life  in  that  far  distance,  let  mine  eye 
See  thee  no  more.     Go  from  us  ! 

Even  then, 
Even  whilst  he  spake,  like  some  sweet 

miracle, 
From  darkening  lands  that  glimmered 

through  the  doors 

Came,  faintly  heard  along  the  filmy  air 
That  bore  it  floating  near,   a  choral 

chant 

Of  pilgrims  pacing  by  the  castle  wall; 
And  "  salvum  me  fac  Domine"  they 

sung 

Senorus,  in  the  ghostly  going  out 
Of  the  red-litten  eve  along  the  land. 

Then,  like  a  hand  across  the  heart  of 

him 
That.heard  it  moved  that  music  from 

afar, 
And  beckoned  forth  the  better  hope 

which  leads 


A  man's  life  up  along  the  rugged  road 
Of  high  resolve.  Tannhauser  moved, 

as  moves 
The  folded  serpent  smitten    by    the 

spring 
And    stirred    with    sudden  sunlight, 

when  he  casts 
His    spotted    skin,    and,    renovated, 

gleams 
With  novel  hues.     One  lingering  long 

look, 
Wild  with  remorse  and  vague  with  vast 

regrets, 

He  lifted  to  Elizabeth.  His  thoughts 
Were  then  as  those  dumb  creatures  in 

their  pain 
That  make  a  language  of  a  look.     He 

tossed 
Aloft  his  arms,  and  down  to  the  great 

doors 
With  drooped  brows  striding,  groaned 

"  To  Borne,  to  Rome  !" 
Whilst  the  deep  hall  behind  him  caught 

the  cry 
And  drove   it    clamorous  after  him, 

from  all 
Its  hollow  roof  s  reverberating  "Kome!" 

A  fleeting  darkness  through  the  lurid 

arch; 

A  flying  form  along  the  glare  beyond; 
And  he  was  gone.  The  scowling  Eve 

reached  out 

Across  the  hills  a  fiery  arm,  and  took 
Tannhauser  to  her,  like  a  sudden 

death. 

So  ended  that  great  Battle  of  the  Bards, 
Whereof  some  rumor  to  the  end  of  time 
Will  echo  in  this  land. 

And,  voided  now 

Of  all  his  multitudes,  the  mighty  Hall, 
Dumb,  dismally  dispageanted,  laid  bare 
His  ghostly  galleries  to  the  mournful 

moon; 
And  Night  came  down,  and  Silence, 

and  the  twain 
Mingled     beneath       the       starlight, 

Wheeled  at  will 
The  flitter-winged  bat  round  lonely 

towers 
Where,  one  by  one,  from  darkening 

casements  died 
The  taper's  shine;  the  howlet  from  the 

hills 
Whooped;  and  Elizabeth,  alone  with 

Night 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


285 


And  Silence,   and  the  Ghost  of  her 

slain  youth, 
Lay  lost  among  the  ruins  of  that  day. 

As  when  the  buffeting  gusts,  that  ad- 
verse blow 

Over  the  Caribbean  Sea,  conspire 
Conflicting  breaths,  and,  savagely  be- 

g°t> 
The  fierce  tornado  rotatory  wheels, 

Or  sweeps  centripetal,  or,  all  forces 

joined, 
Whirls    circling  o'er    the    maddened 

waves,  and  they 
Lift  up  their  foaming  backs  beneath 

the  keel 
Of    some  frail  vessel,   and  careering 

high 
Over  a  sunken  reck,  with  a  sudden 

plunge 
Confound  her, —  stunned  and  strained, 

upon  the  peak 
Poising  one  moment,  ere  she  forward 

fall 
To  float,  dishelmed,  a  wreck  upon  the 

waves: 
So  rose,  engendered  by  what  furious 

blasts 
Of  passion,   that  fell  hurricane  that 

swept 
Elizabeth  to  her  doom,  and  left  her 

now 

A  helmless  hull  upon  the  savage  seas 
Of  life,  without  an  aim,  to  float  forlorn. 
Longwhile,  still  shuddering  from  the 

shock  that  jarred 

The  bases  of  her  being,  piteous  wreck 
Of  ruined  hopes,  upon  her  couch  she 

lay, 
Of  life  and  time  oblivious;    all    her 

mind, 

Locked  in  a  rigid  agony  of  grief, 
Clasping,  convulsed,  its  unwept  woe; 

her  heart 
Writhing  and  riven;  andherburthened 

brain 
Blind  with  the  weight  of  tears  that 

would  not  flow. 
But  when,  at  last,  the  healing  hand  of 

Time 
Had  wrought  repair  upon  her  shattered 

frame; 
And  those  unskilled  physicians  of  the 

mind  — 
Importunate,  fond  friends,  a  host  of 

kin  — 


Drew  her  perforce  from  solitude,  she 

passed 
Back   to  the  world,  and  walked  its 

weary  ways 
With  dull  mechanic  motions,  such  as 

make 

A  mockery  of  life.  Yet  gave  she  never, 
By  weeping  or  by  wailing,  outward  sign 
Of  that  great  inward  agony  that  she 

bore; 
For  she  was  not  of  those  whose  sternest 

sorrow 
Outpours  in  plaints,  or  weeps  itself  in 

dew; 
Not  passionate  she,  nor  of  the  happy 

souls  ^ 
Whose  grief  comes  tempered  with  the 

gift  of  tears. 
So,  through  long  weeks  and  many  a 

weary  moon, 
Silent  and   self-involved,    without    a 

sigh, 

She  suffered.    There,  whence  consola- 
tion comes, 
She  sought  it  —  at  the  foot  of  Jesu's 

crosg, 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  Virgin- spouse, 
And  in  communion  with  the  blessed 

Saints. 
But  chief  for  him  she  prayed  whose 

grievous  sin 

Had  wrought  her  desolation ;  God  be- 
sought 
To  touch  the  leprous  soul  and  make 

it  clean; 

And  sued  the  heavenly  pastor  to  recall 
rihe  lost  sheep,  wandered  from  the 

pleasant  ways, 
Back  to  the  pasture  of  the  paths  of 

peace, 
So  thrice  a  day,  what  time  the  blushing 

morn 
Crimsoned  the  orient  sky,  and  when 

the  sun 
Glared  from  mid-heaven  or  weltered  in 

the  west, 
Fervent  she  prayed;  nor  in  the  night 

forewent 
Her  vigils ;  till  at  last  from  prayer  she 

drew 

A  calm  into  her  soul,  and  in  that  calm 
Heard  a  low  whisper,  —  like  the  breeze 

that  breaks 
The  deep  peace  of  the  forest  ere  the 

chirp 
Of    earliest   bird  salutes  the  advent 

Day  — 


2S6 


TANNIIAUSER; 


Thrill  through  her,  herald  of  the  dawn 

of  Hope. 
Then  most  she  loved  from  forth  her 

leafy  tower 

Listless  to  watch  the  irrevocable  clouds 
Roll  on,  and  daylight  waste  itself  away 
Along  those  dreamy  woods,  whence 

evermore 
She  mused,   "He    will  return;"  and 

fondly  wove 
Her  -webs  of  wistful  fantasy  till  the 

moon 
Was  high  in  heaven,  and  in  its  light 

she  kneeled, 
A  faded  watcher  through  the  weary 

night, 
A  meek,   sweet  statue  at    the  silver 

shrines, 
In  deep,  perpetual  prayer  for  him  she 

loved. 
And  from  the  pitying  Sisterhood  of 

Saints 
Haply  that  prayer  shall  win  an  angel 

down 

To  be  his  unseen  minister,  and  draw 
A  drowning  conscience  from  the  deeps 

of  Hell. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the  days. 
Blithe  Summer  came,  and  into  dimples 

danced 

The  fair  and  fructifying  Earth,  anon 
Showering  the  gathered  guerdon    of 

her  ploy 
Into   the    lap    of    Autumn;    Autumn 

stored 
The  gift,  piled  ready  to  the  palsied 

hand 
Of  blind    and    begging  Winter;  and 

when  he 
Closed    his    well-provendered    days, 

Spring  lightly  came 
And  scattered  sweets  upon  his  sullen 

grave. 
And  twice    the    seasons  passed,    the 

sisters  three 
Doing  glad    service    for    their  hoary 

brother, 
And  twice  twelve  moons  had  waxed 

and  waned,  and  twice 
The  weary  world  had  pilgrimed  round 

the  sun, 
When  from  the  outskirts  of  the  land 

there  came 
Rumor    of    footsore    penitents    from 

Rome 


Returning,  jubilant  of  remitted  s'n. 

So  chanced  it,  on  a  silent  April  eve 
The  westering  sun  along  the  Wartburg 

vale 
Shot   level    beams,     and    into    glory 

touched 
The   image    of    Madonna, — where   it 

stands 
Hard  by  the  common  way  that  climbs 

the  steep, — 

The  image  of  Madonna,  and  the  face 
Of  meek  Elizabeth  turned  towards  the 

Queen 
Of    Sorrows,    sorrowful    _in    patient 

prayer; 
When,   through  the  silence  and  the 

sleepy  leaves, 
A  breeze  blew  up  the  vale,  and  on  the 

breeze 
Floated  a  plaintive  music.     She  that 

heard, 
Trembled;  the  prayer  upon  her  parted 

lips 
Suspended  hung,  and  one  swift  hand 

she  pressed 
Against  the  palpitating  heart  whose 

throbs 
Confused  the  cunning  of  her  ears.   Ah 

God! 

Was  this  the  voice  of  her  returning  joy  ? 
The  psalm  of  Shriven  pilgrims  to  their 

homes 
Returning?    Ay!  it  swells  upon  the 

breeze 
Thy  "  Nunc  Dimittis"  of  glad  souls  that 

sue 

After  salvation  seen  to  part  in  peace. 
Then  up  she  sprung,  and  to  a  neighbor- 
ing copse 
Swift  as  a  startled  hind,   when  the 

ghostly  moon 
Draws  sudden  o'er  the  silvered  heafher- 

bells 
The  monstrous  shadow  of  a  cloud,  she 

sped, 
Pausing,  low-crouched,  within  a  maze 

of  shrubs, 
Whose    emerald    slivers    fringed    the 

rugged  way 
So  broad,   the  pilgrim's  garments  as 

they  passed 
Would  brush  the  leaves  that  hid  her. 

And  anon 
They  came  in  double  rank,  and  two  by 

two, 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


287 


With  cumbered  steps,   with  haggard 

g  .it  that  told 
Of  bodily  toil  and  trouble,  with  be- 

soiled 
And  tattered  garments;  nathless  with 

glad  eyes, 
Whence  looked  the  soul  disburthened 

of  her  sin, 
Climbing  the  rude  path,  two  by  two 

they  came. 

And  she,  that  watched  with  what  in- 
tensest  gaze 
Them  comiDg,  saw  old  faces  that  she 

knew, 
And  every  face  turned  skywards,  while 

the  lips 
Poured  out  the  heavenly  psalm,  and 

every  soul 

Sitting  seraphic  in  the  upturned  eyes 
With  holy  fervor  wrapt  upon  the  song. 
And  still  they  came  and  passed,  and 

still  she  gazed ; 
And  still  she  thought,   "Now  cornea 

he !"  and  the  chant 
Went  heavenwards,  and  the  filed  pil- 
grims fared 
Beside  her,  till  their  tale  wellnigh  was 

told. 
Then  o'er  her  soul  a  shuddering  horror 

crept, 

And,  in  that  agony  of  mind  that  makes 
Doubt  more  intolerable  than  despair, 
With  sudden  hand  she  brushed  aside 

the  sprays, 
And    from    the   thicket    leaned    and 

looked.     The  last 
Of  all  the  pilgrims  stood  within  the 

ken 
Of    her   keen    gaze,  —  save    him    all 

scanned,  and  he 
No    sooner   scanned   than    cancelled 

from  her  eyes 

By  vivid  lids  swept  down  to  lash  away 
Him  hateful,   being  other  than    she 

sought. 
So  for  a  space,  blind  with  dismay,  she 

paused, 
But,  he  approaching,  from  the  thicket 

leapt, 
Clutched  with  wrung  hands  his  robe, 

and  gasped,  "The  Knight 
That  with  you  went,  returning  not?" 

In  his  psalm 
The  fervid  pilgrim  made  no  pause,  yet 

gazed 
At  his  wild  questioner,  intelligent 


Of  her  demand,  and  shook  his  head 

and  passed. 

Then  she.  with  that  mute  answer  stab- 
bed to  the  heart, 
Sprung  forward,  clutched  him  yet  once 

more,  and  cried, 
"  In  Mary's  name,  and  in  the  name  of 

God, 
Keceived  the  knight  his  shrift  ?  "  And, 

once  again, 
The  pilgrim,  sorrowful,  shook  his  head, 

and  sighed, 
Sighed  in  the  singing  of  his  psalm,  and 

passed. 
Then  prone  she  fell  upon  her  face,  and 

prone 
Within  her    mind    Hope's    shattered 

fabric  fell,— 
The  dear  and  delicate  fabric  of  frail 

Hope 
Wrought  by  the  simple  cunning  of  her 

thoughts, 
That,  laboring  long,   through  many  a 

dreamy  day 

And  many  a  vigil  of  the  wakeful  night, 
Piecemeal  had  reared  it,  patiently,  with 

pain, 
From  out  the  ruins  of    her   ancient 

peace. 

O  ancient  Peace  !  that  never  shall  re- 
turn ; 

O  ruined  Hope  !  O  Fancy  !  over-fond, 
Futile  artificer  that  build 'st  on  air, 
Marred  is  thy  handiwork,  and  thou 

filmlfc  please 
With  plastic    fantasies    her  soul    no 

more. 
So  lay  she  cold  against  the  callous 

ground, 
Her  pale  face  pillowed  on  a  stone,  her 

eyes 

Wide  open,  fixed  into  a  ghastly  stare 
That  knew  no  speculation;    for  her 

mind 
Was    dark,   and   all    her    faculty  of 

thought 
Compassionately  cancelled.     But  she 

lay 
Not  in  the  embrace  of  loyal  Death,  who 

keeps 
His  bride  forever,  but  in  treacherous 

arms 
Of  Sleep  that,  sated,   will  restore  to 

Grief 
Her,  snatched  a  sweet  space  from  his 

cruel  clutch, 


TANNHAUSEE; 


So  lay  she  cold  against    the  callous 

ground, 
And  none  was  near  to  heed  her,  as  the 

sun, 
About  him  drawing  the  vast-skirted 

clouds, 
Went  down  behind  the  western  hill  to 

die. 

Now  Wolfram,  when  the  rumor  reach- 
ed his  ears 
That,  from  their  quest  of  saving  grace 

returned, 

The  pilgrims  1 11  within  the  castle-court 
Were  gathered,  nocked  about  by  happj 

friends, 
Passed  from  his  portal  swiftly,  and  ran 

out 
And  joined  the  clustering  crowd.    Ful 

many  a  face, 
Wasted  and  wan,  he  recognized,  and 

clasped 
Full  many  a  lean  hand  clutching  at  his 

own, 
Of  those  who,  stretched  upon  the  grass, 

or  propped 

Against  the  bo  wider-stones,  were  press- 
ed about 

By  weeping  women,  clamorous  to  un- 
bind 
Their   sandal-thongs    and    bathe  the 

bruised  feet. 
Then  up  and  down,  and  swiftly  through 

and  through, 
And  round  about,  skirting  the  crowd, 

he  hurried, 
With  greetings  fair  to  all;  till,  filled 

with  fear, 

Half-hopeless  of  his  quest,  yet  harbor- 
ing hope, 
He  passed  perplexed  beside  the  castle 

gates. 
There,  at  his  side,  the  youngest  of  the 

train, 
A  blue-eyed  pilgrim    tarried,  and    to 

him 
Turned  Wolfram  questioning  of  Tann- 

hauser's  fate, 
And  learnt  in  few  worda  how,  his  sin 

pronounced 

Deadly  and  irremediable,  the  knight 
Had  faded  from  before  the  awful  face 
Of  Christ's  incensed  Vicar;  and  none 

knew 
Whither  he  wandered,  to  what  desolate 

lands, 

Hiding  his  anguish  from  the  eyes  of 
men. 


Then  Wolfram  groaned,  and  clasped 

his  hands,  and  cried, 
"Merciful  God!"  and  fell  npon  his 

knees 

In  purpose   as    of  prayer,— but,  sud- 
denly, 
About  the  gate  the  crowd  moved,  and 

aery 
Went  up  for  space,  when,  rising,  he 

beheld 
Four  maids  who  on  a  pallet  bore  the 

form 

Of  wan  Elizabeth.     The  whisper  grew 
That  she  had  met  the  pilgrims,  and 

had  learned 
Tannhiiser's  fate,  and  fallen  beside  the 

way. 

And  Wolfram,  in  the  ghastly  torch- 
light, saw 
The  white  face  of  the  Princess  turned 

to  his, 
And  for  a  space  their  eyes  met;  then 

she  raised 
One  hand  towards  Heaven,  and  smiled 

as  who  should  say, 
"  O  friend,  I  journey  unto  God;  fare- 
well!" 
But  he  could  answer  nothing;  for  his 

eyes 
Were  blinded  by  his  tears,  and  through 

his  tears 
Dimly,  as  in  a  dream,    he   saw  her 

borne 
Up  the  broad  granite  steps  that  wind 

within 

The  palace;  and    his    inner  eye,   en- 
tranced, 
Saw  in    a  vision  four    great    Angels 

stand, 

Expectant  of  her  spirit,  at  the  foot 
Of  flights    of    blinding  brilliancy  of 

stairs 
Innumerable,  that  through  the  riven 

skies 

Scaled  to  the  City  of  the  Saints  of  God. 
Then,  when  thick  night  fell  on    his 

soul,  and  all 

The  vision  fled,  he  solitary  stood 
A  crazed  man  within  the  castle-court; 
Whence  issuing,  with  wild  eyes  and 

wandering  gait 
He  through  the  darkness,    groaning, 

passed  away. 
A.11  that  lone  night,  along  the  haunted 

hills, 

By    dizzy  brinks  of    mountain  preci- 
pices, 


OK,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BABDS. 


He  fleeted,  aimless  as  an  unused  wind 
That  wastes  itself  about  a  wilderness. 
Sometimes  from  low-browed  caves,  and 

hollow  crofts, 
Under  the  hanging  woods,  there  came 

and  .went 

A  voice  of  wail  upon  the  midnight  air, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  mourning;  and  the 

voice 
Was  still  the  voice  of  his  remembered 

friend. 
Sometimes  (so  fancy  mocked  the  fears 

she  bred !) 

He  heard  along  the  lone  and  eery  land 
Low  demon  laughters;    and  a  sullen 

strain 
Of  horror  swelled  upon  the  breeze; 

and  sounds 

Of  wizard  dance,  with  shawm  and  tim- 
brel, flew 
Ever  betwixt  waste  air  and  wandering 

cloud 

O'er  pathless  peaks.     Then,  in  the  dis- 
tance tolled, 
Or  seemed  to  toll,  a  knell:  the  breezes 

dropped: 

And,  in  the  sudden  pause,  that  pass- 
ing bell 
With  ghostly  summons  bade  him  back 

return 
To  where,  till  dawn,  a  shade  among 

the  shades 
Of  Wartburg,  watching  one  lone  tower, 

he  saw 
A  light  that  waned  with  all  his  earthly 

hopes. 
The  calm  Dawn  came  and  from  the 

eastern  cliff, 
Athwart  the  glistening  slopes  and  cold 

green  copse, 
Called  to  him,  careless  of  a  grief  not 

hers; 
But  he,  from  all  her  babbling  birds, 

and  all 
Her  vexing  sunlight,    with  a    weary 

heart 
Drew  close  the  darkness  of  the  glens 

and  glades 
About  him,  flying  through  the  forest 

deeps. 
And  day  and  night,  dim  eve  and  dewy 

dawn, 
Three  times  returning,  went  uncared 

for  by; 
And  thrice  the  double  twilights  rose 

and  fell 


About  a  land  where  nothing  seemed 
the  same, 

At  eve  or  dawn,  as  in  the  time  gone 
by. 

But,  when  the  fourth  day  like  a  stran- 
ger slipped 

To  his  unhonored  grave,  God's  Angel 


290 


TANNHAUSER; 


Tannhauser  slione;  ere  sin  came,  and 

with  sin 
Sorrow.    And  now  if  yet  Tannhauser 

lived 
None  knew:  and  if  he  lived,  what  hope 

in  life  ? 
And  if  he  lived  no  more,  what  rest  in 

death  ? 
But  every  way  the  dreadful  doom  of 

sin. 

Thus,  musing  much  on  all  the  mystery 
Of  life,  and  death,  and  love  that  will 

not  die, 
He  wandered  forth,  incurious  of  the 

way; 
Which  took  the  wont  of  other  days,  and 

wound 
Along  the  valley.     Now  the  nodding 

star 

Of  even,  and  the  deep,  the  dewy  hour 
Held  all  the  sleeping  circle  of  the  hills ; 
Nor  any  cloud  the  stainless  heavens 

obscured, 
Save  where,  o'er  Horsel  folded  in  the 

frown 

Of  all  his  wicked  woods,  a  fleecy  fringe 
Of  vapor  veiled  the  slowly  sinking 

moon. 
There,  in  the  shade,  the  stillness  o'er 

his  harp 
Leaning,  of  love,  and  life,  and  death  he 

sang 
A  song  to  which  from  all  her  aery 

caves 
The  mountain  echo  murmured  in  her 

sleep. 
But,  as  the  last  strain  of  his  solemn 

song 

Died  off  among  the  solitary  stars, 
There  came  in  answer  from  the  folded 

hills 
A  note  of  human  woe.     He  turned,  he 

looked 

That  way  the  sound  came  o'er  the  lone- 
ly air; 
And,  seeing,  yet  "believed  not  that  he 

saw, 
But,  nearer  moving,  saw  indeed  hard 

by, 

Dark  in  the  darkness  of  a  neighboring 

hill, 
Lying  among  the  splintered  stones  and 

stubs 
Flat  in  the  fern,  with  limbs  diffused  as 

one 
That,  having  fallen,  cares  to  rise  no 

more, 


A  pilgrim;  all  his  weeds  of  pilgrimage 
Hanging  and  torn,  his  sandals  stained 

with  blood 
Of  bruised  feet,   and,  broken  in  his 

hand, 
His  wreathed  staff. 

And  Wolfram  wistfully 
Looked  in  his  face,  and  knew  it  not. 

<<  Alas ! 
Not    him,"  he  murmured,    "not  my 

friend  ! "    And  then, 
"  What  art  thou,  pilgrim  ?  whence  thy 

way  ?  how  f all'n 
In  this  wild  glen  ?"  at  this  lone  hour 

abroad 
When  only  Grief  is  stirring?"    Unto 

whom 
That  other,  where  he  lay  in  the  long 

grass, 
Not  rising,  but  with  petulant  gesture, 

"Hence! 
Whate'er  I  am,  it  skills  not.     Thee  I 

know 

Full  well,  Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Willow- 
brook, 
The  well-beloved  Singer !" 

Like  a  dart 
From  a  friend's  hand  that  voice  through 

Wolfram  went: 

For  Memory  over  all  the  ravaged  form 
Wherefrom  it  issued,  wandering,  failed 

to  find 
The  man  she  mourned;  but  Wolfram, 

to  the  voice 
No  stranger,  started  smit  with  pain,  as 

all 
The  past  on  those  sharp  tones  came 

back  to  break 
His  heart  with  hopeless  knowledge. 

And  he  cried, 
"  Alas,  my  brother !"    Such  a  change, 

so  drear, 

In  all  so  unlike  all  that  once  he  was 
Showed  the  lost  knight  Tannhauser, 

where  he  lay 
Fallen  across  the  split  and  morselled 

crags, 
Like  a  dismantled  ruin.     And  Wolfram 

said, 
"O  lost!    how    comest    thou,   unab- 

solved,  once  more 

Among  these  valleys  visited  by  death, 
And  shadowed  with  the  shadow  of  thy 

sin  ?" 
Whereto  in  scorn  Tannhauser,  "  Be  at 

rest, 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SARDS. 


291 


O  fearful  in  thy  righteousness  !  not 
thee, 

Nor  grace  of  thine,  I  seek." 

Speaking,  he  rose 

The  spectro  of  a  beauty  waned  away; 

And,  like  a  hollow  echo  of  himself 

Mocking  his  own  last  words,  he  mur- 
mured, "Seek! 

Alas  !  what  seek  I  here,  or  anywhere? 

Whose  way  of  life  is  like  the  crumbled 
etair 

That  winds  and  winds  about  a  ruined 
tower, 

And  leads  nowhither  !  " 

But  Wolfram  cried,  "  Yet  turn  ! 

For,  as  I  live,  I  will  not  leave  thee 
thus, 

My  life  shall  be  about  thee,  and  my 
voice 

Lure  sacred  Hope  back  to  finding  a 
resting-place 

Even  in  the  jaws  of  Death.     I  do  ad- 
jure thee, 

By  all  that  friendship  yet  may  claim, 
declare 

That,   even  though  unabsolved,   not 
uncontrite, 

Thy  soul  no  more  hath  lapsed  into  the 
tmare 

Of  that  disastrous  sorcery.      Bid  me 
hail, 

Seen  through  the  darkness  of  thy  des- 
olation, 

Some  light  of  purer  purpose;  since  I 
deem 

Not  void  of  purpose  hast  thou  sought 
these  paths 

That  range  among  the  places  of  the 
past; 

And  I  will  make  defeat  of  Grief  with 
such 

True  fellowship  of  tears  as  shall  dis- 
arm 

Her  right  hand  of  its  scorpions ;  nor  in 
vain 

My  prayers  with  thine  shall  batter  at 
the  gates 

Of  Mercy,  through  all  antagonisms  of 
fate 

Forcing  sharp  inlet  to  her  throne  in 
Heaven." 

Whereat  Tannhauser,  turning  tearless 
eyes 

On  Wolfram,  murmured  mournfully, 
"  If  tears 

Fiery  as  those  from  fallen-  seraphs  dis- 
tilled, 


Or  centuries  of  prayers  for  pardon 
sighed 

Sad,  as  of  souls  in  purgatorial  glooms, 

Might  soften  condemnation,  or  re- 
store 

To  her,  whom  most  on  earth  I  have 
offended, 

The  holy  freight  of  all  her  innocent 
hopes 

Wrecked  in  this  ruined  venture,  I 
would  weep 

Salt  oceans  from  these  eyes.  But  I  no 
more 

May  drain  the  deluge  from  my  heart, 
no  more 

On  any  breath  of  sigh  or  prayer  re- 
build 

The  rainbow  of  discovenanted  Hope. 

Thou,  therefore,  Wolfram  —  for  her 
face,  when  mine 

Is  dark  forever,  thine  eyes  may  still  be- 
hold— 

Tell  her,  if  thou  unblamed  may'st 
speak  of  one 

Signed  cross  by  the  curse  of  God  and 
cancelled  out, 

How,  at  the  last,  though  in  remorse  of 
all 

That  makes  allegiance  void  and  value- 
less, 

To  me  has  come,  with  knowledge  of 
my  loss, 

Fealty  to  that  pure  passion,  once  be- 
trayed, 

Wherewith  I  loved,  and  love  her." 

There  his  voice, 
Even  as  a  wave  that,  touching  on  the 

shore 
To  which  it  traveled,  is  shivered  and 

diffused, 
Sank,  scattered  into  spray  of  wasteful 

sighs, 
And  back  dissolved  into  the  deeper 

grief. 
To  whom,  Wolfram,  "  O  answer  by  the 

faith 
In  which  mankind  are  kindred,    art 

thou  not 
From  Rome,  unhappiest?"      "From 

Borne?  ah  me  !" 
He  muttered,  "  Home  is  far  off,  very 

far, 

And  weary  is  the  way  !"    But  unde- 
terred 
Wolfram  renewed,  "And. hast  thou  not 

beheld 


292 


TANNHAUSER; 


The  face  of  Christ's  High  Vicar?"  And 

again, 
"  Pass  on,"  he  muttered,  "  what  is  that 

to  thee?" 

Whereto,  with  sorrowful  voice,  Wol- 
fram, "  O  all, 
And  all  in  all  to  me  that  love  my 

friend  !" 
"My  friend!"  Tannhauser  laughed  a 

bitter  laugh 
Then  sadliersaid,  "What  thouwouldst 

know,  once  known, 
Will  cause  thee  to  recall  that  wasted 

word 
And  cancel  all  the  kindness  in  thy 

thoughts ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  learn  my  misery,  and 

learn 
The  man  so  changed,  whom  once  thou 

calledst  '  friend,' 

That  unto  him  the  memory  of  himself 
Is  as  a  stranger."  Then,  with  eyes  that 

swam 
True  sorrow,   Wolfram  stretched  his 

arms  and  sought 
To  clasp  Tannhauser  to  him:  but  the 

other 
Waved  him  away,  and  with  a  shout 

that  sprang 
Fierce  with  self-scorn  from  misery's 

deepest  depth, 
"Avaunt!"    he    cried,    "the    ground 

whereon  I  tread, 
Is  ground  accurst ! 

"Yet  stand  not  so  far  off 
But  what  thine  ears,  if  yet  they  will, 

may  take 
The  tale  thy  lips  from  mine  have  sought 

to  learn ; 
Then,  sign  thyself,  and  peaceful  go  thy 

ways  " 
And  Wolfram,  for  the  grief  that  choked 

his  voice, 
Could  only  murmur  "Speak!"    But 

for  a  while 
Tannhauer   to    sad  silence    gave  his 

heart; 
Then  fetched  back  some  far  thought, 

sighing,  and  said  :— 

"  0  Wolfram,  by  the  love  of  lovlier 

days 

Believe  I  am  not  so  far  fallen  away 
From  all  I  was  while  we  might  yet  be 

frieads", 
But  what  'these  words,  haply  my  last, 

tire  true; 


True  as  my  heart's  deep  woe  what  time 

I  felt 
Cold  on  my  brow  tears  wept,  and  wept 

in  vain, 
For  me,  among  the  scorn  of  altered 

friends, 
Parting  that  day  for  Rome.  Remember 

this: 
That  when,  in  the  after  years  to  which 

I  pass 
A  by-word,   and  a  mockery,   and  no 

more, 

Thou,  honored  still  by  honorable  men, 
Shalt  hear  my  name  dishonored,  thou 

may'st  say, 
'  Greatly  he  grieved  for  that  great  sin 

he  sinned.' 

"  Ever,  as  up  the  windy  Alpine  way, 

We  halting  oft  by  cloudy  convent  doors, 

My  fellow-pilgrims  warmed  themselves 
within, 

And  ate  pnd  drank,  and  slept  their 
sleep,  all  night, 

I,  fasting,  slept  not;  but  in  ice  and 
snow 

Wept,  aye  remembering  her  that  wept 
for  me, 

And  loathed  the  sin  within  me.  When 
at  length 

Our  waylay  under  garden  terraces 

Strewn  with  their  dropping  blossoms, 
thick  with  scents, 

Among  the  towers  and  towns  of  Italy, 

Whose  sumptuous  airs  along  them,  like 
the  ghosts 

Of  their  old  gods,  went  sighing,  I  nor 
looked 

Nor  lingered,  but  with  bandaged  eye- 
balls prest, 

Impatient,  to  the  city  of  the  shrine 

Of  my  desired  salvation.  There  by 
night 

We  entered.  There,  all  night,  forlorn 
Hay 

Bruised,  broken,  bleeding,  all  my  gar- 
ments torn, 

And  all  my  spirit  stricken  with  remorse, 

Prostrate  beneath  the  great  cathedral 
stairs. 

So  the  dawn  found  me.  From  a  hun- 
dred spires 

A  hundred  silvery  chimes  rang  joy: 
but  I 

Lay  folded  in  the  shadow  of  my  shame, 

Darkening  the  daylight  from  me  in  the 
dust. . 


OH,  THE  BATTLE  OP  THE  SARDS. 


293 


Then  came  a  sound  of  solemn  music 

flowing 
To    where    I    crouched;    voices    and 

trampling  feet; 
And,  girt  by  all  his  crimson  cardinals, 
In    all  his  pomp  the  sovran  Pontiff 

stood  ' 

Before  me  in  the  centre  of  my  hopes; 
Which  trembled  round  him  into  glor- 
ious shapes, 
Golden,   as  clouds  that  ring  the  risen 

sun. 
And  all  the  people,   all  the  pilgrims, 

fell 
Low  at  his  sacred  feet,  confessed  their 

sins, 
And,  pardoned,  rose  with  psalms  of 

jubilee 
And  confident  glad  faces. 

"Then  I  sprang 
To  where  he  paused  above  me;  with 

wild  hands 
Clutched  at  the  skirts    I    could  not 

reach;  and  sank 
Shriveringly  back;  crying,     *0  holy, 

and  high, 
And  terrible,  that  hast  the  keys  of 

heaven  ! 
Thou  that  dost  bind  and  dost  unloose, 

from  me, 
For  Mary's  sake,  and  the  sweet  saints', 

unbind 
The  grievous  burthen  of  the  curse  I 

bear.' 
And  when  he  questioned,  and  I  told 

him  all 
The  sin  that  smouldered  in  my  blood 

how  bred, 
And  all  the  strangeness  of  it,  then  his 

face 

"Was  as  the  Judgm  ent  Angel's ;  and  I  hid 
My  own:  and,  hidden  from  his  eyes,  I 

heard: 
"  '  Hast  thou  within  the  nets  of  Satan 

lain? 
Hast  thou  thy  soul  to  her  perdition 

pledged? 
Hast  thou  thy  lip  to  Hell's  Enchantress 

lent, 
To  drain  damnation  from  her  reeking 

cup? 
Then    know    that   sooner    from    the 

withered  staff 
That  in  my  hand  I  hold  green  leaves 

shall  spring, 
Than   from    the    brand    in    hell-fire 

scorched  rebloom 


The  blossoms  of  salvation.' 

"  The  voice  ceased, 
And,  with  it  all  things  from  my  sense. 

I  waked 
I  know  not  when,  but  all  the  place  was 

dark: 

Above  me,  and  about  me,  and  within 
Darkness:  and  from  that  hour  by  moon 

or  sun 

Darkness  unutterable  as  of  death 
"Where'er  I  walk.    But  death  himself  is 

near! 
0,  might  I  once  more  see  her,  unseen; 

unheard, 
Hear  her  once  more;  or  know  that  she 

forgives 
"Whom  heaven  forgives  not,   nor  his 

own  lost  peace; 
I  think  that  even  among  the  nether 

fires 
And  those  dark  fields    of    Doom  to 

which  I  pass, 
Some  blessing  yet  would  haunt  me." 

Sorrowfully 
He  rose  among  the  tumbled  rocks  and 

leaned 
Against  the  dark.     As  one  that  many  a 

year, 

Sundered  by  savage  seas  unsociable 
From  kin  and  country,  in  a  desert  isle 
Dwelling  till  half  dishumanized,  be- 
holds 

Haply,  one  eve,  a  far-off  sail  go  by, 
That   brings   old  thoughts  of    home 

across  his  heart; 
And  still  the  man  who  thinks  —  "  They 

are  all  gone, 
Or  changed,  that  loved  me  once,  and  I 

myself 
No     more    the   same" — watches    the 

dwindling  speck 
With    weary  eyes,    nor    shouts,    nor 

waves  a  hand ; 

But  after,  when  the  night  is  left  alone^ 
A  sadness  falls  upon  him,  aud  he  feels 
More  solitary  in  his  solitudes, 
And  tears  come  starting  fast;  so,  tear- 
ful, stood 
Tannhauser,    whilst   his    melancholy 

thoughts, 
From  following  up  far  off  a  waning 

hope, 
Back  to    himself  came,  one  by  one, 

more  sad 
Because  of  sadness  troubled. 

Yet  not  long 


204 


TANNJIAUSER; 


He  rested  thus ;  but  murmured, ' '  Now, 

farewell: 

I  go  to  hide  me  darkly  in  the  groves 
That  she  was  wont  to  haunt;  where 

some  sweet  chance 

Haply  may  yield  me  sight  of  her,  and  I 
May  stoop,  she  passed  away,  to  kiss 

the  ground 

Made  sacred  by  her  passage  ere  I  die." 
But    him    departing    Wolfram    held, 

"  Vain !  vain  ! 
Thy  footstep  sways  with  fever,  and 

thy  mind 
Wavers  within  thy  restless  eyes.     Lie 

here, 

O  unrejected,  in  my  arms,  and  rest?" 
Now  o'er  the  cumbrous  hills  began  to 

creep 
A   thin  and  watery  light:   a  whisper 

went 
Vague  through  the  vast  and  dusky- 

volumed  woods, 
And,  un  companioned,  from  a  drowsy 

copse 

Hard  by  a  solitary  chirp  came  cold, 
While,    spent    with   inmost    trouble, 

Tannhauser  leaned 
His    wan  cheek  pillowed  upon    Wol- 
fram's breast, 
Calm,  as  in  death,  with    placid    lids 

down  locked. 
And  Wolfram  prayed  within  his  heart, 

"Ah,  God! 
Let  him  not  die,  not  yet,  not  thus, 

with  all 
The  sin  upon  his  spirit !  "    But  while 

he  prayed 
Tannhauser  raised  delirious  looks,  and 


"Hearest  thou  not  the  happy  songs 
they  sing  me  ? 

See'st  thou  not  the  lovely  floating 
forms  ? 

0  fair,  and  fairer  far  than  fancy  fash- 
ioned ! 

O  sweet  the  sweetness  of  the  songs 
they  sing ! 

For  thee,  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  .  the  god- 
dess waits:  for  thee 

With  braided  blooms  the  balmy  couch  is 
strewn, 

And  loosed  for  thee  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  . 
the  golden  zone. 

Fragrant  for  thee  the  lighted  spices  fume 

With  streaming  incense  sweet,  and  sweet 
for  thee 


The  scattered  rose,  the  myrtle  crown,  tht> 

cup, 
The  nectar-cup  for  thee !  .  .  .  they  sing. 

Return, 
Though    late,  too  long    desired,  ...  1 

hear  them  sing, 

Delay  no  more  delights  too  long  delayed: 
Turn  to  thy  rest;  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  . 

the  married  doves 
Murmur;  the  Fays  soft-sparkling  tapers 

tend; 

The  odors  burn  the  pur  pie  bowers  among: 
And  Love  for  thee,  and  Beauty,  waits! 

.  .  .  they  sing." 
"  Ah    me !    ah  madmam  ! "    Wolfram 

cried,  "yet  cram 

Thy  cheated  ears,  nor  chase  with  credu- 
lous heart 
The  fair  dissembling  of  that  dream. 

For  thee 
Not  roses  now,  but  thorns;  nor  myrtle 

wreath, 
But  cypress  rather  and  the  graveyard 

flower 
Befitting   saddest  brows;    nor  nectar 

poured, 
But  prayers  and  tears!    For  thee  in 

yonder  skies 
An  Angel  strives  with  Sin  aud  Death; 

for  thee 
Yet  pleads  a  spirit  purer  than  thine 

own; 
For  she  is  gone !  gone  to  the  breast  of 

God! 
Thy  Guardian  Angel,  while  she  walked 

the  earth. 

Thine  intercessionary  Saint  while  now 
For  thee  she  sues  about  the  Throne  of 

Thrones, 

Beyond  the  stars,  our  star,  Elizabeth ! 
Then  Wolfram  felt  the  shattered  frame 

that  leaned 
Across  his  breast  with  sudden  spasms 

convulsed. 
"Dead!    is  she  dead?"    Tannhauser 

murmured,  "  dead ! 
Gone  to  the  grave,  so  young  murdered 

— by  me ! 

Dead— and  by  my  great  sin  !     0  Wol- 
fram, turn 
Thy  face  from  mine.     I  am  a  dying 

man ! " 
And  Wolfram  answered,  "Dying?  ah, 

not  thus ! 
Yet  make  one  sign  thou  dost  repent 

the  past, 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


295 


One  word,  but  one  !  to  say  thou  hast 

abhorred 
That  false  she-devil    that,   with  her 

damned  charms, 
Hath  wrought  this  ruin ;  and  I,  though 

all  the  world 
Roar  out  against  thee,   ay !    though 

fiends  of  hell 
Howl  from  the  deeps,  yet  I,  thy  friend, 

even  yet 
Will  cry  then  «  Peace  ! '  and  trust  the 

hope  I  hold 
Against  all  desperate  odds,  and  deem 

the  saved." 
Whereto  Tannhauser,  speaking  faintly, 

"Friend, 
The  fiend  that  haunts  in  ruins  through 

my  heart 
Will  wander  sometimes.     In  the  nets  I 

trip, 
When  most  I  fret  the  meshes.     These 

sppnt  shafts 

Are  of  a  sickly  brain  that  shoots  awry. 
Aiming    at    something  better.      Bear 

with  me. 
I  die:  I  pass  I  know  not  whither:  yet 

know 
That    I    die    penitent.      0    Wolfram, 

pray, 

Pray  for  my  soul !     I  cannot  pray  my- 
self. 
I  dare  not  hope:  and  yet  I  would  not 

die 
Without  a  hope,  if  any  hope,  though 

faint 
And  far  beyond  this  darkness,  yet  may 

dwell 
In  the  dear  death  of  Him  that  died  for 

all." 
He  whisper'ng  thus;   far  in  the  Au- 

rorean  East 

The  ruddy  sun,  uprising  sharply  smote 
A  golden  finger  on  the  airy  harps 
By  Morning  hung  within  her    leafy 

bowers; 
And  all  about  the  budded  dells,  and 

woods 
With    sparkling-tasselled  tops,    from 

birds  and  brooks 

A  hundred  hallelujahs  hailed  the  light. 
The  whitethorn    glistened  from    the 

wakening  glen: 
O'er  golden  gravel  danced  the  dawning 

rills: 
All  the  delighted  leaves  by  copse  and 

glade 


Gambolled;  and  breezy  bleatings  came 

from  flocks 
Far  off  in  pleasant  pastures  fed  with 

dew. 

But  whilst,  unconscious  of  the  silent 

change 
Thus  stolen  around  him,  o'er  the  dying 

bard 
Hung  Wolfram,   on  the  breeze  there 

came  a  sound 
Of  mourning  moving  down  the  narrow 

glen; 
And,   looking  up,   he    suddenly    was 

'ware 
Of  four  white  maidens,  moving  in  the 

van 
Of  four  black  monks  who  bore  upon 

her  bier 
The  flower-strewn    corpse    of    young 

Elizabeth. 
And  after  these,  from  all  the  castled 

hills, 

A  multitude  of  lieges  and  of  lords, 
A  multitude  of  men-at-arms,  with  all 
Their  morions  hung  with  mourning; 

and  in  midst 

His  worn  cheek  channelled  with  un- 
wonted tears, 

The  Landgrave,  weeping  for  Elizabeth, 
These,   as  the  sad  possession  nearer 

wound, 

And  nearer,  trampling  bare  the  feath- 
ery weed 
To  where  Sir  Wolfram  rested  o'er  his 

friend, 
Tannhauser    caught    upon  his  dying 

gaze; 

And  caught,  perchance,  upon  the  in- 
ward eye, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  corpse,  the  bier, 

and  far 

Beyond  the  widening  circle  of  the  sun, 
Some  sequel  of  that  vision  Wolfram 

saw : 
The  crowned    Spirit  by    the    Jasper 

Gates; 
The  four  white  Angels  o'er  the  walls  of 

Heaven, 
The  shores  where,  tideless,  sleep  the 

seas  of  Time 
Soft  by  the  City  of  the  Saints  of  God. 

Forth,   with  the   strength  that  lastly 

comes  to  break 
All  bonds,  from  Wolfram's  folding  arm 

he  leapt, 


296 


TANNIIAUSER; 


Clambered  the  pebbly  path,  and,  groan- 
ing, fell 

Flat  on  the  bier  of  love— his  bourn  at 
last! 

Then,  even  then,  while  question  ques- 
tion chased 

About  the  ruffled  circle  of  that  grief, 

And  all  was  hubbub  by  the  bier,  a  noise 

Of  shouts  and  hymns  brake  in  across 
the  hills, 

That  now  o'  erflowed  with  hurrying  feet ; 
and  came, 

Dashed  to  the  hip  with  travel,   and 
dewed  with  haste, 

A  flying  post,  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 

A    withered  staff  o'erflourished  with 
green  leaves; 

Who— followed  by  a  crowd  of  youth 
and  eld, 

That  sang  to  stun  with  sound  the  lark 

in  heaven, 
A  miracle  !  a  miracle  from  Home  ! 

Grlory  to  God  that  makes  the  bare  bough 
green !" — 

Sprang  in  the  midst,  and,  hot  for  an- 
swer, asked 

News  of  the  Knight  Tannhauser. 

Then  a  monk  of 

Those  that,  stoled  in  sable,  bore  the  bier 

Pointing,  with  sorrowful  hand,  "Be- 
hold the  man  !" 

But  straight  the  other,  "  Glory  be  to 
God! 

ITais  from  theVicar  of  the  fold  of  Christ : 

Ihe  withered  staff  hath  nourished  into 
leaves, 

The  brand  shall  bloom,  though  burned 
with  fire,  and  thou 

— Thy  soul  from  sin  be  saved  !"    To 
whom,  with  tears 

That  flashed  from  lowering  lids,  Wolf- 
ram replied : 

"To  him  a  swifter  message,  from  a 
source 

Mightier  than  whence  thou    comest, 
hath  been  vouchsafed. 

See  these  stark  hands,  blind  eyes,  and 
bloodless  lips, 

This  shattered  remnant  of  a  once  fair 
form, 

Liatehome  of  desolation,  now  the  husk 

A.nd  ruined  chrysalis  of  a  regal  spirit 

rhat  up  to  heaven  hath  parted  on  the 
wing! 

3ut  thou,  to  Rome  returning  with  hot 
speed, 

lell  the  High  Vicar  of  the  Fold  of  Christ 


How  that  lost  sheep  his  rescuing  hand 

would  reach, 
Although  by  thee  unfound,  is  found 

indeed, 
And  in  the  Shepherd's  bosom  lies  in 

peace," 
And  they  that  heard  him  lifted  up  the, 

voice 
And  wept.     But  they  that  stood  about 

the  hills 
Far  off,  not  knowing,  ceased  not  to  cry 

out, 
"  Glory  to  God  that  makes  the  bare 

boughs  green  !" 

Till  Echo,  from  the  inmost  heart  of  all 
That  mellowing  morn  blown  open  like 

a  rose 

To  round  and  ripen  to  the  perfect  noon, 
Resounded,  "Glory!  glory!"  and  the 

rocks 
From  glen  to  glen  rang,  "  Glory  unto 

God !" 
And  so  those  twain,  severed  by  Life 

and  Sin, 

By  Love  and  Death  united,  in  one  grave 
Slept.     But  Sir  Wolfram  passed  into 

the  wilds: 
There,  with  long  labor  of  his  hands, 

he  hewed 

A  hermitage  from  out  the  hollow  rock, 
Wherein  he  dwelt,  a  solitary  man. 
There,  many  a  year,  at  nightfall  or  at 

dawn, 
The  pilgrim  paused,  nor  ever  paused 

in  vain, 

For  words  of  cheer  along  his  weary  way. 
But  once,  upon  a  windy  night,   men 

heard 
A  noise  of  rustling  wings,  and  at  the 

dawn 
They  found  the  hermit  parted  to  his 

peace. 
The  place  is  yet.    The  youngest  pilgrim 

knows, 
And  loves  it.    Three  gray  rocks ;  and, 

over  these, 
A  mountain  ash  that,  mourning,  bead 

by  bead, 
Drops  her  red  rosary  on  a  ruined  cell. 

So  sang  the  Saxon  Bard.  And  when 
he  ceased, 

The  women's  cheeks  were  wet  with 
tears;  but  all 

The  broad-blown  Barons  roared  ap- 
plause, and  flowed 

The  jostling  tankards  prodigal  of  wine. 


OLYTEMNESTEA. 


PEESONS  OF  THE  DKAMA. 


AGAMEMNON. 


ORESTES. 
PHOCIAN. 
HERALD. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
ELECTRA. 
CASSANDRA. 
CHORUS. 


SCENE. — Before  the.  Palace  of  Agamemnon  in  Argos. 

shield  of  Agamemnon,  on  the  wall. 
TIME. — Morning.     The  action  continues  till  Sunset. 


Trophies,  amongst  which  the 


I.     CLTTEMNESTKA. 

CLTTEMNESTKA. 

MOBNING  at  last !  at  last  the  lingering 
day 

Creeps  o'er  the  dewy  side  of  yon  dark 
world. 

0  dawning  light  already  on  the  hills  ! 

O  universal  earth,  and  air,  and  thou, 

First  freshness  of  the  east,  which  art 
a  breath 

Breathed  from  the  rapture  of  the  gods, 
who  bless 

Almost  all  other  prayers  on  earth  but 
mine  ! 

Wherefore  to  me  is  solacing  sleep  de- 
nied? 

And  honorable  rest,  the  right  of  all? 

So  that  no  medicine  of  the  slumbrous 
shell, 

Brimmed  with  divinist  draughts  of 
melody, 

Nor  silence  under  dreamful  canopies, 

Nor  purple  cushions  of  the  lofty  couch 

May  lull  this  fever  for  a  little  while. 

Wherefore  to  me, — to  me,  of  all  man- 
kind, 

This  retribution  for  a  deed  undone  ? 

For  many  men  outlive  their  sum  of 
crimes, 

And  eat,  and  drink,  and  lift  up  thank- 
ful hands, 

And  take  their  rest  securely  in  the 
dark. 

Am  I  not  innocent, — or  more  than 
these? 


There  is  no  blot  of  murder  on  my  brow, 
Nor  any  taint  of  blood  upon  my  robe. 
—It  is  the  thought !  it  is  the  thought ! 

.  .  .  and  men 
Judge  us  by  acts  !  ...  as  though  one 

thunder-clap 

Let  all  Olympus  out.  Unquiet  heart, 
111  fares  it  with  thee  since,  ten  sad 

years  past, 

In  one  wild  hour  of  unacquainted  joy, 
Thou  didst  set  wide  thy  lonely  bridal 

doors 

For  a  forbidden  guest  to  enter  in  ! 
Last  night,  methought    pale    Helen, 

with  a  frown, 
Swept  by  me,  murmuring,  "I  —  such 

as  thou  — 
A  Queen  in  Greece  —  weak-hearted, 

(woe  is  me !) 

Allured  by  love  —  did,  in  an  evil  hour, 
Fall  off  from  duty.  Sorrow  came. 

Beware !" 
And  then,  in  sleep,   there  passed  a 

baleful  band,  — 
The  ghosts  of  all  the  slaughtered  under 

Troy, 
From  this  side  Styx,  who  cried,  "  For 

such  a  crime 

We  fell  from  our  fair  palaces  on  earth, 
And  wander,  starless,  here.  For  such 

a  crime 
A  thousand  ships  were  launched,  and 

tumbled  down 
The  topless  towers  of  Ilion,  though 

they  rose 
To  magic  music,  in  the  time  of  Gods  1 


298 


CLYTEMNESTHA. 


With  such  fierce  thoughts  f  oreverrnore 
at  war, 

Text  not  alone  by  hankering  wild  re- 
grets, 

But  fears,  yet  worse,  of  that  which 
soon  must  come, 

My  heart  waits  armed,  and  from  the 
citadel 

Of  its  high  sorrow,  sees  far  off  dark 
shapes, 

And  hears  the  footsteps  of  Necessity 

Tread  near,  and  nearer,  hand  in  hand 
with  Woe. 

Last  night  the  naming  Herald  warning 
urged 

Up  all  the  hills  —  small  time  to  pause 
and  plan  ! 

Counsel  is  weak  :  and  much  remains 
to  do, 

That  Agamemnon,  and,  if  else  remain 

Of  that  enduring  band  who  sailed  for 
Troy 

Ten  years  ago  (and  some  sailed  Lethe- 
ward), 

Find  us  not  unprepared  for  their  re- 
turn. 

But— hark!      I    hear    the    tread    of 

nimble  feet 
That  sound  this  way.     The  rising  town 

is  poured 

About  the  festive  altars  of  the  Gods, 
And  from  the  heart  of  the  great  Agora, 
Lets  out   its  gladness    for    this  last 

night's  news. 

—  Ah,  so  it  is  !  Insidious,  sly  Eeport, 
Sounding,  oblique,  like  Loxian  oracles, 
Tells  double-tongued  (and  with  the 

self-same  voice !) 
To  some  new  gladness,  new  despair  to 

some. 

IL    CHORUS    AND    CLYTEMNES- 
TKA. 

CHORUS. 

O  dearest  Lady,  daughter  of  Tyndarus  ! 
With  purple  flowers  we  come,  and  of- 
ferings — 

Oil,  and  wine  ;  and  cakes  of  honey, 
Soothing,  unadulterate;  tapestries 
Woven  by  white  Argive  maidens, 
God-descended  (woven  only 
For  the  homeward  feet  of  Heroes) 
To  celebrate  this  glad  intelligence 
Which  last  night  the  fiery  courier 
Brought  us,  posting  up  from  Ilion, 
Wheeled  above  the  dusky  circle 


Of  the  hills  from  lighted  Ida. . 

For  now  (Troy  lying  extinguisht 

Underneath  a  mighty  Woe) 

Our  King  and  chief  of  men, 

Agamemnon,  returning 

(And  with  him  the  hope  of  Argos), 

Shall  worship  at  the  Tutelary  Altars 

Of  their  dear  native  land  : 

In  the  fane  of  ancient  Here, 

Or  the  great  Lycsean  God  ; 

Immortally    crowned    with    reverend 

honor ! 
But  tell    us    wherefore,     0    godlike 

woman, 

Having  a  lofty  trouble  in  your  eye, 
You  walk  alone  with  loosened  tresses? 

OLYTEMNESTBA. 

Shall  the  ship  toss,  and  yet  the  helm 

not  heave? 
Shall  they  drowse  sitting  at  the  lower 

oars, 
When    those    that    hold    the    middle 

benches  wake? 

He  that  is  yet  sole  eye  of  all  our  state 
Shining  not  h^re,  shall  ours  be  shut  in 

dreams  ? 
But  haply  you  (thrice  happy  !)  prove 

not  this, 
The  curse  of  Queens,  and  worse  than 

widowed  wives  — 

To  wake,  and  hear,  all  night,  the  wan- 
dering gnat 
Sing  through  the  silent  chambers,  while 

Alarm, 
In  place  of  Slumber,   by  the  haunted 

couch 
Stands  sentinel;  or  -when  from  coast  to 

coast 
Wails  the  night-wandering  wind,   or 

when  o'er  heaven 
Bootes     hath     unleashed     his    fiery 

hounds, 
And  Night  her  glittering  camps  hath 

set,  and  lit 
Her  watch-fires  through  the  silence  of 

the  skies, 
—  To  count  ill  chances  in  the  dark, 

and  feel 
Deserted  pillows  wet  with  tears,  not 

kisses, 
Where  kisses  once  fell. 

But  now  Expectation 
Stirs  up  such  restless  motions  of  the, 

blood 

As  suffer  not  my  lids  to  harbor  sleep. 
Wherefore,  O  beloved  companions, 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


299 


I  wake  betimes,  and  wander  up  and 
down, 

Looking  toward  the  distant  hill- tops, 

From  whence  shall  issue  fair  fulfil- 
ment 

Of  all  our  ten-years'  hoping.  For,  be- 
hold ! 

Troy  being  captived,  we  shall  see  once 
more 

Those  whom  we  loved  in  days  of  old. 

Yet  some  will  come  not  from  the 
Phrygian  shore, 

But  there  lie  weltering  to  the  surf  and 
wind ; 

Exiled  from  day,  in  darkness  blind, 

Or  having  crost  unhappy  Styx. 

And  some  who  left  us  full  of  vigorous 
youth 

Shall  greet  us  now  gray-headed  men. 

But  if  our  eyes  behold  again 

Our  long-expected  chief,  in  truth, 

Fortune  for  us  hath  thrown  the  Treble 
Six. 


By  us,  indeed,  these  things  are  also 

wisht. 
Wherefore,  if  now  to  this  great  son  of 

Atreus 
(Having  survived  the  woeful  walls  of 

Troy), 
With  us,  once  more,  the  Gods  permit 

to  stand 
A    glad    man    by    the  pillars  of  his 

hearth, 
Let  his  dear  life  henceforth  be  such 

wherein 
The    Third  Libation   often  shall    be 

poured. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  let  his  place  be  numbered  with 

the  Gods, 

Who  overlook  the  world's  eternal  walls, 
Out  of  all  reach  of  sad  calamities. 

CHOBtTS. 

It  is  not  well,  I  think,  that  men  should 

set 

Too  near  the  Gods  any  of  mortal  kind  : 
But  brave  men  are  as  Gods  upon  the 

earth. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  whom  Death  daunts  not,  these 
are  truly  brave. 


CHOBUS. 
But  more  than  all  I  reckon  that  man 

blest, 
Who,  having  sought  Death  nobly,  finds 

it  not. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Except  he  find  it  where  he  does  not 

seek. 

CHORUS. 

You  speak  in  riddles. 

CLTTEMNESTRA. 

For  so  Wisdom  speaks. 
But  now  do  you  with  garlands  wreathe 

the  altars, 

While  I,  within,  the  House  prepare. 
That  so  our  King,  at  his  returning, 
With  his  golden  armament, 
Find  us  not  unaware 
Of  the  greatness  of  the  event. 

CHORUS. 
Soon  shall  we  see  the  faces  that  we 

loved. 

Brother  once  more  clasping  brother, 
As  in  the  unforgotten  days  : 
And  heroes,  meeting  one  another 
(Men  by  glorious  toils  approved) 
Where  once  they  roved, 
Shall  rove  again  the  old  familiar  ways. 
And  they  that  from  the  distance  come 
Shall  feed  their  hearts  with  tales  of 

home ; 

And  tell  the  famous  story  of  the  war, 
Eumored  sometime  from  afar. 
Now  shall  these  again  behold 
The  ancient  Argos  and  the  grove  ; 
Long  since  trod 

By  the  frenzied  child  of  Inachus  ; 
And  the  Forum,  famed  of  old, 
Of  the  wolf-destroying  God  ; 
And  the  opulent  Mycenae, 
Home  of  the  Pelopidae, 
While  they  rove  with  those  they  love, 
Holding  pleasant  talk  with  us. 
O  how  gloriously  they  went, 
That  avenging  armament ! 
As  though  Olympus  in  her  womb 
No  longer  did  entomb 
The  greatness  of  a  bygone  world  — 
Gods  and  godlike  men  — 
But  cast  them  forth  again 
To  frighten  Troy  :    such  storm  was 

hurled 

On  her  devoted  towers 
By  the  retributive  Deity, 


300 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


Whosoe'er  he  be 

Of  the  Immortal  Powers  — 

Or  maddening  Pan,  if  he  chastise 

His  Shepherd  s  Phrygian  treacheries  ; 

Or  vengeful  Loxias  ;  or  Zeus, 

Angered  for  the  shame  and  abuse 

Of  a  great  man's  hospitality. 

As  wide  as  is  Olympus'  span 

Is  the  power  of  the  high  Gods  ; 

Who,  in  their  golden  blest  abodes 

See  all  things,  looking  from  the  sky ; 

And  Heaven  is  hard  to  pacify 

For  the  wickedness  of  man. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  vague  forbod- 

ings, 

And  opprest  by  unknown  terrors 
Lest,  in  tie  light  of  so  much  gladness, 
Eise  the  shadow  of  ancient  wrong. 
O  Daemon  of  the  double  lineage 
Of  Tantalus ;  and  the  Pleisthenidse, 
Inexorable  in  thy  mood, 
On  the  venerable  threshold 
Of  the  ancient  house  of  Pelops 
Surely  is  enough  of  blood ! 
Wherefore  does  my  heart  misgive  me  ? 
Wherefore  comes  this  doubt  to  grieve 

me? 

0,  may  no  Divine  Envy 
Follow  home  the  Argive  army, 
Being  vext  for  things  ill-done 
In  wilful  pride  of  stubborn  war, 
Long  since,  in  the  distant  lands ! 
May  no  Immortal  wrath  pursue 
Our  dear  King,  the  Light  of  Argos, 
For  the  unhappy  sacrifice 
Of  a  daughter ;  working  evil 
In  the  dark  heart  of  a  woman  ; 
Or  some  household  treachery, 
And  a  curse  from  kindred  hands  ! 

III.     CLYTEMNESTEA. 

CLTTEMNESTKA. 

[Re-entering  from  the  house. 

To-morrow  ...  ay,  what  if  to-day? 
.  .  .  Well— then? 

Why,  if  those  tongues  of  flame,  with 
which  last  night 

The  land  was  eloquent,  spoke  certain 
truth, 

By  this  perchance  through  green 
Saronic  rocks 

Those  black  ships  glide  .  .  .  per- 
chance .  .  .  Well,  what's  to 
fear? 


'T  were  well  to   dare  the    worst — to 

know  the  end — 
Die  soon,  or  live  secure.     What's  left 

to  add 
To  years  of  nights  like  those  which  I 

have  known  ? 
Shall  I  shrink  now  to  meet  one  little 

hour 
Which  I  have  dared  to  contemplate 

for  years  ? 
By  all  the  Gods,  not  so  !    The   end 

crowns  all, 
Which  if  we  fail  to  seize,  that's  also 

lost 
Which  went  before :    as  who   would 

lead  a  host 

Through  desolate  dry  places,  yet  re- 
turn 
In  sight  of  kingdoms,  when  the  Gods 

are  roused 

To  mark  the  issue?  .  .  .  And  yet,  yet 

—I  think 

Three   nights  ago  there   must   have 

been  sea-storms. 
The  wind  was  wild  among  the  Palace 

towers : 

Far  off  upon  the  hideous  Element 
I  know  it  huddled  up   the  petulant 

waves, 
Whose     shapeless     and     bewildering 

precipices 
Led  to  the  belly  of  Orcus  ...  0,  to 

slip 

Into  dark  Lethe  from  a  dizzy  plank, 
When  even  the  Gods  are  reeling  on 

the  poop  ! 

To  drown  at  night  and  have  no  sepul- 
chre ! — 
That  were  too  horriMe  !  .  .  yet  it  may 

be 
Some  easy  chance,   that  comes  with 

little  pain, 
Might  rid  me  of  the  haunting  of  those 

eyes, 
And  these  wild  thoughts  .  .  .  To  know 

he  roved  among 
His  old   companions    in    the    Happy 

Fields, 

And  ranged  with  heroes — I  still  inno- 
cent ! 
Sleep  would  be  natural  then. 

Yet  will  the  old  time 
Never   return !    never  those  peaceful 

hours  ! 

Never  that  careless  heart?  and  never- 
more. 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


301 


Ah,  nevermore  that  laughter  without 

pain  ! 
But  I,  that  languish  for  repose,  must 

fly  it. 
Nor,  save  in  daring,  doing,   taste  of 

rest. 
0,  to  have  lost  all    these !    To  have 

bartered  calm, 
And    all    the    irrevocable    vrealth    of 

youth, 
And    gained   .  .  .    what?     But    this 

change  had  surely  come, 
Even  were  all  things  other  than  they 

are. 
I  blame  myself  o'ermuch,  who  should 

blame  time, 

And  life's  inevitable  loss,  and  fate, 
And  days  grown  lovelier  in  the  retro- 
spect. 
We    change :    wherefore   look   back? 

The  path  to  safety 
Lies  forward  .  .  .  forward  ever. 
[In  passing  toward  the  house  she  recognizes  the 
shield  of  Agamemnon,  and  pauses  before  it. 

Ha !  old  shield, 
Hide  up  for  shame  that  honest  face  of 

thine, 
Stare  not  so  bluntly  at  us  ...  O,  this 

man ! 
Why  sticks  the  thought  of  him  so  in 

my  heart? 
If  I  had  loved  him  once  —  if  for  one 

hour  — 
Then  were  there  treason  in  this  falling 

off. 
But  never  did  I   feel  this   wretched 

heart 
Until     it   leaped  beneath    ^Egisthus' 

eyes. 
Who  could  have  so  forecounted  all 

from  first? 
From  that  flusht  moment  when  his 

hand  in  mine 
Bested  a  thought  too  long,  a  touch  too 

kind, 
To  leave  its  pulse  un warmed  .  .  .  but 

I  remember 
I  dreamed  sweet  dreams  that  night, 

and  slept  till  dawn, 
And  woke  with  flutterings  of  a  happy 

thought, 
And  felt,  not  worse,  but  better  .  .  . 

and  now  .  .  .  now  ? 
When  first  a  strange  and  novel  tender- 


Quivered  in  these  salt  eyes,  had  one 
said  then 


"A  bead  of  dew  may  drag  a  deluge 
down"  : — • 

In  that  first  pensive  pause,  through 
which  I  watched 

Unwonted  sadness  on  JEgisthus' 
brows, 

Had  some  one  whispered,  "Ay,  the 
summer-cloud 

Comes  first;  the  tempest  follows."— 
Well,  what's  past 

Is  past.  Perchance  the  worst's  to  fol- 
low yet. 

How  thou  art  hackt  and  hewn,  and 
bruised,  old  shield ! 

Was  the  whole  edge  of  the  war  against 
one  man  ? 

But  one  thrust  more  upon  this  dexter 
ridge 

Had  quite  cut  through  the  double  in- 
most hide. 

He  must  have  stood  to  it  well !  0,  he 
was  cast 

I'  the  mould  of  Titans;  a  magnificent 
man, 

With  head  and  shoulders  like  a  God's. 
He  seemed 

Too  brimful  of  this  merry  vigorous  life 

To  spill  it  all  out  at  one  stab  o'  the 
sword, 

Yet  that  had  helped  much  ill  ...  O 
Destiny 

Makes  cowards  or  makes  culprits  of  us 
all! 

Ah,  had  some  Trojan  weapon  .  .  . 
Fool !  fool !  fool  ! 

Surely  sometimes  the  unseen  Eumen- 
ides 

Do  prompt  our  musing  moods  with 
wicked  hints, 

And  lash  us  for  our  crimes  ere  we  com- 
mit them. 

Here,  round  this  silver  boss,  he  cut  my 
name, 

Once  —  long  ago  :  he  cut  it  as  he  lay 

Tired  out  with  brawling  pastimes  — 

prone  —  his  limbs 
At  length  diffused  —  his  head  droopt 

in  my  lap  — 
His  spear  flung  by  :  Electra  by  the 

hearth 
Sat  with  the  young  Orestes  on   her 

knee  ; 
While  he,  with  an  old  broken  sword, 

hacked  out 
These  crooked  characters,  andlaughed 

to  see 


302 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


(Sprawled  from  the  unused  strength  of 

h  s  large  hands) 
The  marks  make  CLTTEMNESTKA. 

How  he  laughed ! 
JEgisthus'  hands  are  smaller. 

Yet  I  know 
That  matrons  envied  me  my  husband's 

strength. 
And    I    remember    when    he    strode 

among 
The  Argive  crowd  he  topped  them  by 

a  head, 
And  tall  men  stood  wide-eyed  to  look 

at  him, 
"Where  his  great  plumes  went  tossing 

up  and  down 
The  brazen  prores  drawn  out  upon  the 

sand. 
"War  on  his  front  was  graved,  as  on  thy 

disk, 
Shield!    which    he    left  to    keep    his 

memory 

Grand  in  men's  mouth  :  that  some  re- 
vered old  man, 
Winning  to  this  the  eyes  of  our  hot 

youth, 
Might  say,  "'T  was  here,  and  here  — 

this  dent,  and  that  — 
On  such,  and  such  a  Held  (which  we 

remember) 
That  Agamemnon,  in    the  great    old 

time, 
Held  up  the  battle." 

Now  lie  there,  and  rust ! 
Thy  uses  all  have  end.     Thy  master's 

home 
Should  harbor  none  but  friends. 

O  triple  brass, 

Iron,  and  oak !  the  blows  of  blunder- 
ing men 
Clang  idly  on  you:  what  fool's  strength 

is  yours ! 

For,  surely,  not  the  adamantine  tunic 
Of  Ares,  nor  whole  shells  of  blazing 

plates, 
Nor  ashen  spear,  nor  all  the  cumbrous 

coil 
Of  seven  bulls'  hides  may  guard  the 

strongest  king 
From  one  defenceless  woman's  quiet 

hate. 

What  noise  was  that?    Where  can 

^Egisthus  be  ? 
^gisthus!  — my  JSgisthus !  .  .  . 

There  again  ! 
Louder,  and  longer — from  the  Agora — 


A  mighty  shout  :    and  now  I  see  i' 

the  air 
A  rolling  dust  the  wind  blows  near. 

JEgisthus ! 

0  much  I  fear  .  .  .  this  wild-willed 

race  of  ours 

Doth  ever,  like  a  young  unbroken  colt, 

Chafe  at  the  straightened  bridle  of  our 
state  — 

If  they  should  find  him  lone,  irreso- 
lute, 

As  is  his  wont  ...  I  know  he  lacks 
the  eye 

And  forehead  wherewith  crowned  Ca- 
pacity 

Awes  rash  Rebellion  back. 

Again  that  shout ! 

Gods    keep    ^gisthus    safe!    myself 
will  front 

This    novel    storm.     How    my    heart 
leaps  to  danger  ! 

1  have  been  so  long  a  pilot  on  rough 

seas, 

And  almost  rudderless ! 

O  yet  'tis  much 

To   feel    a  power,   self-centred,   self- 
assured, 

Bridling  a  glorious  danger  !  as  when 
one 

That  knows  the  nature  of  the  elements 

Guides  some  frail  plank  with  sublime 
skill  that  wins 

Progress  from  all  obstruction  ;  and, 
erect, 

Looks  bold  and  free  down  all  the  drip- 
ping stars, 

Hearing  the  hungry  storm  boom  baf- 
fled, by. 

JEgisthus  ! .  .  .  hark  !  .  .  .  JEgisthus  ! 
.  .  .  there  .  .  .  JEgisthus  ! 

I  would  to  all  the  Gods  I  knew  him 
safe ! 

Who  comes  this  way,  guiding  his  rac- 
ing feet 

Safe  to  us,  like  a  nimble  charioteer  ? 

IV.     CLYTEMNESTKA.     HERALD. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Now,  gloom-bird  !  are  there  prodigies 

about  ? 
What  new  ill-thing  sent  thee  before  ! 


O  Queen  — 

CLTTEMNESTBA. 

Speak,  if  thou  hast  a  voice  1     I  listen. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


303 


O  Queen— 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Hath  an  ox  trodden  on  thy  tongue  ? 
.  .  .  Speak  then  ! 

HERALD. 

O  Queen  (for  haste  hath  caught  away 

my  breath), 
The  King  is  coming. 

CLYTEMN'ESTRA. 

Say  again  —  the  King 
Is  coming  — 

HERALD. 

Even  now,  the  broad  sea-fields 
Growing  white  with  flocks  of  sails, 

arid,  toward  the  west 
The  sloped  horizon  teems  with  rising 

beaks. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  people  know  this  ? 

HERALD. 

Heard  you  not  the  noise  ? 
For  as  soon  as  this  winged  news  had 

toucat  the  gate 
The  whole  land  shouted  in  the  sun. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  soon  ! 

The  thought's  outsped  by  the  reality, 
And  halts  agape  .  .  .  the  King  — 

HERALD. 

How  she  is  moved. 
A  noble  woman  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Wherefore  beat  so  fast, 
Thou  foolish  heart !  't  is  not  thy  mas- 
ter— 

HERALD. 

Truly 
She  looks  all  over  Agamemnon's  mate. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Destiny,  Destiny  !  The  deed's  half 
done. 

HERALD. 

She  will  not  speak,  save  by  |hat  brood- 
ing eye 

Whose  light  is  language.  Some  great 
thought,  I  K.-'', 

Mounts  up  the  royal  chambers  of  her 
blood, 


As  a  king  mounts  his  palace ;    holds 

high  pomp 
In   her  Olympian  bosom ;     gains  her 

face, 

Possesses  all  her  noble  glowing  cheek 
With    sudden    state ;      and    gathers 

grandly  up 
Its  slow  majestic  meanings  in  her  eyes! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  quick  this  sudden  joy  hath  taken 

us, 

I  scarce  can  realize  the  sum  of  it. 
You  say  the  King  comes  here, — the 

King,  my  husband, 
Whom  we  have  waited  for  ten  years, — 

Ojoy! 
Pardon  our  seeming  roughness  at  the 

first. 
Hope,    that    will     often    fawn    upon 

despair 
And  flatter  desperate  chances,  when 

the  event 

Falls  at  our  feet,  soon  takes  a  querul- 
ous tone, 
And  jealous  of  that  perfect  joy  she 

guards 
(Lest  the  ambrosial  fruit  by  some  rude 

hand 
Be  stol'n  away  from  her,  and  never 

tasted), 
Barks  like  a  lean  watch- dog  at  all  who 

come. 
But  now  do  you  do,  with  what  good 

speed  you  may, 
Make  known  this  glad  intelligence  to 

all. 

Ourselves,  within,  as  best  befits  a  wife, 
And  woman,   will    prepare    my  hus- 
band's house. 

Also,  I  pray  you,  summon  to  our  side 
Our    cousin,  JEgisthus.       We    would 

speak  with  him. 
We  would  that  our  own  lips  should  be 

the  first 

To  break  these  tidings  to  him  ;  so  ob- 
taining 
New  joy  by  sharing  his.       And,   for 

yourself, 
Receive  our  gratitude.     For  this  great 

news 
Henceforth  you  hold  our  royal  love  in 

fee. 
Our  fairest  fortunes  from  this  day  I 

date, 
And   to  the  House  of  Tantalus  new 

honor,  - 


804 


CL  YTEMNES  TEA. 


HEKALD. 

She's  gone !    With  what  a  majesty  she 

filled 
The  whole  of  space  !     The  statutes  of 

the  Gods 
Are  not  so  godlike.     She  has  Here's 

And  looks  immortal ! 
V.    CLYTEMNESTRA.     CHORUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA  (as  slie  ascends  the  steps  of  the 
Palace). 

So  ...  while  on  the  verge 
Of  some  wild  purpose  we  hang  dizzily, 
Weighing  the  danger  of  the  leap  below 
Against  the  danger  of  retreating  steps, 
Upon  a  sudden,  some  forecast  event, 
Issuing  full-armed  from  Councils  of 

the  Gods. 
Strides  to  us,  plucks  us  by  the  hair, 

and  hurls 
Headlong  pale  conscience,  to  the  abyss 

of  crime. 
Well— I  shrink  not.     'T  is  but  a  leap 

in  life. 
There's  fate  in  this.     Why  is  he  here 

so  so®n  ? 
The  sight  of  whose  adhorred  eyes  will 

add 

Whatever  lacks  of  strength  to  this  re- 
solve. 
Away  with  shame  !  I  have  had  enough 

of  it. 
What'g  here  for  shame  ?  .  .  .  the  weak 

against  the  strong  ? 
And  if  the  weak  be  victor?  .  .  .  what 

of  that  ? 
Tush ! .  .  .  there,  —my  soul  is  set  to  it. 

What  need 

Of  argument  to  justify  an  act 
Necessity  compels,  and  must  absolve? 
I  have  been  at  play  with  scruples  — 

like  a  girl. 
Now  they  are  all  flung  by.     I  have 

talked  with  Crime 
Too  long  to  play  the  prude.     These 

thoughts  have  been 
Wild  guests  by  night.    Now  I  shall 

dare  to  do 
That  which  I  did  not  dare  to  think 

.  .  .  O,  now 
I  know  myself !    Crime  's  easier  than 

we  dream. 

CHOKUS. 
Lou  Upon  the  everlasting  hills 


Throned  Justice  works,  and  waits. 
Between  the  shooting  of  a  star, 
That  falls  unseen  on  summer  nights 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  dark, 
And  the  magnificent  march  of  War, 
Rolled  from  angry  lands  afar 
Round  some  doomed  city-gates, 
Nothing  is  to  her  unknown; 

Nothing  unseen. 

Upon  her  hills  she  sits  alone, 

And  in  the  balance  of  Eternity 

Poises  against  the  What-has-been 

The  weight  of  What-shall  be. 

She  sums  the  account  of  human  ills. 

The  great  world's  hoarded  wrongs  and 

rights 

Are  in  her  treasures.     She  will  mark, 
With  inward-searching  eyes  sublime/ 
The  frauds  of  Time. 
The  empty  future  years  she  fills 
Out  of  the  past.     All  human  wills 
Sway  to  her  on  her  reachless  heights. 

Wisdom  she  teaches  men,  with  tears, 
In  the  toilful  school  of  years: 
Climbing  from  event  to  event. 
And,  being  patient,  is  content 
To  stretch  her  sightless  arms  about, 
And  find  some  human  instrument, 
From  many  sorrows  to  work  out 
Her  doubtful,  far  accomplishment. 

She  the  two  Atridae  sent 
Upon  Ilion:  being  intent 
Theheapt-up  wrath  of  Heaven  to  move 
Against  the  faithless  Phrygian  crime. 

hem  the  Thunder-bird  of  Jove, 
Swooping  sudden  from  above, 
Summoned  to  fates  sublime. 

She,  being  injured,  for  the  sake 
Of  her,  the  of  ten- wedded  wife, 
;Too  loved,  and  too  adoring !) ' 
Many  a  brazen  band  did  break 
[n  many  a  breathless  battle-strife; 
Many  a  noble  life  did  take : 
Many  a  headlong  agony, 
Frenzied  shout,  and  frantic  cry, 
For  Greek  and  Trojan  storing. 
When,  the  spear  in  the  onset  being 

shivered, 

The  reeling  ranks  were  rolled  together 
Like  mad  waves  mingling  in    windy 

weather, 
Dasht   fearfully  over  and  over  each 

other. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


305 


And  the  plumes  of  Princes  were  tossed 

and  thrust, 
And  dragged  about  in  the  shameful 

dust; 

And  the  painful,  panting  breath 
Came  and  went  in  the  tug  of  death: 
And  the  sinews  were  loosened,  and  the 

strong  knees  stricken: 
And  the  eyes  began  to  darken  and 

thicken : 
And  the  arm  of  the  mighty  and  terrible 

quivered. 
O  Love  !  Love  !  Love  !    How  terrible 

art  thou  ! 
How  terrible  ! 
O,  what  hast  thou  to.  do 
With  men  of  mortal  years, 
Who  toil  below, 
And  have  enough  of  griefs  for  tears  to 

flow? 

O,  range  in  higher  spheres  ! 
Hast  thou,   O  hast  thou,  no  diviner 

hues 

To  paint  thy  wings,  but  must  transfuse 
An  Iris-light  from  tears? 
For  human  hearts  are  all  too  weak  to 

holdthee? 
And  how,  O  Love,  shall  human  arms 

infold  thee? 

There  is  a  seal  of  sorrow  on  thy  brow. 
There  is  a  deadly  fire  in  thy  breath. 
With  life  thou  lurest,  yet  thou  givest 

death. 
O  Love,  the  Gods  are  weak  by  reason 

of  thee; 
And  many  wars  have  been  upon  the 

earth. 
Thou  art  the  sweetest  source  of  saltest 

sorrows. 
Thy  blest  to-days  bring  such  unblest 

to-morrows ; 
Thy    softest     hope    makes    saddest 

memory. 
Thou  hadst  destruction  in  thee  from 

the  birth  ; 
Incomprehensible ! 

O  Love,  thy  brightest  bridal  garments 
Are  poisoned,  like  that  robe  of  agonies 
Which  Deianira  wove  for  Hercules, 
And,  being  put  on,  turn  presently  to 
cerements  ! 

Thou  art  unconquered  in  the  fight. 
Thou  rangest  over  land  and  sea. 
O  let  the  foolish  nations  be  ! 
Keep  thy  divine  desire 


To  upheave  mountains  or  to  kindle  fire 
From  the  frorefrost}  and  set  the  world 

alight. 
Why    make    thy    red    couch    in    the 

damask  cheek  ? 
Or  light  thy  torch  at  languid  eyes? 
Or  lie  entangled  in  soft  sighs 
On  pensive  lips  that  will  not  speak? 
To  sow  the  seeds  of  evil  things 
In  the  hearts  of  headstrong  kings? 
Preparing  many  a  kindred  strife 
For  the  fearful  future  hour  ? 
O  leave  the  wretched  race  of  man, 
Whose  days  are  but  the  dying  seasons' 

span; 

Vex  not  his  painful  life ! 
Make  thy  immortal  sport 
In  Heaven's  high  court, 
And  cope  with  Gods  that  are  of  equal 

power. 

VI.      ELECTKA.     CHORUS.      CLY- 
TEMNESTRA. 

ELECTRA. 

Now  is  at  hand  the  hour  of  retribution. 
For  my  father,  at  last  returning, 
In  great  power,  being  greatly  injured, 
Will  destroy  the  base  adulterer, 
And  efface  the  shameful  Past. 

CHORUS. 

O  child  of  the  Godlike  Agamemnon ! 
Leave    vengeance    to    the    power  of 

Heaven ; 

Nor  forestall  with  impious  footsteps 
The  brazen  tread  of  black  Erinnys. 

ELECTEA. 

Is  it,  besotted  with  the  adulterous  gin, 
Or,   as  with  flattery  pleasing  present 

power, 
Or,  being  intimidate,  you  speak  these 

words  ? 

CHORUS. 

Nay,  but  desiring  justice,  like  yourself. 

ELECTEA. 

Yet  Justice  of  times  uses  mortal  means. 

CHOEUS. 

But  flings  aside  her  tools  when  work 
is  done. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O   dearest  friends,   inform  me,  went 

this  way 
JEgisthus? 


306 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


CHOKTTS. 

Even  now,  hurrying  hitherward 
I  see  him  walk,  with  irritated  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  reed  may  show  which  way  the  tem- 
pest blows. 

That  face  is  pale,  —  those  brows  are 
dark  ...  ah ! 

VII.      JEGISTHUS.      CLYTEMNES- 
TKA. 

JEGISTHTTS. 

Agamemnon  — 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

My  husband  .  .  .  well  ? 

.2EGISTHTJS. 

(Whom  may  the  great  God  curse  !) 
Is  scarce  an  hour  hence. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Then  that  hour  's  yet  saved 
From  sorrow.     Smile,  JEgisthus  — 

JSGISTHUS. 

Hear  me  speak. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Not  as  your  later  wont  has  been  to 

smile  — 
Quick,  fierce,  as  though  you  scarce 

could  hurry  out 
The  wild  thing  fast  enough  ;  for  smil- 

ing's  sake, 
As  if  to  show  you  could  smile,  though 

in  fear 
Of  what  might  follow,  —  but  as   first 

you  smiled 

Years,  years  ago,  when  some  slow  lov- 
ing thought 
Stole  down  your  face,  and  settled  on 

your  lips, 

As  though  a  sunbeam  halted  on  a  rose, 
And  mixed  with  fragrance,  light.     Can 

you  smile  still 
Just  so,  ^Egisthus  ? 

.2EGISTHUS. 

These  are  idle  words, 
And   like    the    wanderings    of    some 

fevered  brain  : 
Extravagant  phrases,  void  of  import, 

wild. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Ah,  no !  you  cannot  smile  so,  more. 
Nor  I ! 


.EGISTHTTS. 

Hark  !  in  an  hour  the  King  - — 

CLYTEMNFSTBA. 

Hush  !  listen  now,  -- 
I  hear,  far  down  yon  vale,  a  shepherd 

piping 
Hard  by  his  milk-white  flock.     The 

lazy  th:ngs  ! 

How  quietly  they  sleep  or  feed  among 
The  dry  grass  and  the  acanthus  thero  ! 

.  .  .  and  he, 
He  hath  flung  his  faun-skin  by,  and 

white-ash  stick, 
You  hear  his  hymn?    Something  of 

Dryope. 
Faunus,  and  Pan  ...  an  old  wood  tale, 

no  doubt ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  songs  when  I  [ 

was  young 
I  used  to  sing  between  the  valleys  I 

there, 
Or  higher  up  among  the  red  ash-ber- 1 

ries, 
Where  the  goats  climb,  and  gaze.     Do  j 

you  remember 
That  evening  when  we  lingered  all  ! 

alone, 

Below  the  city,  and  one  yellow  star 
Shook  e'er  yon  temple  ?  .  .  .  ah,  and  \ 

you  said  then, 
"Sweet,  should   this    evening    never j 

change  to  night, 
But  pause,  and  pause,  and  stay  just 

so,  —  yon  star 
Still  steadfast,  and  the  moon  behind 

the  hill, 
Still  rising,  never  risen, — would  this 

seem  strange  ? 
Or  should  we  say,  '  why  halts  the  day 

so  late?'" 
Do  you  remember? 

.EGISTHUS. 

Woman  !  woman  !  this 
Surpasses  frenzy !    Not  a  breath  of 

time 

Between  us  and  the  clutch  of  Destiny — 
Already  sound  there  footsteps  at  our 

heels, 
Already    comes  a    heat    against    our 

cheek, 

Already  fingers  cold  among  our  hair, 
And  you  speak  lightly  thus,  as  though 

the  day 
Lingered  toward  nuptial  hours !  .  .  . 

awake !  arouse ! 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


307 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

I  do  wake  .  .  .  well,  the  King— 

2EGISTHUS. 

Even  while  we  speak 
Draws  near.     And  we— 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Must  meet  him. 

.aSGISTHTJS. 

Meet?  ay  .  .  .  how? 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

As  mortals    should    meet    fortune  — 
calmly. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Quick  ! 
Consult  !  consult  !     Yet  there  is  time 

to  choose 
The  path  to  follow. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

I  have  chosen  it 
Long  since. 

JEGISTHUS. 

How?  — 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

O,  have  we  not  had  ten  years 
To  ripen  counsel,  and  mature  resolve? 
What's  to  add  no^  ? 

.EGISTHTJS. 

I  comprehend  you  not. 
The  time  is  plucldng  at  our  sleeve. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 


There  shall  be  time    for  deeds,    and 

soon  enough, 
Let  that  come  when  it  may.     And  it 

may  be 
Deeds  rnus't  be  done  shall  shut  and 

shrivel  up 
All  quiet  thoughts,  and  quiet  preclude 

repose 
To  the  end  of  time.     Upon  this  awful 

strait 

And  promontory  of  our  mortal  life 
We  stand  between  what  was,  and  is 

not  yet. 

The  Gods  allot  to  us  a  little  space, 
Before  the  contests  which  must  soon 

begin, 
For  calmer  breathing.     All  before  lies 

dark, 


And     difficult,     and     perilous,     and 

strange  ; 
And  all  behind  .  .  .  What  if  we  take 

one  look, 
One  last  long  lingering  look  (before 

Despair, 
The  shadow  of   failure,   or  remorse, 

which  often 
Waits  on  success,  can  come  'twixt  us 

and  it, 
And  darken  all)  at  that  which  yet  must 

seem 
Undimmed  in  the  long  retrospect  of 

years,— 
The  beautiful  imperishable  Past ! 

Were  this  not  natural,  being  innocent 

now 
— At  least  of  that  which  is  the  greater 

crime  ? 
To-night  we  shall  not  be  so. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Ah,  to-night ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

All  will  be  done  which  now  the  Gods 

foresee. 
The  sun  shines  still. 

.EGISTHUS. 

I  oft  have  marked  some  day 
Begin  all  gold  in  its  flusht  orient, 
With  splendid  promise  to  the  waiting 

world, 
And  turn  to  the  blackness  ere  the  sun 

ran  down. 
So  draws  our  love  to  its  dark  close. 

To-night — 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Shall  bring  our  bridals,  my  Beloved? 

For,  either 
Upon  the  melancholy  shores  of  Death 

(One  shadow  near  the  doors  of  Pluto) 

greeted 

By  pale  Proserpina,  our  steps  shall  be 
Or  else,  secure,  in  the  great  empty 

palace 
We  shall  sleep  crowned — no  noise  to 

startle  us — 
And  Argos  silent  round  us — all   our 

own ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

In  truth  I  do  not  dare  to  think  this 

thing. 
For  all  the  Greeks  will  hate  us. 


308 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


CLYTKMKESTEA. 

What  of  that? 

If  that  they  do  not  harm  us, — as  who 
shall? 

.EGISTHUS. 

Moreover,  though  we  triumph  in  the 

act 
(And  we  may  fail,  and  fall)  we  shall 

go  down 
Covered  with  this  reproach  into  the 

tomb, 

Haunted  by  all  the  red  Eumenides  ; 
And,  in  the  end,  the  ghost  of  him  we 

slew, 

Being  beforehand  there,  will  come  be- 
tween 

Us  and  the  awful  Judges  of  the  dead  ! 
And  no  one  on  this*  earth  will  pray  for 

us ; 
And  no  hand  will  hang  garlands  on 

our  urn^, 

Either  of  man,  or  maid,  or  little  child ! 
But-  we  shall  be  dishonored. 

CLTTEMNESTBA. 

O  faint  heart ! 
When  this  poor  life  of  ours  is  done 

with— all 
Its  foolish  days  put  by— is  bright  and 

dark- 
Its    praise    and    blame — rolled    quite 

away — gone  o'er. 
Like  some  brief  pageant — will  it  stir 

us  more, 
Where  we  are  gone,   how  men  may 

hoot  or  shout 
After  our  footsteps,  than  the  dust  and 

garlands 
A  few  mad  boys  and  girls  fling  in  the 

air 
When    a    great  host    is    passed,  can 

cheer  or  vex 

The  minds  of  men  already  out  of  sight 
Toward  other  lands,  with  paean  aiid 

with  pomp 
Arrayed  near  vaster  forces  ?    For  the 

future, 
We  will  smoke  hecatombs,  and  build 

new  fanes, 

And  be  you  sure  the  gods  deal  leniently 
With  those  who  grapple  for  their  life, 

and  pluck  it 
From   the  closed  grip   of  Fate,  albeit 

perchance 
Some  ugly  smutch  some  drop  of  blood 

or  so, 


A  spot  here,  there  a  streak,  or  stain  of 

gore, 
Should  in  the  contest  fall  to  them,  and 

mar 
That  life's  original  whiteness. 


Tombs  have  tongues 
That  talk  in  Hades.     Think  it  !    Dare 

we  hope, 
This  done,  to  be  more  happy  ? 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

My  Beloved, 
We  are  not  happy,  —  we  may  never  be. 

Perchance,  again.     Yet  it  is  much  to 

think 
We  have  been  so  :  and  even  though  we 

must  weep, 
We  have  enjoyed. 

The  roses  and  the  thorns 
We  have  pluckt  together.     We  have 

proved  both.     Say, 
Was  it  not  worth  the  bleeding  hands 

they  left  us 
To  have  won  stitch  flowers?    And  if 

't  were  possible 
To  keep  them   still,  —  keep  even  the 

withered  leaves, 
Even  the  withered  leaves  are  worth 

our  care. 
We  will  not  tamely  give  up  life,  —  such 

life! 
What  though  the    years  before,  like 

those  behind, 
Be  dark  as  clouds  the  thunder  sits 

among, 
Tipt  only  here  and  there  with  a  wan 

gold 
More  bright  for  rains  between?  —  't  is 

much,  —  't  is  more, 
For  we  shall  ever  think  "the  sun's  be- 

hind. 
The  sun  must  shine  before  the  day 

goes  down!" 
Anything  better  than  the  long,  long 

night, 
And  that   perpetual    silence    of    the 

tomb  ! 
'  Tis  not  for  happier  hours,  but  life  it- 

self 
Which  may  bring  happier  hours,  we 

strike  at  Fate. 
Why,  though  from  all  the  treasury  of 

the  Past 
'Tis  but  one  solitary  gem  we  save  —  • 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


309 


One  kiss  more  such   as  we  have  kist, 

one  smile, 
One  more  embrace,   one  night  more 

such  as  those 
Which  we  have  shared,  how  costly 

were  the  prize, 

How  richly  worth  the  attempt!    In- 
deed, I  know, 
When    yet    a    child,     in    those    dim 

pleasant  dreams 
A  girl  will  dream,  perchance  in  twilit 

hours, 
Or  under  eve's  first  star  (when  we  are 

young 
Happiness   seems    so    possible, — so 

near ! 
One  says,   "it  must  go  hard,  but  I 

shall  find  it !") 
Of  times  I've  mused,  —  "My  life  shall 

be  my  own, 
To  make  it  what  I  will."    It  is  their 

fault 
(I  thought)  who  miss  the  true  delights. 

I  thought 
Men  might  have  saved  themselves  : 

they  flung  away, 
Too    easily    abasht,    life's    opening 

promise: 

But  all  things  will  be  different  for  me. 
For  I  felt  life  so  strong  in  me  !  indeed 
I  was  so  sure  of  my  own  power  to  love 
And  to  eiijo  y, — I  had  so  much  to  give, 
I  said,  "be  sure  it  must  win  something 

back!" 
Youth  is  BO  confident !    And  though  I 

saw 
All  women  sad, — not    only  those    I 

knew, 
As  Helen  (whom  from  youth  I  knew, 

nor  ever 

Divined  that  sad  impenetrable  smile 
Which  oft  would  darken  through  her 

lustrous  eyes, 
As  drawing  slowly  down  o'er  her  cold 

cheek 
The  yellow  braids  of  odorous  hair,  she 

turned 
From    Menelaus    praising    her,    and 

sighed, — 
That  was  before  he,  flinging  bitterly 

down 
The  trampled  parsley-crown  and  un- 

drained  goblet, 
Cursed  before  all  the  Gods  his  sudden 

shame 
And     young     Hermione's      deserted 

youth !) 


Not  only  her,  —  but  all  whose  lives  I 

learned, 

Medea,  Deianira,  Ariadne, 
And  many  others,— all  weak,  wronged, 

opprest, 

Or  sick  and  sorrowful,  as  I  am  now, — 
Yet  in  their  fate  I  would  not  see  my 

own, 
Nor  grant  allegiance  to  that  general 

law 

From  which  a  few,  I  knew  a  very  few, 
With  whom  it  seemed  I  also  might  be 

numbered, 

Had  yet  escaped  securely  : — so  exempt- 
ing 

From  this  world's  desolation    every- 
where 
One  fate  —  my  own  ! 

Well  that  was  foolish  !    Now 
I  am  not  so  exacting.    As  we  move 
Further  and  further  down  the  path  of 

Fate 
To  the  sure  tomb,  we  yield  up,  one  by 

one, 
Our  claims  on  Fortune,  till  with  each 

year 
We  seek  less  and  go  further  to  obtain 

it. 
'Tis  the  old  tale, — aye,  all  of  us  must 

learn  it ! 
But  yet  I  would  not  empty-handed 

stand 
Before    the    House    of    Hades.     Still 

there's  life, 
And  hope  with  life ;   and  much  that 

may  be  done. 
Look  up,  O  thou  most  dear  and  cher- 

isht  head ! 
We'll  strive  still,  conquering  ;   or,   if 

falling,  fall 
In  sight  of  grand  results. 

2EGISTHUS. 

May  these  things  be ! 
I  know  not.   All  is  vague.   I  should  be 

strong. 
Even  were  you  weak.    'T  is  otherwise, 

I  see 
No  path  to  safety  sure.      We    have 

done  ill  things. 
Best  let  the  past  be  past,  lest  new 

griefs  come. 
Best  we  part  now. 

CIiYTEMNESTRA. 

Part !  what,  to  part  from  thee! 


310 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Never  till  death,  —not  in  death  even, 
part ! 

2EGISTHUS. 

But  one  course  now  is  left. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

And  that  is  — 


Coward ! 


JEGISTHUS. 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 


Flight. 


.3SGISTHUS. 

I  care  not. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Flight !  I  am  a  Queen. 
A  goddess  once  you  said, — and  why 

not  goddess  ? 

Seeing  the  Gods  are  mightier  than  we 
By  so  much  more  of  courage.  O,  not  I, 
But  you,  are  mad. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Nay,  wiser  than  I  was. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

And  you  will  leave  me  ? 

2EGISTHUS. 

Not  if  you  will  come, 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

This  was  the  Atlas  of  the  world  I 
built ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

Flight !   .  .  .  yes,   I    know  not   .  .  . 

somewhere  .  .  .  anywhere. 
You  come  ?  .  .  .  you  come  not  ?  .  .  . 

well?  ...  no  time  to  pause ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

And  this  is  he — this  he,   the  man  I 

loved ! 

And  this  is  retribution  !  0  my  heart ! 
O  Agamemnon,  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 
And  I  have  done  so  much  for  him ! 

.  .  .  would  do 
So  much  !  .  .  .  a  universe  lies  ruined 

here. 

Now  by  Apollo,  be  a  man  for  once  !  ! 
Be  for  once  strong,  or  be  forever  weak 
If  shame  be  dead,  and  honor  be  no 

more, 
No  more  true  faith,  nor  that  which  in 

old  time 


Made  us  like  Gods,  sublime  in  our 

high  place, 
Yet  all  surviving  instincts  warn  from 

flight. 
Flight ! — O,  impossible  !      Even    now 

the  steps 
Of  fate  are  at  the  threshold.     Which 

way  fly  ? 

For  every  avenue  is  barred  by  death. 
Will  these  not  scout  your  flying  heels  ? 

If  now 
They  hate  us  powerful,  will  they  love 

us  weak  ? 
No  land  is  safe  ;  nor  any  neighboring 

king 

Will  harbor  Agamemnon's  enemy. 
Reflect  on  Troy ;  her  ashes  smoulder 

yet. 

.3EGISTHUS. 

Her  words  compel  me  with  their  awful 

truth. 
For  so  would  vengeance  hound  the 

earth  us  down. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

If  I  am  weak  to  move  you  by  that  love 

You  swore  long  since— and  sealed  it 
with  false  lips !  — 

Yet  lives  there  nothing  of  the  ambiti- 
ous will  ? 

Of  those  proud  plots,  and  dexterous 


On    which    you    builded    such    high 

hopes,  and  swore 

To  rule  this  people  Agamemnon  rules  ; 
Supplant  him  eminent   on    his  own 

throne, 
And  push  our  power  through  Greece  ? 

.EGISTHUS. 

The  dream  was  great. 
It  was  a  dream.     We  dreamt  it  like  a 
king. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Ay,  and  shall  so  fulfil  it— like  a  King ; 

Who  talks  of  flight?  For  now,  be- 
think you  well, 

If  to  live  on,  the  byword  of  the  world, 

Be  any  gain,  even  such  flight  offers 
not. 

Will  long-armed  Vengeance  never  find 
you  out 

When  you  have  left  the  weapon  in  her 
hands? 

Be  bold,  and  meet  her !  Who  forestall 
the  bolts 


CLYTZM8XSTTIA. 


311 


Of  heaven,  the  Gods  deem  worthy  oi 

the  Gods. 
Success  is  made   the  measure  of  our 

acts. 
And,  think  JEgisthus,  there  has  been 

one  thought 

Before  us  in  the  intervals  of  years, 
Between    us  ever  in  the    long  dark 

nights, 
When,  lying  all  awake,  we  heard  the 

wind. 
Did  you  shrink  then  ?     or,  only  closer 

drawing 
Your  lips  to  mine,  your  arms  about  my 

neck, 
Say,  "  Who  would  fear  such  chances, 

when  he  saw 
Behind  them  such  a  prize  for  him  as 

this?" 
Do  you  shrink  now?    Dare  you  put 

all  this  from  you? 
Revoke  the  promise  of  those  years,  and 

say 
This  prospect  meets  you  unprepared 

at  last? 

Our  motives  are  so  mixt  in  their  be- 
ginnings 
And  so  confused,  we  recognize  them 

not 
Till  they  are  grown  to  acts  ;  but  ne'er 

were  ours 
So  blindly  wov'n,  but  what  we  both 

untangled 
Out  of  the  intricacies  of  the  heart 
One  purpose : — being  found,  best  grap- 
ple to  it. 
For  to  conceive  ill  deeds  yet  dare  not 

do  them, 
This   is   not   virtue,    but    a    twofold 

shame. 
Between  the  culprit  and  the  demigod 

There's  but  one  difference  men  regard 

— success. 
The  weakly-wicked   shall    be  doubly 

damned ! 

.aSGISTHUS. 

I  am  not  weak  ...  wh  it  will  you  ? 
.  .  .  O,  too  weak 

To  bear  this  scorn  !  .  .  .  She  is  a  god- 
like fiend, 

And  hell  and  heaven  seem  meeting  in 
her  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Those  who  on  perilous  ventures  once 
embark 


Should    burn    their  ships,    nor   ever 

dream  return. 
Better,  though  all  Olympus  marched 

on  us, 
To  die  like  fallen    Titans,   scorning 

Heaven, 
Than  live  like  slaves  in  scorn  of  our 

own  selves  1 


We  wait  then?    Good  !  and  dare  this 

desperate  chance. 
And  if  we  fall  (as  we,  I  think,  must 

fall) 

It  is  but  some  few  sunny  hours  we  lose, 
Some  few  bright  days.     True  !  and  a 

little  less 

Of  life,  or  else  of  wrong  a  little  more, 
What's  that  ?    For  one  shade  more  or 

less  the  night 
Will  scarce  seem  darker  or  lighter, — 

the  long  night ! 

We'll  fall  together,  if  we  fall;  and  if— 
O,  if  we  live  !— 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Ay,  that  was  noblier  thought. 
Now  you  grow  back  into  yourself,  your 

true  self. 
My  king !  my  chosen  !  my  glad  careless 

helpmate 
In  the  old  time  !  we  shared  its  pleasant 

days 
Eoyally,  did  we  not  ?    How  brief  they 

were! 
Nor  will  I  deem  you  less  than  what  I 

know 
You  have  it  in  you  to  become,  for  this 

Strange  freakish    fear, — this  passing 

brief  alarm. 
Do  I  not  know  the  noble  steed  will 

start 
Aside,   scared   lightly  by  a  straw,  a 

shadow, 
A  thorn-bush  in  the   way,  while  the 

dull  mule 
Plods    stnpidly    adown  the    dizziest 

paths  ? 

And  oft  indeed,  such  trifles  will  dis- 
may 
The  finest   and    most    eager  spirits, 

which  yet 
Daunt  not  a  duller  mind.     0  love,  be 

sure 
Whate'er  betide,  whether  for  well  or 

ill. 


312 


QLYTSMNSSTRA. 


Thy  fate  and  mine  are  bound  up  in 

one  skein; 

Clotho  must  cut  them  both  inseparate 
You  dare  not  leave  me — had  you  wings 

for  flight ! 
You  shall  not  leave    me  !      You  are 

mine,  indeed, 
(As  I  am  yours  !)  by  my  strong  i  ight 

of  grief. 

Not  death  together,  but  together  life  ! 
Life — life  with    safe  and    honorable 

years, 
And  power  to  do  with  these  that  which 

we  would  ! 
— His  lips  comprest — his   eye  dilates 

— he  is  saved ! 
O,   when  strong  natures  into  frailer 

ones 
Have  struck  deep  root,  if  one  exalt  not 

both, 
Both  must  drag  down  and  perish  ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

If  we  should  live — 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

And  we  shall  live. 

.2EGISTHUS. 

Yet  ...  yet— 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

What !  shrinking  still  ? 
I'll  do  the  deed.      Do  not  stand  off 
from  me. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Terrible  Spirit ! 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Nay,  not  terrible, 
Not  to  thee  terrible — O  say  not  so  ! 
To  thee  I  never  have  been  anything 
But    a     weak,    passionate,    unhappy 

woman, 
(0  woe  is  me  !)  and  now  you  fear  me — 


.EGISTHTTS. 

But  rather  worship. 


No, 


CLYTEMNESTEA 

O  my  heart,  my  heart, 
It  sends  up  all  its  anguish  in  this  cry — 
Love  me  a  little  ! 

.EGISTHTTS. 

What  a  spell  she  has 
To  sway  the  inmost  courses  of  the  soul! 


My  spirit  is  held  up   to  such  a  height 

I  dare  not  breathe.  How  finely  sits 
this  sorrow 

Upon  her,  like  the  garment  of  a  God  ! 

I  cannot  fathom  her.  Does  the  same 
birth 

Bring  forth  the  monster  and  the  demi- 
god? 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

I  will  not  doubt !  All 's  lost,  if  love  be 
lost,  - 

Peace,  honor,  innocence,  — gone,  gone! 
all  gone ! 

And  you,  too — you,  poor  baffled  crown- 
less  schemer, 

Whose  life  my  love  makes  roya1, 
clothes  in  purple, 

Establishes  in  state,  without  me,  an- 
swer me, 

What  should  you  do  but  perish,  as  is  fit? 

0  love,  you  dare  not  cease  to  love  mo 

now! 
We  have  let  the  world  go  by  us.     We 

have  trusted 

To  ourselves  only:  if  we  fail  ourselves 
What  shall  avail  us  now  ?   Without  my 

love 

What  rests  for  you  but  universal  hate, 
And  Agamemnon's  sword  ?    Ah,  no  -- 

you  love  me, 
Must  love  me,  better  than  you  ever 

loved,  — 

Love  me,  I  think,  as  you  love  life  itself! 
JEgisthus  !    Speak,  JEgisthus  ! 

2EGISTHTJS. 

0  great  heart, 

1  am  all  yours.     Do  with  me  what  you 

will. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

O,  if  you  love  me,  I  have  strength  for 

both. 
And  you  do  love  me  still  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

O  more,  thrice  more, 
Thrice  more  than  wert  thou  Aphrodite's 

self 
Stept  zoned  and  sandalled  from  the 

Olympian  Feast 
Or  first  revealed  among  the  pink  sea- 
foam. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Whate'er  I  am,  be  sure  that  I  am  that 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Which  thou  hast  made  me,  — nothing 
of  myself. 

Once,  all  unheedful,  careless  of  my- 
self, 

And  wholly  ignorant  of  what  I  was, 

I  grew  up.  as  a  reed  some  wind  will 
touch, 

And  wake  to  prophecy,  —  till  then  all 
mute, 

And  void  of  melody,  — a  foolish  weed! 

My  soul  was  blind,  and  all  my  life  was 
dark, 

And  all  my  heart  pined  with  some  igno- 
rant want. 

I  moved  about,  a  shadow  in  the  house, 

And  felt  unwedded  though  I  was  a 
wife; 

And  all  the  men  and  women  which  I 
saw 

Were  but  as   pictures  painted  on  a 
wall: 

To  me  they  had  not  either  heart,  or 
brain, 

Or  lips,  or  language,  —  pictures  !  no- 
thing more. 

Then,  suddenly,  athwart  those  lonely 
hours 

Which,  day  by  day  dreamed  listlessly 
away, 

Led  to  the  dark  and  melancholy  tomb, 

Thy  presence  passed  and  touched  me 
with  a  soul. 

My  life  did  but  begin  when  I  found 
thee. 

O  what  a  strength  was  hidden  in  this 
heart ! 

As,  all  unvalued,  in  its  cold  dark  cave 

Under  snow  hills,  some  rare  and  price- 
less gem 

May  sparkle  and  burn,  so  in  this  life 
of  mine 

Love  lay  shut  up.     You  broke  the  rock 
away, 

You  lit  upon  the  jewel  that  it  hid, 

You  plucked  it  forth,  — to  wear  it.  my 
Beloved ! 

To  set  in  the  crown  of  thy  dear  life  ! 

To  embellish  fortune  !      Cast  it  not 
away. 

Now  call  me  by  the  old  familiar  names: 

Call  me  again  your  Queen,  as  once  you 

used; 
Your  large-eyes  Here ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

O,  you  are  a  Queen 


That  should  have  none  but  Gods  to 

rule  over ! 
Make  me  immortal  with  one  costly  kiss! 

Vin.     CHORUS.     ELECTRA.    CLY- 
TEMNESTRA.   ^GISTHUS. 

CHOKUS. 

lo  I  lo  !  I  hear  the  people  shout. 

ELECTRA. 

See  how  these  two  do  mutually  con- 
fer, 

Hatching  new  infamy.  Now  will  he 
dare, 

In  his  unbounded  impudence,  to  meet 

My  father's  eyes  ?  The  hour  is  nigh 
at  hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  love,  be  bold !  the  hour  is  nigh  at 
hand. 

ELECTRA. 

Laden  with  retribution,  lingering  slow. 

.EGISTHUS. 

A  time  in  travail  with  some  great  dis- 
tress. 

CLTTEMNESTRA. 

Nay,  rather  safety  for  the  rest  of  time, 
O  love  !  0  hate ! 

ELECTBA. 

O  vengeance ! 


.EGISTHCS. 


If  favoring  fate  — 


O  wild  chance 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Despair  is  more  than  fate. 

CHORUS. 
lo  !  lo  !  The  King  is  on  his  march. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Did  you  hear  that  ? 

ELECTBA. 

The  hour  is  nigh  at  hand ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Leave  me  to  deal  with  these.  I  know 
the  arts 

That  guide  the  doubtful  purpose  of 
discourse 

Through  many  windings  to  the  ap- 
pointed goal. 


314 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


I'll  draw  them  on  to  such  a  frame  of 

mind. 
As    best   befits    our    purpose.     You, 

meanwhile, 
Scatter  vague  words  among  the  other 

crowd, 
Lest  the  event    when  it  is  due,  fall 

foul. 
Of  unpropitious  natures. 


2EGISTHUS. 

Do  you  fear 

The  helpless,  blind  ill-will  of  such  a 
crowd  ? 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  only  fears  mankind  who  knows 

them  not. 
But  him  I  praise  not  who  despises 

them. 
Whence  come,  Electra? 

ELECTRA. 

From  my  father's  hearth 
To  meet  him;  for  the  hour  is  nigh  at 
hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  do  our  hopes  race  hotly  to  one  end, 
(A  noble  rivalry!)  as  who  shall  first 
Embrace  this  happy  fortune.     Tarry 

not. 
We  too  will  follow. 

ELECTRA. 

Justice,  0  be  swift ! 

IX.    CLYTEMNESTKA.     CHORUS. 
SEMI-CHORUS.    HEEALD. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  froward  child!      She's  gone.     My 

blood 's  in  her. 
Her  father's,  too,  looks  out  of    that 

proud  face. 
She  is  too  bold  .  .  .  ha,  well — .ZEgis- 

Ihus?  .  .  .  gone ! 
0  fate !  to  be  a  woman !    You  great 

Gods, 
Why  did  you  fashion  me  in  this  soft 

mould  ? 
Give  me  these  lengths  of  silky  hair  ? 

These  hands 
Too  delicately  dimpled  !      and  these 

arms 
Too  white,  too    weak  !  yet  leave  the 

man's  heart  in  me, 


To  mar  your  masterpiece,  —  that  I 

should  perish, 
Who  else  had  won  renown  among  my 

peers, 
A  man,  with  men, — perchance  a  god 

with  you, 
Had  you  but  better  sexed  me,   you 

blind  Gods ! 
But,  as  for  man,  all  things  are  fitting 

to  him. 
He  strikes  his  fellow  'mid  the  clanging 

shields, 
And  leaps  among  the  smoking  walls, 

and  takes 
Some  long-haired  virgin  wailing  at  the 

shrines, 
Her  brethren  having  fallen ;  and  you 

Gods 
Commend  him,  crown  him,  grant  him 

ample  days, 

And  dying,  honor  and  an  endless  peace 
Among  the  deep  Elysian  asphodels. 
O  fate,  to  be  a  woman  !    To  be  led 
Dumb,  like  a  poor  mule,  at  a  master's 

will, 

And  be  a  slave,  though  bred  in  palaces, 
And  be  a  fool,  though  seated  with  the 

wise, — 

A  poor  and  pitiful  fool,  as  I  am  now, 
Loving  and  hating  my  vain  life  away  ! 

CHORUS. 

These  flowers — we  plucked  them 
At  morning,  and  took  them 
From  bright  bees  that  sucked  them 
And  warm  winds  that  shook  them 
'Neath  blue  hills  that  o'erlook  them. 

SEMI- CHORUS. 

With  the  dews  of  the  meadow 
Our  rosy  warm  fingers 
Sparkle  yet,  and  the  shadow 
Of  the  summer-cloud  lingers 
In  the  hair  of  us  singers. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ere  these  buds  on  our  altars 
Fade;  ere  the  forkt  fire, 
Fed  with  pure  honey,  f  Iters 
And  fails:  louder,  higher 
liaise  the  Paean. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Draw  nigher, 

Stand  closer  !    First  praise  we 
The  Father  of  all. 
To  him  the  song  raise  we. 


315 


Over  Heaven's  golden  wall 
Let  it  fall !    Let  it  fall ! 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS 

Then  Apollo,  the  king  of 
The  lyre  and  the  bow; 
Who  taught  us  to  sing  of 
The  deeds  that  we  know,— 
Deeds  well  done  long  ago. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Next,  of  all  the  Immortals, 
Athene's  gray  eyes; 
Who  sits  throned  in  our  portals, 
Ever  fair,  ever  wise. 

FIBST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Neither  dare  we  despise 
To  extol  the  great  Here. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  then, 

As  is  due,  shall  our  song 
Be  of  those  among  men 
Who  were  brave,  who  were  strong, 
Who  endured. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  wrong 
Of  the  Phrygian;  and  Ilion's  false 

son: 

And  Scamander's  wild  wave 
Through  the  bleak  plain  that  runs. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  death  of  the  brave. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Last,  of  whom  the  Gods  save 
For  new  honors:  of  them  none 
So  good  or  so  great 
As  our  chief  Agamemnon 
The  crown  of  our  State. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

0  friends,  true  hearts,  rejoice  with  me  ! 

•     This  day 

Shall  crown  the  hope  of  ten  uncertain 
years ! 

CHORUS. 

For  Agamemnon  cannot  be  far  off— 

CLTTEMNESTRA. 

He  comes— and  yet— O  Heaven  pre- 
serve us  all ! 

My  heart  is  weak— there's  One  he 
brings  not  back; 


Who  went  with  him  ;    who  will  not 

come  again  ; 
Whom  we  shall  never  see  ! — 


CHORUS. 

O  Queen,  for  whom, 
Lamenting  thus,  is  your  great  heart 
cast  down  ? 


CLTTEMNESTRA. 

The  earliest  love — the  early  lost !  my 
child— 


Iphigenia  ? 


CHORUS. 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

See — my  child — 
CHORUS. 


-Alas! 


That  was  a  terrible  necessity  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Was  it  necessity  ?    O  pardon,  friends, 
But  in  the  dark,  unsolaced  solitude, 
Wild  thoughts  come  to  me,  and  per- 
plex my  heart. 

This,  which  you  call  a  dread  neces- 
sity, 
Was  it  a  murder  or  a  sacrifice  ? 


CHORUS. 

It  was  a  God  that  did  decree  the 
death. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

'T  is  through  the  heart  the  Gods  do 
speak  to  us. 

High  instincts  are  the  oracles  of 
heaven. 

Did  ever  heart,— did  ever  God,  be- 
fore, 

Suggest  such  foul  infanticidal  lie  ? 

CHORUS. 

Be  comforted  !     The  universal  good 
Needed  this  single,  individual  loss. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Can  all  men's  good  be  helped  by  one 
man's  crime? 


CHORUS. 

Ke  loosed  the  Greeks  from  Aulis  by 
that  deed. 


816 


CLYTEMNESTHA. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  casual  argument !     Who  gave   the 

•  Greeks 
Such  bloody  claim    upon  a  virgin's 

life? 

Shall  the  pure  bleed    to   purge  im- 
purity ? 
A  hundred  Helens  were    not    worth 

that  death  ! 
What !  had  the  manhood  of  combined 

Greece, 
Whose   boast   was   in    its      untamed 

strength,  no  help 
Better  than  the  spilt  blood  of    one 

poor  girl  ? 
Or,  if  it  were  of  need  that  blood  should 

flow, 

What  God  ordained  him  executioner  ? 
Was  it  for  him    the  armament  was 

planned  ? 
For  him  that  angry  Greece  was  leagued 

in  war? 

For  him,  or  Menelaus,  was  this  done? 
Was  the  cause  his,  or  Menelaus'  cause  ? 
Was  he  less  sire  than  Menelaus  was  ? 
He,  too,  had  children  ;  did  he  murder 

them? 
0,  was  it  manlike?    was  it   human, 

even? 

CHORUS. 
Alas !  alas !  it  was  an  evil  thing. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  friends,  if  anyone  among  you  all, 

If  any  be  a  mother,  bear  with  me  ! 

She  was  my  earliest  born,  my  best  be- 
loved. 

The  painful  labor  of  that  perilous 
birth 

That  gave  her  life  did  almost  take  my 
own. 

He  had  no  pain.  He  did  not  bring 
her  forth. 

How  should  he,  therefore,  love  her  as 
I  loved? 

CHOBTJS. 

Ai!  ai!  alas!  Our  tears  run  down 
with  yours. 

CLYTEMNESTRA.  « 

0,  who  shall  say  with  what  delicious 

tears, 
With  what  ineffable  tenderness,  while 

he 
Took  his  blithe  pastime  on  the  windy 

plain, 


Among  the  ringing  camps,  and  neigh- 
ing steeds," 

First  of  his  glad  compeers,  I  sat  apart, 
Silent,  within  the  solitary  house  : 
Booking   the   little    child    upon    my 

breast ; 

And  soothed  its  soft  eyes  into  sleep 
with  song ! 

CHOBUS. 
Ai  I  ai  1  unhappy,  sad,  unchilded  one! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or,  when  I  taught,  from  inarticulate 

sounds, 
The  little,  lisping  lips,  to  breathe  his 

name. 
Now  they  will  never  breathe  that  name 

again  1 

CHORUS. 

Alas !  for  Hades  has  not  any  hope, 
Since    Thracian    women    lopped    the 

tuneful  head 
Of  Orpheus,  and  Heracleus  is  no  more. 

CLYTEMNEBTRA. 

Or,  spread  in  prayer,  the  helpless,  in- 
fant hands, 

That  they,  too,  might  invoke  the  Gods 
for  him. 

Alas,  who  now  invokes  the  Gods  for 
her? 

Unwedded,  hapless,  gone  to  glut  the 
womb 

Of  dark,  untimely  Orcus ! 


Ai !  alas ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  would  have  died,  if  that  could  be,  for 

her! 

When  life  is  half-way  set  to  feeble  eld, 
And  memory  more  than  hope,  and  to 

dim  eyes 
The  gorgeous   tapestry  of    existence. 

shows 
Mothed,   fingered,   frayed,  and  bare, 

'twere  not  so  hard 
To  fling  away  this  ravelled  skein  of' 

life, 

Which  else,  a  little  later,  Fate  had  cut. 
And  who  would  sorrow  for  the  o'er- 

blown  rose 
Sharp  winter  strews  about  its    own 

bleak  thorns  ? 
But,  cropped  before  the  time,  to  fall 

so  young  1 


CL  YTEMNESTliA. 


317 


And  wither  in  the  gloomy  town  of 

Dis! 
Never  to  look  upon  the  blessed  sun — 

CHORUS. 

Ai !  ai !  alinon  !  woe  is  me,  this  grief 
Strikes  pity  paralyzed.    All  words  are 
weak ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

And   I   had  dreamed  such   splendid 

dreams  for  her ! 
Who  would  not  so  for  Agamemnon's 

child  ? 
For  we  had  hoped  that  she,  too,  in 

her  time 
Would  be  the  mother  of  heroic  men  ! 

CHORUS. 

There  rises  in  my  heart  an  awful  fear, 
Lest    from    these    evils    darker  evils 

come  ; 
For   heaven    exacts,    for   wrong   the 

uttermost  tear, 
And  death  hath  language  after  life  is 

dumb ! 

CL.YTEMNESTRA. 

It  works  !  It  works  ! 

CHORUS. 
Look,  some  one  comes  this  way. 

HERALD. 

O  Honor  of  the  House  of  Tantalus  ! 
The  king's  wheels  echo  in  the  brazen 
gates. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Our  heart  is  half-way  there,  to  wel- 
come him. 

How  looks  he?  Well?  And  all  our 
long-lost  friends — 

Their  faces  grow  before  me !  Lead 
the  way 

Where  we  may  meet  them.  All  our 
haste  seems  slow. 

CHORUS. 

Would  that  he  brought  his  dead  child 
back  with  him ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Now  let  him  come.  The  mischief 
works  apace ! 

X.     CHOKUS. 

CHORUS. 

The  winds  were  lulled  in  Aulis  ;  and 
the  day, 


Down-sloped,  was  loitering  to  the  lazy 
west. 

There  was  no  motion  of  the  glassy 
bay. 

But  all  things  by  a  heavy  light  opprest. 

Windless,  cut  off  from  the  distined 
way,— 

Dark  shrouds,  distinct  against  the 
lurid  lull,— 

Dark  ropes  hung  useless,  loose,  from 
mast  to  hull,  — 

The  blackships  lay  abreast. 

Not  any  cloud  would  cross  the  brood- 
ing skies. 

The  distant  sea  boomed  faintly.  Noth- 
ing more. 

They  walked  about  upon  the  yellow 
shore ; 

Or,  lying  listless,  huddled  groups 
supine, 

With  faces  turned  toward  the  flat  sea- 
pine, 

They  planned  the  Phrygian  battle  o'er 
and  o'er; 

Till  each  grew  sullen,  and  would  talk 
no  more, 

But  sat,  dumb-dreaming.  Then 
would  some  one  rise, 

And  look  toward  the  hollow  hulls, 
with  haggard,  hopeless  eyes  — 

Wild  eyes  —  and,  crowding  round,  yet 
wilder  eyes  — 

And  gaping,  languid  lips; 

And  everywhere  that  men  could  see, 

About  the  black,  black  ships, 

Was  nothing  but  the  deep-red  sea; 

The  deep-red  shore; 

The  deep-red  skies; 

The  deep-red  silence,  thick  with 
thirsty  sighs ; 

And  daylight,  dying  slowly.  Nothing 
more. 

The  tall  masts  stood  upright; 

And  not  a  sail  above  the  burnished 
prores; 

The  languid  sea,  like  one  outwearied 
quite, 

Shrank,  dying  inward  to  hollow  shores, 

And  breathless  harbors,  under  sandy 
bars; 

And,  one  by  one,  down  tracts  of  quiv- 
ering blue, 

The  singed  and  sultry  stars 

Looked  from  the  inmost  heaven,  far, 
faint,  and  few, 

While,  all  below,  the  sick  and  steam- 
ing brine 


318 


CL  YTEMNES  TEA . 


The  spilled-out  sunset  did  incarnadine. 

At  last  one  broke  the  silence;  and  a 

word 
Was  lisped  and  buzzed  about,   from 

mouth  to  mouth ; 

Pale  faces  grew  more  pale;  wild  whis- 
pers stirred; 
And    men,  with  moody,   murmuring 

lips  conferred 
In  ominous  tones,  from  shaggy  beards 

uncouth  : 
As  though  some  wind  has  broken  from 

the  blurred 
And  blaziiig  prison  of  the  stagnant 

drouth, 
And  stirred  the  salt  sea  in  the  stifled 

south. 
The  long-robed  priests  stood  round; 

and  in  the  gloom, 
Under  black  brows,  t_eir  bright  and 

greedy  eyes 
Shone  deathfully;  there  was  a  sound 

of  sighs, 
Thick-sobbed    from    choking    throats 

among  the  crowd, 
That,  whispering,  gathered  close,  with 

dark  heads  bowed; 

But  no  man  lifted  up  his  voice  aloud, 
For  heavy  hung  o'er  all  the  helpless 

sense  of  doom. 

Then,  after  solemn  prayer, 

The  father  bade  the  attendants,  ten- 
derly 

Lift  her  upon  the  lurid  altar-stone. 

There  was  no  hope  in  thy  face ;  each  eye 

Swam  tearful,  that  her  own  did  gaze 
upon. 

They  bound  her  helpless  hands  with 
mournful  care; 

And  looped  up  her  long  hair, 

That  hung  about  her,  like  an  amber 
shower, 

Mixed  with  the  saffron  robe,  and  fall- 
ing lower, 

Down  from  her  bare  and  cold  white 
shoulder  flung. 

Upon  the  heaving  breast  the  pale 
cheek  hung, 

Suffused  with  that  wild  light  that 
rolled  among 

The  pausing  crowd,  out  of  the  crimson 
drouth. 

They  held  hot  hands  upon  Ler  plead- 
ing mouth ; 

And  stifled  on  faint  lips  the  natural  cry. 


Back  from  the  altar-stone, 

Slow-moving  in  his  fixed  place 

A  little  space, 

The  speechless    father    turned.      No 

word  was  said. 
He  wrapped  his  mantle  close  about  his 

face, 

In  his  dumb  grief,  without  a  moan. 
The  lopping  axe  was  lifted  overhead. 
Then,  suddenly, 
There  sounded  a  strange  motion  of  the 

sea, 
Booming  far  inland;  and  above  the 

east 

A  ragged  cloud  rose  slowly,  and  in- 
creased. 

Not  one  line  in  the  horoscope  of  Time 
Is  perfect.  O,  what  falling  off  is  this, 
When  some  grand  soul,  that  else  had 

been  sublime, 
Falls  unawares  amiss, 
And  stoops  its  crested  strength  to  sud- 
den crime  ! 
So  gracious  a  thing  is  it,  and  sweet, 
In  life's  queer  centre  one  true  man  to 

see, 
That  holds  strong  nature  in  a  wise 

control; 

Throbbing  out,  all  round,  the  heat 
Of  a  large  and  liberal  soul. 
No  shadow,  simulating  life, 
But  pulses  warm  with  human  nature, 
In  a  soul  of  godlike  stature; 
Heart  and  brain,  all  rich  and  rife 
With  noble  instincts;  strong  to  meet 
Time  calmly,  in  his  purposed  place. 
Sound  through  and  through,  and  all 

complete; 

Exalting  what  is  low  and  base; 
Enlarging  what  is  narrow  and  small; 
He  stamps  his  character  on  all, 
And  with  his  grand  identity 
Fills  up  Creation's  eye. 
He  will  not  dream  the  aimless  years 

away 
[n  blank  delay, 
But  makes  eternity  of  to-day, 
And  reaps  the  full-eared  time.      For 

him 

Nature  her  affluent  horn  doth  brim, 
To  strew  with  fruit  and  flowers  his 

way- 
Fruits  ripe  and  flowers  gay. 

The  clear  soul  in  his  earnest  eyes 
Looks  through  and  through  all  plaited 
lies, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


319 


Time  sh-ill  not  rob  him  of  bis  youth. 
Nor  narrow  his  lar^e  sympathies. 
He  is  not  true,  Lo  is  a  truth, 
And  such  a  truth  as  never  dies. 
Who  knows  his  nature,  feels  his  right, 
And,  toiling,  toils  for  his  delight; 
Not  as  slaves  toil;  where'er  he  goes, 
The  desert  blossoms  with  the  rose. 
He  trusts  himself  in  scorn  of  doubt, 
And  lets  orbed  purpose  widen  ou\ 
The  world  works  with  him;  all  men  see 
Some  part  of  them  fulfilled  in  him; 
His  memory  never  shall  grow  dim; 
He  holds  the  heaven  and  earth  in  fee, 
Not  following  that,  fulfilling  this, 
He  is  immortal,  for  he  is  ! 

0  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  youn^  taat  die; 

As  it  were  pale  flowers  that  wither 

under 

The  smiting  Run,  and  fall  asunder, 
Before  the  dews  on  the  griss  are  dry, 
Or  the  tender  twilight  is  out  of  the 

sky. 

Or  the  lillies  have  fallen  asleep; 
Or  ships  by  a  wanton  wind  cut  short 
Are  wrecked  in  sight  of  the  placid  port 
Sinking  strangely,  and  suddenly — 
Sadly,  and  strangely,  and  suddenly — 
Into  the  black  Plutonian  deep. 
O  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 
Weep,  and  bow  the  head, 
For  those  whose  sun  is  set  at  noon; 
Whose  night  is  dark,  without  a  moon; 
Whose  aim  of  life  is  sped 
Beyond  pursuing  woes, 
And  the  arrow  of  angry  foes, 
To  the  darkness  that  no  man  knows — 
The  darkness  among  the  dead. 
Let  us  mourn,  and  bow  the  head, 
And  lift  up  the  voice,  and  weep 
For  the  early  dead  ! 
For  the  early  dead  we  may  bow  the 

head, 

And siriko  the  breast,  and  weep; 
But,  O,  what  shall  be  said 
For  the  living  sorrow? 
For  the  living  sorrow  our  prief — 
Dumb  grief — draws  no  relief 
From  tears,  nor  yet  may  borrow 
Solace  from  sounder  speech; — 
For  the  living  sorrow 
That  heaps  to-morrow  upon  to-morrow 
In  piled-uo  pain,  beyond  Hope's  reach  ! 
It  is  well  that  we  mourn  for  the  early 

dead, 


Strike  the  breast,  and  bow  the  head; 
For  tue  sorrow  for  these  may  be  sung, 

or  said, 
And  the  chaplets  be  woven  for  the 

fallen  head, 
And  the  uras  to  the  stately  tombs  be 

led, 
And  Love  from  their  memory  may  be 

fed, 

And  song  may  ennoble  the  anguish; 
But,  O,  ior  the  living  sorrow, — 
For  the  living  sorrow  what  hopes  re- 
main? 
For  the  piisoned,  pining,   passionate 

pain, 

That  is  doomed  forever  to  languish, 
And  to  languish  forever  in  vain, 
For  the  want  of  the  words  that  may 

bestead 

The  hunger  that  out  of  loss  is  bred. 
O  friends,  for  the  living  sorrow — 
For  the  living  sorrow — 
For  the  living  sorrow  what  shall  be 

said? 

XI.  A  PHOCIAN.  CHORUS.  SEMI- 
CHORUS. 

PHOCIAN. 

O  noble  strangers,  if  indeed  you  be 
Such  as  you  seem,  of  Argos,  and  the 

land 
That    the  unconquer'd    Agamemnon 

rules, 
Tell  me  is  this  the  palace,  these  the 

roofs 
Of  the  Atridae,  famed  in  ancient  song? 

CHOKTTS. 

Not  without  truth  you  name  the  neigh- 
borhood, 

Standing  before  the  threshold,  and  the 
doors 

Of  Pelops,  and  upon  the  Argive  soil. 

That  which  you  see  above  the  Agora 

Is  the  old  fane  of  the  Lycsean  God, 

And  this  the  house  of  Agamemnon's 
queen. 

But  whence  art  thou?  For  if  thy 
dusty  locks 

And  those  soiled  sandals  show  with 
aught  of  truth, 

Thou  shouldst  be  come  from  far. 

PHOCIAN. 

And  am  so,  friends, 


320 


CL  YTEMNES  TEA. 


But,  by  Heaven's  favor,  here  my  jour- 
ney ends. 

CHOBUS. 
Whence,  then,  thy  way  ? 

PHOCIAN. 

From  Phocis  ;  charged  with  gifts 
For  Agamemnon,  and  with  messages 
From  Strophius,  and  the  sister  of  your 

king. 
Our  watchmen  saw  the  beacon  on  the 

hills, 
And  leaped  for  joy.     Say,  is  the  king 

yet  come  ? 

CHOBUS. 

He  comes  this  way  ;  stand  by,  I  hear 

them  ishout ; 
Here  shall  you  meet  him,  as  he  mounts 

the  hill. 

PHOOIAN. 

Now  blest  be  all  the  Gods,  from  Father 

Zeus, 

Who  reigns  o'er  windy  (Eta,  far  away, 
To    King   Apollo,    with    the    golden 

horns. 

CHOBUS. 
Look  how  they  cling  about  him  !    Far 

and  near 
The  town  breaks  loose,   and  follows 

after, 

Crowding  up  the  ringing  ways. 
The  boy  forgets  to  watch  the  steer  ; 
The  grazing  steer  forgets  to  graze  ; 
The  shepherd  leaves  the  herd  ; 
The  priest  will  leave  the  fane  ; 
The  deep  heart  of  the  land  is  stirred 
To  sunny  tears,  and  tearful  laughter, 
To  look  into  his  face  again. 

Burst,  burst  the  brazen  gates  ! 

Throw  open  the  hearths,  and  follow  ! 

Let  the  shouts  of  the  youths  go  up  to 
Apollo, 

Lord  of  the  graceful  quiver: 

Till  the  tingling  sky  dilates — 

Dilates,  and  palpitates; 

And,  Paean  !  Paean!  the  virgins  sing; 

Paean  !  Paean  !  the  king !  the  king  ! 

Laden  with  spoils  from  Phrygia ! 

lo  !  lo  !  lo  !  they  sing 

Till  the  pillars  of  Olympus  ring: 

lo  !  to  Queen  Ortygia, 

Whose  double  torch  shall  burn  for- 
ever! 


But  thou,  O    Lord    of    the    graceful 

quiver, 

Bid,  bid  thy  Pythian  splendor  halt, 
Where'er  he  beams,  surpassing  sight; 
Or  on  some  ocean  isthmus  bent, 
Or  wheeled  from  the  dark  continent, 
Half-way  down  Heaven's  rosy  vault, 
Toward  the  dewy  cone  of  night. 
Let  not  the  breathless  air  grow  dim, 
Until  the  whole  land  look  at  him  ! 


Stand  back ! 


SEMI-CHOBUS. 


SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Will  he  come  this  way? 


SEMI-CHOKUS. 


No;  by  us. 


SEMI-CHOBUS. 
Gods,  what  a  crowd ! 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

How  firm  the  old  men  walk ! 
SEMI-CHOBUS. 

There  goes  the  king.     I  know  him  by 
his  beard. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

And  I,  too,  by  the  manner  of  his  gait. 
That  Godlike  spirit  lifts  him  from  the 
earth. 

BEMI-CHOBUS. 

How  gray  he  looks ! 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

His  cliaek  is  seamed  \vith  scars. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

What  a  bull's  front  I 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

He  stands  up  like  a  tower. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Ay,  like  some  moving  tower  of  arme  1 

men, 
That  carries  conquest  under  city  walls. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 
He  lifts  his  sublime  head,  and  in  his 

port 
Bears  eminent  authority. 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 


Behold, 


CLYTEMNESTKA. 


321 


His  spear  shows  like  the  spindle  of  a 
Fate! 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

O,  what  an  arm  ! 

.SEMI-CHORUS. 

Most  fit  for  such  a  sword  ; 
Look  at  that  sword. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

What  shoulders  \ 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

What  a  throat ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

What  are  these  bearing  ? 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Urns. 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 


Alas !  alas ! 


BEMI-CHOEUS. 

0  friends,  look    here !    how    are  the 

mighty  men 
Shrunk  up  into  a  little  vase  of  earth, 

A  child  might  lift.     Sheathed  each  in 

brazen  plates, 
They  went  so  heavy,  they  come  back 

so  light, 
Sheathed,  each  one,  in  the  brazen  urn 

of  death ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

With  what  a  stateliness  he  moves  along  ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

See,  how    they  touch    his  skirt,   and 
grasp  his  hand  ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Is  that  the  queen  ? 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Ay,  how  she  matches  him  ! 
With  what  grand  eyes  she  looks  up, 
full  in  his ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Say,  what  are  these  ? 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

0  Phrygians  !  how  they  walk  ! 

The  only  sad    men  in  the  crowd,  I 

think. 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 

But  who  is  this,  that  with  such  scorn- 
ful brows, 

And  looks  averted,  walks  among  the 
rest? 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

I  know  not,  but  some  Phrygian  woman, 
sure. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Her  heavy-fallen  hair  down  her  white 

neck 
(A  dying  sunbeam  tangled  in  each 

tress) 
All  its  neglected  beauty  pours  one  way. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Her   looks    bend  over  on  the    alien 

ground, 
As  though  the  stones  of  Troy  were  in 

her  path. 
And  in  the  pained  paleness  of  her 

brow 
Sorrow  hath  made  a  regal  tenement. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 
Here  comes  Electra  ;  young  Orestes, 

too: 
See  how  he  emulates  his  father's 

stride ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Look  at  ^gisthus,   where  he  walks 

apart, 
And  bites  his  lip. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

I  oft  have  seen  him  so 
When  something  chafes  him  in  his  bit- 
ter moods. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 
Peace,  here  they  come  ! 

CHOEUS. 

lo  !  lo  I    The  King  ! 

XII.  AGAMEMNON,  CLYTEMNES- 
TKA, ^GISTHUS,  ELEGTKA, 
OKESTES,  CASSANDKA,  a  Pho- 
cian,  Chorus,  Semi- Chorus,  and  others 
in  the  processsion. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

0  blazing  sun,  that  in  thy  skyey  tower 
Pausest  to  see  one  kingly  as  thyself, 
Lend  all  thy  brightest  beams  to  light 
his  head, 


322 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


And  gild  our  gladness  !  Friends,  be- 
hold the  King  ! 

Now  hath  ./Etolian  Jove,  the  arbiter 

Of  conquests,  well-disposed  the  issues 
here; 

For  every  night  that  brought  not  news 
from  Troy 

Heaped  fear  on  fear,  as  waves  succeed 
to  waves, 

When  Northern  blasts  blow  white  the 
Cretan  main, — 

Knowing  that  thou,  far  off,  from  toil 
to  toil 

Climbedst,  uncertain.  Unto  such  an 
one 

His  children,  and  young  offspring  of 
the  house 

Are  as  a  field,  which  he,  the  husband- 
man, 

Owning  far  off,  does  only  look  upon 

At  seedtime  once,  nor  then  till  harvest 
comes  ; 

And  his  sad  wife  must  wet  with  night- 
ly tears 

Unsolaced  pillows,  fearing  for  his  fate. 

To  these  how  welcome,  then,  his  glad 
rtturn, 

When  he,  as  thou,  comes  heavy  with 
the  weight 

Of  great  achievements,  and  the  spoils 
of  time. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Enough !    enough  !   we  weigh  you  at 

full  worth, 
And  hold  you  dear,   whose  gladness 

equals  yours  ; 

But  women  ever  err  by  over-talk. 
Silence  to  women,   as  the  beard    to 

men, 
Brings  honor;  and  plain  truth  is  hurt, 

not  helped 

By  many  words.     To  each  his  sepa- 
rate sphere 
The  Gods  allot.     To  me  the  sounding 

camp, 
Steeds,  and  the  oaken  spear  ;  to  you 

the  hearth, 
Children,  and  household  duties  of  the 

loom. 

T  is  man's  to  win  an  honorable  name; 
Woman's  to  keep  it  honorable  still. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

(0  beast !  O  weakness  of  this  woman- 
hood ! 

To  let  these  pompous  male  things 
strut  in  our  eyes, 


And  in  their  lordship  lap  themselves 

secure, 
Because  the  lots  in  life  are  fallen  to 

them. 
Am  I  less  heart  and  head,  less  blood 

and  brain, 

Less  force  and  feeling,  pulse  and  pas- 
sion —  I  — 
Than  this  self- worshipper  —  a  lie  all 

through  ?) 
Forgive  if  joy  too  long  unloose  our 

lips, 
Silent  so  long :  your  words  fall  on  my 

soul 
As  rain  on  thirsty  lands,  that  feeds 

the  dearth 
With  blessed  nourishment.    My  whole 

heart  hears. 
You  speaking  thus,  I  would  be  silent 

ever. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Who  is  this  man  ? 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

A  Phocian,  by  his  look. 

PHOCIAN. 

O  King,  from  Strophius,  and  your 
sister's  court, 

Despatched  with  this  sealed  tablet, 
and  with  gifts, 

Though  both  express,  so  says  my  royal 
Head, 

But  poorly  the  rich  welcome  they  in- 
tend. 

Will  you  see  this  ? — and  these  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Anon !  anon ! 
We'll  look  at  them  within.     O  child, 

thine  eyes 
Look  warmer  welcome  than  all  words 

express. 
Thou  art  mine  own  child  by  that  royal 

brow. 
Nature  hath  marked  thee  mine. 


0  Father ! 

AGAMEMNON. 

Come! 

And  our  Orestes  !   He  is  nobly  grown ; 
He  shall  do  great  deeds  when  our  own 

are  dim. 
So    shall    men    come    to    say,    "the 

father's  sword 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


323 


In    the    son's  hands  hath  hewn  out 

nobler  fame." 
Think  of  it,  little  one  !  where  is  our 

cousin  ? 

JEGISTHUS. 

Here  !  And  the  keys  of  the  Acropolis  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

0  well !  this  dust  and  heat  are  over- 

much. 
And,  cousin,   you  look  pale.     Anon ! 

anon  ! 
Speak  to  us  by  and  by.     Let  business 

wait. 
Is  our  house  ordered  ?  we  will  take  the 

bath. 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Will  you  within  ?  where  all  is  ordered 
fair 

Befitting  state :  cool  chambers,  marble- 
floored 

Or  piled  with  blazing  carpets,  scented 
rare 

With  the  sweet  spirit  of  each  odorous 
gum 

In  dim,  delicious,  amorous  mists  about 

The  purple-paven,  silver-sided  bath, 

Deep,  flashing,  pure. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Look  to  your  captives  then. 

1  charge  you  chiefly  with  this  woman 

here, 
Cassandra,  the  mad  prophetess  of 

Troy. 
See  that  you  chafe  her  not  in  her  wild 

moods. 

XIII.       CLYTEMNESTKA.      JEGIS- 
THUS. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Linger  not ! 

JEGISTHUS. 

What?  you  will  to-day  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

—  This  hour. 

^GISTHUS. 

0,  if  some  chance  mar  all ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

We'll  make  chance  sure. 
Doubt  is  the  doomsman  of  self-judged 
disgrace: 


But  every  chance  brings  safety  to  self-, 
help. 

JEGISTHUS. 

Ay,  but  the  means  —  the  time  — 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

—  Fulfil  themselves. 
O  most  irresolute  heart !  is  this  a  time 
When  through  the  awful  pause  of  life, 

distinct, 
The  sounding  shears    of    Fate  slope 

near,  to  stand 
Meek,    like    tame   wethers,    and    be 

shorn  ?    How  say  you, 
The  blithe  wind  up,  and  the  broad  sea 

before  him, 
Who  would  crouch  all  day  long  beside 

the  mast 

Counting  the  surges  beat  his  idle  helm, 
Because  between  him  and  the  golden 

isles 
The  shadow  of  a  passing  storm  might 

hang? 
Danger,   being  pregnant,   doth  beget 

resolve. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Thou  wert  not  born  to  fail.     Give  me 
thy  hand. 


Take  it. 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 


JEGISTHUS. 

It  does  not  tremble. 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

O  be  strong ! 
The  future  hangs  upon  the  die    we 

cast: 
Fortune  plays  high  for  us — 

3IGISTHUS. 

God  grant  she  win. 

XIV.      CHOEUS.       SEMI-CHOKUS. 
CASSANDRA. 

CHOBUS. 

O  thou  that  dost  with  globed  glory 
Sweep  the  dark  world  at  noon  of  night, 
Or  among  snowy  summits,  wild  and 

hoary, 

Or  through  the  mighty  silences 
Of  immemorial  seas, 
With  all  the  stars  behind  thee  flying 

white, 

O  take  with  thee,  where'er 
Thou  wanderest,  ancient  Care^ 


324 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


And    hide    her   in    some    interlunar 

haunt; 

Where  but  the  wild  bird's  chaunt 
At  night,  through  rocky  ridges  gaunt, 
Or  moanings  of  some  homeless  sea  may 

find  her 

There,  Goddess,  bar,  and  bind  her; 
Where  she  may  pine,  but  wander  not; 
Loathe  her  haunts,  but  leave  them  not; 
Wail  and  rave  to  the  wind  and  wave 
That  hear,  yet  understand  her  not ; 
And  curse  her  chains,  yet  cleave  them 

not; 

And  hate  her  lot,  yet  help  it  not. 
Or  let  her  rove  with  Gods  undone 
Who  dwell  below  the  setting  sun, 
And  the  sad  western  hours 
That  burn  in  fiery  bowers; 
Or  in  Amphitrite's  grot 
Where  the  vexed  tides  unite, 
And  the  spent  wind,  howling  breaks 
O'er  sullen  oceans  out  of  sight 
Among    sea-snakes,    that    the    white 

moon  wakes 

Till  they  shake  themselves  into  dia- 
mond flakes, 

Coil  and  twine  in  the  glittering  brine 
And  swing  themselves    in    the    long 

moonshine ; 

Or  by  wild  shores  hoarsely  rage, 
And  moan,  and  vent  her  spite, 
In  some  inhospitable  harborage 
Of  Thracian  waters,  white. 
There  let  her  grieve  and  grieve,  and 

hold  her  breath 

Until  she  hates  herself  to  death, 
I  seem  with  rapture  lifted  higher, 
Like  one  in  mystic  trance. 
O  Pan !  pan  !  pan  ! 
First  friend  of  man, 
And  founder  of  Heaven's  choir, 
Come  thou  from  old  Cyllene,  and  in- 
spire 

The  Gnossian,  and  Nyssean  dance  ! 
Come  thou,  too,  Delian  king, 
From  the  blue  Jllgean  sea, 
And  My  cone's  yellow  coast: 
Give  my  spirit  such  a  wing 
As  there  the  foolish  Icarus  lost, 
That  she  may  soar  above  the  cope 
Of  this  high  pinnacle  of  gladness, 
And  dizzy  height  of  hope; 
And  there,  beyond  all  reach  of  sad- 
ness, 

May  tune  my  lips  to  sing 
Great  Paeans,  full  and  free, 
Till  the  whole  world  ring 


With  such  heart-melting  sadness 
As  bards  are  taught  by  thee  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  to  the  sad  Cassandra,  how  she 
stands ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  turns  not  from  the  wringing  of  her 
hands. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  is  she  doing? 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

Look,  her  lips  are  moved 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  yet  their  motion  shapes  not  any 
sound. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Speak  to  her. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

She  will  heed  not. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

But  yet  speak. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

Unhappy  woman,  cease  a  little  while 

From  mourning.  Recognize  the  work 
of  Heaven. 

Troy  smoulders.  Think  not  of  it.  Let 
the  past 

Be  buried  in  the  past.  Tears  mend  it 
not. 

Fate  may  be  kindlier,  yet,  than  she  ap- 
pears. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 
She  does  not  answer. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

Call  to  her  again. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  break  this  scornful  silence !    Hear 

us  speak. 
We  would  console  you. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look,  how  she  is  moved ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  speak !  the  heart's  hurt  oft  is  helped 
by  words. 

CASSANDRA. 

O  Itya  !  Itys !  Itys ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


325 


SEMI-CHOEUS, 

What  a  shriek  ! 

She  takes  the  language  of  the  night- 
ingale, 

bird !  that  mourns  her  per- 
"ished  form, 
And  leans  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 
all  night. 

CASSANDBA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  shambles. 

SEMI-CHOKUS. 

Listen,  friends ! 
She  mutters  something  to  herself . 

CASSANDBA. 

Alas! 
Did  any  name  Apollo  ?  woe  is  me  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  calls  upon  the  God. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Unhappy  one, 

What  sorrow  strikes  thee  with  bewil- 
derment ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Now  she  is  mute  again. 

CHOEUS. 

A  Stygian  cold 
Creeps  through  my  limbs,  and  loosens 

every  joint. 

The  hot  blood  freezes  in  its  arteries, 
And  stagnates  round  the  region  of  the 

heart. 

A  cloud  comes  up  from  sooty  Acheron, 
And  clothes  mine  eyelids 
With  infernal  night. 
My  hair  stands  up. 
What  supernatural  awe. 
Shoots,  shrivelling  through  me, 
To  the  marrow  and  bone? 
O  dread  and  wise  Prophetic  Powers, 
Whose  strong-compelling  law 
Doth  hold  in  awe 
The  laboring  hours, 
Your  intervention  I  invoke, 
My  soul  from  this  wild  doubt  to  save ; 
Whether  you  have 
Your  dwelling  in  some  dark,  oracular 

cave, 

Or  solemn,  sacred  oak; 
Or  in  Dodona's  ancient,  honored  beech, 
Whose  mystic  boughs  above 
Sat  the  wise  dove; 
Or  if  the  tuneful  voice  of  old 


Awake  in  Delos,  to  unfold 
Dark  wisdom  in  ambiguous  speech. 
Upon  the  verge  of  strange  despair 
My  heart  grows  dizzy.    Now  I  seem. 
Like  one  that  dreams  some  ghastly 

dream, 

And  cannot  cast  away  his  care, 
But  harrows  all  the  haggard  air 
With  his  hard  breath.  Above,  be* 

neath, 

The  empty  silence  seems  to  teem 
With  apprehension.     O  declare 
What  hidden  thing  doth  Fate  prepare, 
What  hidden,  horrible  thing  doth  Fate 

prepare  ? 
For  of  some  hidden  grief    my  heart 

seems  half  aware. 

XV.     CLYTEMNESTKA.      CASSAN- 
DRA.   CHOEUS. 

CLTTEMNESTEA. 

One  blow  makes  all  sure.      Ay,  but 

then  —  beyond  ? 

I  cannot  trammel  up  the  future  thus, 
And  so  forecast  the  time,  as  with  one 

blow 
To  break  the  hundred  Hydra-heads  of 

Chance. 
Beyond  —  beyond  I  dare  not  look,  for 

who, 
If  first  he  scanned  the  space,  would 

leap  the  gulf? 
One   blow  secures  the  moment.     O, 

but  he  ... 
Ay,  there  it  lies !    I  dread  lest  my  love, 

being 
So  much  the  stronger,  scare  his  own 

to  death ; 
As  what  they  comprehend  not,  men 

abhor. 

He  has  a  wavering  nature,  easily 
Unpoised;  and  trembling  ever  on  ex- 
tremes. 
O,  what  if  terror  outweigh  love,  and 

love, 
Having  defiled  his  countenance,  take 

part 
Against  himself,  self -loathed,  a  fallen 

God? 

Ah,  his  was  never  yet  the  loving  soul, 
But  rather  that  which  lets  itself  be 

loved; 

As  some  loose  lily  leans  upon  a  lake, 
Letting  the  lymph  reflect  it,  as  it  will, 
Still  idly  swayed,  whichever  way  the 


326 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Stirs  the  green  tangles  of  the  water 

moss. 
The  flower  of  his  love  never  bloomed 

upright, 
But  a   sweet    parasite  that  loved    to 

lean 
On  stronger  natures,  winning  strength 

from  them,  — 
Not  such  a  flower  as  whose  delirious 

cup 
Maddens  the  bee,  and  never  can  give 

forth 

Enough  of  fragrance,  yet  is  ever  sweet. 
Yet  which  is  sweetest, — to  receive  or 

give? 
Sweet  to  receive,  and  sweet  to  give,  in 

love  ! 

When  one  is  never  sated  that  receives, 
Nor  ever  all  exhausted  one  that  gives. 
I  think  I  love  him  more,  that  I  resem- 
ble 

So  little  aught  that  pleases  me  in  him. 
Perehance,  if  I  dared  question  this 

dark  heart, 
'T  is  not  for  him,  but  for  myself  in 

him, 
For  that  which  is  my  softer  self  in 

him,  — 
I  have  done  this,  and  this,  — and  shall 

do  more: 
Hoped,  wept,  dared  wildly,  and  will 

overcome ! 
Does  he  not  need  me?    It  is  sweet  to 

think 

That  I  am  all  to  him,  whate'er  I  be 
To  others ;  and  to  one  —  little,  I  know  ! 
But    to    him,    all    things  —  sceptre, 

ewort,  and  crown. 
For  who  would  live,  but  to  be  loved  by 

some  one? 

Be  fair,  but  to  give  beauty  to  another? 
Or  wise,  but  to  instruct  some  sweet 

desire  ? 
Or  strong,  but  that  thereby  love  may 

rejoice  ? 

Or  who  for  crime's  sake  would  be  crimi- 
nal? 
And  yet  for  love's  sake  would  not  dare 

wild  deeds? 

A  mutual  necessity,  one  fear, 
One  hope,  and  the  strange  posture  of 

the  time 

Unite  us  now; — but  this  need  over- 
past, 
0,  if,   'twixt  his   embrace  and  mine, 

there  rise 
The  reflex  of  a  murdered  head  !  and  he, 


Remembering  the  crime,  remember  not 
It  was  for  him  that  I  am  criminal, 
But  rather  hate  me  for  the  part  he 

took  — 
Against  his  soul,  as  he  will  say  —  in 

this  ?— 
I  will  not  think  it.     Upon  this  wild 

venture, 
Freighted  with  love's  last  wealthiest 

merchandise, 
My  heart  sets    forth.     To-morrow    I 

shall  wake 

A  beggar,  as  it  may  be,  or  thrice  rich. 
As  one  who  plucks  his  last  gem  from 

his  crown 
(Some  pearl  for  which,  in  youth,  he 

bartered  states) 

And,  sacrificing  with  an  anxious  heart, 
Toward  night  puts  seaward  in  a  little 

bark 

For  lands  reported  far  beyond  the  sun, 
Trusting  to  win  back  kingdoms,   or 

there  drown  — 

So  I  —  and  with  like  perilous  endeavor! 
O,  but  I  think  I  could  implore  the 

Gods 

More  fervently  than  ever,  in  my  youth, 
I  prayed  that  help  of  Heaven  I  needed 

not, 
And  lifted  innocent  hands  to    their 

great  sky. 
So  much  to  lose  ...  so  much  to  gain 

...  so  much  .  .  . 
I  dare  not  think  how  .  .  . 

Ha,  the  Phrygian  slave  ! 
He  dares  to  bring  his  mistress  to  the 

hearth ! 
She  looks  unhappy.     I  will  speak  to 

her. 
Perchance  her    hatred  may  approve 

my  own, 

And  help  me  in  the  work  I  am  about. 
'T  were  well  to  sound  her. 

Be  not  so  cast  down, 
Unhappy  stranger  !    Fear  no  jealous 

hand. 

In  sorrow  I,  too,  am  not  all  untried. 
Our  fortunes  are  not  so  dissimilar, 
Slaves  both — and  of  one  master. 

Nay,  approach. 
Is  my  voice  harsh  in  its  appeal  to 

thee? 

If  BO,  believe  me,  it  belies  my  heart. 
A  woman  speaks  to  thee. 

What  silent  still? 
O,  look  not  on  me  with  such  sullen 

eyes, 


CLYTEMftESTRA. 


327 


There  is  no  accusation  in  my  own. 
Rather  on  him  that  brought  thee  than 

on  thee. 
Our  scorn  is  settled.     I  would  help 

thee.     Come  ! 
Mute  still?. 

I  know  that  shame  is  ever  dumb, 
And    ever  weak;  but  here  is  no  re- 
proach. 
Listen !    Thy  fate    is    given    to    thy 

hands. 
Art  thou  a  woman,   and  dost  scorn 

contempt  ? 
Art  thou  a  captive,  and  dost  loathe 

these  bonds? 
Art  thou  courageous,  as  men  call  thy 

race? 
Or,   helpless   art    thou,   and  wouldst 

overcome  ? 
If  so, —  look  up  !     For  there  is  hope 

for  thee. 
Give  me  thy  hand  — 

CASSANDBA. 

Pah  !  there  is  blood  on  it ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

What  is  she  raving  of? 


Is  evil. 


CASSANDRA. 

The  place,  from  old, 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Ay,  there  is  a  sickness,  here, 
That  needs  the  knife. 

CASSANDBA. 

0,  horrible  !  blood  !  blood  ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

I  see  you  are  a  Phyrgian  to  the  bone  ! 
Coward  and  slave  !  be  so  forevermore! 

CASSANDBA. 

Apollo  !  O  Apollo  !    O  blood  !  blood  ! 
The  whole  place  swims  with  it !     The 

slippery  steps 
Steam  with  the  fumes!    The  rank  air 

smells  of  blood ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Heed  her  not !  for  she  knows  not  what 

she  says. 
This  is  some  falling  sickness  of  the 

soul. 
Her  fever  frights  itself. 


CASSANDBA. 

It  recks  !  it  reeks  ! 

It  smokes !   it  stifles !   blood !  blood, 
everywhere  1 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

See,  he  hath  brought  this  mad  woman 

from  Troy, 
To  shame  our  honor  and  insult  our 

care. 
Look  to  her,  friends,  my  hands  have 

other  work ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas,    the     House    of    Tantalms    is 
doomed ! 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

The  King  sleeps  like — an  infant.     His 

huge  strength 
Holds  slumber  thrice  as  close  as  other 

men. 
How  well  he  sleeps  !     Make  garlands 

for  the  Gods. 
I  go  to  watch  the  couch.    Cull  every 

flower, 

And  honor  all  the  tutelary  fanes 
With  sacrifice  as  ample  as  our  joy, 
Lest  some  one  say  we  reverence  not 

the  Gods ! 

CHOBUS. 

O  doomed  House  and  race ! 
0  toilsome,  toilsome  horsemanship 
Of  Pelops;  that  ill  omen  brought  to  us ! 
For  since  the  drowned  Myrtilus 
Did  from  his  golden  chariot  slip 
To  his  last  sleep,  below  the  deep, 
Nothing  of  sad  calamitous  disgrace 
Hath  angry  heaven  ceased  to  heap 
On  this  unhappy  House  of  Tantalus. 
Not  only  upon  sacred  leaves  of  old, 
Preserved  in  many  a  guarded,  mystic 

fold, 

But  sometimes,  too,  enrolled 
On  tablets  fair 
Of  stone  or  brass,  with  quaint    and 

curious  care, 
In  characters  of  gold, 
And  many  an  iron-bound,  melancholy 

book, 

The  wisdom  of  the  wise  is  writ; 
And  hai  dly  shall  a  man, 
For  all  he  can, 
By  painful,  slow  degrees, 
And  nightly  reveries, 
Of     long,   laborious     thought,    grow 

learned  in  these. 


328 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


But  who,  that  reads  a  woman's  wily 

look, 
Shall  say  what  evil  hides,  and  lurks  in 

it? 

Or  fathom  her  false  wit  ? 
For  by  a  woman  fell  the  man 
Who  did  Nemsea's  pest  destroy, 
And  the  brinded  Hydra  slew, 
And  many  other  wonders  wrought. 
By  a  woman,  fated  Troy 
'  Was  overset,  and  fell  to  naught. 
Eoyal  Amphiaraus,  too, 
All  his  wisdom  could  not  free 
From  his  false  Eriphyle, 
Whom  a  golden  necklace  bought, — 
So  has  it  been,  and  so  shall  be, 
Ever  since  the  world  began ! 

0  woman,  woman,  of  what  other  earth 
Hath  dffidal  Nature  moulded  thee  ? 
Thou  art  not  of  our  clay  compact, 
Not  of  our  common  clay; — 
But  when  the  painful  world  in  labor 

lay- 
Labor  long — and  agony, 
In  her  heaving  throes  distract, 
And  vext  with  angey  Heaven's  red  ire, 
Nature,  kneading  snow  and  fire, 
In  thy  mystic  being  pent 
Each  contrary  element. 
Life  and  death  within  thee  blent: 
All  dispair  and  all  desire, 
There  to  mingle  and  ferment. 
While,  mad  midwives,  at  thy  birth, 
Furies  mixt  with  Sirens  bent, 
Inter- wreathing  snakes  and  smiles, 
Fairest  dreams  and  falsest  guiles. 

Such  a  splendid  mischief  thou ! 
With  thy  light  of  languid  eyes; 
And  thy  bosom  of  pure  snow: 
And  thine  heart  of  fire  below, 
Whose  red  light  doth  come  and  go 
Ever  o'er  thy  changeful  cheek 
When  love- whispers  tremble  weak: 
Thy  warm  lips  and  pensive  sighs, 
That  the  breathless  spirit  bow: 
And  the  heavenward  life  that  lies 
In  the  still  serenities 
Of  thy  snowy,  airy  brow, — 
Thine  ethereal  airy  brow. 
Such  a  splendid  mischief,  thou  ! 
What  are  all  thy  witcheries ! 
All  thine  evil  beauty  ?    All 
Thy  soft  looks,  and  subtle  smiles  ? 
Tangled  tresses  ?    Mad  caresses  ? 
Tenderness  ?.  Tears  and  kisses  ? 


And  the  long  look,  between  whiles, 
That  the  helpless  heart  beguiles, 
Tranced  in  such  a  subtle  thrall  ? 
What  are  all  thy  sighs  and  smiles  ? 
Fairest  dreams  and  falsest  guiles ! 
Hoofs  to  horses,  teeth  to  lions, 
Horns  to  bulls,  and  speed  to  hares, 
To  the  fish  to  glide  through  waters, 
To  the  bird  to  glide  through  airs, 
Nature  gave:  to  men  gave  courage, 
And  the  use  of  brazen  spears. 
What  was  left  to  give  to  woman, 
All  her  gifts  thus  given  ?    Ah  tears, 
Smiles,  and  kisses,  whispers,  glances. 
Only  these;  and  merely  beauty 
On  her  arched  brows  unfurled. 
And  with  these  she  shatters  lances, 
All  unarmed  binds  armed  Duty, 
And  in  triumph  drags  the  world  ? 

XVI.  -  SEMI-CHORUS.  CHOEUS. 
CASSANDEA.  AGAMEMNON. 
CLYTEMNESTEA.  ^GISTHUS. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Break  off,  break  off !    It  seems  I  hear 
a  cry. 

CHOEUS. 

Surely  one  called  within  the  house. 


SEMI-CHOKUS. 


Stand  by. 


CHOEUS. 

The  Prophetress  is  troubled.    Look, 

her  eye 
Eolls  fearfully. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Now  all  is  husht  once  more. 

CHOKUS. 
I  hear  the  feet  of  some  one  at  the  door. 

AGAMEMNON  (withir}. 

Murderess !  oh,  oh  ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

The  house  is  filled  with  shrieks. 

CHOBUS. 

The  sound  deceives  or  that  was  the 
King's  voice. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 
The  voice  of  Agamemnon ! 


AGAMEMNON  (within). 


Ailailai! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


329 


CASSANDBA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  toils. 

AGAMEMNON  (within). 

I  will  not  die  ! 

.EGISTHUS.    (within). 

O  Zeus  !  he  will  escape. 

CLYTEMNESTBA  (within). 

He  has  it. 


AGAMEMNON    (within). 


Ai !  ai ! 


CHOKUS. 

Some  hideous  deed  is  being  done  with- 
in. 
Burst  in  the  doors  ! 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

I  cannot  open  them. 
Barred,  barred  within ! 

CASSANDBA. 

The  axe  is  at  the  bull. 

CHOBUS. 

Call  the  elders. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

And  the  People.     0  Argives  !  Argives  ! 
Alinon !  Alinon ! 

CHOBUS. 
You  to  the  Agora. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

To  the  temples  we. 

CHOBUS. 
Hearken,  O  maidens  ! 


This  way. 


SEMI-CHOBUS. 

CHOBUS. 

That  way. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

Quick !  quick ! 

CASSANDBA. 

Seal  my  sight,  O  Apollo  !  O  Apollo  ! 


To  the  Agora  ! 


SEMI-CHOBUS. 

To  the  temples ! 


CHOBUS. 


Haste !  haste ! 


AGAMEMNON    (within). 

Stabbed,  oh  ! 

CHOBUS. 
Too  late ! 

CASSANDBA. 

The  bull  is  bellowing. 

JEGISTHUS   (within). 

Thrust  there  again. 

CLYTEMNESTBA  (within}. 

One  blow  has  done  it  all. 

^GISTHUS  (within). 
Is  it  quite  through  ? 

CLTTEMNESTBA   (within). 

He  will  not  move  again. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

O  Heaven  and  Earth  !  My  heart  stands 

still  with  awe ! 
"Where  will  this  murder  end  ? 

CHOBUS. 
Hold  !  some  one  comes ! 

XVII.  ELECTKA.   ORESTES.  CHO- 
BUS.   A  PHOCIAN. 

ELECTEA  (leading   OBESTES). 

Save  us !  save  him — Orestes  ! 

CHOBUS. 

What  has  fallen? 

BLECTBA. 

An  evil  thing.     O,  we  are  fatherless  ! 

CHOEUS. 

Ill-starred  Electra  !    But  how  fell  this 
chance  ? 

ELECTEA. 

Here  is  no  time  for  words, — scarce 

time  for  flight. 
When  from  his  royal  bath  the  King 

would  rise,— 
That  devilish  woman,    lying  long  in 

lurk, 
Behind  him  crept,  with  stealthy  feet 

unheard, 
And  flung  o'er  all  his  limbs  a  subtle 

web. 
Caught  in  the  craft  of  whose  contrived 

folds, 


330 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Stumbling  he  fell.     JEgisthus  seized  a 

sword: 

But  halted,  half  irresolute  to  strike. 
My  father,  like  a  lion  in  the  toils, 
Upheaved    his    head,  and,    writhing, 

roared  with  wrath, 
And    angry  shame    at    this    infernal 

snare. 
Almost    he    rent    the    blinding   nets 

atwain. 

But  Clytemnestia  on  him  flung  her- 
self, 
And  caught  the  steel,   and  smit  him 

through  the  3  ibs. 
He  slipped,  and  reeled.     She  drove  the 

weapon  through, 
Piercing  the  heart ! 

CHOETTS. 
O  woe  !  what  tale  is  this  ? 

ELECTEA. 

I,  too,  with  him,  had  died,  but  for  this 

child, 
And  that  high  vengeance  which  is  yet 

to  be. 

CHOEUS. 

Alas!  then  Agamemnon  is  no  more, 
Who  stood,  but  now,  amongst  us,  full 

of  life, 
Crowned  with  achieving  years  !    The 

roof  and  cope 
Of  honor,   faLen !    Where    shall    we 

lift  our  eyes  ? 
Where  set  renown  ?    Where  garner  up 

our  hopes  ? 
All  worth  is  dying  out.     The  land  is 

dark, 
And  Treason    looks    abroad     in    the 

eclipse. 
He  did  not  die  the  death  of  men  that 

live 
Such  life  as  he  lived,  fall'n  among  his 

peers, 
Whom  the  red  battle  rolled  away,  while 

yet 
The  shout  of  Gods  was  ringing  through 

and  through  them; 
But  death  that  feared  to  front  him  in 

full  field, 
Lurked  by  the  hearth  and  smote  him 

from  behind. 
A  mighty   man   is  gone.     A   mighty 

grief 
Remains.      And   rumor    of     undying 

deeds 


For  song  and  legend,  to  the  end  of 

time ! 
What  tower  is  strong  ? 

ELECTBA. 

0  friends— if  friends  you  be — 
For  who    shall  say  where  falsehood 

festers  not, 
Those  being  falsest,  who  shall  most  be 

true  ? 
Where  is  tbat  Phocian  ?    Let  him  take 

the  boy, 
And  bear  him  with  him  to  his  master's 

court. 
Else  will  2Egisthus  slay  him. 


Fear  you  not? 


Orphaned  one, 


OEESTES. 

I  am  Agamemnon's  son. 
CHOEUS. 
Therefore  shouldst  fear — 

OEESTES. 
And  therefore  cannot  fear. 

PHOCIAN. 

I  heard  a  cry.     Did  any  call  ? 

CHOEUS. 

O,  well! 

You  happen  this  way  in  the  need  of 
time. 

ELECTEA. 

0  loyal  stranger,  Agamemnon's  child 
Is  fatherless.     This  boy    appeals    to 

you. 
O  save  him,  save  him  from  his  father's 

foes. 

PHOCIAN. 

Unhappy  lady,  what  wild  words  are 
these  ? 

ELECTEA. 

The    house    runs    blood.       .ZEgisthus 

like  a  fiend, 
Is  raging  loose,  his  weapon  dripping 

gore. 

CHOEUS. 

The  king  is  dead. 

PHOCIAN. 
Is  dead ! 


CL  YTEMNES  TEA. 


331 


ELECTBA. 

Dead. 


PHOCIAN. 


Do  I  dream  ? 


ELECTBA. 

Such  dreams  are  dreamed  in  hell — 

sueh  dreams  —  O  no  ! 
Is  not  the    earth    as    solid — heaven 

above  — 
The  sun  in  heaven  —  and  Nature  at 

her  work  — 
And  men  at  theirs  — the  same?    0, 

no  !  no  dream  ! 
We  shall  not  wake  —  nor  he;  though 

the  Gods  sleep  ! 
Unnaturally  murdered  — 

PHOCIAN. 

Murdered ! 

ELECTBA. 

Ay. 

And  the  sun  blackens  not  ;  the  world 
is  green  ; 

The  fires  of  the  red  west  are  not  put 
out. 

Is  not  the  cricket  singing  in  the  grass? 

And  the  shy  lizard  shooting  through 
the  leaves  ? 

I  hear  the  ox  low  in  the  labored  field. 

Those  swallows  build,  and  are  as  gar- 
rulous 

High  up  i'  the  towers.  Yet  I  speak 
the  truth, 

By  Heaven  I  speak  the  truth  — 

PHOCIAN. 

Yet  more,  vouchsafe 
How  died  the  king  ? 

ELECTBA. 

O,  there  shall  be  a  time 

For  words  here.ifter.  While  we  dally 
here, 

Fate  haunts,  and  hounds  us.  Friend, 
receive  this  boy. 

Bear  him  to  Strophius.  All  this  trag- 
edy 

.Relate  as  best  you  may;  it  beggars 
speech. 

Tell  him  a  tower  of  hope  is  fallen  this 
day  — 

A.  name  in  Greece  — 

PHOCIAN. 
—  But  you  — 


ELECTBA. 

Away  !  away ! 

Destruction  posts  apace,  while  we  de- 
lay. 


PHOCIAN. 


Come  then ! 


ELECTBA. 

I  dare  not  leave  my  father's  hearth, 
For  who  would  then  do  honor  to  his 

urn? 
It  may  be  that  my  womanhood  and 

youth 
May  help  me  here.     It  may  be  I  shall 

fall, 
And  mix  my  own  with  Agamemnon's 

blood. 
No  matter.      On    Orestes    hangs  the 

hope 

Of  all  this  House.     Him  save  for  bet- 
days, 

And  ripened  vengeance. 
PHOCIAN. 

Noble-hearted  one ! 
Come  then,  last  offspring  of  this  fated 

race. 
The  future  calls  thee  ! 


OBESTES. 


Sister !  sister ! 

ELECTBA. 

Go  ! 

OBESTES. 

0  Sister ! 

ELECTEA. 

0  my  brother  !  .  .  .  One  last  kiss,  — 
One  last  long  kiss,  — how  I  have  loved 

thee,  boy ! 
Was  it  for  this  I  nourished  thy  young 

years 
With  stately  tales,  and  legends  of  the 

gods? 
For  this  ?  .  .  .  How  the  past  crowds 

upon  me  !    Ah  !  — 
Wilt    thou    recall,  in    lonely,    lonely 

hours, 

How  once  we  sat  together  on  still  eves, 
(Ah  me  !)  and  brooded  on  all  serious 

themes 
Of  sweet,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and 

good, 
That  throng  the  ancient  years.   Alcme- 

na's  son, 
And  how  his  life  went  out  in  firo  on 

(Eta; 


332 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


Or  of  that  bright-haired  wanderer  after 

fame, 
That   brought    the    great    gold-fleece 

across  the  sea, 
And  left  a  name  in  Colchis;  or  we 

spake 

Of  the  wise  Theseus,  councils,  king- 
doms, thrones, 
And  laws  in  distant  lands;  or,  later 

still, 

Of  the  great  leaguer  set  round  Ilion, 
And  what  heart-stirring  tidings  of  the 

war 
Bards  brought  to  Hellas.     But  when  I 

would  breathe 
Thy  father's  name,  didst    thou    not 

grasp  my  hand, 
And  glorious  deeds  shone  round  us 

like  the  stars 
That  lit  the  dark  world  from  a  great 

way  off, 
And  died  up  into  heaven,  among  the 

Gods? 

OBESTES. 

Sister,  0  Sister ! 

ELECTKA. 

Ah,  too  long  we  linger. 
Away  !  away  ! 

PHOCIAN. 
Come! 

CHORUS. 

Heaven  go  with  thee  ! 
To  Crissa  points  the  hand  of  Destiny. 

ELECTRA. 

0  boy,  on  thee  Fate  hangs  an  awful 

weight 

Of  retribution !    Let  thy  father's  ghost 
Forever  whisper    in    thine    ear.     Be 

strong. 
About  thee,  yet  unborn,  thy  mother 

wove 
The  mystic  web  of  life  in  such-like 

form 

That  Agamemnon's  spirit  in  thine  eyes 
Seems  living  yet.     His  seal  is  set  on 

thee; 
And  Pelops'  ivory  shoulder  marks  thee 

his. 

Thee,  child,  nor  contests  on  the  Isth- 
mian plain, 

Nor  sacred  apple,  nor  green  laurel-leaf, 
But  graver  deeds  await.     Forget  not, 

son, 


Whose  blood,  unwashed,   defiles  thy 
mother's  doors ! 

CHORUS. 

O  haste !  I  hear  a  sound  within  the 
house. 

ELECTRA. 

Farewell,  then,  son  of  Agamemnon  ! 


Come! 


PHOCIAN. 


XVIII.  ELECTKA.  CHOEUS. 
THUS. 


ELECTRA. 

Gone  !  gone  !    Ah  saved  !  .  .  .  0  fool, 
thou  missest,  here  ! 

CHORUS. 
Alas.  Electra,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Touch  me  not  !    Come  not  near  me  ! 

Let  me  be  ! 
For  this  day,  which  I  hoped  for,  is  not 

mine. 

CHORUS. 

See  how  she  gathers  round  her  all  her 

robe, 
And  sits  apart  with  grie"f.     O,  can  it 

be 
Great     Agamemnon    is     among    the 

shades? 

ELECTRA. 

Would  I  had  grasped   his  skirt,  and 
followed  him  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  there  is  an  eminence  of  joy, 
Where  Fate  grows  dizzy,  being  mounted 

there, 
And  so  tilts  over  on  the  other  side  ! 

0  fallen,  Of  alien 

The  tower,  which  stood  so  high  ! 

Whose  base  and  girth  were  strong  i* 

the  earth, 

Whose  head  was  in  the  sky  ! 
O  f  all'n  that  tower  of  noble  power, 
That  filled  up  every  eye  ! 

He  stood  so  sure,  that  noble  tower  ! 
To  make  secure,  and  fill  with  power, 
From  length  to  length,   the  land  of 

Greece  ! 
In  whose  strong  bulwarks  all  men  saw, 


CL  YTEMNES  TRA. 


333 


Garnered  on  the  lap  of  law, 

For  dearth  or  danger,  spears  of  war, 

And  harvest  sheaves  of  peace  ! 

O  fall'n,  O  fall'n  that  lofty  tower,— 

The  loftiest  tower  in  Greece  ! 

His  brows  h6  lift  above  the  noon, 
Filled  with  the  day,  a  noble  tower  ! 
Who  took  the  sunshine  aad  the  shower, 
And  flung  them  back  in  merry  scorn. 
Who  now  shall  stand  when  tempests 

lower? 

He  was  the  first  to  catch  the  morn, 
The  last  to  see  the  moon. 
O  friends,  he  was  a  noble  tower ! 
O  friends,  and  fall'n  so  soon  ! 

Ah,  well  !  lament !  lament ! 
His  walls  are  rent,  his  bulwarks  bent, 
And  stooped  that  crested  eminence, 
Which  stood  so  high  for  our  defence  ! 
For  our  defence, — to  guard,  and  fence 
From  all  alarm  of  hurt  and  harm, 
The  fulness  of  a  land's  content ! 
O  fall'n  away,  fall'n  at  midday, 
And  set  before  the  sun  is  down, 
The  highest  height  of  our  renown  ! 

0  overthrown,  the  ivory  throne  ! 

The  spoils  of  war,  the  golden  crown, 

And  chief  est  honor  of  the  state ! 

O  mourn  with  me  !  what  tower  is  free 

From  over-topping  destiny? 

What  strength  is  strong  to  fate  ? 

O  mourn  with  me  !  when  shall  we  see 

Another  such,  so  good,  so  great? 

Another  such,  to  guard  the  state? 

.3EGISTHUS. 

He  should  have  stayed  to  shout  through 

Troy,  or  bellow 
Will  bull  sin  Ida— 

CHOEUS. 

Look !  ^gisthus  comes  ! 
Like  some  lean  tiger,  having  dipt  in 

blood 
His  dripping  fangs,  and  hot  athirst  for 

more. 
His  lurid  eyeball  rolls,  as  though  it 

swam 
Through  sanguine  films.     He  staggers, 

drunk  with  rage 
And  crazy  mischief. 

2EGISTHUS. 

Hold !  let  no  one  stir ! 


I  charge  you,  all  of  you,  who  hear  me 

speak, 
Where  may  the  boy  Orestes  lie  con- 

cealed ! 

I  hold  the  life  of  each  in  gage  for  his. 
If  any  know  where  now  he  hides  from 

us, 
Let  him  beware,  not  rendering  true  re- 


CHOBUS. 

The  boy  is  fled  — 

ELECTBA. 

—  is  saved  ! 

.aSGISTnUS. 

Electra  here  ! 
How  mean  you  ?    What  is  this  ? 

ELECTBA. 

Enough  is  left 

Of  Agamemnon's  blood  to  drown  you 
in. 

.33GISTHUS. 

You  shall  not  trifle  with  me,  by  my 

beard  ! 
There's  peril  in  this  pastime.     Where's 

the  boy  ? 

ELECTBA. 

Half-way  to  Phocis,  Heaven  helping 
him. 

.EGISTHUS. 
By  the  black  Styx  ! 

ELECTBA. 

Take  not  the  oath  of  Gods, 
Who  art  but  half  a  man,  blaspheming 
coward  ! 

2EGISTHUS. 

But  you,    by  Heaven,    if  this  be   a 

.  sword, 
Shall  not  be  any  more  — 

ELECTKA. 

A  slave  to  thee, 
Blundering  bloodshedder,  though  thou 

boast  thyself 

As  huge  as  Ossa  piled  on  Pelion, 
Or  anything  but  that  weak  wretch  thou 

art! 
O,  thou  hast  only  half  done  thy  black 

work  ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  slain  the  young 

lion  with  the  old, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Look  that  he  come  not  back,  and  fin 

himself 
Ungiven  food,  and  still  the  lion's  share 

.ZEGISTHUS. 
Insolent !  but  I  know  to  seal  thy  lips 

ELECTRA. 

— For  thou  art  only  strong  among  the 

weak. 
We  know  thou  hast  an  aptitude  fo 

blood. 

To  take  a  woman's  is  an  easy  task, 
And  one  well  worthy  thee. 

ZEGISTHUS. 

O,  but  for  words 

ELECTRA. 

Yet,  couldst  thou  feed  on  all  the  noble 

blood 

Of  godlike  generations  on  this  earth, 
[t  should  not  help  thee  to  a  hero's 

heart. 

CHORUS. 

3  peace,  Electra,  but  for  pity's  sake  ! 
leap  not  his  madness  to  such  danger- 
ous heights. 

ELECTRA. 

will  speak  out    my  heart's  scorn, 
though  I  die. 

.ZEGISTHUS. 

bid  thou  shalt  die,  but  not  till  I  have 

tamed 
Chat  stubborn  spirit  to  a  wish  for  life. 

CHORUS. 
)  cease,  infatuate  !    I  hear  the  Queen. 

[By  a  movement  of  the  Eccyclema  the  palace 
is  thrown  open,  and  discovers  CLYTEM- 
NESTKA  standing  over  the  body  of  AGAMEM- 
NON. 

IX.   CLYTEMNESTEA.    CHOEUS. 
-ZEGISTHUS.     ELECTEA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

rgives!    behold  the    man  who  was 
your  King ! 


)ead!  dead 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

fot  I,  but  Fate  hath  dealt  this  blow. 


Dead  !  dead  !  alas  !  look  where  he  lies 

O  friends  ! 
That  noble  head,  and  to  be  brought  so 

low! 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

He  who  set  li^ht  by  woman,  with  blind 

scorn, 
And  held  her  with  the  beasts  we  sacri- 

fic-, 

Lies,  by  a  woman  sacrificed  himself. 
This  is  high  justice  which  appeals  to 

you. 

CHORUS. 
Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not  words  for  this. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  are  but  as  the  instrument  of  heaven. 
Our  work  is  not  design,  but  destiny. 
A.  God  directs  the  lightning  to  its  fall  ; 
It  smites  and  slays,  and  passes  other- 

where, 

Pure  in  itself,  as  when,  in  light,  it  left 
The  bosom  of  Olympus,  to  its  end. 
In  this  cold  heart  the  wrong  of   all 

the  past 

I  avenged,  and  I  forgive. 
Honor  him  yet.     He  is  a  king,  though 

fallen. 

CHORUS. 
3,  how  she  sets  Virtue's  own  crest  on 

Crime, 
A.nd  stands  there  stern  as  Fate's  wild 

arbitress  ! 
S^ot  any  deed  could  make  her  lees  than 

great. 


descends  the  steps,  and  lays 
her  hand  on  the  arm  of  2EGISTHUS.) 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

ut  up  the  sword  !     Enough  of  blood 
is  spilt. 

.ZEGISTHUS. 

Hist  !      O,   not    half,  —  Orestes  is   es- 
caped. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Sufficient    for  the    future    be    that 

thought. 
that's  done  is  well  done.     What's  un- 

done —  yet  more: 
omething  still  saved  from  crime. 

.2EGISTHUS. 

This  lion's  whelp 
Will  work  some  mischief  yet. 


CLYTEMXESTRA. 


335 


OLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  is  a  child — 
— Our  own — we  will  but  war  upon  the 

strong. 
Not  upon   infants.      Let  this  matter 

rest. 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

0,  ever,  in  the  wake  of  thy  great  will 

Let  me  steer  sure  !  and  we  will  leave 
behind 

Great  tracks  of  light  upon  the  wonder- 
ing world. 

If  but  you  err  not  here — 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

The-se  pale-eyed  groups  ! 

See  how  they  huddle  shuddering,  and 
stand  round; 

As  when  some  mighty  beast,  the  brin- 
dled lord 

Of  the  rough  woodside,  sends  his  wild 
death-roar 

Up  the  shrill  caves,  the  meaner  den- 
izens 

Of  ancient  woods,  shy  deer,  and  timor- 
ous hares, 

Peer  from  the  hairy  thickets,  and 
shrink  back. 

We  feared  the  lion,  and  we  smote  him 
down. 

Now  fear  is  over,     Shall  we  turn  aside 

To  harry  jackals  ?  Laugn  ?  we  have 
not  laughed 

So  long,  I  think  you  have  forgotten 
how ! 

Have  we  no  right  to  laugh  like  other 
men? 

Ha !  Ha !  I  laugh.  Now  it  is  time  to 
laugh ! 

CHOKUS. 
0,  awful  sight !  Look  where  the  bloody 

sun, 
As  though  with  Agamemnon  he  were 

slain, 
Kuns  reeking,  lurid,  down  the  palace 

floors  ! 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

0  my  beloved  !  Now  will  we  reign 
sublime, 

And  set  our  foot  upon  the  neck  of  For- 
tune ! 

And,  for  the  rest— 0,  much  remains! 
— for  you, 


(To  the  CHOBUS.) 

A  milder  sway,  if  mildly  you  submit 
To  our  free  service  and  supremacy. 
Nor  tax,  nor  toll,  to  carry  dim  results 
Of  distant  war  beyond  the  perilous 

seas. 
But  gateless   justice  in  our  halls  of 

state, 
And  peace  in  all  the  borders  of  our 

land! 
For  you — 

(To  ELECTRA,  who  has  thrown  herself  upon 
the  body  of  AGAMEMNON.) 

ELECTBA. 

0,  hush  !   Wnat  more  remains  to  me, 
But  this  dead  hand,   whose  clasp   is 

cold  m  mine? 

And  all  the  baffled  memory  of  the  past, 
Buried  with  him  ?    What  more  ? 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

— A  mother's  heart, 

If  you  will  come  to  it.     Free  confi- 
dence. 

A  liberal  share  in  all  our  future  hope. 
Now,     more     than    ever  —  mutually 

weak  — 
We  stand  in  need,  each  of  the  other's 

love. 
Our  love !  it  shall  not  sacrifice  thee, 

child, 
To  wanton  whims  of  war,   as  he,  of 

old, 
Did  thy  dead  sister.     If  you  will  not 

these, 
But   answer   love    with    scorn,    why 

then — 

ELECTBA. 

— What  then? 

CLYTEMNESTBA. 

Safe  silence.     And  permission  to  for- 
get. 

XX.  CHORUS.  SEMI-CHORUS. 
CLYTEMNESTRA.  CASSANDRA. 
^GISTHUS. 

CHOBUS. 

What  shall  we  say?    What  has  been 

done? 

Shed  no  tear  !     O,  shed  no  tear  ! 
Hang  up  his  harness  in  the  sun; 
The  hooked  car,  and  barbed  spear; 
And  all  war's  adamantine  gear 


336 


CL  TTEMNES  TEA. 


Of  trophied  spoils;  for  all  his  toils 
Are  over,  alas  !  are  over,  and  done  ! 
What  shall  we  say?  What  has  been 

done? 

Shed  no  tear !    0,  shed  no  tear  ? 
But  keep  solemn  silence  all, 
As  befits  when  heroes  fall; 
Solemn  as  his  fame  is;  sad 
As  his  end  was;  earth  shall  wear 
Mourning  for  him.     See,  the  sun 
Blushes  red  for  what  is  done  ! 
And  the  wild  stars,  one  by  one, 
Peer  out  of  the  lurid  air, 
And  shrink  back  with  awe  and  fear, 
Shuddering,  for  what  is  done. 
When  the  night  comes,  dark  and  dun 
A8  our  sorrow;  blackness  far 
Shutting  out  the  crimson  sun; 
Turn  his  face  to  the  moon  and  star, — 
These  are  bright  as  his  glories  are, — 
And  great  heaven  shall  see  its  son ! 
What  shall  we  say?    What  has  been 

done? 

Shed  no  tear !    0,  shed  no  tear  ! 
Gather    round    him,    friends !     Look 

here  ! 

All  the  wreaths  which  he  hath  won 
In  the  race  that  he  hath  run,— 
Laurel  garlands,  every  one  ! 
These  are  things  to  think  upon, 
Mourning  till  the  set  of  sun, — 
Till  the  mourning  moon  appear. 
Now  the  wreaths  which  Fame  begun 
To  uplift,  to  crown  his  head, 
Memory  shall  seize  upon. 
And  make  chaplets  for  his  bier. 
He  shall  have  wreaths  though  he  be 

dead! 

But  his  monument  is  here, 
Built  up  in  our  hearts,  and  dear 
To  all  honor.    Shed  no  tear ! 
0,  let  not  any  tear  be  shed  ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Look  at  Cassandra!  she  is  stooping 
down. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  dips  and  moves  her  fingers  in  the 
blood ! 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Look  to  her !    There's  a  wildness  in 
her  eye ! 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 
What  does  she  ? 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 

O,  in  Agamemnon's  blood, 
She  hath  writ    Orestes  on  the  palace 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 

^Egisthus ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

Queen  and  Bride ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  have  not  failed. 

CHOEUS. 

Come,  venerable,  ancient  Night ! 
From  sources  of  the  western  stars, 
In  darkest  shade  that  fits  this  woe. 
Consoler  of  a  thousand  griefs, 
And  likest  death  unalterably  calm. 
We  toil,  aspire,  and  sorrow, 
And  in  a  little  while  shall  cease. 
For  we  know  not  whence  we  came, 
And  who  can  insure  the  morrow? 
Thou,  eternally  the  same, 
From  of  old,  in  endless  peace 
Eternally  survivest; 
Enduring  on  through  good  and  ill, 
Coeval  with  the  Gods:  and  still 
In  thine  own  silence  livest. 
Our  days  thou  leadest  home 
To  the  great  Whither  which  has  no 

Again ! 

Impartially  to  pleasure  and  to  pain 
Thou  sett'st  the  bourn.     To  thee  shall 

all  things  come. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

But,  if  he  cease  to  love   me,  what  is 
gained  ? 

CASSANDEA. 

With  wings  darkly  spreading, 

Like  ravens  to  the  carcass 

Scenting  far  off  the  savor  of  blood, 

From  shores  of  the  unutterable  Eiver. 

They  gather  and  swoop, 

They  waver,  they  darken. 

From  the  fangs  tha;   *aven, 

From  the  eyes  that  glare 

Intolerably  fierce, 

Save  me,  Apollo ! 

Ai!  Ai!   Ai! 

Alinon !   Alinon ! 

Blood,  blood !  and  of  kindred  nature, 

Which  tbe  young  wolf  returning 

Shall  dip  his  fangs  in, 

Thereby  accursedly 

Imbibing  madness! 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


337 


CHORUS. 

The  wild  woman  is  uttering  strange 

things 
Fearful  to  listen  to. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Within  the  house 
Straightway  confine  her, 
There  to  learn  wisdom. 

JEGISTHUS. 

Oregtes— 0,  this  child's  life  now  out- 
weighs 
That  mighty  ruin,  Agamemnon  dead  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

JEgisthus,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 


.EGISTHUS. 


As  my  life ! 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 

Thou  lovest  me !    O  love,  ir e  have  not 

failed. 
Give  me  thy  hand  !    So  ...  lead  me 

to  the  house. 


Let  me  lean  on  thee.    I  am  very  weak. 

CHORUS. 

Only  Heaven  is  high. 
Only  the  Gods  are  great. 
Above  the  searchless  sky, 
In  unremoved  state, 
They  from  their  golden  mansions,  : 
Look  over  the  lands,  and  the  seas; 
The  ocean's  wide  expansions, 
And  the  earth's  varieties : 
Secure  of  their  supremacy, 
And  sure  of  affluent  ease. 
Who  shall  say  "I  stand !"  nor  fall? 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 
Kust  will  crumble  old  renown. 
Bust  and  column  tumble  down; 
Keep  and  castle;  tower  and  town: 
Throne  and  sceptre ;  crest  and  crown. 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 
One  by  one,  the  pale  guests  fall 
At  lighted  feast,  in  palace  hall; 
And  feast  is  turned  to  funeral. 
Who  shall  say  "I  stand !"  nor  fall? 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 


GOOD-NIGHT   IN   THE    PORCH. 

A  LITTLE  longer  in  the  light,  love,  let  me  be.     The  air  is  warm. 

I  hear  the  cuckoo's  last  good-night  float  from  the  copse  below  the  Farm. 

A  little  longer,  Sister  sweet, — your  hand  in  mine, — on  this  old  seat. 

In  yon  red  gable,  which  the  rose  creeps  round  and  o'er,  your  casement  shines 

Against  the  yellow  west,  o'er  those  forlorn  and  solitary  pines.^ 

The  long,  long  day  is  nearly  done.    How  silent  all  the  place  is  grown  ! 

The  stagnant  levels,  one  and  all,  are  burning  In  the  distant  marsh- 
Hark  !  't  was  the  bittern's  parting  call.     The  frogs  are  out:  with  murmurs  harsh 
The  low  reeds  vibrate.     See  !  the  sun  catches  the  long  pools  one  by  one. 

A  moment,  and  those  orange  flats  will  turn  dead  gray  or  lurid  white. 
Look  up !  o'erhead  the  winnowing  bats  are  come  and  gone,  eluding  sight. 
The  little  worms  are  out.    The  snails  begin  to  move  down  shining  trails, 

With  slow  pink  cones,  and  soft  wet  horns.  The  garden-bowers  are  dim  with  dew. 
With  sparkling  drops  the  white-rose  thorns  are  twinkling,  where  the  sun  slips 

through 
Those  reefs  of  coral  buds  hung  free  below  the  purple  Judas-tree. 

From  the  warm  upland  comes  a  gust  made  fragrant  with  the  brown  hay  there. 
The  meek  cows,  with  their  white  horns  thrust  above  the  hedge,  stand  still  and 

stare. 
The  steaming  horse  from  the  wains  droop  o'er  the  tank  their  plaited  manes. 

And  o'er  yon  hillside  brown  and  barren  (where  you  and  I  as  children  played, 
Starting  tue  rabbit  to  his  warren),  I  hear  the  sandy,  shrill  cascade 
Leap  down  upon  the  vale,  and  spill  his  heart  out  round  the  muffled  Trull. 

O  can  it  be  for  nothing  only  that  God  has  shown  his  world  to  me? 

Or  but  to  leave  the  heart  more  lonely  with  loss  of  beauty  .  .  .  can  it  be  ? 

0  closer,  closer,  Sister  dear  .  .  .  nay,  I  have  kist  away  that  tear. 

God  bless  you,  Dear,  for  that  kind  thought  which  only  upon  tears  could  rise ! 
God  bless  you  for  the  love  that  sought  to  hide  them  in  those  drooping  eyes, 
Whose  lids  I  kiss !  .  .  .  poor  lids,  so  red  !  but  let  my  kiss  fall  there  instead. 

Yes,  sad  indeed  it  seems,  each  night, — and  sadder,  Dear,  for  your  sweet  sake ! 
To  watch  the  last  low  lingering  light,  and  know  not  where  the  morn  may  break. 
To-night  we  sit  together  here.  To-morrow  night  will  come  .  .  .  ah,  where  ? 

O  child !  how'er  assured  be  faith,  to  say  farewell  is  fraught  with  gloom, 
When,  like  one  flower,  the  germs  of  death  and  genius  ripen  toward  the  tomb  ; 
And  earth  each  day,  as  some  fond  face  at  parting,  gains  a  graver  grace. 

There's  not  a  flower,  there's  not  a  tree  in  this  old  garden  where  we  sit, 
But  what  some  fragrant  memory  is  closed  and  folded  up  in  it, 
To-night  the  dog-rose  smells  as  wild,  as  fresh,  as  when  I  was  a  child. 

'T  is  eight  years  since  (do  you  forget  ?)  we  set  those  lilies  near  the  wall: 
You  were  a  blue-eyed  child:  even  yet  I  seem  to  see  the  ringlets  fall, — 
The  golden  ringlets,  blown  behind  your  shoulders  in  the  merry  wind. 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  POECH.  339 

Ah,  me  !  old  times,  they  cling,  they  cling  !    And  oft  by  yonder  green  old  gate 
The  field  shows  through,  in  morns  of  spring,  an  eager  boy,  I  paused  elate 
With  all  sweet  fancies  loosed  from  school.    And  oft,  you  know,  when  eves  were 
cool, 

In  summer-time,  and  through  the  trees  young  gnats  began  to  be  about, 

With  some  old  book  upo  n  your  knees  't  was  here  you  watched  the  stars  come  out. 

While  oft,  to  please  me,  you  sang  through  some  foolish  song  I  made  for  you. 

And  there 's  my  epic  —  I  began  when  life  seemed  long,  though  longer  art  — 
And  all  the  glorious  deeds  of  man  made  golden  riot  in  my  heart  — 
Eight  books  ...  it  will  not  number  nine  !    I  die  before  my  heroine. 

Sister !  they  say  that  drowning  men  in  one  wild  moment  can  recall 

Their  whole  life  long,  and  feel  again  the  pain — the  bliss—  that  thronged  it  all: — 

Last  night  those  phantoms  of  the  Past  again  came  crowding  lound  me  fast. 

Near  morning,  when  the  lamp  was  low,  against  the  wall  they  seemed  to  flit; 
And,  as  the  wavering  light  would  glow  or  fall,  they  came  and  went  with  it. 
The  ghost  of  boyhood  seemed  to  gaze  down  the  dark  verge  of  vanisht  days. 

Once  more  the  garden  where  she  walked  on  summer  eves  to  tend  her  flowers, 
Once  more  the  lawn  where  first  we  talked  of  future  years  in  twilight  hours 
Arose;  once  more  she  seemed  to  pass  before  me  in  the  waving  grass. 

To  that  old  terrace;  her  bright  hair  about  her  warm  neck  all  undone, 

And  waving  on  the  balmy  air,  with  tinges  of  the  dying  sun. 

Just  one  star  kindling  in  the  west :  just  one  bird  singing  near  its  nest. 

So  lovely,  so  beloved  !    0,  fair  as  though  that  sun  had  never  set 
Which  stayed  upon  her  golden  hair,  in  dreams  I  seem  to  see  her  yet ! 
To  see  her  iu  that  old  green  place,  —the  samehusht,  smiling,  cruel  face  ! 

A  little  older,  love,  than  you  are  now  ;  and  I  was  then  a  boy; 
And  wild  and  wayward-hearted  too;  to  her  my  passion  was  a  toy, 
Soon  broken  !  ah,  a  foolish  thing,  —  a  butterfly  with  crumpled  wing ! 

Her  hair,  too,  was  like  yours,  — as  bright,  but  with  a  warmer  golden  tinge: 
Her  eyes,  —  a  somewhat  deeper  light,  and  dreamed  below  a  louger  fringe: 
And  still  that  strange  grave  smile  she  had  btays  in  my  heart  and  keeps  it  sad ! 

There's  no  one  knows  it,  truest  friend,  but  you,  for  I  have  never  breathed 
To  other  ears  the  frozen  end  of  those  spring-garlands  Hope  once  wreathed; 
And  death  will  come  before  again  I  breathe  that  name  untouched  by  pain. 

From  little  things — a  star,   a  flower, — that  touched  us  with  the  self-same 

thought, 

My  passion  deepened  hour  by  hour,  until  to  that  fierce  heat 't  was  wrought, 
Which,  shrivelling  over  every  nerve,  crumbled  the  outworks  of  reserve. 

I  told  her  then,  in  that  wild  time,  the  love  I  knew  she  long  had  seen; 

The  accusing  pain  that  burned  like  crime,  yet  left  me  nobler  than  I  had  been; 

What  matter  with  what  words  I  wooed  her  ?    She  said  I  had  misunderstood  her. 

And  something  more  —  small  matter  what!  of  friendship  something  — sister's 

love  — 
She  said  that  I  was  young  —  knew  not  my  own  heart — as  the  years  would 

prove — 
She  wished  me  happy —  she  conceived  an  interest  in  me  —  and  believed 


340  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 

I  should  grow  up  to  something  great— and  soon  forget  her— soon  forget 

This  fancy— and  congratulate  my  life  she  had  released  it,  yet— 

With  more  such  words— a  lie  !  a  lie  !    She  broke  my  heart,  and  flung  it  by ! 

A  life's  libation  lifted  up,  from  her  proud  lip  she  dashed  untasted: 
There  trampled  lay  love's  costly  cup,  and  in  the  dust  the  wine  was  wasted. 
She  knew  I  could  not  pour  such  wine  again  at  any  other  shrine. 

Then  I  remember  a  numb  mood:  mad  murmurings  of  the  words  she  said: 
A  slow  shame  smouldering  through  my  blood;  that  surged  and  sung  within 

my  head: 
And  drunken  sunlights  reeling  through  the  leaves:  above,  the  burnisht  blue 

Hot  oil  my  eyes, — a  blazing  shield:  a  noise  among  the  waterfalls: 

A  free  crow  up  the  brown  cornfield  floating  at  will:  faint  shepherd-calls: 

And  reapers  reaping  in  the  shocks  of  gold:  and  girls  with  purple  frocks: 

All  which  the  more  confused  my  brain:  and  nothing  could  I  realize 
But  the  great  fact  of  my  own  pain:  I  saw  the  fields:  I  heard  the  cries: 
The  crow's  shade  dwindled  up  the  hill:  the  world  went  on:  my  heart  stood 
still. 

I  thought  I  held  in  my  hot  hand  my  life  crusht  up :  I  could  have  tost 
The  crumpled  riddle  from  me,  and  laughed  loud  to  think  what  I  had  lost. 
A  bitter  strength  was  in  my  mind:  like  Samson,  when  she  scorned  him — 
blind, 

And  casting  reckless  arms  about  the  props  of  life  to  hug  them  down, — 
A  madman  with  his  eyes  put  out.     But  all  my  anger  was  my  own. 
I  spared  the  worm  upon  my  walk:  I  left  the  white  rose  on  its  stalk. 

All's  over  long  since.    Was  it  strange  that  I  was  mad  with  grief  and  shame  ? 
And  I  would  cross  the  seas,  and  change  my  ancient  home,  my  fatner's  name? 
In  the  wild  hope,  if  that  might  be,  to  change  my  own  identity ! 

I  know  that  I  was  wrong:  I  know  it  was  not  well  to  be  so  wild. 

But  the  scorn  stung  so !  ...  Pity  now  could  wound  not !  .  .  .  I  have  seen 

her  child: 
It  had  the  self -same  eyes  she  had:  their  gazing  almost  made  me  mad. 

Dark  violet  eyes  whose  glances,  deep  with  April  hints  of  sunny  tears, 
'Neath  long  soft  lashes  laid  asleep,  seemed  ali  too  thoughtful  for  her  years; 
As  though  from  mine  her  gaze  had  caught  the  secret  of  some  mournful 
thought. 

But,  when  she  spoke  her  father's  air  broke  o'er  her  .  .  .  that  clear  confident 

voice ! 

Some  happy  souls  there  are,  that  wear  their  nature  lightly;  these  rejoice 
The  world  by  living;  and  receive  from  all  men  more  than  what  they  give. 

One  handful  of  their  buoyant  chaff  exceeds  our  hoards  of  careful  grain : 
Because  their  love  breaks  through  their  laugh,  while  ours  is  fraught  with 

tender  pain: 
The  world,  that  knows  itself  too  sad,  is  proud  to  keep  some  faces  glad: 

And,  so  it  is  !  from  such  an  one  Misfortune  softly  steps  aside 
To  let  him  still  walk  in  the  sun.     These  things  must  be.     I  cannot  chide. 
Had  I  been  she  I  might  have  made  the  self -same  choice.    She  shunned  the 
shade 


GOOD-NIGHT  IX  THE  PORCH.  341 

To  some  men  God  hath  given  laughter:  but  tears  to  some  men  He  hath  given: 
He  bade  us  sow  in  tears,  hereafter  to  harvest  holier  smiles  in  Heaven; 
And  tears  and  smiles,  they  are  His  gift:  both  good,  to  smite  or  to  uplift: 

He  knows  His  sheep :  the  wind  and  showers  beat  not  too  sharply  the  shorn 

lamb; 

His  wisdom  is  more  wise  than  ours:  He  knew  my  nature  —  what  I  am: 
lie  tempers  smiles  with  tears:  both  good,  to  bear  in  time  the  Christian  mood. 

O  yet —  in  scorn  of  mean  relief,  let  Sorrow  bear  her  heavenly  fruit ! 
Better  the  wildest  hour  of  grief  than  the  low  pastime  of  the  brute  ! 
Better  to  weep,  for  He  wept  too,  than  laugh  as  every  fool  can  do  ! 

For  sure,  't  were  best  to  bear  the  cross;  nor  lightly  fling  the  thorns  behind; 

Lest  we  grow  happy  by  the  loss  of  what  was  noblest  in  the  mind. 

—  Here  — in  the  ruins  of  my  years  —  Father,  I  bless  Thee  through  these  tears ! 

It  was  in  the  far  foreign  lands  this  sickness  came  upon  me  first. 
Below  strange  suns,  'mid  alien  hands,  this  fever  of  the  south  was  nurst, 
Until  it  reached  some  vital  part.     I  die  not  of  a  broken  heart. 

0  think  not  that !    If  I  could  live  .  .  .  there's  much  to  live  for  —  worthy  life. 
It  is  not  for  what  fame  could  give  —  though  that  I  scorn  not  —  but  the  strife 
Were  noble  for  its  own  sake  too.     I  thought  that  I  had  much  to  do  — 

But  God  is  wisest !    Hark  again  !  .  .  .  't  was  yon  black  bittern,  as  he  rose 
Against  the  wild  light  o'er  the  fen.     How  red  your  little  casement  glows  ! 
The  night  falls  fast.     How  lonely,  Dear,  this  bleak  old  house  will  look  next 
year! 

So  sad  a  thought  ?  ...  ah,  yes  !    I  know  it  is  not  good  to  brood  on  this: 

And  yet  —  such  thoughts  will  come  and  go,  unbidden.     'T  is  that  you  should 

miss, 
My  darling,  one  familiar  tone  of  this  weak  voice  when  I  am  gone. 

And,  for  what's  past,  —  I  will  not  say  in  what  she  did  that  all  was  right, 
But  all's  forgiven;  and  I  pray  for  her  heart's  welfare,  day  and  night. 
All  things  are  changed  !     This  cheek  would  glow  even  near  hers  but  faintly 
now ! 

Thou  —  God  !  before  whose  sleepless  eye  not  even  in  vain  the  sparrows  fall, 
Receive,  sustain  me  !     Sanctify  my  soul.     Thou  know'st,  Thou  lovest  all. 
Too  weak  to  walk  alone  —  I  see  Thy  hand:  I  falter  back  to  Thee. 

Saved:from  the  curse  of  time  which  throws  its  baseness  on  us  day  by  day: 
Its  wretched  joys  and  worthless  woes;  till  all  the  heart  is  worn  away. 

1  feel  Thee  near.     I  hold  my  breath,  by  the  half-open  doors  of  Death. 

And  sometimes,  glimpses  from  within  of  glory  (wondrous  sight  and  sound  !) 
Float  near  me: — faces  pure  from  sin;  strange  music;  saints  with   splendor 

crowned: 
I  seem  to  feel  my  native  air  blow  down  from  some  high  region  there, 


342  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 

And  fail  my  spirit  pure:  I  rise  above  the  sen^e  of  loss  and  pain: 

Faint  forms  that  lured  my  childhood's  eyes,  long  lost,  I  seem  to  find  again: 

I  see  the  end  of  all:  I  feel  hope,  awe,  no  language  can  reveal. 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  over  much  I  loved  that  form  Thou  mad'st  so  fair; 

I  know  that  Thou  didst  make  her  such  ;  and  fair  but  as  the  flowers  were,  — 

Thy  work:  her  beauty  was  but  Thine;  the  human  less  than  the  divine. 

My  life  hath  been  one  search  for  Thee  'mid  thorns  found  red  with  Thy  dear 

blood 

In  many  a  dark  Gethsemane  I  seemed  to  stand  where  Thou  hadst  stood: 
And,  scorned  in  this  world's  Judgment-Place,  at  times,  through  tears,  to  catch 

Thy  face. 

Thou  suffered'st  here,  and  didst  not  fail:   Thy  bleeding  feet  these  paths  have 

trod: 

But  Thou  wert  strong,  and  I  am  frail:  and  I  am  man,  and  Thou  wert  God. 
Be  near  me:  keep  me  in  Thy  sight:  or  lay  my  soul  asleep  in  light. 

0  to  be  where  the  meanest  mind  is  more  than   Shakespeare  !    where  one  look 
Shows  more  than  here  the  wise  can  find,  though  toiling  slow  from  book  to 

book! 
Where  life  is  knowledge:  love  is  sure:  and  hope's  brief  promise  made  secure. 

0  dying  voice  of  human  praise  !  the  crude  ambitions  of  my  youth  ! 

1  long  to  poor  immortal  lays  !  great  paeans  of  perennial  Truth  ! 

A  large  work  !  a  loftier  aim  !  .  .  .  and  what  are  laurel-leaves,  and  fame  ? 

And  what,  are  words  .     How  little  these  the  silence  of  the  soul  express  ! 
Mere  froth, — the  foam  and  flower  of  seas  whose  hungering  waters  heave  and 

press 
Against  the  planets  and  the  sides  of  night, — mute,  yearning,  mystic  tides ! 

T(  ease  the  heart  with  song  is  sweet:  sweet  to  be  heard  if  heard  by  love. 
And  you  have  heard  me.     When  we  meet  shall  we  not  sing  the  old  songs 

above 
To  grander  music  ?    Sweet,  one  kiss.     0  blest  it  is  to  die  like  this  ! 

To  lapse  from  being  without  pain:  your  hand  in  mine,  on  mine  your  heart: 
Tte  unshaken  faith  to  meet  again  that  sheathes  the  pang  with  which  we  part: 
My  head  upon  your  bosom,  sweet:  your  hand  in  mine,  on  this  old  seat ! 

&o;  closer  wind  that  tender  arm  .  .  .  Hot  the  hot  tears  fall !    Do  not  weep, 
Beloved,  but  let  your  smile  stay  warm  about  me.     "In  the  Lord  they  sleep." 
You  know  the  words  the  Scripture  saith  .  .  .  O  light,  O  glory  !  ...  is  this 
death? 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


343 


THE    EARL'S    RETURN. 


BAGGED  and  tall  stood  the  castle  wall 
And  the  squires,  at  their  sport,  in  the 

great  South  Court. 
Lounged  all   day  long  from  stable  to 

hall 

Laughingly,  lazily,  one  arid  all. 
The  land  about  was  barren  and  blue, 
And  swept  by  the  wing  of  the  wet  sea- 
mew. 
Seven  fishermen's    huts  on  a  shelly 

shore: 
Sand-heaps   behind,   and  sand-banks 

before: 
And  a  black  champaign  streaked  white 

all  through 
To  a  great  salt  pool  which  the  ocean 

drew, 
Sucked  into  itself,   and  disgorged  it 

again 
To  stagnate  and  steam  on  the  mineral 

plain; 
Not  a  tree  or  a  bush  in  the  circle  of 

sight, 

But  a  bare  black  thorn  which  the  sea- 
winds  had  withered 
With  the  drifting  scum  of  the  surf  and 

blight, 
And  some  patches  of  gray  grass-land 

to  the  right, 
Where  the  lean  red-hided  cattle  were 

tethered: 
A  reef   of  rock  wedged  the  water  in 

twain, 
And  a  stout  stone  tower  stood  square 

to  the  main. 

And  the  flakes  of  the  spray  that  were 
jerked  away 

From  the  froth  on  the  lip  of  the  bleak 
blue  sea 

Were  sometimes  flung  by  the  wind,  as 
it  swung 

Over  turret  and  terrace  and  balcony, 

To  the  garden  below  where,  in  desolate 
corners 

Under  the  mossy  green  parapet  there, 

The  lilie-J  crouched,  rocking  their 
white  heads  like  mourners, 

And  burned  off  the  heads  of  the  flow- 
ers that  were 


Pining  and  pale  in  their  comfortless 

bowers, 
Dry-bushed  with  the  sharp  stubborn 

lavender, 
And  paven  with  disks  of  the  torn  sun? 

flowers, 
Which,  day  by  day,  were  strangled, 

and  stripped 
Of  their  ravelling  fringes  and  brazen 

bosses, 
And  the  har  y  mary-buds  nipped  and 

ripped 
Into  shreds  for  the  beetles  that  lurked 

in  the  mosses. 

Here  she  lived  alone,  and  from  year  to 
year 

She  saw  the  black  belt  of  the  ocean  ap- 
pear 

At  her  casement  each  morn  as  she 
rose ;  and  each  morn 

Her  eye  fell  first  on  the  bare  black 
thorn. 

This  was  all:  nothing  more:  or  some- 
times on  the  shore 

The  fishermen  sang  when  the  fishing 
was  o'er; 

Or  tLe  lowing  of  oxen  fell  dreamily, 

Close  on  the  shut  of  the  glimmering 
eves, 

Through  some  gusty  pause  in  the 
moaning  sea, 

When  the  pools  were  splashed  pink  by 
the  thirsty  beeves. 

Or  sometimes,  when  the  pearl-lighted 
morns  drew  the  tinges 

Of  the  cold  sunrise  up  their  amber 
fringes, 

A  white  sail  peered  over  the  rim  of  the 
main. 

Looked  all  about  o'er  the  empty  sea, 

Staggered  back  from  the  fine  line  of 
white  light  again, 

And  dropped  down  to  another  world 
silently. 

Then  she  breathed  freer.  With  sick- 
ening dread 

She  had  watched  five  pale  young 
moons  unfold. 

From  their  notchy  cavern  in  light,  and 
spread 


344 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


To  the  fuller  light,   and  again  grow 

old, 

And  dwindle  away  to  aluminous  shred. 
"He    will    not    come    back    till    the 

Spring's  green  and  gold. 
And  I  would  that  I  with  the  leaves 

were  dead, 
Quiet  somewhere  with  them  in    the 

moss  and  the  mould, 
"When  he  and  the  summer  come  this 

•way,"  she  said. 
And  when  the  dull  sky  darkened  down 

to  the  edges, 
And  the  keen  frost  kindled  in  star  and 

spar, 
The  sea  might  be  known  by  a  noise  on 

the  ledges 
Of  the  long  crags,   gathering  power 

from  afar 
Through  his  roaring  bays,  and  crawling 

back 
Hissing,  as  o'er  the  wet  pebbles  he 

dragged 
His  skirt    of  foam  frayed,  dripping, 

and  jagged, 
And  reluctantly  fell  down  the  smooth 

hollow  shell 
Of  the  night,  whose  lustrous  surface  of 

black 

In  spots  to  an  intense  blue  was  worn. 
But  later,  when  up  on  the  sullen  sea- 
bar 
The    wide    large-lighted   moon    had 

arisen, 
Where  the  dark  and  voluminous  ocean 

grew  luminous, 
Helping  after  her  slowly  one  little  shy 

star 
That    shook  blue  in  the    cold,    and 

looked  forlorn, 
The  clouds  were  troubled,   and    the 

wind  from  his  prison 
Behind  them  leaped  down  with  a  light 

laugh  of  scorn ; 
Then  the  last  thing  she  saw  was  that 

bare  black  thorn; 
For  the  forked  tree,  as  the  bleak  blast 

took  it, 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and 

bit  it,  and  shook  it, 
Seemed  to  visibly  waste  and  wither  and 

wizen. 

And  tho  snow  was  lifted  into  the  air 
Layer  by  layer, 

And  turned  into  vast  white  clouds  that 
flew 


Silent  and  fleet  up  the  sky,  and  were 

riven 
And  jerked  into  chasms  which  the  sun 

leaped  through, 

Opening  crystal  gulfs  of  a  breezy  blue 
Fed  with  rainy  lights    of  the  April 

heaven. 
From  eaves  and  leaves  the  quivering 

dew 
Sparkled  off;  and  the  rich  earth,  black 

and  ba.re, 

Was  starred  with  snowdrops  every- 
where; 
And  the  crocus  upturned  its  flame  and 

burned 

Here  and  there. 
"The  Summer,"  she    said,    "cometh 

blithe  and  bold; 

And   the  crocus   is  lit  for   her    wel- 
coming; 
And  the  days  will  have  garments  of 

purple  and  gold; 
But  I  would  be  left  by  the  pale  green 

Spring 
With  the  snowdrops  somewhere  under 

the  mould; 
For  I  dare  not  think  what  the  Summer 

may  bring." 

Pale  she  was  as  the  bramble  blooms 
That  fill  the  long  fields  with  their  faint 

perfumes, 
When  the  May- wind  flits  finely  through 

sun-threaded  showers, 
Breathing  low  to  himself  in  his  dim 

meadow-bowers. 
And  her   cheek  each  year  was  paler 

and  thinner, 
And  white  as  the  pearl  that  was  hung 

at  her  ear, 
A.S  her  sad  heart  sickened  and  pined 

within  her, 
A.nd  failed  and  fainted  from  year  to 

year. 

So  that  the  Seneschal,  rough  and  gray, 

Said,  as  he  looked  in  her  face  one  day, 

St.  Catharine  save  all  good  souls,  I 

Pray> 

For  our  pale  young    lady  is  paling 

away. 
D  the  Saints,"  he  said,  smiling  bitter 

and  grim, 
Know  she's  too  fair  and  too  good  for 

him  !" 
Sometimes  she  walked  on  the  upper 

leads, 


THE  EARL1 8  RETURN. 


345 


And  leaned  on  the  arm  of  the  weather- 
worn Warden. 
Sometimes  she  sat  'twixt  the  mildewy 

beds 
Of  the  sea-singed  flowers  in  the  Pleas- 

aunce  Garden. 
Till  the  rotting  blooms  that  lay  thick 

on  the  walks 
Were  combed  by  the  white  sea-gust 

like  a  rake, 
And  the  stimulant  steam  of  the  leaves 

and  stalks 
Made  the  coiled  memory,  numb  and 

cold, 
That  slept  in  her  heart  like  a  dreaming 

snake, 

Drowsily  lift  itself  fold  by  fold, 
And  gnaw  and   gnaw  hungrily,    half 

awake. 

Sometimes  she  looked  from  the  win- 
dow below 
To    the  great   South  Court,  and  the 

squires,  at  their  sport, 
Loungingly  loitering  to  and  fro. 
She  heard  the  grooms  there  as  they 

cursed  one  another. 
She  heard  the  great  bowls  falling  all 

day  long 
In  the  bowling-alleys.     She  heard  the 

song 
Of  the  shock-headed  Pages  that  drank 

without  stint  in 
The  echoing  courts,  and  swore  hard  at 

each  other. 
She  saw  the  red    face  of  the  rough 

wooden  Quintin, 
And  the  swinging  sand-bag  ready  to 

emother 
The  awkward  Squire  that  missed  the 

mark. 
And,  all  day  long,  between  the  dull 

noises 
Of  the  bowls,  and  the  oaths,  and  the 

singing  voices, 
The  sea  boomed  hoarse  till  the  skies 

were  dark. 

But  when  the  swallow,  that  sweet  new- 
comer, 

Floated  over  the  sea  in  the  front  of 
the  summer, 

The  salt  dry  sands  burned  white,  and 
sickened 

Men's  sight  in  the  glaring  horn  of  the 
bay; 

And  all  things  that  fasten,  or  float  at 
ease 


In  the  silvery  light  of  the  leprous  seas 
With  the  pulse  of  a  hideous  life  were 

quickened, 
Fell  loose  from  the  rocks,  and  crawled 

crosswise  away, 

Slippery  sidelong  crabs,  half  strangled 
By  the  white  sea  grasses  in  which  they 

were  tangled, 
And  those  half -living  creatures,  orbed, 

rayed,  and  sharp-angled, 
Fan-fish,  and  star-fish,  and  polypous 

lumps, 
Hueless  and  boneless,  that  languidly 

thickened, 
Or  flat-faced,  or  spiked,  or  ridged  with 

humps, 
Melting  off  from  their  clotted  clusters 

and  clumps 
Sprawled  over  the  shore  in  the  heat  of 

the  day. 

An  hour  before  the  sun  was  set 
A  darker  ripple  rolled  over  the  sea; 
The  white  rocks  quivered  in  wells  of 

jet; 

And  the  great  West,  opening  breath- 
lessly 

Up  all  his  inmost  orange,  gave 
Hints  of  something  distant  and  sweet 
That  made  her  heart  swell;  far  up  the 

wave 
The  clouds  that  lay  piled  in  the  golden 

heat 
Were  turned  into  types  of  the  ancient 

mountains 
In  an  ancient  land;  the  weeds,  which 

forlorn 

Waves  were  swaying  neglectfully, 
By  their  sound,  as  they  dipped  into 

sparkles  that  dripped 
In  the  emerald  creeks  that  ran  up 

from  the  shore, 
Brought  back  to  her  fancy  the  bubble 

of  fountains 

Leaping  and  falling  continually 
In  valleys  where  she  should  wander 

no  more. 

And  when,  over  all  of  these,  the  night 
Among  her  mazy  and  milk-white  signs, 
And  clustered  orbs,  and  zigzag  lines, 
Burst  into  blossom  of  stars  and  light, 
The  sea  was  glassy;  the  glassy  brine 
Was  paven  with  lights, — blue,  crystal- 
line, 

And  emerald  keen;  the  dark  world 
hung 


346 


THE  EARL'S  EETUEN. 


Balanced  under  the  moon,  and  swung 
In  a  net  of  silver  sparkles.     Then  she 
Rippled  her  yellow  hair  to  her  knee, 
Bared  her    warm    white    bosom  and 

throat, 

And  from  the  lattice  leaned  athirst. 
There,  on  the  silence  did  she  gloat 
With  a  dizzy  pleasure  steeped  in  pain, 
Half  catching  the  soul  of  the  secret 

that  blended 
God  with  his  starlight,  then  feeling  it 

vain, 

Like  a  pining  poet  ready  to  burst 
With  the  weight  of  the  wonder  that 

grows  in  his  brain, 
Or  a  nightingale,  mute  at  the  sound  of 

a  lute 
That  is  swelling  and  breaking  his  heart 

with  its  strain, 
Waiting,  breathless,  to  die  when  the 

music  is  ended. 
For  the  sleek  and  beautiful  midnight 

stole, 
Like  a  faithless  friend,  her  secret  care, 

Crept  through  each  pore  to  the  source 

of  the  soul, 
And  mocked  at  the  anguish  which  he 

found  there, 
Shining  away  from  her,  scornful  and 

In    his    pitiless    beauty,    refusing    to 

share 
The  discontent  which  he  could  not 

control. 

The  water-rat,  as  he  skulked  in  the 

moat, 

Set  all  the  slumbrous  lillies  afloat, 
And  sent  a  sharp  quick  pulse"  along 
The  stagnant  light,  that  heaved  and 

swung 

The  leaves  together.     Suddenly 
At  times  a  shooting  star  would  spin 
Shell-like  out  of  heaven,  and  tumble 

in, 

And  burst  o'er  a  city  of  stars;  but  she, 
As  he  dashed  on  the  back  of  the  zo- 
diac, 
And  quivered  and  glowed  down  arc 

and  node, 

And  split  sparkling  into  infinity, 
Thought  that  some  angel,  in  his  rev- 
eries 

Thinking  of  earth,  as  he  pensively 
Leaned  over  the  star-grated  balcony 
In  his  palace  among  the  Pleiades, 


And  grieved  for  the  sorrow  he  saw  in 

the  land, 
Had  dropped  a  white  lilly  from    his 

loose  hand. 

And  thus  many  a  night,  steeped  pale 
in  the  light 

Of  the  stars,  when  the  bells  and 
clocks 

Had  ceased  in  the  towers,  and  the 
sound  of  the  hours 

Was  eddying  about  in  the  rocks, 

Deep-sunken  in  bristling  broidery  be- 
tween the  black  oak  Fiends  sat 
she, 

And  under  the  moth-flitted  canopy 

Of  the  mighty  antique  bed  in  her 
chamber, 

With  wild  eyes  drinking  up  the  sea, 

And  her  white  hands  heavy  with  jew- 
elry, 

Flashing  as  she  loosed  languidly 

Her  satins  of  snow  and  of  amber. 

And  as,  fold  by  fold,  these  were  rip- 
pled and  rolled 

To  her  feet,  and  lay  huddled  in  ruins 
of  gold, 

She  looked  like  some  pale  spirit  above 

Earth's  dazzling  passions  forever 
flung  by, 

Freed  from  the  stains  of  an  earthly 
love, 

And  those  splendid  shackles  of  pride 
that  press 

On  the  heart  till  it  aches  with  the  go 
geous  stress, 

Quitting  the  base  Past  remorsefully. 

And  so  she  put  by  the  coil  and  care 

Of  the  day  that  lay  furled  like  an  idle 
weft 

Of  heaped  spots  which  a  bright  snake 
hath  left, 

Or  that  dark  house,  the  blind  worm's 
lair, 

When  the  star-winged  moth  from  the 
windows  hath  crept, 

Steeped  her  soul  in  a  tearful  prayer, 

Shrank  into  her  naked  self,  and  slept. 

And  as  she  slumbered,  starred  and  eyed 
All  over  with  angry  gems,  at  her  side, 
The  Fiends  in  the  oak  kept  ward  and 

watch; 
And  the  querulous  clock,  on  its  rusty 

catch, 

With  a  quick  tick,  husky  and  thick, 
Clamored  and  clacked  at  her  sharply. 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


347 


There  was 

(Fronting  a  portrait  of  the  Earl) 
A  shrine  with  a  dim  green  lamp,  and 

a  cross 

Of  glowing  cedar  wreathed  with  pearl, 
Which  the  Arimathsean,  so  it  was  writ, 
When  he  came  from  the  holy  Orient, 
Had  worn,  with  his  prayers  embalm- 
ing it, 
As  with  the  San-Grael  through  the 

world  he  went. 

Underneath  were  relics  and  gems 
From  many  an    antique  king-saint's 

crown, 
And  some  ('t  was  avouched)  from  the 

dusk  diadems 

And  mighty  rings  of  those  Wise  Kings 
That  evermore  sleep  'mid  the  marble 

stems, 
'Twixt  chancel  and  clialice  in  God  his 

palace, 

The  marvel  of  Cologne  Town. 
In  a  halo  dim  of  the  lamp  all  night 
Smiled  the  sad  Virgin,  holy  and  white, 
With  a  face  as  full  of  the  soul's  afflic- 
tion 

As  one  that  had  looked  on  the  Cruci- 
fixion. 


At  moonrise  the  land  was  suddenly 

brighter; 
And  through  all  its  length  and  breadth 

the  casement 
Grew  large  with  a  luminous  strange 

amazement, 
And,  as  doubting  in  dreams  what  that 

sudden  blaze  meant, 
The  Lady's  white  face  turned  a  thought 

whiter. 

Sometimes  in  sleep  light  finger-tips 
Touched  her  behind;  the  pain,  the  bliss 
Of  a  long  slow  despairing  kiss 
Doubled  the  heat  on  her  feverish  lips, 
And  down  to  her  heart's  heart  smoul- 
dering burned; 
From  lips  long  mute  she  heard  her 

name; 

Sad  dreams  and  sweet  to  vex  her  came; 
Sighing,  upon  her  pillow  she  turned, 
Like  a  weary  waif  on  a  weary  sea 
That  is  heaving  over  continually, 
And  finds  no  course,  until  for  its  sake 
The  heart  of  the  silence  begins  to  ache. 
Unsoothed  from  slumber  she  awoke 
An  hour  ere  dawn.     The  lamp  burned 

faint. 


The  Fiends  glared  at  her  out  of  the 

oak. 
She  rose,  and  fell  at  the  shrine  of  the 

Saint. 

There  with  clasped  hands  to  the  Mother 
Of  many  sorrows,  in  sorrow  she  prayed ; 
Till  all  things  in  the  room  melted  into 

each  other, 
And  vanished  in  gyres  of   flickering 

shade, 

Leaving  her  all  alone,  with  the  face 
Of  the  Saint  growing  large  in  its  one 

bright  place. 

Then  on  a  sudden,  from  far,  a  fear 
Through  all  her  heart  its  horrow  drew, 
As  of  something  hideous  growing  near. 
Cold  fingers  seemed  roaming  through 

her  damp  hair; 
Her  lips  were  locked.     The  power  of 

prayer 
Left  her.     She  dared  not  turn.     She 

knew, 
From  his  panel  atilt  on  the  wall  up 

there, 
The  grim  Earl  was  gazing  her  through 

and  ih rough.  • 

But  when  the  casement,  a  grisly  square, 
Flickered  with  day,  she  flung  it  wide, 
And  looked  below.  The  shore  was  bare. 
In  the  mist  tumbled  the  dismal  tide. 
One  ghastly  pool  seemed  solid  white; 
The  forked  shadow  of  the  thorn 
Fell  through  it,  like  a  raven  rent 
In  the  steadfast  blank  down  which  it 

went. 

The  blind  world  slowly  gathered  sight. 
The  sea  was  moaning  on  to  morn. 

And  the  Summer    into  the  Autumn 

waned. 

And  under  the  watery  Hyades 
The  gray  sea  swelled,  and  the  thick 

sky  rained, 
And  the  land  was  darkened  by  slow 

degrees. 

But  oft,  in  the  low  West,  the  day 
Smouldering  sent  up  a  sudden  flame 
Along  th.9  dreary  waste  of  gray, 
As  though  in  that  red  legion  lay, 
Heaped  up,  like  Autumn  weeds  and 

flowers 

For  fire,  its  thorny  fruitless  hours, 
And  God  said,  "  burn  it  all  away  !" 

When  all  was  dreariest  in  the  skies, 


348 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


And  the  gusty  tract  of  twilight  mut- 
tered, 
A  strange  slow  smile  grew  into  her 

eyes, 

As  though  from  a  great  way  off  it  came 
And  was  weary  ere  down  to  her  lips  it 

fluttered, 
And  turned  into  a  sigh,  or  soma  soft 

name 

Whose  syllables  sounded  likest  sighs, 
Half  smothered  in  sorrow  before  they 

were  uttered. 
Sometimes    at    night    a    music    was 

rolled— 

A  ripple  of  silver  harp-strings  cold  — 
From  the  halls  below  where  the  Min- 
strel sung, 
With  the  silver  hair,  and  the  golden 

tongue, 
And  the  eyes  of  passionless,  peaceful 

blue 
(Like  twilight  which  faint  stars  gaze 

through), 
Wise  with  the  years  which  no   man 

knew. 
And  first  the  music    as    though,  the 

wings 
Of  some  blind  angel  were  caught  in 

the  strings, 

Fluttered  with  weak  endeavor;  anon 
The  uncaged  heart  of  music  grew  bold 
And   cautiously  loosened,  length    by 

length, 

The  golden  cone  of  its  great  undertone, 
Like  a  strong  man  using  mild  language 

to  one 
That  is  weaker,  because  he  is  sure  of 

his  strength. 

But  once  —  and  it  was  at  the  fall  of  the 

day, 
When  she,  if  she  closed  her  eyes,  did 

seem 

To  be  wandering  far,  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
With  some  lost  shadow,  away,  away. 
Down  the  heart  of  a  golden  land  which 

she 

Kememhered  a  great  way  over  the  sea, 
There  came  a  trample  of  horses  and 

men; 

And  a  blowing  of  horns  at  the  Castle- 
Gate; 
Then  a  clattering  noise;  then  a  pause; 

and  then, 

With  the  sudden  jerk  of  a  heavy  weight, 
And    a    wrangling  and  jangling  and 

clinking  and  clanking, 


The  sound  of  the  falling  of  cable  and 
chain : 

And  a  grumbling  over  the  dewy  plank- 
ing 

That  skrieked  and  sung  with  the 
weight  and  strain; 

And  the  rough  Seneschal  bawled  out 
in  the  hall, 

"The  Earl  and  the  Devil  are  come 
back  again !" 

Her  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment  or 

more. 
Then  suddenly  tugged,  and  strained, 

and  tore 
At  the  roots,  which  seemed  to  give  way 

beneath. 
She  rushed  to  the  window,  and  held 

her  breath. 
High  up  on  the  beach  were  the  long 

black  ships 
And  the  brown  sails  hung  from  the 

masts  in  strips  ; 
And  the  surf  was  whirled  over  and 

over  them, 
And  swept  them  dripping  from  stern 

to  stem. 
Within,    in    the    great    square    court 

below, 
Were    a    hundred    rough-faced  men, 

or  so. 

And  one  or  two  pale  fair-haired  slaves 
Whom  the  Earl  had  brought  over  the 

winter  waves. 

There  was  a  wringing  of  horny  hands; 

And  a  swearing  of  oaths;  and  a  great 
deal  of  laughter; 

The  grim  Earl  growling  his  hoarse 
commands 

To  the  Warden  that  followed  him 
growling  after; 

A  lowing  of  cattle  along  the  wet  sands; 

And  a  plashing  of  hoofs  on  the  slip- 
pery rafter, 

As  the  long-tailed  black-maned  horses  | 
each 

Went  over  the  bridge  from  the  gray  < 
s.  a-beach.  i 

Then  quoth  the  grim  Earl,  "  fetch  me 

a  stoop  !" 
And  they  brought  him  a  great  bowl 

that  dripped  from  the  brim, 
Which  he  seized  upon  with  a  satisfied 

whoop, 
Drained,  and  flung  at  the  head  of  him 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


349 


That  brought  it;  then,  with  a  laugh 

like  a  howl, 
Stroked   his   beard;    and    strode    in 

through  the  door  with  a  growl. 
Meanwhile  the  pale  lady  grew  white 

and  whiter, 
As  the  poplar  pales  when  the  keen 

winds  smite  her: 
And,  as  the  tree  sways  to  the  gust,  and 

heaves 
Quick  ripples  of  white  alarm  up  the 

leaves, 

So  did  she  seem  to  shrink  and  reel 
From  the  casement — one  quiver  from 

head  to  heel 

Of  whitest  fear.     For  she  heard  below, 
On   the  cracking  stairway   loud  and 

slow, 
Like  drops  that  plunge  audibly  down 

from  the  thunder 
Into  a  sea  that  is  groaning  under. 
The  heavy   foot   of    the  Earl   as  ho 

mounted 
Step  after  step    to    the    turret:    she 

counted 
Step  after  step,   as  he    hastened    or 

halted; 

Now  clashing  shrill  through  the  arch- 
ways vaulted; 
Now  muffled  and  thick;  now  loud,  and 

more 
Loud  as  he  came  near  the  Chamber 

door. 
Then  there    fell,  with    a    rattle  and 

shock, 

An  iron  glove  on  the  iron  lock, 
And  the  door  burst  open — the  Earl 

burst  through  it — 

But  she  saw  him  not.     The  window- 
pane, 

Far  off,  grew  large  and  small  again ; 
The    staggering    light    did    wax    and 

wane, 
Till  there  came  a  snap  of  the  heavy 

brain; 

And  a  slow-subsiding  pulse  of  pain ; 
And  the  whole  world  darkened  into 

rest, 
As  the  grim  Earl  pressed  to  his  grau- 

some  breast 
His   white    wife.       She   hung   heavy 

there 

On  his  shoulder  without  breath, 
Darkly  filled  with  sleepy  death 
From  her  heart  up  to  her  eyes; 
Dead  asleep :  and  ere  he  knew  it 
(How  Death  took  her  by  surprise 


Helpless  in  her  great  despair) 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair, 
He  kissed  her  icy  brows;  unwound 
His  rough  arms,  and  she  fell  to  the 
ground. 

"  The  woman  was  fairer  than  she  was 

wise: 
But  the  serpent  was  wiser  than  she  was 

fair: 

Fbr  the  serpent  was  lord  in  Paradise 
Of  ever  the  woman  came  there. 
But  when  Eden-gates  were  barred  amain, 
And  the  fiery  sword  on  guard  in  the  East, 
The  lion  arose  from  a  long  repose, 
And  quoth  he,  as  he  shook  out  his  royal 

mane, 

'  Now  I  am  the  strongest  beast.' 
Had  the  woman  been  wiser  when  she  was 

queen 

The  lion  had  never  been  king,  I  ween. 
But  ever  since  storms  began  to  lower 
Beauty   on  earth   hath   been  second  to 

Power." 
And  this  is  the  song  that  the  Minstrel 

sung, 
With  the  silver  hair  and  the  golden 

tongue, 
Who  sung  by  night  in  the  grim  Earl's 

hall. 
And  they  held  him  in  reverence  one 

and  all. 

And  so  she  died, — the  pale-faced  girl. 

And,  for  nine  days  after  that,  the  Earl 

Fumed  and  fret,  and  raved  and  swore, 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  chamber- 
floor, 

And  tearing  his  black  beard  as  he 
went, 

In  the  fit  of  his  sullen  discontent. 

And  the  Seneschal  said  it  was  fearful 
to  hear  him ; 

And  not  even  the  weather-worn 
Warden  went  near  him; 

And  the  shock-headed  Pages  huddled 
anear, 

And  bit  their  white  lips  till  they  bled, 
for  fear. 

But    at  last  he  bade    them    lift   her 

lightly, 

And  bury  her  by  the  gray  sea-shore, 
Where  the  winds  that  blew  from  her 

own  land  nightly 
Might  wail  round  her  grave  through 

the  wild  rocks  hoar. 


350 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


So  they  lifted  her  lightly  at  dead  of 

night, 
And  bore  her  down  by  the  long  torch- 

light,- 

Lank-haired  faces,  sallow  and  keen, 
That  burned  out  of  the  glassy  pools 

between 
The  splashing  sands  which,   as  they 

plunged  through, 
The  coffin-lead  weighed    them  down 

into; 
And  their  feet,  as  they  plucked  them 

up,  left  pits 
Which  the  water  oozed  into  and  out  of 

by  fits— 
— And  so  to  the  deep-mouthed  bay's 

black  brim, 
Where    the  pale    priests,   all    white- 

stoled  and  dim, 
Lifted   the    cross    and     chanted    the 

hymn, 
That  her  soul  might  have  peace  when 

her  bones  were  dust, 
And  her  name  be  written  among  the 

Just. 
The  Warden  walked  after  the  Seneschal 

grim; 
And  the  shock-headed  Pages  walked 

after  him; 
And  with  mattock  and  spade  a  grave 

was  made, 
Where  they  carved  the  cross,  and  they 

wrote  her  name, 
And,  returning  each  by  the  way  that 

he  came, 
They  left  her   under    the  bare  black 

thorn. 

The  salt-sea  wind    sang  shrill  in  the 

head  of  it; 
And  the  bitter  night  grew  chill  with 

the  dread  of  it; 
When  the  great  round  moon  rose  up 

forlorn 
From  the  reefs,  and  whitened  towards 

the  morn. 
For  the  forked  tree,  as  the  bleak  blast 

took  it, 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and  bit 

it,  and  shook  it, 

Like  a  living  thing  bewitched  and  be- 
deviled. 
Visibly  shrunk,   and    shuddered  and 

s.hrivelled. 

And  again  the  swallow,  that  false  new- 
comer. 


Fluttered  over  the  sea  in  the  front  of 

the  summer; 

A  careless  singer,  as  he  should  be 
That  only  skimmeth  the  mighty  sea; 
Dipped  his  wings  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  chirruped  and  twittered  for  heart's 

content, 
And  built  on  the  new-made  grave.  But 

when 
The  Summer  was  over  he  flew  back 

again. 

And  the  Earl,  as  years  went  by,  and 

his  life 

Grew  listless,  took  him  another  wife: 
And  the  Seneschal  grim  and  the  Warden 

gray 

Walked  about  in  their  wonted  way: 
And  the  lean-jawed  shock-haired  Pages 

too 

Sung  and  swilled  as  they  used  to  do. 
And  the  grooms  and  the  squires  gamed 

and  swore 
And  quarrelled  again  as  they  quarrelled 

before ; 
And  the  flowers  decayed  in  their  dismal 

beds, 
And  dropped  off  from  their  lean  shanks 

one  by  one, 
Till  nothing  was  left  but  the  stalks  and 

the  heads, 
Clumped   into  heaps,  or  ripped  into 

shreds, 
To  steam  into  salt  in  the  sickly  sun. 

And  the  cattle  lowed  late  up  the  glim- 
mering plain, 
Or    dipped   knee-deep,  and  splashed 

themselves 
In  the  pools  spat  out  by  the  spiteful 

main, 

Wallowing  in  sandy  dikes  and  delves : 
And   the  bleared-eyed   filmy  sea  did 

boom 
With    his  old  mysterious    hungering 

sound: 
And  the  wet  wind  wailed  in  the  chinks 

of  the  tomb, 
Till  the  weeds  in  the  surf  were  drenched 

and  drowned. 
But  once  a  stranger    came  over  the 

wave, 
And  paused  by  the  pale-faced  Lady's 

grave. 

It  was  when,  just  about  to  set, 
A  sadness  held  the  sinking  sun. 
The  moon  delayed  to  shine  as  yet: 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


351 


The  Ave-Mary  chime  was  done: 

And  from  the   bell-tower   leaned  the 

ringers ; 

And  in  the  chancel  paused  the  singers, 
With    lingering    looks,   and    clasped 

fingers: 
And  the  day  reluctantly  turned  to  his 

rest, 
Like  some  u'ntold  life,  that  leaves  ex- 

prest 
But  the  half  of  its  hungering  love  ere 

it  close: 

So  he  went  sadly  toward  his  repose 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  slumberous 

waves 

Kindled  far  off  in  the  desolate  West. 
And  the  breeze  sprang  up  in  the  cool 

sea-caves, 
The  castles  stood   with   its  courts  in 

shade, 

And  all  its  toothed  towers  imprest 
On  the  sorrowful    light    that  sunset 

made,  — 
Such  a  light  as  sleeps  shut  up  in  the 

breast 

Of  some  pining  crimson-hearted  rose, 
Which,  as  you  gaze  at  it,  grows  and 

grows 

And  all  the  warm  leaves  overflows; 
Leaving  its  sweet  source  still  to  be 

guest. 

The  crumpled  shadow  of  the  thorn 
Crawled  over  the  sand-heaps  raggedly, 
And  over  the  gray  stone  cross  forlorn, 
And  on  to  that  one  man  musing  there 
Moveless,  while  o'er  him  the  night 

crept  on, 
And  the  hot  yellow  stars,  slowly,  one 

after  one, 

Mounted  into  the  dark  blue  air 
And  brightened  and  brightened.  Then 

suddenly, 

And  sadly  and  silently, 
Down  the  dim  breezy  brink  of  the  sea 
sank  the  sun. 

Ere  the  moon  was  abroad,  the  owl 
Made  himself  heard  in  the   echoing 

tower 
Three  times,  four  times.    The  bat  with 

his  cowl 

Came  and  went  round  the  lonely  Bower 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Earl's  los 

Lady. 
There  night  after  night,  for  years,  in 

vain 


Chelingering  moon  had  looked  through 

the  pane, 
And  missed  the  face  she  used  to  find 

there, 
White  and  wan  like  some  mountain 

flower, 
[nits  rocky  nook,  as  it  paled  and  pined 

there, 
Only  known  to  the  moon  and  the  wind 

there. 
Lights  flitted  faint  in  the  halls  down 

lower 
From  lattice  to  lattice,  and  then  glowed 

steady. 

The  dipping  gull:  and  the  long  gray 

rl: 
reed  that  shows  which  way 

the  breeze  blows  cool, 
From  the  wide  warm  sea  to  the  low 

black  land: 
And  the  wave  makes  no  sound  on  the 

soft  yellow  sand: 
But    the   inland  shallows  sharp    and 

small 
Are  swarmed  about  with  the  sultry 

midge. 
And  the  land  is  still,  and  the  ocean 

still: 
And  the  weeds  in  the  rifted  rocks  at 

will 

Move  on  the  tide,  and  float  or  glide. 
And  into  the  silent  western  side 
Of  the  heaven  the  moon  begins  to  fall. 
But  is  it  the  fall  of  a  plover's  call 
That  is  answered  warily,  low  yet  shrill, 
From  the  sancl-heapt  mound  and  the 

rocky  ridge  ? 
And  now  o'er  the  dark  plain  so  wild 

and  wide 
Falls  the  note  of  a  horn  from  the  old 

drawbridge. 

Who  is  it  that  waits  at  the  castle  gates? 
Call  in  the  minstrel,  and  fill  the  bowl. 
Bid  him  loose  the  great  music  and  let 

the  song  roll. 
Fill  the  bowl. 
And  first,  as  was  due,  to  the  Earl  he 

bowed; 
Next  to  all  the  Sea-chieftains,  blithe 

friends  of  the  Earl's: 
Then  advanced  through  the  praise  of 

the  murmuring  crowd, 
And  sat  down,  as  they  bade  him,  and 

all  his  black  curls 


352 


THE  EARL'S  RETUEN. 


Bowed  over  his  harp,  as  in  doubt  which 

to  choose 
From  the  melodies  coiled  at  his  heart. 

For  a  man 
O'er    some    Beauty    asleep    for    one 

moment  might  muse, 
Half  in  love,  ere  he  woke  her.     So  ere 

he  began, 
He  paused  over  his  song.     And  they 

brought  him,  the  Squires, 
A  heavy  gold  cup  with  the  red  wine 

ripe  in  it, 
Then  wave  over  wave    of  the   sweet 

silver  wires 
'Gan  ripple,   and    the  minstrel  took 

heart  to  begin  it. 

A  harper  that  harps  through  mountain 

and  glen, 
Wandering,  wandering  the  wide  world 

over, 

Sweetest  of  singers,  yet  saddest  of  men, 
His  soul's  lost  Lady  in  vain  to  discover. 
Most  fair  and  most  frail  of  the 

daughters  of  men, 
0  blest  and  O    curst,  the  man  that 

should  love  her ! 
Who  has  not  loved  ?  and  who  has  not 

lost? 
Wherever  he  wander,  the  wide  world 

over, 

Singing  by  city,  and  castle,  and  plain, 
Abiding  never,  forever  a  rover, 
Each  man  that  shall  hear  him   will 

swear  almost 
In  the  minstrel's  song  that  his  heart 

can  discover 
The  self-same  lady  by  whom  it  was 

crost, 
For  love  is  love  the  wide  world  over. 

What  shall  he  liken  his  love  unto? 
Have  you  seen  some  cloud  the  sun  sets 

through, 
When  the  lingering  night  is  close  on 

hand? 
Have  you  Been  some  rose  lie  on  the 

snow? 

Or  a  summer  bird  in  a  winter  land? 
Or  a  lilly  dying  for  dearth  of  dew  ? 
Or  a  pearl  sea-cast  on  a  barren  strand? 
Some  garden  never  sunshine  warms 
Nor  any  tend  ?  some  lonely  tree 
That  stretches  bleak  its  barren  arms 
Turned  inland  from  the  blighting  sea  ? 
Her  cheek  was  pale:  her  face  was  fair: 


Her  heart,   he  sung,   was  weak  and 

warm; 

All  golden  was  the  sleepy  hair 
That  floated  round  about  her  form, 
And    hid    the    sweetness    breathing 

there. 
Her  eyes  were  wild,   like  stars  that 

shine 

Far  off  in  summer  nights  divine: 
But  her  smile  —  it  was  like  the  golden 

wine 

Poured  into  the  spirit,  as  into  a  cup, 
With  passion  brimming  it  up  and  up, 
And  marvellous  fancies  fair  and  fine. 
He  took  her  hair  to  make  sweet 

strings: 

He  hid  her  smile  deep  in  his  song. 
This  makes  so  rich  the  tune  he  sings 
That  o'er  the  world  't  will  linger  long. 

There  is  a  land  far,  far  away  from 

yours. 
And  there  the  stars  are  thrice  as  bright 

as  these. 

And  there  the  nightingale  strrnge  mu- 
sic pours 

All  day  out  of  the  hearts  of  myrtle- 
trees. 
There  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  sounds 

never  forlorn 
As  you  hear  it  far  off  through  the  deep 

purple  valleys. 
And  the  fire-fly  dances  by  night  in  the 

corn. 
And  the  little  round  owls  in  the  long 

cypress  alleys 
Whoop  for   joy  when   the  moon   is 

born. 
There  ripen  the  olive  and  the  tulip 

tree, 
And  in  the  sun  broadens  the  green 

prickly  pear; 
And  the  bright  galingales  in  the  grass 

you  may  see; 
And  the    vine   with    her    royal  blue 

globes,  dwelleth  there, 
Climbing  and  hanging  deliciously 
By  every   doorway  and  lone  latticed 

chamber, 
Where  the  damsel-fly  flits,   and  the 

heavy  brown  bee 
Hums  alone,   and  the  quick    lizards 

rustle  and  clamber, 
And  all  things,  there,  live  and  rejoice 

together, 
From  the  frail-peach  blossom  that  first 

appears 


THE  EAEL'8  EETUEN. 


353 


When  birds  are  about  in  the  blue  sum- 
mer weather, 
To  the  oak  that  has  lived  through  his 

eight  hundred  years. 
And  the  castles  are  built  on  the  hills, 

not  the  plains. 
(And  the  wild  wind-flowers  burn  about 

in  the  courts  there) 
They  are  white  and  undrenched  by 

the  gray  winter  rains. 
And  the  swallows,  and  all  things,  are 

blithe  at  their  sports  there. 
0  for  one  moment,  at  sunset,  to  stand 
Far,  far  away  in  that  dear  distant  land 
Whence  they  bore  her, — the  loveliest 

lady  that  ever 
Crost  the  bleak  ocean.     O,  nevermore. 

never, 
Shall  she  stand  with  her  feet  in  the 

warm  dry  grasses 
Where  the  faint  balm-heaving  breeze 

heavily  passes 
And  the  white  lotus-flower  leans  lone 

on  the  river. 

Bare  were  the  gems  that  she  had  for 
her  dower. 

But  all  the  wild  flowers  she  left  be- 
hind her. 

—  A  broken  heart  and  a  rose-roofed 

bower. 

0  oft,  and  in  many  a  desolate  hour, 
The  cold  strange  faces  she  sees  shall 

remind  her 
Of   hearts   that    were    warmer,    and 

smiles  that  were  kinder, 
Lost,  like  the  roses  they  plucked  from 

her  bower ! 
Lonely  and  far  from  her  own  land 

they  laid  her  ! 

—  A  swallow  flew  over  the  sea  to  find 

her. 

Ah  cold,  cold  and  narrow,  the  bed 
that  they  made  her  ! 

The  swallow  went  forth  with  the  sum- 
mer to  find  her. 

The  summer  and  the  swallow  came 
back  o'er  the  sea, 

And  strange  were  the  tidings  the  bird 
brought  to  me. 

And  the  minstrel  sung,  and  they 
praised  and  listened,  — 

Gazed  and  praised  while  the  minstrel 
sung. 

Flusht  was  each  cheek,  and  each  fixt 
~  eye  glistened, 


And  husht  was  each  voice  to  the  min- 
strel's tongue. 

But  the  E  irl  grew  paler  more  and  more 
As  the  song  of  the  Singer  grew  louder 

and  clearer, 
And  so  dumb  was  the  hall,  you  might 

hear  the  roar 
Of  the  sea  in  its  pauses  grow  nearer 

and  drearer. 

And  .  .  .  hush  !  hush  !  hush  ! 
O  was  it  the  wind  ?  or  was  it  the  rush 
Of  the  restless  waters  that  tumble  and 

splash 
On  the  wild  sea-rocks  ?  or  was  it  the 

crash 
Of  stones  on  the  old  wet  bridge    up 

there  ? 
Or  the  sound  of  the  tempest  come  over 

the  main? 

— Nay,  but  just  now  the  night  was  fair. 
Was  it  the  march  of  the  midnight  rain 
Clattering  down  in  the  courts  ?  or  the 

crash 
Of  armor  yonder?  .  .  .  Listen  again! 

Can  it  be  lightning  ?— can  it  be  thunder? 
For  a  light  is  all  round  the  lurid  hall 
That  reddens  and  reddens  the  windows 

all, 

And  far  away  you  may  hear  the  fall 
As  of   rafter    and    bowlder  splitting 

asunder. 
It  is  not  the  thunder,  and  it  is  not  the 

lightning 
To  which  the  castle  is  sounding  and 

brightening, 
But  something  worse  than  lightning  or 

thunder; 
For  what  is  this  that  is  coming  yonder? 

Which  way?    Here!    Where? 
Call  the  men  !  .  .  .  Is  it  there? 
Call  them  out !    JRing  the  bell ! 
King  the  Fiend  back  to  Hell ! 
King,  ring  the  alarum  for  mercy !  .  .  . 

Too  late ! 
It  has  crawled  up  the  walls— it  has 

burst  in  the  gate  — 
It  looks  through  the  windows — it  creeps 

near  the  hall  — • 

Near,  more  near— red  and  clear- 
It  is  here ! 
Now  the  saints  save  us  all ! 

And  little,  in  truth,  boots  it  ringing  the 
'    'bell.  '  "-tv '•'  >••-***•»   v 


354 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


For  the  fire  is  loose  on  its  way  one 

may  tell 
By  the  hot  simmering    whispers  and 

humming  tip  there 
In  the  oak-beams  and  rafters.     Now 

one  of  the  Squires 

His  elbow  hath  thrust  through  the  half- 
smouldered  door, — 
Such  a  hole  as  some  rat  for  his  brown 

wife  might  bore, — 
And     straightway   in     snaky,   white, 

wavering  spires 
The  thin  smoke  twirls  through,  and 

spreads  eddying  in  gyres 
Here  and  there  toucht  with  vanishing 

tints  from  the  glare 
That  has  swathed  in  its  rose-light  the 

sharp  turret  stair. 
Soon  the  door  ruined  through:  and  in 

tumbled  a  cloud 
Of  black  vapor.    And  first  't  was   all 

blackness,  and  then 
The  quick  forked  fires  leapt  out  from 

their  shroud 
In  the  blackness :  and  through  it  rushed 

in  the  armed  men 
From  the  court-yard.    And  then  there 

was  flying  and  fighting, 
And  praying  and  cursing, — confusion 

confounded. 
Each  man,  at  wild   hazard,  through 

smoke  ramparts  smiting, 
Has  struck  ...  is  it  f  riend  ?  is  it  f  oe  ? 

Who  is  wounded  ? 

But  the  Earl,— who  last  saw  him?  Who 

cares  ?  who  knows  ? 
Some  one,  no  doubt,  by  the  weight  of 

his  blows. 
And  they  all,  at  times,  heard  his  oath, 

— so  they  swore: — 
Such  a  cry  as  some  speared  wild  beasts 

might  give  vent  to 
When  the  lean  dogs  are  on  him,  and 

forth  with  that  roar 
Of  desolate  wrath,  the  life  is  sent  too. 
If  he  die,  he  will  die  with  the  dying 

about  him, 
And  his  red  wet  sword  in  his  hand, 

never  doubt  him: 
If  he  live,  perchance  he  will  bear  his 

new  bride 
Through  them  all,  past  the  bridge,  to 

the  wild  seaside. 
And  there,  whether  he  leave,  or  keep 

his  wife  still, 


There's  the  free  sea  round  him,  new 

lands,  and  new  life  still. 
And  .  .  .  but  ah,  the  red  light  there  I 

And  high  up  and  higher 
The  soft,  warm,  vivid  sparkles  crowd 

kindling,  and  wander 
Far  away  down  the  breathless    blue 

cone  of  the  night. 
Saints  !  can  it  be  that  the  ships  are  on 

fire, 

Those  fierce  hot  clots  of  crimson  light, 
Brightening,  whitening  in  the  distance 

yonder? 

Slowly  over  the  slumbrous  dark 
Up  from  those  fountains  of  fire  spark 

on  spark 
(You  might  count  them  almost)  floats 

silent:  and  clear 
In  the  steadfast  glow  the  great  cross- 


And  the  sharp  and  delicate  masts  show 
black; 

While  wider  and  higher  the  red  light 
streams, 

And  oozes  and  overflows  at  the  back. 

Then  faint  through  the  distance  a 
sound  you  hear. 

And  the  bare  poles  totter  and  disap- 
pear. 

Of  the  Earl,  in  truth,  the  Seneschal 

swore 

(And  over  the  ocean  this  tale  he  bore) 
That  when,  as  he  fled  on  that  last  wild 

night, 
He  had  gained  the  other  side  of  the 

moat, 
Dripping,  he  shook  off  his  wet  leathern 

coat, 

And  turning  round  beheld,  from  base- 
ment 

To  cope,  the  castle  swathed  in  light, 
And,  revealed  in  the  glare  through  My 

Lady's  casement, 
Ho    saw,    or  dreamed    he    saw,    this 

sight — 

Two  forms  (and  one  for  the  Earl's  he 
knew, 

By    the  long  shaggy  beard  and  the 

broad  back  too) 

truggling,  grappling,  like  things  half 
human. 

The  other,  he  said,  he  but  vaguely  dis- 
tinguished, 

When  a  sound  like  the  shriek  of  an  ag- 
onized woman 


THE  EARLS  RETURN. 


355 


Made  him  shudder,  and  lo,  all  the 
vision  was  gone ! 

Ceiling  and  floor  had  fallen  through, 

In  a  glut  of  vomited  flame  extin- 
guished; 

And  the  still  fire  rose  and  broadened 
on. 

How  fearful  a  thing  is  fire  ! 

You  might  make  up  your  mind  to  die 
by  water 

A  slow  cool  death, — nay,  at  times,  when 
weary 

Of  pains  that  pass  not,  and  pleasures 
that  pall, 

When  the  temples  throb,  and  the  heart 
is  dreary 

And  life  is  dried  up,  you  could  even 
desire 

Through  the  flat  green  weeds  to  fall 
and  fall 

Half  asleep  down  the  green  light  under 
them  all, 

As  in  a  dream,  while  all  things  seem 

Wavering,  wavering,  to  feel  the  stream 

Wind,  and  gurgle,  and  sound  and 
gleam. 

And  who  would  very  much  fear  to  ex- 
pire 

By  steel,  in  the  front  of  victorious 
slaughter, 

The  blithe  battle  about  him,  and  com- 
rades in  call  ? 

But  to  die  by  fire — 

O  that  night  in  the  hall ! 

And  the  castle  burned  from  base  to 


top. 
lad  t 


You  had  thought  that  the  fire  would 

never  stop, 
For  it  roared  like  the  great  north- wind 

in  the  pines, 

And  shone  as  the  boreal  meteor  shines 
Watched  by  wild  hunters  in  shudder- 
ing bands, 
When  wolves  are    about   in  the    icy 

lands. 
From  the  sea  you  might  mark  for  a 

space  of  three  days, 
Or  fainter   or    fiercer,    the    dull   red 

blaze. 
And    when    this   ceased,    the    smoke 

above  it 
Hung    so    heavy  not  even    the   wind 

seemed  to  move  it; 
So  it   glared  and  groaned,  and  night 

after  night 


Smouldered, — a  terrible  beacon-light. 
Now  the  Earl's  old  minstrel, — he  that 

had  sung 
His  youth  out  in  those  halls, — the  man 

beloved, 
With  the  silver  hair  and  the  golden 

tongue, 
They  bore  him  out  from  the  fire;  but 

he  roved. 

Back  to  the  stifled  courts;  and  there 
They  watched  him  hovering,  day  after 

day, 

To  and  fro,  with  his  long  white  hair 
And  his  gold  harp,  chanting  a  lonely 

lay; 
Chanting  and  changing  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Like  the    mournful   mad   melodious 

breath 
Of  some  wild  swan  singing  himself  to 

death, 
As    he    floats  down    a    strange  land 

leagues  away. 
One  day  the  song  ceased.     They  heard 

it  no  more. 

Did  you  ever  an  Alpine  eagle  see 
Come  down  from  flying  near  the  sun 
To  find  his  eyrie  all  undone 
On  lonely  cliffs  where  chance  hath  led 
Some  spying  thief  thebrood  to  plunder? 
How  hangs  he  desolate  overhead, 
And  circling  now  aloft,  now  under, 
His  ruined  home  screams  round  and 

round, 

Then  drops  flat  fluttering  to  the  ground. 
So  moaning  round  the  roofs  they  saw 

him, 
With  his  gleaming  harp  and  his  vesture 

white: 

Going,  and  coming,  and  ever  returning 
To  those  chambers,  emptied  of  beauty 

and  state 
And  choked  with  blackness  and  ruin 

and  burning; 
Then,  as  some  instinct  seemed  to  draw 

him, 

Like  hidden  hands,  down  to  his  fate, 
He  paused,  plunged,  dropped  forever 

from  sight; 
And  a  cone   of  smoke  and  sparkles 

rolled  up, 
As  out  of  some  troubled  crater-cup. 

As  for  the  rest,  some  died;  some  fled 

Over  the  sea,  nor  ever  returned. 

But  until  to  the  living  return  the  dead, 


356 


A  SOUL'S  LOSS. 


And  they  each  shall  stand  and  take 

their  station 

Again  at  the  last  great  conflagration, 
Never  more  will  be  seen  the  Earl  or 

the  stranger. 
No  doubt  there  is  much  here  that's  fit 

to  be  burned. 
Christ  save  us  all  in  that  day  from  the 

danger ! 


And  this  is  why  these  fishermen  say, 
Sitting  alone  in  their  boats  on  the  bay, 
When  the  moon  is  low  in  the  wild  windy. 

nights, 
They  hear  strange  sounds,   and  see 

strange  sights. 

Spectres  gathering  all  forlorn 
Under  the  boughs  of  this  bare  black 

thorn. 


A   SOUL'S    LOSS. 


1  If  Beauty  have  a  soul  this  is  not  she."— TBOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


TWIXT  the  Future  anJ.  the  Past 
There 's  a  moment.    It  is  o'er. 

Kiss  sad  hands  !  we  part  at  last. 
I  am  on  the  other  shore. 

Fly,  stern  Hour !  and  hasten  fast. 
Nobler  things  are  gone  before. 

From  the  dark  of  dying  years 
Grows  a  face  with  violet  eyes, 

Tremulous  through  tender  tears,  — 
Warm  lips  heavy  with  rich  sighs — 

Ah,  they  fade  !  it  disappears, 
And  with  ifc  my  whole  heart  dies  ! 

Dies  .  .  .  and  this  choked  world    is 

sickening; 

Truth  has  nowhere  room  for  breath. 
Crusts  of  falsehood,  slowly  thickening 

From  the  rottenness  beneath 
These  rank  social  forms,  are  quick- 
ening 
To  a  loathsome  life-in-death. 

0  those  devil's  market-places  ! 
Knowing,  nightly,  she  was  there, 

Can  I  marvel  that  the  traces 
On  her  spirit  are  not  fair  ? 

1  forgot  that  air  debases 

When  I  knew  she  breathed  such  air. 

This  a  fair  immortal  spirit 

For  which  God  prepared  his  spheres? 
What !  shall  this  the  stars  inherit? 

And  the  worth  of  honest  tears? 
A  fool's  fancy  all  its  merit ! 

A  fool's  judgment  all  its  fears  ! 

No,  she  loves  no  other  !    No, 


Is  this  comfort, — that  I  know 

All  her  spirit's  poverty? 
When  that  dry  soul  is  drained  low, 

His  who  wills  the  dregs  may  be  ! 

Peace  !    I  trust  a  heart  forlorn 
Weakly  upon  boisterous  speech. 

Pity  were  more  fit  than  scorn. 

Fingered  moth,  and  bloomless  peach! 

Gathered  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Set  to  fleer  in  all  men's  reach ! 

I  am  clothed  with  her  disgrace. 

O  her  shame  is  made  my  own  ! 
0  I  reel  from  my  high  place  ! 

All  belief  is  overthrown. 
What!     This  whirligig  of  lace, 

This  the  Queen  that  I  have  known  ? 

Starry  Queen  that  did  confer 
Beauty  on  the  barren  earth  ' 

Woodlands,  wandered  oft  with  her 
In  her  sadness  and  her  mirth, 

Feeling  her  ripe  influence  stir 
Brought  the  violets  to  birth. 

The  great  golden  clouds  of  even, 
They,  too,  knew  her,  and  the  host 

Of  the  eternal  stars  in  heaven; 
And  I  deemed  I  knew  her  most. 

I,  to  whom  the  Word  was  given 
How  archangels  have  been  lost ! 

Given  in  vain  !  .  .  .  But  all  is  over ! 

Every  spell  that  bound  me  broken  ! 
In  her  eyes  I  can  discover 

Of  that  perisht  soul  no  token. 
X  can  neither  hate  nor  love  her. 

All  nay  loss  must  be  unspoken,. 


A   SOUL'S 


357 


Mourn  I  may,  that  from  her  features 

Ail  the  angel  light  is  gone. 
But  I  chide  not.    Human  creatures 

Are  not  angels.    She  was  none. 
Women  have  so  many  natures  ! 

I  think  she  loved  me  well  with  one. 

All  is  not  with  love  departed. 

Life  remains,  though  toucht   with 

scorn. 
Lonely,  but  not  broken-hearted. 

Nature  changes  not.     The  morn 
Breathes  not  sadder.  Buds  have  started 

To  white  clusters  on  the  thorn. 

And  to-morrow  I  shall  see 

How  the  leaves  their  green  silk  sheath 
Have  burst  upon  the  chestnut-tree. 

And  the  white  rose-bush  beneath 
My  lattice  which,  once  tending,  she 

Made  thrice  sweeter  with  her  breath, 

Its  black  buds  through  moss  and  glue 
Will  swell  greener.     And  at  eve 

Winking  bats  will  waver  through 
The  gray  warmth  from  eave  to  eave, 

While  the  daisy  gathers  dew. 
These  things  grieve   not,  though  I 
grieve. 

What  of  that?    Deep  Nature's  glad- 
ness 

Does  not  help  this  grief  to  less. 
And  the  stars  will  show  no  sadness, 

And  the  flowers  no  heaviness, 
Though  each  thought  should  turn  to 

madness 
'Neath  the  strain  of  its  distress  ! 

No,  if  life  seem  lone  to  me, 

'T  is  scarce  lonelier  than  at  first. 

Lonely  natures  there  must  be. 
Eagles  are  so.     I  was  nurst 

Far  from  love  in  infancy: 
I  have  sought  to  slake  my  thirst. 

At  high  founts;  to  fly  alone, 

Haunt  the  heaven,   and  soar,   and 

sing. 
Earth's  warm  joys  I  have  not  known 

This  one  heart  held  everything. 
Now  my  eyrie  is  o'erthrown  ! 

As  of  old,  I  spread  the  wing, 

And  rise  up  to  meet  my  fate 

With  n,  yet  unbroken  will. 
When  Heaven  shut  up  Eden-gate, 

Man  was  given  the  earth  to  till. 


[here's  a  world  to  cultivate, 
And  a  solitude  to  fill. 

Wei  come  man  s    old  helpmate,  Toil! 

How  may  this  heart's  hurt  be  healed? 
3rush  the  olive  into  oil; 

Turn  the  ploughshare;  sow  the  field. 
All  are  tillers  of  the  soil. 

Each  some  harvest  hopes  to  yield. 

Shall  I  perish  with  the  whole 
Of  the  coming  years  in  view 

Unattempted  ?    To  the  soul 

Every  hour  brings  something  new. 

Still  suns  rise:  still  ages  roll. 
Still  some  deed  is  left  to  do. 

Some.  .  .  but  what  ?  Small  matter  now! 

For  one  lily  for  her  hair, 
For  one  rose  to  wreathe  her  brow, 

For  one  gem  to  sparkle  there, 
I  had  .  .  .  words,  old  words,  I  know ! 

What  was  I,  that  she  should  care 

How  I  differed  from  the  common 
Crowd  that  thrills  not  to  her  touch? 

How  I  deemed  her  more  than  human, 
And  had  died  to  crown  her  such  ? 

They?    To  them  she  is  mere  woman. 
O,  her  loss  and  mine  is  much  ! 

Fool,  she  haunts  me  still  1  No  wonder ! 

Not  a  bud  on  yon  black  bed, 
Not  a  swated  lily  yonder, 

But  recalls  some  fragrance  fled  ! 
Here,  what  marvel  I  should  ponder 

On  the  last  word  which  she  said  ? 

I  must  seek  some  other  place 
Where  free  Nature  knows  her  not: 

Where  I  shall  not  meet  her  face 
In  each  old  familiar  spot. 

There  is  comfort  left  in  space. 
Even  this  grief  may  be  forgot. 

Great  men  reach  dead  hands  unto  me 
From  the  graves  to  comfort  me. 

Shakspeare's      heart     is      throbbing 

through  me. 
All  man  has  been  man  may  be. 

Plato  speaks  like  one  that  knew  me. 
Life  is  made  Philosophy. 

Ah,  no,  no  !  while  yet  the  leaf 
Turns,  the  truth  upon  its  pall. 

By  the  stature  of  this  grief, 

Even  Shakespeare  shows  so  small  I 

Plato  palters  with  relief. 
Grief  is  greater  than  them  all  1 


358 


THE   ARTIST. 


They  were  pedants  who  could  speak. 

Grander  souls  have  past  unheard: 
Such  as  found  all  language  weak; 

Choosing  rather  to  record 
Secrets  before  Heaven:  nor  break 

Faith  with  angels  by  a  word. 

And  Heaven  heeds  this  wretchedness 

Which  I  suffer.    Let  it  be. 
Would  that  I  could  love  the  less ! 


I,  too,  am  dragged  down  by  thee. 
Thine — in  weakness — thine — ah  yes 
Yet  farewell  eternally. 

Child,  I  have  no  lips  to  chide  thee. 

Take  the  blessing  of  a  heart 
(Never  more  to  beat  beside  thee  !) 

Which  in  blessing  breaks.    Depart. 
Farewell.     I  that  deified  thee 

Dare  not  question  what  thou  art. 


THE    ARTIST. 


O  ABTIST,  range  not  over- wide: 
Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 

In  bramble-blossoms  at  thy  side, 
Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 

God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach. 

The  moss  T?  e  crush  beneath  our  feet, 
The  pebbles  on  the  wet  sea-beach, 

Have  solemn  meanings  strange  and 

sweet. 
The  peasant  at  his  cottage  door 

May  teach  thee    more  than   Plato 

knew: 
See  that  thou  scorn  him  not:  adore 

God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 

Knew  well  thy  friends.     The  wood- 
bine's breath, 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Gate's  death, 

Or  Cicero's  words  to  Catiline. 

The  wild  rose  is  thy  next  in  blood: 
Share  Nature    with    her,  and    thy 
heart. 

The  kingcups  are  thy  sisterhood: 
Consult  them  duly  on  thine  art. 

Nor  cross  the  sea  for  gems.     Nor  seek: 
Be  sought.     Fear  not  to  dwell  alone. 

Possess  thyself.     Be  proudly  meek. 
See  thou  be  worthy  to  be  known. 

The  Genius  on  thy  daily  ways 
Shall  meet,   and  take  thee  by  the 
hand: 

But  serve  him  not  as  who  obeys; 
He  is  thy  slave  if  thou  command; 

And  blossoms  on  the  blackberry-stalks 
He  shall  enchant  t  s  thou  dost  pass, 


Till  they  drop  gold  upon  thy  walks, 
And  diamonds  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Such  largess  of  the  liberal  bowers 
From  left  to  right  is  grandly  flung, 

What  time  their  subject  blooms  and 

flowers 
King-Poets  walk  in  state  among. 

Be  quiet.     Take  things  as  they  come; 
Each  hour  will  draw  out  some  sur- 

§rise. 
essing  let  the  days  go  home: 
Thou  shalt  have  thanks  from  evening 
skies. 

Lean  not  on  one  mind  constantly. 

Lest,  where  one  stood  before,  two 

fall. 
Something  God  hath  to  say  to  thee 

Worth  hearing  from  the  lips  of  all. 

All  things  are  thine  estate:  yet  must 

Thou  first  display  the  title-deeds, 
And  sue  the  world.     Be  strong:  and 

trust 

High  instincts  more    than    all  the 
creeds. 

The  world  of  Thought  is  packed  so 
tight, 

If  thou  stand  up  another  tumbles: 
Heed  it  not,  tnough  thou  have  to  fight 

With  giants ;  whoso  follows  stumbles. 

Assert  thyself,  and  by  and  by 

The  world  will  come  and  lean  on  thee. 

But  seek  not  praise  of  men:  thereby 
Shall  false  shows  cheat  thee.  Boldly 
be. 


THE   ARTIST. 


359 


Each  man  was  worthy  at  the  first: 
God  spake  to  us  ere  we  were  born: 

But  we  forget.  The  land  is  curst: 
We  plant  the  briar,  reap  the  thorn. 

Remember  every  man  He  made 
Is  different:  has  some  deed  to  do, 

Some  work  to  work.     Be  undismayed, 
Though  thine  be  humble :  do  it  too. 

Not  ail  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 
Is  wise  forthee.  Hast  thou  to  speak? 

No  man  hath  spoken  for  thee.     Kules 
Are  well:  but  never  fear  to  break 

The  scaffolding  of  other  souls: 

It  was  not  meant  for  thee  to  mount. 

Though  it  'may  serve  thee.     Separate 

wholes 
Make  up  the  sum  of  God's  account. 

Earth's  number-scale  is  near  us  set; 

The  total  God  alone  can  see; 
But  each  some  fraction:  shall  I  fret 

If  you  see  Four  where  I  saw  Three  ? 

A  unit's  loss  the  sum  would  mar; 

Therefore  if  I  have  One  or  Two, 
I  am  as  rich  as  others  are, 

And  help  the  whole  as  well  as  you. 

This  wild  white  rosebud  in  my  hand 
Hath  meanings  meant  for  me  alone, 

Which  no  one  else  can  understand : 
To  you  it  breathes  with  altered  tone: 

How  shall  I  class  its  properties 
For  you?  or  its  wise  whisperings 

Interpret  ?    Other  ears  and  eyes 
It  teaches  many  other  things. 

We  number  daisies,  fringe  and  star: 
We    count    the    cinqfoils    and    the 
poppies; 

We  know  not  what  they  mean.   We  are 
Degenerate  copyists  of  copies. 

We  go  to  Nature,  not  as  lords, 

But  servants:  and  she  treats  us  thus: 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words, 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

Let  us  go  boldly,  as  we  ought, 
And  say  to  her,  "  We  are  a  part 

Of  that  supreme  original  Thought 
Which  did  conceive  thee  what  thou 
art: 


"  We  will  not  have  this  lofty  look: 
Thou  shalt  fall  down,  and  recognize 

Thy  kings:  we  will  write  in  thy  book, 
Command  thee  with  our  eyes." 

She  hath  usurpt  us.     She  should  be 
Our  model;  but  we  have  become 

Her  miniature-painters.     So  when  we 
Entreat  her  softly  she  is  dumb. 

Nor  serve  the  subject  overmuch: 
Nor  rhythm  and  rhyme,  nor  color 
and  form. 

Know  Truth  hath  all  great  graces,  such 
As  shall  with  these  thy  work  inform. 

We  ransack  History's  tattered  page: 
We  prate  of  epoch  and  costume: 

Call  this,  and  that,  the  Classic  Age: 
Choose  tunic  now,  now  helm  and 
plume: 

But  while  we  halt  in  weak  debate 
'Twixt   that    and    this  appropriate 

theme, 
The  offended  wild-flowers  stare  and 

wait, 
The  bird  hoots  at  us  from  the  stream. 

Next,  as  to  laws.  What's  beautiful 
We  recognize  in  form  and  face: 

And  judge  it  thus,  and  thus,  by  rule, 
As  perfect  law  brings  perfect  grace: 

If  through  the  effect  we  drag  the  cause, 

Dissect,  divide,  anatomize, 
Eesults  are  lost  in  loathsome  laws, 

And  all  the  ancient  beauty  dies: 

Till  we,  instead  of  bloom  and  light, 
See  only  sinews,  nerves,  and  veins: 

Nor  will  the  effect  and  cause  unite, 
For  one  is  lost  if  one  remains: 

But  from  some  higher  point  behold 
This    dense,    perplexing    complica- 
tion; 

And  laws  involved  in  laws  unfold. 
And  orb  into  thy  contemplation. 

God,  when  He  made  the  seed,  con- 
ceived 

The  flower;  and  all  the  work  of  sun 
And  rain,  before  the  stem  was  leaved, 

In  that  prenatal  thought  was  done; 

The  girl  who  twines  in  her  soft  hair 
The  orange-flower  with  love's  devo- 
tion, 


360 


THE  ARTIST. 


By  the  mere  act  of  being  fair 
Sets  countless  laws  of  life  in  motion ; 

So  thon,  by  one  thought  thoroughly 
great, 

Shalt,  without  heed  thereto,  fulfil 
All  laws  of  art.    Create  !  create  ! 

Dissection  leaves  the  dead  dead  still. 

All  Sciences  are  branches,  each, 
Of    that    first    science,  —  Wisdom. 

Seize 
The    true    point    whence,     if    thou 

shouldst  reach 

Thine  arm  out,  thou  may'st  grasp 
all  these, 

And  close  all  knowledge  in  thy  palm. 

As  History  proves  Philosophy: 
Philosophy,  with  warnings  calm, 

Prophet-like,  guiding  History. 

Burn  catalogues.      Write  thine  own 

books. 
What  need  to  pore  o'er  Greece  and 

Rome? 
When    whoso  through    his    own  life 

looks 
Shall  find  that  he  is  fully  come, 

Through  Greece  and  Rome,  and  Mid- 
dle-Age: 

Hath  been  by  turns,  ere  yet  full- 
grown, 

Soldier,  and  Senator,  and  Sage, 
And  worn  the  tunic  and  the  gown. 

Cut  the  world  thoroughly  to  the  heart. 

The  sweet  and  bitter  kernel  crack. 
Have  no  half-dealings  with  thine  art. 

All  heaven  is  waiting:  turn  not  back. 

If  all  the  world  for  thee  and  me 
One  solitary  shape  possessed, 


What  shall  I  say  ?  a  single  tree  — 
Whereby  to  type  and  hint  the  rest, 

And  I  could  imitate  the  bark 
And  foliage  both  in  form  and  hue, 

Or  silver-gray,  or  brown  and  dark, 
Or  rough  with  moss,  or  wet  with 
dew, 

But  thou,  with  one  form  in  thine  eye, 
Couldst  penetrate  all  forms:  possess 

The  soul  of  form :  and  multiply 
A  million  like  it,  more  or  less,  — 

Which  were  the  Artist  of  us  twain  ? 

The  moral's  clear  to  understand. 
Where'er  we  walk  by  hill,  or  plain, 

Is  there  no  mystery  on  the  land  ? 

The  osiered,  oozy  water,  ruffled 
By  fluttering  swifts    that    dip    and 
wink: 

Deep  cattle  in  the  cowslips  muffled, 
Or  lazy-eyed  upon  the  brink: 

Or,  when — a  scroll  of  stars — the  night 
(By  God  withdrawn)  is  rolled  away, 

The  silent  sun,  on  some  cold  height, 
Breaking  the  great  seal  of  the  day: 

Are  these  not  words  more  rich  than 

ours? 

O  seize  their  import  if  you  can  ! 
Our  souls  are  parched  like  withering 

flowers, 
Our  knowledge  ends  where  it  began. 

While  yet  about  us  fall  God's  dews, 
And  whisper  secrets  o'er  the  earth 

Worth  all  the  weary  years  we  lose 
In  learniDg  legends  of  our  birth, 

Arise,  O  Artist !  and  restore 

Their  music  to  the  moaning  winds, 
Love's  broken  pearls  to  life's  bares  hore, 

And  freshness  to  our  fainting  minds. 


THE  WIFE'S   TRAGEDY. 


361 


THE    WIFE'S    TRAGEDY. 


i. 


THE  EVENING  BEFOEE  THE 
FLIGHT. 

TAKE  the  diamonds  from  my  hair  ! 

Take  the  flowers  from  the  urn  ! 
Fling  the  lattice  wide !  more  air ! 

Air— more  air,  or  else  I  burn  ! 

Put  the  bracelets  by.    And  thrust 
Out  of  sight  these  hated  pearls. 

I  could  trample  them  to  dust, 
Though  they  were  his  gift,  the  Earl's  ! 

Flusht  I  am  ?    The  dance  it  was. 

Only  that.     Now  leave  me,  Sweet. 
Take  the  flowers,  Love,  because 

They  will  wither  in  this  heat. 

Good  night,  dearest !    Leave  the  door 

Half-way  open  as  you  go. 
— 0,    thank    God?  .  .  .  Alone    once 

more. 

Am  I  dreaming  ?  .  .  .  Dreaming  ?  .  .  . 
no! 

Still  that  music  underneath 

Works  to  madness  in  my  brain. 

Even  the  roses  seem  to  breathe 
Poisoned  perfumes,  full  of  pain. 

Let  me  think  .  .  .  my  head  is  aching. 

I  have  little  strength  to  think. 
And  1  know  my  heart  is  breaking. 

Yet,  O  love,  I  will  not  shrink  ! 

In  his  look  was  such  sweet  sadness. 

And  he  fixed  that  look  on  me. 
I  was  helpless  .  .  .  call  it  madness, 

Call  it  guilt  .  .  .  but  it  must  be. 

I  can  bear  it,  if,  in  losing 
All  things  else,  I  lose  him  not. 

All  the  grief  is  my  own  choosing. 
Can  I  murmur  at  my  lot? 

Ah,  the  night  is  bright  and  still 

Over  all  the  fields  I  know. 
And  the  chestnuts  on  the  hill : 

And  the  quiet  lake  below. 


By  that  lake  I  yet  remember 

How,  last  year,  we  stood  together 

One  wild  eve  in  warm  September 
Bright  with  thunder:  not  a  feather 

Stirred  the  slumbrous  swans  that' 
floated 

Past  the  reed-beds,  husht  and  white. 
Towers  of  sultry  cloud  hung  moated 

In  the  lake's  unshaken  light: 

Far  behind  us  all  the  extensive 
Woodland  blackened  against  heaven : 

And  we  spoke  not: — pausing  pensive 
Till  the  thunder-cloud  was  riven, 

And  the  black  wood  whitened  under, 
And  the  storm  began  to  roll, 

And  the  love  layed  up  like  thunder 
Burst  at  once  upon  my  soul. 

There  !  .  .  .  the  moon  is  just  in  cres- 
cent 

In  the  silent  happy  sky. 
And  to-night  the  meanest  peasant 

In  her  light 's  more  blest  than  I. 

Other  moons  I  soon  shall  see 
Over  Asian  headlands  green: 

Ocean-spaces  sparkling  free 
Isles  of  breathless  balm  between. 

And  the  rosy-rising  star 

At  the  setting  of  the  day 
From  the  distant  sandy  bar 

Shining  over  Africa: 

Steering  through  the  glowing  weather 
Past  the  tracks  of  crimson  light, 

Down  the  sunset  lost  together 
Far  athwart  the  summer  night. 

"  Canst  thou  make  such  life  thy  choice, 
My  heart's  own,  my  chosen  one?" 

So  he  whispered  and  his  voice 
Had  such  magic  in  its  tone ! 

But  one  hour  ago  we  parted. 

And  we  meet  again  to-morrow. 
Parted— silent,  and  sad-hearted: 

And  we  meet— in  guilt  and  sorrow. 


362 


TIIE  WIFE'S   TRAGEDY. 


'But  we  shatt  meet  .  .  .  meet,  O   God, 
To  part  never  .  .  .  the  last  time  ! 

Yes !  the  Ordeal  shall  be  trod. 
Burning   ploughshares  —  love     and 


0  with  him,  with  him  to  wander 
Through  the  wide  world — only  his . 

Heart  and  hope  and  Heaven  to  squan- 
der 
On  the  wild  wealth  of  his  kiss  ! 

Then  ?  .  .  .  like  these  poor  flowers  that 
wither 

In  my  bosom,  to  be  thrown 
Lightly  from  him  any  whither 

When  the  sweetness  all  is  flown  ? 

0,  I  know  it  all,  my  fate ! 

But  the  gulf  is  crost  forever. 
And  regret  is  born  too  late. 

The  shut  Past  reopens  never. 

F«ar?  .  .  .  I  cannot  fear  !  for  fear 
Dies  with  hope  in  every  breast. 

0,  I  see  the  frozen  sneer, 
Careless  smile,  and  callous  jest ! 

But  my  shame  shall  yet  be  worn 
Like  the  purple  of  a  Queen. 

1  can  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
Fool !  I  know  not  what  I  mean. 

Yet  beneath  his  smile  (his  smile !) 
Smiles  less  kind  I  shall  not  see. 

Let  the  whole  wide  world  revile. 
He  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

So  to-night  all  hopes,  all  fears, 
All  the  bright  and  brief  array 

Of  my  lost  youth's  happier  years, 
With  these  gems  I  put  away. 

Gone !  ...  so  ...  one  by  one  ...  all 
gone! 

Not  one  jewel  I  retain 
Of  my  life's  wealth.     All  alone 

I  tread  boldly  o'er  my  pain 

On  to  him  .  .  .  Ah,  me !  my  child — 
My  own  fair-haired,  darling  boy  ! 

In  his  sleep  just  now  he  smiled. 
All  his  dreams  are  dreams  of  joy. 

How  those  soft  long  lashes  shade 
That  young    cheek    so    husht   and 
warm, 

Like  a  half-blown  rosebud  laid 
On  tli  e  little  dimpled  arm  ! 


He  will  wake  without  a  mother. 

He  will  hate  me  when  he  hears 
From  the  cold  lips  of  another 

All  my  faults  in  after  years. 

None  will  tell  the  deep  devotion 
Wherewith  I  have  brooded  o'er 

His  young  life,  since  its  first  motion 
Made  me  hope  and  pray  once  more. 

On  my  breast  he  smiled  and  slept, 
Smiled  between  my  wrongs  and  me, 

Till  the  weak  warm  tears  I  wept 
Set  my  dry,  coiled  nature  free. 

Nay,  .  .  .  my  feverish  kiss  would  wake 

him. 

How  can  I  dare  bless  his  sleep  ? 
They  will  change  him  soon,  and  make 

him 
Like  themselves  that  never  weep ; 

Fitted  to  the  world's  bad  part: 

Yet,  will  all  their  wealth  afford  him 

Aught  more  rich  than  this  lost  heart 
Whose  last  anguish  yearns  toward 
him? 

Ah,  there's  none  will  love  him  then 
As  I  love  that  leave  him  now  ? 

He  will  mix  with  selfish  men. 
Yes,  he  has  his  father's  brow  1 

Lie  thou  there,  thou  poor  rose-blos- 
som, 

In  that  little  hand  more  light 
Than  upon  this  restless  bosom, 

Whose  last  gift  is  given  to-night. 

God  forgive  me  !— My  God,  cherish 
His  lone  motherless  infancy  ! 

Would  to-night  that  I  might  perish  ! 
But  heaven  will  not  let  rue  die. 

0  love  !  love  !  but  this  is  bitter  ! 

0  that  we  had  never  met ! 
0  but  hate  than  love  were  fitter ! 

And  he  too  may  hate  me  yet. 

Yet  to  him  have  I  not  given 

All  life's  sweetness  ?  .  .  .  fame  ?  and 

name? 
Hope?  and  happiness?  and  heaven? 

Can  he  hate  me  for  my  shame  ? 

"Child,"  he  said,  "thy  life  was  glad 
In  the  dawning  of  its  years; 

And  love's  morn  should  be  less  sad, 
For  his  eve  may  close  in  tears. 


THE  WIFE'S   TRAGEDY. 


363 


"Sweet  in  novel  lands,"  he  said, 
"Day  by  day  to  share  delight; 

On  by  soft  surprises  led, 
And  together  rest  at  night. 

"  "We  will  see  the  shores  of  Greece, 
And  the  temples  of  the  Nile: 

Sail  where  summer  suns  increase 
Toward  the  south  from  isle  to  isle. 

"  Track  the  first  star  that  swims  on 
Glowing  depths  toward  night  and  us, 

While  the  heats  of  sunset  crimson 
All  the  purple  Bosphorus. 

"  Leaning  o'er  some  dark  ship-side, 
Watch  the  wane  of  mighty  moons; 

Or  through  starlit  Venice  glide, 
Singing  down  the  blue  lagoons. 

"  So  from  coast  to  coast  we  '11  range, 
Growing  nearer  as  we  move 

On  our  charmed  way;  each  soft  change 
Only  deepening  changeless  love." 

'T  was  the  dream  which  I,  too,  dreamed 
Once,  long  since,  in  days  of  yore. 

Life's  long-faded  fancies  seemed 
At  his  words  to  bloom  once  more. 

The  old  hope,  the  wreckt  belief, 
The  lost  light  of  vanisht  years, 

Ere  my  heart  was  worn  with  grief, 
Or  my  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears! 

When,  a  careless  girl,  I  clung 

With  proud  trust  to  my  own  powers; 

Ah,  long  since  I,  too,  was  young, 
I,  too,  dreamed  of  happier  hours  ! 

Whether  this  may  yet  be  so 
(Truth  or  dream)  I  cannot  tell. 

But  where'er  his  footsteps  go 
Turns  my  heart,  I  feel  too  well. 

Ha !  the  long  night  wears  away. 

Yon  cold  drowsy  star  grows  dim. 
The  long-feared,  long-wisht-for  day 

Comes,  when  I  shall  fly  with  him. 

In  the  laurel  wakes  the  thrush. 

Through  these  dreaming  chambers 

wide 
Not  a  sound  is  stirring.     Hush ; 

— O,  it  was  my  child  that  cried  1 


II. 
THE  PORTRAIT. 

YES,  't  is  she  !    Those  eyes !  that  hair 
With  the  self-same  wondrous  hue  ! 

And  that  smile  —  which  was  so  fair, 
Is  it  strange  I  deemed  it  true  ? 

Years,  years,  years  I  have  not  drawn 
Back  this  curtain  !  there  she  stands 

By  the  terrace  on  the  lawn, 
With  the  white  rose  in  her  hands: 

And  about  her  the  armorial 
Scutcheons  of  a  haughty  race, 

Graven  each  with  its  memorial 
Of  the  old  Lords  of  the  Place. 

You,  who  do  profess  to  see 
In  the  face  the  written  mind, 

Look  in  that  face,  and  tell  me 
In  what  part  of  it  you  find 

All  the  falsehood,  and  the  wrong, 
And  the  sin,  which  must  have  been 

Hid  in  baleful  beauty  long, 
Like  the  worm  that  lurks  unseen. 

In  the  shut  heart  of  the  flower. 

'T  is  the  Sex,  no  doubt !    And  still 
Some  may  lack  the  means,  the  power, 

There  's  not  one  that  lacks  the  will. 

Their  own  way  they  seek  the  Devil, 
Ever  prone  to  the  deceiver  ! 

If  too  deep  I  feel  this  evil 
And  this  shame,   may  God  forgive 
her! 

For  I  loved  her- — loved,  ay,  loved  her 
As  a  man  just  once  may  love, 

I  so  trusted,  so  approved  her, 
Set  her,  blindly,  so  above 

This  poor  world  which  was  about  her ! 

And  (so  loving  her)  because, 
With  a  faith  too  high  to  doubt  her, 

I,  forsooth,  but  seldom  was 

At  her  feet  with  clamorous  praises 

And  protested  tenderness 
(These    things    some    men    can    do), 
phrases 

On  her  face,  perhaps  her  dress, 

Or  the  flower  she  chose  to  braid 
In  her  hair,  — because,  you  see, 


364 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


Thinking  love 's  best  proved  unsaid, 
And  by  words  the  dignity 

Of  true  feelings  's  often  lost, 

I  was  vowed  to  life's  broad  duty; 

Man's  great  business  uppermost 
In  my  mind,  not  woman's  beauty ; 

Toiling  still  to  win  tor  her 
Honor,  fortune,  state  in  life, 

("  Too  much  with  the  Minister, 
And  too  little  with  the  wife  !") 

Just  for  this,  she  flung  aside 
All  my  toil,  my  heart,  my  name  ; 

Trampled  on  my  ancient  pride, 
Turned  my  honor  into  shame. 

0,  if  this  old  coronet 

Weighed  too    hard    on    her  young 

brow, 
Need  she  thus  dishonor  it. 

Fling  it  in  the  dust  so  low  ? 

But 't  is  just  these  women's  wry,— 
All  the  same  the  wide  world  over ! 

Fooled  by  what 's  most  worthless,  they 
Cheat  in  turn  the  honest  lover. 

And  I  was  not,  I  thank  heaven, 

Made,    as     some,     to    read    them 
through; 

"Were  life  three  times  longer  even, 
There  are  better  things  to  do. 

No!  to  let  a  woman  lie 

Like  a  canker,  at  the  roots 
Of  a  man's  life, — burn  it  dry, 

Nip  the  blossom,  stunt  the  fruits, 

This  I  count  both  shame  and  thrall ! 

Who  is  free'to  let  one  creature 
Come  between  himself,  and  all 

The  true  process  of  his  nature, 

While  across  the  world  the  nations 
Call  to  us  that  we  should  share 

In  their  griefs  their  exultations  ? — 
All  they  will  be,  all  they  are  ! 

And  so  much  yet  to  be  done,  — 
Wrong  to  root  out,  good  to  strength- 
en! 

Such  hard  battles  to  be  won ! 
Such  long  glories  yet  to  lengthen  ! 

'Mid  all  these,  how  small  one  grief,  — 
One  wrecked  heart,   whose    hopes 
are  o'er ! 


For  myself  I  scorn  relief. 
For  the  people  I  claim  more. 

Strange  !  these  crowds  whose  instincts 
guide  them 

Fail  to  get  the  thing  they  would, 
Till  we  nobles  stand  beside  them, 

Give  our  names,  or  shed  our  blood. 

From  of  old  this  hath  been  so. 

For  we  too  were  with  the  first 
In  the  fight  fought  long  ago 

When  the    chain    of    Charles    was 
burst. 

Who  but  we  set  Freedom's  border 
Wrenched     at    Kunnymede     from 
John? 

Who  but  we  stand,  towers  of  order, 
'Twixt  the  red  cap  and  the  Throne  ? 

And  they  wrong  us,  England's  Peers, 
Us,  the  vanguard  of  the  land, 

Who  should  say  the  march  of  years 
Makes  us  shrink  at    Truth's  right 
hand. 

'Mid  the  armies  of  Reform, 
To  the  People's  cause  allied, 

We — the  forces  of  the  storm  ! 
We— the  planets  of  the  tide  ! 

Do  I  seem  too  much  to  fret 

At  my  own  peculiar  woe  ? 
Would  to  heaven  I  could  forget 

How  I  loved  her  long  ago  ? 

As  a  father  loves  a  child, 
So  I  loved  her: — rather  thus 

Than  as  youth  loves,  when  our  wild 
New-found  passions  master  us. 

And — for  I  was  proud  of  old 

('T  is  my  nature) — doubtless  she 

In  the  man  so  calm,  so  cold, 
All  the  heart's  warmth  could  not 


Nay,  I  blame  myself — nor  lightly, 
Whose  chief  duty  was  to  gtiide 

Her  young  careless  life  more  rightly 
Through  the  perils  at  her  side. 

Ah,  but  love  is  blind  !  and  I 

Loved    her    blindly,    blindly  !  .  .  . 

Well, 
Who  that  ere  loved  trustfully 

Such  strange  danger  could  foretell? 


THE  WIFE'S   TRAGEDY. 


365 


For  his  young  years  G 
I  should  darken  by 


AS  some  consecrated  cup 
On  its  saintly  shrine  secure, 

All  my  life  seemed  lifted  up 

On  that  heart  I  deemed  so  pure. 

Well,  for  me  there  yet  remains 

Labor — that's  much:  then,  the  state: 

And,  what  pays  a  thousand  pains, 
Sense  of  right  and  scorn  of  fate. 

And,  0,  more  !  .  .  .  my  own  brave  boy, 
With  his  frank  and  eager  brow, 
And  his  hearty  innocent  joy. 
For  as  yet  he  does  not  know 

All  the  wrong  his  mother  did. 
Would  that     this    might  pass  un- 
known ! 

God  forbid 
my  own, 

Yet  this  must  come  .  .  .  But  I  mean 
He  shall  be,  as  time  moves  on, 

All  his  mother  might  have  been, 
Comfort,  counsel— both  in  one. 

Doubtless,  first,  in  that  which  moved 

me 

Man's  strong  natural  wraih  had  part. 
Wronged  by  one  I  deemed  had  loved 

me, 
For  I  loved  her  from  my  heart ! 

But  that 's  past !    If  I  was  sore 

To  the  heart,  and  blind  with  shame, 

I  see  calmly  now.  Nay,  more, — 
For  I  pity  where  I  blame. 

For,  if  he  betray  or  grieve  her, 
What  is  hers  to  turn  to  still? 

And  at  last,  when  he  shall  leave  her, 
As  at  last  he  surely  will, 

Where  shall  she  find  refuge  ?  what 
That  worst  widowhood  can  soothe  ? 

For  the  Past  consoles  her  not, 
Nor  the  memories  of  her  youth, 

Neither  that  which  in  the  dust 

She  hath  flung, — the  name  she  bore; 

But  with  her  own  shame  she  must 
Dwell  forsaken  evermore. 

Nothing  left  but  years  of  anguish, 
And  remorse  but  not  return  : 

Of  her  own  self-hate  to  languish: 
For  her  long-lost  peace  to  yearn: 

Or,  yet  \rorse  beyond  all  measure, 
Starting  from  wild  reveries, 


Drain  the  poison  misnamed  Pleasure, 
And  laugh  drunken  on  the  lees. 

0  false  heart !     0. woman,  woman, 
Woman  !  would  thy  treachery 

Had  been  less  !    For  surely  no  man 
Better  loved  than  I  loved  thee. 

We  must  never  meet  again. 

Even  shouldst  thou  repent  the  past. 
Both  must  suffer:  both  feel  pain: 

Ere  God  pardon  both  at  last. 

Farewell,  thou  false  face  !     Life  speeds 

me 
On  its  duties.     I  must  fight: 

1  must  toil.     The  People  needs  me: 
And  I  speak  for  them  to-night. 

III. 
THE  LAST  INTEEVTEW. 

THANKS,  Dear !  Put  the  lamp  down  .  .  . 

so, 

For  my  eyes  are  weak  and  dim. 
How  the  shadows  come  and  go  ! 

Speak  truth,— have    they  sent  for 
him  ! 

Yes,  thank    Heaven !      And  he  will 
come, 

Come  and  watch  my  dying  hour, — 
Though  I  left  and  shamed  his  home. 

—tl  am  withered  like  this  flower 

Which  he  gave  me  long  ago. 

'T  was  upon  my  bridal  eve. 
When  I  swore  to  love  him  so 

As  a  wife  should— smile  or  grieve 

With  him,  for  him, — and  not  shrink. 

And  now  ?  .  .  .  0  the  long,  long  pain ! 
See  this  sunken  cheek  !    You  think 

He  would  know  my  face  again  ?  . 

All  its  wretched  beauty  gone  ! 

Only  the  deep  care  survives. 
Ah,  could  years  of  grief  atone 

For  those  fatal  hours  !  .  .  .  It  drives 

Past  the  pane,  the  bitter  blast ! 

In  this  garret  one  migtt  freeze. 
Hark  there  !  wheels  below !    At  last 

He  is  come  then  ?   No  ...  the  trees 

And  the  night-wind— -nothing  rnpre ! 

Set  the  chair  for  him  to.  sit/  ** 
.,  .  ..  ..-..-- 


3G6 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


When  he  comes.  And  close  the  door, 
For  the  gust  blows  cold  through  it. 

When  I  think,  I  can  remember 
I  was  born  in  castle  halls, — 

How  yon  dull  and  dying  ember 

Glares  against  the  whitewasht  walls  ! 

If  he  come  not  (but  you  said 
That  the  messenger  was  sent 

Long  since  ?)  Tell  him  when  I'm  dead 
How  my  life's  last  hours  were  spent 

In  repenting  that  life's  sin, 

And  .  .  .  the  room  grows  strangely 

dark! 
See,  the  rain  is  oozing  in. 

Set  the  lamp  down  nearer.     Hark, 

Footsteps,  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ! 

His  .  .  .  no,  no  !  'twas  not  the  wind. 
God,   I  know,  has  heard  my  prayers. 

We  shall  meet.     I  am  resigned. 

Prop  me  up  upon  the  pillows. 

Will  he  come. to  my  bedside  ? 
Once  't  was  his  .  .  .  Among  the  willows 

How  the  water  seems  to  glide  ! 

Past  the  woods,  the  farms,  the  towers, 
It  seems  gliding,  gliding  through. 

"Dearest,  see,  these  young  June-flowers, 
I  have  pluckt  them  all  for  you, 

"  Here,  where  passed  my  boyhood  musing 
On  the  bride  which  I  might  wed." 

Ah,  it  goes  now  !    I  am  losing 

All  things.     What  was  that  he  said  ? 

Say,   where  am  I?  ...  this  strange 
room? 


Gertrude ! 


THE  EABL. 


GEBTBTJDE. 

Ah,  his  voice !    I  knew  it. 

But  this  place  ?  ...  Is  this  the  tomb, 

With  the  cold  dews  creeping  through 

THE  EARL. 

Gertrude!  Gertrude! 

GEBTBUDE. 

Will  you  stand 

Near  me?    Sit  down.    Do  not  stir. 
Tell  me,  may  I  take  your  hand  ? 
Tell  me,  will  you  look  on  her  . 


Who  so  wronged  you  ?    I  have  wept 

0  such  tears  for  that  sin's  Bake  ! 
And  that  thought  has  never  slept,  — 

But  it  lies  here,  like  a  snake, 

In  my  bosom,  —  gnawing,  gnawing 
All  my  life  up  !  I  had  meant, 

Could  I  live  yet  .  .  .  Death  is  drawing 
Near  me  — 

THE  EABL. 

God,  thy  punishment ! 
Dare  I  judge  her  ?  — 

GEBTBUDE. 

O,  believe  me, 

'T  was  a  dream,  a  hideous  dream. 
And  I  wake  now.     Do  not  leave  me. 

1  am  dying.     All  things  seem 

Failing  from  me  —  even  my  breath  ! 

But  my  sentence  is  from  old. 
Sin  came  first  upon  me.     Death 

Follows  sin,  soon,  soon !    Behold, 

Dying  thus  !  Ah,  why  didst  leave 
Lonely  Love's  lost  bridal  bowers 

Where  I  found  the  snake,  like  Eve, 
Unsuspected  'mid  the  flowers  ? 

Had  I  been  some  poor  man's  bride, 
I  had  shared  with  love  his  lot: 

Labored  truly  by  his  side, 
And  made  glad  his  lonely  cot. 

I  had  been  content  to  mate 
Love  with  labor's  sunburnt  brows. 

But  to  be  a  thing  of  state,  — 
Homeless  in  a  husband's  house ! 

In  the  gorgeous  game  —  the  strife 
For  the  dazzling  prize  —  that  moved 

you  — 
Love  seemed  crowded  out  of  life — 

THE  EABL. 

Ah,  fool !  and  I  loved  you,  loved  you! 

GEETBTJDE. 

Yes.    I  see  it  all  at  last  — 

All  in  ruins.     I  can  dare 
To  gaze  down  o'er  my  lost  past 

From  these  heights  of  my  despair. 

O,    when    all    seemed  grown   most 
drear — 

I  was  weak  —  I  cannot  tell  — 
But  the  serpent  in  my  ear 

Whispered,  whispered  — and  I  fell. 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


867 


Look  around,  -now.  Does  it  cheer  you, 
This  strange  place?  the  wasted  frame 

Of  the  dj  ing  woman  near  you, 
Weighed  into  her  grave  by  shame  ? 

Can  you  trace  in  this  wan  form 
Aught  resembling  that  young  girl's 

Whom  you  loved  once  ?  See,  this  arm — 
Shrunken,  shrunken  !  And  my  curls, 

They  have  cut  them  all  away. 

And  my  brows  are  worn  with  woe. 
Would  you,  looking  at  me,  say, 

She  was  lovely  long  ago  ? 

Husband,  answer  !  in  all  these 
Are  you  not  avenged  !    If  I 

Could  rise  now,  upon  my  knees, 
At  your  feet,  before  I  die, 

I  would  fall  down  in  my  sorrow 
And  my  shame,  and  say,  "forgive," 

That  which  will  be  dust  to-morrow, 
This  weak  clay ! 

THE   EARL. 

Poor  sufferer,  live. 
God  forgives.     Shall  I  not  so  ? 

GEBTEUDE. 

Nay,  a  better  life,  in  truth, 
I  do  hope  for.     Not  below. 
Partner  of  my  perisht  youth. 

Husband,  wronged   one!      Let  your 

blessing 

Be  with  me,  before,  to-night, 
From  the  life  that  's  past  redressing 
This    strayed    soul    must   take    its 
flight ! 

Tears,  warm  tears  !    I  feel  them  creep 
Down  my  cheek.      Tears— not  my 
own. 

It  is  long  since  I  could  weep. 
Past  all  tears  my  grief  hath  grown. 

Over  this  dry  withered  cheek, 
Drop  by  drop,  I  feel  them  fall. 

But  my  voice  is  growing  weak: 
And  I  have  not  spoken  all. 

I  had  much  to  say.     My  son, 

My  lost  child  that  never  knew  me  ! 
Is  he  like  me ?    One  by  one, 

All  his  little  ways  come  to  me. 

Is  he  grown  ?    I  fancy  him  ! 
How  that  childish  face  comes  back 


O'er  my  memory  sweet  and  dim  ! 
And  his  long  hair  ?    Is  it  black  ? 

Or  as  mine  was  once  ?    His  mother 

Did  he  ever  ask  to  see  ? 
Has  he  grown  to  love  another — 

Some  strange  woman  not  like  me  ? 

Would  he  shudder  to  behold 
This  pale  face  and  faded  form 

If  he  knew,  in  days  of  old, 

How  he  slumbered  on  my  arm  ? 

How  I  nurst  him  ?  loved  him  ?  missed 
him 

All  this  long  heartbroken  time  ? 
It  is  years  since  last  I  kissed  him. 

Does  he  hate  me  for  my  crime  ? 

I  had  meant  to  send  some  token — 
If,  indeed,  I  dared  to  send  it. 

This  old  chain — the  links  are  broken — - 
Like  my  life — I  could  not  mend  it. 

Husband,  husband  !  I  am  dying, 
Dying  !    Let  me  feel  your  kiss 

On  my  brow  where  I  am  lying. 
You  are  great  enough  for  this  ! 

And  you'll  lay  me,  when  I'm  gone, 
— Not  in  those  old  sculptured  walls ! 

Let  no  name  be  carved — no  stone — 
No  ancestral  funerals ! 

In  some  little  grave  of  grass 
Anywhere,  you'll  let  me  lie: 

Where  the  night- winds  only  pass, 
Or  the  clouds  go  floating  by; 

Where  my  shame  may  be  forgot; 

And  the  story  of  my  life 
And  my  sin  remembered  not. 

So  forget  the  faithless  wife; 

Or  if,  haply,  when  I'm  dead, 
On  some  worthier  happier  breast 

Than  mine  was,  you  lean  your  head, 
Should  one  thought  of  me  molest 

Those  calm  hours,  recall  me  only 
As  you  see  me, — worn  with  tears: 

Dying  desolate  here;  left  lonely 
By  the  overthrow  of  years. 

May  I  lay  my  arm,  then,  there  . 

Does  it  not  seem  strange  to  you, 
This  old  hand  among  your  hair  ? 

And  these  wasted  fingers  too  ? 


368 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


•  How  the  lamp  wanes  !  All  grows  dark — 
Dark  and  strange.  Yet  now  there 

shined 
Something    past'  me  ...   Husband, 

bark! 
There  are  voices  on  the  wind. 

Are  they  come?  and  do  they  ask  me 

For  the  songs  we  used  to  sing? 
Strange  that  memory  thus  should  task 

me! 
Listen— 

Birds  are  on  the  wing: 

And  thy  Birthday  Morn  is  rising, 

May  it  ever  rise  as  bright ! 
Wake  not  yd  I     The  day's  devising 

Fair  new  things  for  thy  delight. 

Wake  not  yet !    Last  night  this  flower 
Near  thy  porch  began  to  pout 

From  its  warm  sheath:  in  an  hour 
All  the  young  leaves  will  be  out. 

Wake  not  yet !  So  dear  thou  art,  love, 
That  I  grudge  these  buds  the  bliss 

Each  will  bring  to  thy  young  heart,  love, 
I  would  claim  all  for  my  kiss. 

Wake  not  yet ! 

—There  now,  it  fails  me  ! 

Is  my  lord  there?    I  am  ill. 
And  I  cannot  tell  what  ails  me. 

Husband !    Is  he  near  me  still  ? 

0,  this  anguish  seems  to  crush 
All  my  life  up, — body  and  mind  ! 

THE  EARL. 

Gertrude  !  Gertrude !  Gertrude  ! 


GEBTEUDE. 


Hush! 


There  are  voices  in  the  wind. 

THE  EABL. 

Still  she  wanders  !    Ah,  the  plucking 
At  the  sheet ! 

GEETETJDE. 

Hist !  do  not  take  it 
From  my  bosom.     See,  't  is  sucking  ! 
If  it  sleep  we  must  not  wake  it. 


Such  a  little  rosy  mouth ! 

—Not  to-night,  0  not  t'o-night ! 
Did  he  tell  me  in  the  South 

That  those  stars  were  twice  as  bright ! 

Off !  away  !  unhand  me — go  ! 

I  forgive  thee  my  lost  heaven, 
And  the  wrong  which  thou  didst  do. 

Would  my  sin,  too,  were  forgiven  ! 

Gone  at  last !  .  .  .  Ah,  fancy  feigns 
These  wild  visions  !    I  grow  weak. 

Fast,  fast  dying  !    Life's  warmth  wanes 
From  me.     Is  the  fire  out  ? 


THE  EAEL. 

Speak, 

Gertrude,  speak !    My  wife,  my  wife  ! 

Nay  she  is  not  dead, — not  dead  ! 
See,  the  lips  move.     There  is  life. 

She  is  choking.     Lilt  her  head. 

GEETETJDE. 

***** 

Death !  .  .  .  My  eyes   grow  dim,  and 
dimmer. 

I  can  scarcely  see  thy  face. 
But  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer, 

Lighted  from  some  distant  place. 

Husband ! 


THE  EAEL. 

Gertrude ! 


GEETEUDE. 

Art  thou  near  me  ? 
On    thy    breast — once     more — thy 

breast ! 

I  have  sinned — and — nay,  yet  hear  me, 
And  repented — and — 

THE  EAEL. 

The  rest 

God  hath  heard,  where  now  thou  art, 
Thou  poor  soul, — in  Heaven. 

The  door- 
Close  it  softly,  and  depart. 
Leave  us ! 

She  is  mine  once  more. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


THE  PAETLNG  OF  LAUNCELOT 
AND  GUENEVEEE. 

A  PBAGMENT. 

Now,  as  the  time  wore  by    to    Our 

Lady's  Day, 
Spring  lingered  in  the  chambers  of  the 

South. 
The    nightingales   were    far   in  fairy 

lands 
Beyond  the  sunset:  but  the  wet  blue 

woods 

"Were  half  aware  of  violets  in  the  wake 
Of  morning  rains.    The  swallow  still 

delayed. 

To  build  and  be  about  in  noisy  roofs, 
And  March  was  moaning  in  the  windy 

elm. 

But  Arthur's  royal  purpose  held  to 
keep 

A  joust  of  arms  to  solemnize  the  time 

In  stately  Camelot.     So  the  King  sent 
forth 

His  heralds,  and  let  cry  through  all  the 
land 

That  he  himself  would  take  the  lists, 
and  tilt 

Against  all  comers. 

Hither  came  the  chiefs 

Of  Christendom.     The  King  of  North 
galies; 

Anguishe,  the  King  of  Ireland;   the 
Haut  Prince, 

Sir  Galahault;  the  King  o'  the  Hun- 
dred Knights; 

The  Kings    of  Scotland  and  of  Brit- 
tany; 

And   many    more  renowned  knights 
whereof 

The  names  are  glorious.     Also  all  the 
earls, 

And  all  the  dukes,  and  all  the  mighty 
men 

And   famous    heroes    of    the    Table 
Eound, 


From  far  Northumberland  to  where 
the  wave 

Eides  rough  on  Devon  from  the  outer 
main. 

So  that  there  was  not  seen  for  seven 
years, 

Since  when,  at  Whitsuntide,  Sir  Gala- 
had 

Departed  out  of  Carlyel  from  the 
court, 

So  fair  a  fellowship  of  goodly  knights. 

Then  would  King  Arthur  that  the 
Queen  should  ride 

With  him  from  Carlyel  to  Camelot 

To  see  the  jousts.  But  she,  because 
that  yet 

The  sickness  was  upon  her,  answered 
nay. 

Then  said  King  Arthur,  "This  repent- 
eth  me. 

For  never  hath  been  seen  for  seven 
years, 

No,  not  since  Galahad,  at  Whitsun- 
tide, 

Departed  from  us  out  of  Carlyel, 

So  fair  a  fellowship  of  goodly 
Knights." 

But  the  Queen  would  not,  and  the 
King  in  wrath 

Brake  up  the  court,  and  rode  to  Asto- 
lat 

On  this  side  Camelot. 

Now  men  said  the  Queen 

Tarried  behind  because  of  Launcelot, 

For  Launcelot  stayed  to  heal  him  of 
his  wound. 

And  there  had  been  estrangement 
'twixt  these  two 

T  the  later  time,  because  of  bitter 
words. 

So  when  the  King  with  all  his  fellow- 
ship 

Was  ridden  out  of  Carlyel,  the  Queen 

Arose,  and  called  to  her  Sir  Launce- 
lot. 


A1MJ     (/  u  ti,NE  VERE. 


Then  to  Sir  Launcelot  spoke  Quee 
Guenevere. 

"Not  for  the    memory  of  that  lov 

whereoi 
No  more  tlian  memory  lives,  but,  Sir 

for  that 
Which  even  when  love  is  ended  ye 

endures 
Making  immortal  life  with  deathles 

deeds, 
Honor  —  true     knighthood's     golden 

spurs,  the  crown 
And    priceless    diadem    of    peerles 

Queens, — 
I  make  appeal  to  you,  that  hear  per 

chance 

The  last  appeal  which  I  shall  ever  make 
So  weigh  my  words  not  lightly  !  for  '. 

feel 
The  fluttering  fires  of  life  grow  fain 

and  cold 

About  my  heart.  And  oft,  indeed,  to  me 
Lying  whole  hours  awake  in  the  deac 

nights 
The  end  seems  near,  as  though  th 

darkness  knew 

The  angel  waiting  thereto  call  my  sou 
Perchance  before  the  house  awakes 

and  oft 
When  faint,  and  all  at  once,  from  far 

away, 
The  mournful  midnight  bells  begin  to 

sound 

Across  the  river,  all  the  days  that  were 
(Brief,  evil  days  !)  return  upon  my 

heart, 
And,  where  the  sweetness  seemed,  I 

see  the  sin. 
For,  waking  lone,  long  hours  before  the 

dawn, 

Beyond  the  borders  of  the  dark  I  seem 
To  see  the  twilight  of  another  world, 
That  grows  and  grows  and  glimmers  on 

my  gaze. 

And  oft,  when  late,  before  the  languor- 
ous moon 

Through  yonder  windows  to  the  West 
goes  clown 

t \mong  the  pines,  deep  peace  upon  me 
falls, 
Deep  peace  like  death,  so  that  I  think 

I  know 
The  blessed  Mary  and  the  righteous 

saints 

Stand  at  the  throne,  and  intercede  for 
me. 


Wherefore  these  things  are  thus  I  can 

not  tell. 

But  now  I  pray  you  of  your  fealty- 
And  by  all  knightly  faith  which  may  b 

Arise  and  get  you  hence,  and  join  th 

King. 
For  wherefor  hold  you  thus  behind  th 

court, 
Seeing  my  liege  the  King  is  moved  in 

wrath  ? 
For  wete  you  well  what  say  your  foe 

and  mine. 
'See  how  Sir    Launcelot  and  Queen 

Guenevere 
Do  hold  them  ever  thus  behind  the 

King 
That  they  may  take  their  pleasure 

Knowing  not 
How  that  for  me  all  these  delights  are 

come 
To  be  as  withered  violets." 

Half  in  tears 
She  ceased  abrupt.      Given  up  to  a 

proud  grief, 
Vexed  to  be  vext.    With  love  and  anger 

moved. 
Love  toucht  with   scorn,  and  anger 

pierced  with  love. 

About  her,  all  unheeded,  her  long  hair 
Boosed  its  warm,  yellow,  waving  love- 
liness, 
And  o'er  her  bare  and  shining  shoulder 

cold 
Fell  floating  free.    Upon  one  full  white 

arm, 

^o  which  the  amorous  purple  coverlet 
Clung  dimpling    close,   her  drooping 

state  was  propt. 
There,  half  in  shadow  of  her  soft  gold 

curls, 
»he  leaned,  and  like  a  rose   enricht 

with  dew, 
Vhose  heart  is  heavy  with  the  clinging 

bee, 

Sowed  clown  toward  him  all  her  glow- 
ing face, 
While  in  the  light  of  her  large  angry 

eyes 
"^prose,   and  rose,  a  slow  imperious 

sorrow, 
nd  o'er  the  shine  of  still,  unquiver- 

ing  tears 
warn  on  to  him. 

But  he,  with  brows  averse 
nd   orgolous   looks,  three  times   to 
speech  addressed, 


THE  PARTING    OF  LAUNCELOT  AXD    GUENEVERE, 


371 


Three  times  in  vain.     The  silence  of 

the  place 
Fell  like  a  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 

hushed 

His  foolish  anger  with  authority. 
He  would  not  see  the  wretched  Queen: 

he  saw 

Only  the  hunter  on  the  arrassed  wall 
Prepare  to  wind  amort  his  bugle  horn, 
And  the  long  daylight  dying  down  the 

floors; 
For  half-way  through  the  golden  gates 

of  eve 
The  sun  was  rolled.     The  dropping 

tapestry  glowed 
With  awful  hues.     Far  off  among  his 

reeds 

The  river,  smitten  with  a  waning  light, 
Shone;  and,  behind  black  lengths  of 

pine  revealed, 
The  red  West  smouldered,  and  the  day 

declined. 
Then  year  by  year,  as  wave  on  wave  a 

sea, 
The  tided  Past  came  softly  o'er  his 

heart, 
And  all  the  days  which  had  been. 

So  he  stood 

Long  in  his  mind  divided:  with  himself 
At  strife:  and,  like  a  steed  that  hotly 

chafes 
His  silver  bit,  which  yet  some  silken 

rein 
Swayed  by  a  skilled  accustomed  hand 

restrains. 
His  heart  against  the  knowledge  of  its 

love 
Made  vain  revolt,  and  fretful  rose  and 

sunk. 
But  at  the  last,  quelling  a  wayward 

grief, 
That  swelled  against  all  utterance,  and 

sought 

To  force  its  salt  and  sorrowful  overflow 
Upon  weak  language,  "Now  indeed," 

he  cried, 
"I  see  the  face  of    the   old  time  is 

changed, 
And  all  things  altered  !     Will  the  sun 

still  burn? 
Still  burn  the  eternal  stars  ?    For  love 

was  deemed 
Not    less   secure  than  these.     Needs 

should  there  bo 
Something  remarkable  to    prove  the 

world 


I  am  no  more  that  Launcelot,  nor  thou 
That  Guenevere,  of  whom,  long  since, 

the  fame, 
Fruitful  of  noble  deeds,  with  such  a 

light 
Did  fill  this  nook  and  can  tie   of  the 

earth, 
That  all  great  lands   of  Christendom 

beside 
Showed  darkened  of  their  glory.     But 

I  see 
That  there  is  nothing  left  for  men  to 

swear  by. 
For  then  thy  will  did  never  urge  me 

hence, 
But  drew  me  through  all  dangers  to 

thy  feet. 
And  none  can  say,  least  thou,  I  have 

not  been 

The  staff  and  burgonet  of  thy  fair  fame. 
Nor  mind  you,  Madam,  how  in  Surluse 

once, 

When  all  the  estates  were  met,  and  no- 
ble judges, 
Armed  clean  with  shields,  set  round  to 

keep  the  right, 

Before  you  sitting  throned  with  Gala- 
haul  t 
In  great  array,  on  fair  green  quilts  of 

samite, 
Rich,  ancient,  fringed  with  gold,  seven 

summer  days, 

And  all  before  the  Earls  of  Northgalies, 
Such  service  then  with  this  old  sword 

was  wrought, 
To  crown  thy  beauty  in  the  courts  of 

Fame, 
That    in  that  time  fell  many  noble 

knights, 
And  all  men  marvelled  greatly?    So 

when  last 
The  loud  horns  blew  to  lodging,  and 

we  supped 

With  Palamedes  and  with  Lamorack, 
And  those  great  dukes,  and  kings,  and 

famous  qxieens, 

Beholding  us  with  a  deep  joy,  avouched 
Across  the  golden  cups  of  costly  wine 
'  There  is  no  Queen  of  love  but  Guene- 
vere, 
And  no  true  knight  but  Launcelot  of 

the  Lake  !' " 

Thus  he,  transported  by  the  thought 
of  days 

And  deeds  that,  like  the  mournful  mar- 
tial sounds 


372        THE  PARTING-    OF  LAUNCELOT  AND    GUENEVERE. 


Blown  through  sad  towns  where  some 
dead  king  goes  by, 

Made  music  in  the  chambers  of  his 
heart, 

Swept  by  the  mighty  memory  of  the 
past. 

Nor  spake  the  sorrowful  Queen,  nor 
from  deep  muse 

Unbent  the  grieving  beauty  of  her 
brows, 

But  held  her  heart's  proud  pain  superb- 
ly still. 

But  when  he  lifted  up  his  looks,  it 

seemed 
Something  of  sadness  in  the  ancient 

Like  dying  breath  from  lips  beloved  of 

yore, 

Or  unforgotten  touch  of  tender  hands 
After  long  years,  upon  his  spirit  fell. 
For  near  the  carven  casement  hung  the 

bird, 
With  hood  and  jess,  that  oft  had  led 

them  forth, 

These  lovers,  through  the  heart  of  rip- 
pling woods 
At  morning,  in  the  old  and  pleasant 

time. 
And  o'er  the  broidered    canopies  of 

state 
Blazed     Uther's      dragons,      curious, 

wrought  with  gems. 
Then  to  his  mind  that  dear  and  distant 

drawn 
Came    back,  when    first,    a    boy    at 

Arthur's  court, 
He  paused  abasht  before  the  youthful 

Queen. 
And,  feeling  now  her  long  imploring 

gaze 
Holding  him  in  its  sorrow,  when  he 

marked 
How  changed  her  state,  and  all  unlike 

to  her, 
The  most   renowned  beauty    of   the 

time, 

And  pearl  of  chivalry,  for  whom  him- 
self 
All  on  a  summer's  day  broke,  long  of 

yore 
A    hundred  lances    in  the   field,    he 

sprang 
And  caught  her  hand,  and,  falling  to 

one  knee, 
Arched  all  his  haughty  neck  to  a  quick 

kiss. 


And  there  was  silence.  Silently  the 
West 

Grew  red  and  redder,  and  the  day  de- 
clined. 

As  o'er  the  hungering  heart  of  some 
deep  sea, 

That  swells  against  the  planets  and  the 
moon 

With  sad  continual  strife  and  vain  un- 
rest, 

In  silence  rise  and  roll  the  laboring 
clouds 

That  bind  the  thunder,  o'er  the  heav- 
ing heart 

Of  Guenevere  all  sorrows  fraught  with 
love, 

All    stormy  sorrows,   in  that  silence 


And  like  a  star  in  that  tumultuous 

night 
Love  waxed  and  waned,  and  came  and 

went,  changed  hue, 
And  was  and  was  not:  till  the  cloud 

came  down, 
And  all  her  soul  dissolved  in  showers: 

and  love 
Hose  through  the  broken  storm:  and 

with  a  cry 
Of  passion  sheathed  in  sharpest  pain, 

she  stretched 
Wide  her  warm  arms:  she  rose,   she 

reeled,  and  fell 
(All  her  great  heart  unqueened)  upon 

the  breast 
Of    Launcelot;   and,    litting   up  her 

voice, 
She  wept  aloud,    "Unhappy    that  I 

am," 
She  wept,  "  Unhappy  !    Would  that  I 

had  died 

Long  since,  long  ere  I  loved  thee,  Laun- 
celot ! 
Would  I  had  died  long  since !  ere  I 

had  known 
This    pain,    which  hath  become  my 

punishment, 
To  have  thirsted  for  the  sea:  to  have 

received 

A  drop  no  bigger  than  a  drop  of  dew  ! 
I  have  done  ill,"  she  wept,  "  I  am  for- 
lorn, 

Forlorn  !  I  falter  where  I  stood  secure: 
The  tower  I  built  is  fall'n,  is  fall'n:  the 

staff 
I  leaned  upon  hath    broken    in  my 

hand. 


THE  PARTING-    OF  LAUNCELOT    AND    GUENEVEEE.        373 


And     I,    disrobed,     dethroned,     dis- 
crowned, and  all  undone, 

Survive  my  kingdom,  widowed  of  all 
rule, 

And  men  shall  mock  me  for  a  foolish 
Queen. 

For  now  I  see  thy  love  for  me  is  dead, 

Dead  that  brier  love  which  was  the 
lignt  of  life, 

And  all  is  dark:  and  I  have  lived  too 
long. 

For  how  henceforth,  unhappy,  shall  I 
bear 

To  dwell  among  these  halls  where  we 
have  been  ? 

How  keep  these  chambers  emptied  of 
thy  voice  ? 

The  walks  where  we  have    lingered 
long  ago, 

The  gardens    and  the  places  of  our 
love, 

"Which  shall  recall  the  days  that  come 
no  more, 

And  all  the  joy  which  has  been  ?  " 

Thus  o'erthrown, 

And  on  the  breast  of  Launcelot  weep- 
ing wild — 

Weeping  and  murmuring — hung  Queen 
Guenevere. 

But,  while  she  wept,  upon  her  brows 
and  lips 

Warm  kisses  fell,  warm  kisses  wet  with 
tears. 

For  all  his  mind  was  melted  with  re- 
morse, 

And  all  his  scorn  was  killed,  and  all 
his  heart 

Gave  way  in  that  caress,  and  all   the 
love 

Of  happier  years  rolled  down  upon  his 
soul 

Redoubled;  and  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  cried, 

"Though    thou    be    variable    as   the 


More    sharp   than  winds  among  the 

Hebrides 
That  shut  the  frozen  Spring  in  stormy 

clouds, 

As  wayward  as  a  child,  and  all  unjust, 
Yet  must  I  love  thee  in  despite  of 

pain, 
Thou  peerless  Queen  of  perfect  love ! 

Thou  star 
That  draw'st  all  tides  1    Thou  goddess 

far  above 


My  heart's  weak  worship  !  so  adored 

thou  art. 
And  I  so  irretrievably  all  thine  ! 
But  now  I  will  arise,  as  thou  hast  said, 
And  join  the  King:   and  these  thine 

enemies 
Shall  know  thee  not  defenceless  any 

more. 

For,  either,  living,  I  yet  hold  my  life 
To  arm  for  thine,  or,   dying,  by  my 

death 
Will  steep  love's  injured  honor  in  such 

blood 
Shall  wash  out  every  stain  !     And  so 

farewell, 
Beloved.     Forget  me  not  when  I  am 

far, 

But  in  thy  prayers  and  in  thine  even- 
ing thoughts 
Remember  me:  as  I,  when  sundown 

crowns 

The  distant  hills,  and  Ave-Mary  rings, 
Shall  pine  for  thee  on  ways  where 

thou  art  not." 

So  these  two  lovers  in  one  long  em- 
brace, 

An  agony  of  reconcilement,  hung 
Blinded  in  tears  and  kisses,  lip  to  lip, 
And  tranced  from  past  and    future, 
time  and  space. 

But  by   this   time,  the  beam  of  the 

slope  day, 
Edging  blue  mountain  glooms    with 

sullen  gold, 

A  dying  fire  fell  mournfully  athwart 
The  purple  chambers.     In  the  courts 

below 
The  shadow  of  the  keep  from  wall  to 

wall 

Shook  his  dark  skirt:  great  chimes  be- 
gan to  sound, 
And  swing,  and  rock  in  glimmering 

heights,  and  roll 

A  reeling  music  down:  but  ere  it  fell 
Faint  bells  in  misty  spires  adown  the 

vale 
Caught  it,  and  bore  it  floating  on  to 

night. 

So  from  that  long  love-trance  the  en- 

Tious  time 
Reclaimed  them.     Then  with  a  great 

pang  he  rose 
Like  one  that  plucked  his  heart  out 

from  his  breast. 


374 


A  SUNSET  FANCY. 


And,  bitterly  unwinding   her    white 

arms 
From  the  warm  circle  of  their  amorous 

fold, 
Left  living  on  her  lips  the  lingering 

heat 
Of    one    long    kiss:    and,    gathering 

strongly  back 
His  poured-out  anguish  to  his  soul,  he 

went. 

And  the  sun  set. 

Long  while  she  sat  alone, 
Searching  the  silence  with  her  fixed 

eyes, 
While  far  and  farther  off  o'er  distant 

floors 

The  intervals  of  brazen  echoes  fell. 
A  changeful  light,  from  varying  pas- 
sions caught, 
Flushed  all  her  stately  cheek   from 

white  to  red 
[n  doubtful  alternation,  as  some  star 
Changes   his    fiery    beauty:    for   her 

blood 
Set  headlong  to  all  wayward  moods  of 

sense, 
Stirred  with  swift  ebb  and  flow:  till 

suddenly  all 
The  frozen  heights  of  grief  fell  loosed, 

fast,  fast, 
[n  cataract  over  cataract,  on  her  soul. 
That  like  a  shadow  swayed  against  the 

wall, 
Her  slight  hand  held  upon  her  bosom, 

and  fell 
Before    the   Virgin    Mother    on    her 

knees. 

There,  in  a  halo  of  the  silver  shrine, 
That  touched  and  turned  to  starlight 

her  slow  tears, 
Below  the  feet  of  the  pale  pictured 

saint 
3he  lay,  poured  out  in  prayer. 

Meanwhile,  without, 
A  sighing  rain  from  a  low  fringe  of 

cloud 
Whispered    among    the    melancholy 

hills. 
The  night's  dark  limits  widened  :  far 

above. 

The  crystal  sky  lay  open:  and  the  star 
Of  eve,  his  rosy  circlet  trembling  clear, 


Grew  large  and  bright,  and  in  the  silver 

nioats, 

Between  the  accumulated  terraces, 
Tangled  i  trail  of  fire:  and  all  was  still. 

A  SUNSET  FANCY. 

JUST  at  sunset,  I  would  be 

In  some  isle-garden,  where  the  sea 

I  look  into  shall  seem  more  blue 

Than  those  dear  and  deep  eyes  do. 

And,  if  anywhere  the  breeze 

Shall  have  stirred  the  cypress-trees, 

Straight  the  yellow  light  falls  through, 

Catching  me,  for  once,  at  ease; 

Just  so  much  as  may  impinge 

Some  tall  lily  with  a  tinge 

Of  orange ;  while,  above  the  wall, 

Tumbles  downward  into  view 

(With  a  sort  of  small  surprise) 

One  star  more  among  them  all, 

For  me  to  watch  with  half-shut  eyes. 

Or  else  upon  the  breezy  deck 
Of  some  felucca;  and  one  speck 
'Twixt  the  crimson  and  the  yellow, 
Which  may  be  a  little  fleck 
Of  cloud,  or  gull  with  outstretcht  neck, 
To  Spezia  bound  from  Cape  Circello; 
With  a  sea-song  in  my  ears 
Of  the  bronzed  buccaneers: 
While  the  night  is  waxing  mellow. 
And  the  helmsman  slackly  steers, — 
Leaning,  talking  to  his  fellow, 
Who  has  oaths  for  all  he  hears, — 
Each  thief  swarthier  than  Othello. 
Or,  in  fault  of  better  things, 
Close  in  sound  of  one  who  sings 
To  casements,  in  a  southern  city; 
Tinkling  upon  tender  strings 
Some  melodious  old  love-ditty; 
While  a  laughing  lady  flings 
One  rose  to  him,  just  for  pity. 
But  I  have  not  any  want 
Sweeter  than  to  be  with  you, 
When  the  long  light  falleth  slant, 
And  heaven  turns  a  darker  blue; 
And  a  deeper  smile  grows  through 
The  glance  asleep   'neath  those  soft 

lashes, 

Which  the  heart  it  steals  into 
First  inspires  and  then  abashes. 
Just  to  hold  your  hand, — one  touch 
So  light  you  scarce  should  feel  it  such ! 
Just  to  watch  you  leaning  o'er 
Those  window-roses,  love, ...  no  more. 


ASSOCIA  TIONS.— MEETING  A  GAIN. 


375 


ASSOCIATIONS. 

Yotr  know  the  place  is  just  the  same ! 

The  rooks  built  here :  the  sandy  hill  is 
Ablaze  with  broom,  as  when  she  came 
Across  the  sea  with  her  new  name 

To  dwell  among  the  moated  lilies. 

The  trifoly  is  on  the  walls: 

The  daisies  in  the  bowling-alley: 
The  ox  at  eve  lows  from  the  stalls: 
At  eve  the  cuckoo,  floating,  calls, 
When  foxgloves  tremble  in  the  valley. 

The  iris  blows  from  court  to  court: 

The  bald  white  spider  flits,  or  stays  in 
The  chinks  behind  the  dragon  wort: 
That  Triton  still,  at  his  old  sport, 
Blows  bubbles  in  his  broken  basin. 

The  terrace  where  she  used  to  walk 

Still  shines  at  noon  between  the  roses : 
The  garden  paths  are  blind  with  chalk: 
The  dragon-fly  from  stalk  to  stalk 
Swims  sparkling  blue  till   evening 
closes. 

Then,  just  above  that  long  dark  copse, 
One  warm  red  star  comes,  out  and 

passes 
Westward,  and  mounts,  and  mounts, 

and  stops 

(Or  seems  to)  o'er  the  turret-tops, 
And  lights  those   lonely  casement- 
glasses. 

Sir  Ralph  still  wears  that  old  grim  smile. 

The  s  air  case  creaks  as  up  I  clamber 
To  those  still  rooms,  to  muse  awhile. 
I  see  the  little  meadow-stile 

As  I   lean   from    the   great  south- 
chamber. 

And  Lady  Ruth  is  just  as  white. 

(Ah,  still,  that  face  seems  strangely 

like  her !) 

The  lady  and  the  wicked  knight — 
All  just  the  same — she  swooned  for 

fright — 

And  he — his  arm  still  raised  to  strike 
her. 

Her  boudoir — no  one  enters  there: 
The  very  flowers  which  last  she  gath- 
ered 

Are  in  the  vase;  the  lute — the  chair — 
And  all  thines — iust  as  then  thev  were  ! 


Except  the  jasmins,— those  are  with- 
ered. 

But  when  along  the  corridors 

The  last  red  pause  of  day  is  stream- 
ing, 

I  seem  to  hear  her  up  the  floors: 
I  seem  to  hear  her  through  the  doors: 
And  then  I  know  that  I  am  dreaming. 


MEETING    AGAIN. 

YES;  I  remember  the  white  rose.   And 

since  then  the  young  ivy  has 

grown; 
From  your  window  we  could  not  reach 

it,  and  now  it  is  over  the  stone. 
We  did  not  part  as  we  meet,  Dear. 

Well,  Time  hath  his  own  stern 

cures ! 
And  Alice's  eyes  are  deeper,  and  her 

hair  has  grown  like  yours. 

Is  our  greeting  all  so  strange,  then? 

But    there 's    something    here 

amiss, 
When  it  is  not  well  to  speak  kindly. 

And  the  olives  are  ripe  by  this. 
I  had  not  thought  you  so  altered.   But 

all  is  changed,  God  knows  ! 
Good  night.     It  is  night  so  soon  now. 

Look  there  !  you  have  dropt  your 

rose. 

Nay,  I  have  one  that  is  withered  and 

dearer  to  me.     I  came 
To  say  good-night,  little  Alice.     She 

does  not  remember  my  name. 
It  is  but  the  damp  that  is  making  my 

head  and  my  heart  ache  BO. 
I  never  was  strong  in  the  old  time,  as 

the  others  were,  you  know. 

And  you'll  sleep  well,  will  you  not, 

Darling  ?    The  old  words  sound 

so  dear! 
'T'  is  the  last  time  I  shall  use  them ;  you 

need  show  neither  anger  nor 

fear. 
Ib  is  well  that  you  look  so  cheerful. 

And  is  time  so  smooth  with  you? 
How  foolish  I  am  !    Good  night,  Dear, 

And  bid  Alice  eood  nieht  too. 


376 


THE  MERMAIDEN.-A  FAREWELL. 


ABISTOCKACY. 

To  thee  be  all  men  heroes:  every  race 
Noble:  all  women  virgins :  and  each 

place 
A  temple:  know  thou  nothing  that  is 

base. 

THE  MERMAIDEN. 

HE  was  a  prince  with  golden  hair 
(In  a  palace  beside  the  sea), 

And  I  but  a  poor  Mermaiden  — 
And  how  should  he  care  for  me  ? 

Last  summer  I  came,  in  the  long  blue 
nights, 

To  sit  in  the  cool  sea-caves; 
Last  summer  he  came  to  count  the  stars 

From  his  terrace  above  the  waves. 

There 's  nothing   so    fair  in  the    sea 

down  there 

As  the  light  on  his  golden  tresses: 
There 's  nothing  so  sweet  as  his  voice : 

ah,  nothing 
So  warm  as  the  warmth  of  his  kisses  ! 

I  could  not  help  but  love  him,  love  him, 
Till  my  love  grew  pain  to  me. 

And  to  morrow  he  weds  the  Princess 
In  that  palace  beside  the  sea. 


AT  HEB  CASEMENT. 

I  AM  knee-deep  in  grass,  in  this  warm 

June  night, 
In  the  shade  here,  shut  off  from  the 

great  moonlight. 

All  alone,  at  her  .casement  there, 
She  sits  in  the  light,  and  she  combs  her 

hair. 

She  shakes  it  over  the  carven  seat, 
And  combs  it  down  to  her  stately  feet. 
And  I  watch  her,  hid  in  the  "blue  June 

night, 
Till  my  soul  grows  faint  with  the  costly 

sight. 
There 's  no  flaw  on  that  fair  fine  brow 

of  hers, 

As  fair  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer's. 
She  looks  in  the  glass  as  she  turns  her 

head: 
She  knows  that  the  rose  on  her  cheek 

is  red: 
She  knows  how  her  dark  eyes  shine  — 

their  light 


Would  scarcely  be  dimmed  though  I 
died  to-night. 

I  would  that  there  in  her  chamber  I 

stood, 

Full-face  to  her  terrible  beauty :  I  would 
I  were  laid  on  her  queenly  breast,  at 

her  lips, 
With  her  warm  hair  wound  through 

my  finger-tips, 
Draining  her  soul  at  one  deep-drawn 

kiss. 
And  I  would  be  humbly  content  for 

this 

To  die,  as  is  due,  before  the  morn, 
Killed  by  her  slowly  returning  scorn. 


A  FAREWELL. 


BE  happy,  child.     The  last  wild  words 

are  spoken. 
To-morrow,  mine  no  more,  the  world 

will  claim  thee. 
I  blame  thee  not.    But  all  my  life  is 

broken. 
Of  that  brief  Past  I  have  no  single 

token. 
Never  in  years  to  come  my  lips  shall 

name  thee, 
Never,  child,  never ! 


I  will  not  say  " Forget  me;"  nor  those 

hours 
Which  were  so  sweet.      Some  scent 

dead  leaves  retain. 
Keep  all  the  flowers  I  gave  thee  —  all 

the  flowers 
Dead,  dead!    Though  years  on  years 

of  life  were  ours, 
As  we  have  met  we  shall  not  meet 

again; 
Forever,  child,  forever ! 

AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY. 

LOOK  !  the  sun  sets.     Now  's  the  rarest 
Hour  of  all  the  blessed  day. 

(Just  the  hour,   love,  you  look  fair- 
est!) 
Even  the  snails  are  out  to  play. 

Cool  the  breeze  mounts,  like  this  Chi. 
anti 


AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY. 


377 


Which  I  drain  down  to  the  sun. 
— There !    shut    up     that    old    green 

Dante, — 
Turn  the  page,  where  we  begun, 

At  the  last  news  of  Ulysses, — 

A  grand  image,  fit  to  close 
Just  such  grand  gold  eves  as  this  is, 

Full  of  splendor  and  ropose  ! 

So  loop  up  those  long  bright  tresses, — 

Only  one  or  two  must  fall 
Down  your  warm  neck  Evening  kisses 

Through  the  soft  curls  spite  of  all. 

Ah,  but  rest  in  your  still  place  there  ! 

Stir  not — turn  not !  the  warm  pleas- 
ure 
Coming,  going  in  your  face  there, 

And  the  rose  (no  richer  treasure) 

In  your  bosom,  like  my  love  there, 
Just  ha.f  secret  and  half  seen; 

And  the  soft  light  from  above  there 
Streaming  o'er  you  where  you  lean, 

With  your  fair  head  in  the  shadow 
Of  that  grass-hat's  glancing  brim, 

Like  a  daisy  in  a  meadow 
Which  its  own  deep  fringes  dim. 

O  you  laugh, — you  cry  "  What  folly  !" 
Yet  you  'd  scarcely  have  me  wise, 

If  I  judge  right,  judging  wholly 
By  the  secret  in  your  eyes. 

But  look  down  now,  o'er  the  city 
Sleeping  soft  among  the  hills,  — 

Our  dear  Florence!     That  great  Pitti 
With  its  steady  shadow  fills 

Half  the  town  up :  its  unwinking 
Cold  white  windows,  as  they  glare 

Down  the  long  streets,  set  one  think- 
ing 
Of  the  old  dukes  who  lived  there; 

And  one  pictures  those  strange  men 
so!—  _ 

Subtle  brains,  and  iron  thews ! 
There,  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo,  — 

The  long  cypress  avenues 

Creep  up  slow  the  stately  hillside 
Where  the  merry  loungers  are. 

But  far  more  I  love  this  still  side,  — 
The  blue  plain  you  see  so  far  ! 


Where  the  shore  of  bright  white  villas 
Leaves  off  faint:  the  purple  breadths 

Of  the  olives  and  the  willows: 
And    the    gold-rimmed    mountain- 
widths: 

All  transfused  in  slumbrous  glory 
To  one  burning  point  — the  sun ! 

But  up  here, — slow,  cold,  and  hoary 
Reach  the  olives,  one  by  one: 

And  the  land  looks  fresh:  the  yellow 
Arbute-berries,  here  and  there, 

Growing  slowly  ripe  and  mellow 
Through  a  flush  of  rosy  hair. 

For  the  Tramontana  last  week 
Was  about;  't  is  scarce  three  weeks 

Since  the  snow  lay,   one  white  vast 

streak, 
Upon  those  old  purple  peaks. 

So  to-day  among  the  grasses 

One  may  pick  up  tens  and  twelves 

Of  young  olives,  as  one  passes, 
Blown  about,  and  by  themselves 

Blackening  sullen-ripe. ~~  The  corn  too 
Grows    each    day    from    green    to 

golden. 
The   large-eyed  wind-flowers   forlorn 

too 
Blow  among  it,  unbeholden: 

Some  white,  some  crimson,  others 
Purple  blackening  to  the  heart. 
From  the  deep  wheat-sea,  which  smoth- 
ers 

Their  bright  globes  Tip,  how  they 
start ! 

And  the  small  wild  pinks  from  tender 
Feather-grasses  peep  at  us: 

While  above  them  burns,  on  slender 
Stems,  the  red  gladiolus: 

And  the  grapes  are  green:   this  season 
They'll  be   round  and  sound    and 
true, 

If  no  after-blight  should  seize  on 
Those  young  bunches  turning  blue. 

O  that  night  of  purple  weather ! 

(Just  before  the  moon  had  set) 
You  remember  how  together 

We  walked  home?— the   grass  was 
wet— 


378 


S02fG. 


The  long  grass  in  the  Podere — 
With  the  balmy  dew  among  it: 

And  that  nightingale — the  fairy 
Song  he  sung— 0  how  he  sung  it ! 

And  the  fig-trees  had  grown  heavy 
With    the    young    figs    white    and 
woolly, 

And  the  fire-flies,  bevy  on  bevy 
Of  soft  sparkles,  pouring  fully 

Their  warm  life    through  trance  on 
trances 

Of  thick  citron-shades  behind, 
Rose,  like  swarms  of  loving  fancies 

Through    some    rich    and    pensive 


So  we  reached  the  loggia.     Leaning 
Faint,  we  sat  there  in  the  shade. 

Neither  spoke.  The  night's  deep  mean- 
ing 
Filled  the  silence  up  unsaid. 

Hoarsely  through  the  cypress  alley 

A  civetta  out  of  tune 
Tried  his  voice  by  fits.     The  valley 

Lay  all  dark  below  the  moon. 

Until  into  song  you  burst  out, — 
That  old  song  I  made  for  you 

When  we  found  our  rose, — the  first 

out 
Last  sweet  Springtime  in  the  dew. 

Well!  ...   if    things    had  gone    less 

wildly- 
Had  I  settled  down  before 

There,  in  England — labored  mildly — 
And  been  patient — and  learned  more 

Of  how  men  should  live  in  London — 
Been  less  happy — or  more  wise — 

Left  no  great  works    tried,  and  un- 
done—- 
Never looked  in  your  soft  eyes — 

I  ...  but  what's  the  use  of  thinking? 

There  !  our  nightingale  begins — 
Now  a  rising  note — now  sinking 

Back  in  little  broken  rings 

Of  warm  song  that  spread  and  eddy — 
Now  he  picks  up  heart— and  draws 

His  great  music,  slow  and  steady, 
To  a  silver-centred  pause ! 


SONG. 

THE  purple  iris  hangs  his  head 

On  his  lean  stalk,  and  so  declines: 
The  spider  spills  his  silver  thread 

Between  the  bells  of  columbines: 
An  altered  light  in  flickering  eyes 
Draws  dews  through  these  dim  eyes 

of  ours: 

Death  walks  in  yonder  waning  bow- 
ers, 

And  burns  the  blistering  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Blooms  overblow: 
Suns  sink  away: 
Sweet  things  decay. 

The  drunken  beetle,  roused  ere  night, 
Breaks  blundering  from  the  rotting 

rose, 

Flits  through  blue  spidery  aconite, 
And  hums,  and  comes,  and  goes: 
His  thick,  bewildered  song  receives 
A  drowsy  sense  of  grief  like  ours: 
He  hums  and  hums  among  the  bowers 
And  bangs  about  the  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Hearts  overflow: 
Joy  flits  away : 
Sweet  things  decay. 

Her  yellow  stars  the  jasmin  drops 

In  mildewed  mosses  one  by  one: 

The  hollyhocks  fall  off  their  tops: 

The  lotus-blooms  ail  white  i'  the  sun: 
The    freckled    foxglove    faints     and 

grieves: 
The  smooth-paced  slumbrous  slug 

devours 

The  gluey  globes  of  gorgeous  flowers, 
And  smears  the  glistering  leaves ! 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Life  leaves  us  so. 
Love  dare  not  stay. 
Sweet  things  decay. 

From  brazen  sunflowers,  orb  and  fringe, 
The  burning  burnish  dulls  and  dies: 
Sad  Autumn  sets  a  sullen  tinge 

Upon  the  scornful  peonies: 
The  dewy  frog  limps  out,  and  heaves 
A  speckled  lump  in  speck!  ed  bowers : 
A  reeking  moisture,  clings  and  lowers 
The  lips  of  lapping  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Ere  the  cock  crow, 
Life's  charmed  array 
Eeels  all  away. 


SEASIDE  SONGS.— THE  SUMMER-TIME  THAT  WAS.         379 


SEASIDE  SONGS. 

I. 
DBOP  down,  below  the  orbed  sea, 

O  lingering  light  in  glowing  skies, 
And  bring  my  own  true-love  to  me — 
My  dear  true-love  across  the  sea — 

With  tender-lighted'  eyes. 

For  now  the  gates  of  Night  are  flung 
Wide  open  her  dark  coasts  among: 
And  the  happy  stars  crowd  up,  and 

up, 
Like  bubbles  that  brighten,  one  by 

one, 

To  the  dark  wet  brim  of  some  glow- 
ing cup 
Filled  full  to  the  parting  sun. 

And  moment  after  moment  grows 
In  grandeur  up  from  deep  to  deep 
Of   darknes-;,  till  the   night  hath 

clornb, 
From  star  t.o  star,  heaven's  highest 

dome, 

And,  like  a  new  thought  born  in  sleep, 
[The  slum  rous  glory  glows,  and  glows: 
[While,  far  b^low,  a  whisper  goes 

That  heaves  the  happy  sea: 
[For  o'er  faint  tracts  of  fragrance  wide, 
A  rapture  pouring  up  the  tide — 
A  freshness  through  the  heat — a  sweet, 
[Uncertain  sound,  like  fairy  feet — 
The  west- wind  blows  my  love  to  me. 

JLove-laden  from  the  lighted  west 
JThou  comest,  with  thy  soul  opprest 
[For  joy  of  him:  all  up  the  dim, 
Delicious  sea  blow  fearlessly, 

wind,  that  art  the  tenderest 
[Of  all  that  breathe  from  south  or  west, 
Blow  whispers  of  him  up  the  sea: 
Fpon  my  cheek,  and  on  my  breast, 
Lnd  on  the  lips  which  he  hath  vrest, 
Blow  all  his  kisses  back  to  me  I 

ir  off,  the  dark  green  rocks  about, 
All  night  shines,  faint  and  fair,  the 

far  light; 
?ar  off,  the  lone,  late  fishers  shout 
From  boat  to  boat  i'  the  listening 

star-light: 
?ar  off,  and  fair,  the  sea  lies  bare, 
Leagues,  leagues  beyond  the  reach 

of  rowing: 
Fp  creek  and  horn  the  smooth  wave 

swells 
And  falls  asleep;  or,  inland  flowing, 


Twinkles  among  the  silver  shells, 
From  sluice  to  sluice  of  shallow  wells; 
Or,  down  dark  pools  of  purple  glow- 
ing* 

Sets  some  forlorn  star  trembling  there 
In  his  own  dim,  dreamlike  brilliancy. 
And  I  feel  the  dark  sails  growing 
Nearer,  clearer,  up  the  sea: 

And  I  catch  the  warm  west  blowing 
All  my  own  love's  sighs  to  me: 
On  the  deck  I  hear  them  singing 

Songs  they  sing  in  my  own  land: 
Lights  are  swinging:  bells  are  ringing: 
On  the  deck  I  see  him  stand ! 

II. 

The  day  is  down  into  his  bower: 
In  languid  lights  his  feet  he  steeps: 

The  flusht  sky  darkens,  low  and  lower, 
And  closes  on  the  glowing  deeps. 

In  creeping  curves  of  yellow  foam 
Up  shallow  sands  the  waters  slide: 

And  warmly  blow  what  whispers  roam 
From  isle  to  isle  the  lulled  tide: 

The  boats  are  drawn;  the  nets  drip 

bright ; 
Dark  casements  gleam:  old  songs  are 

sung: 

And  out  upon  the  verge  of  night 
Green  lights  from  lonely  rocks  are 
hung. 

0  winds  of  eve  that  somewhere  rove 
Where  darkest  sleeps  the  distant  sea, 

Seek  out  where  haply  dreams  my  love, 
And  whisper  all  her  dreams  to  me  ! 

THE  SUMMER-TIME  THAT  WAS. 

THE  swallow  is  not  come  yet; 

The  river-banks  are  brown ; 
The  woodside  walks  are  dumb  yet, 

And  dreary  is  the  town. 

1  miss  a  face  from  the  window, 
A  footstep  from  the  grass; 

I  miss  the  boyhood  of  my  heart, 
And  the  summer-time  that  was. 

How  shall  I  read  the  books  I  read, 

Or  meet  the  men  I  meet  ? 
I  thought  to  find  her  rose-tree  dead, 

But  it  is  growing  yet. 
And  the  river  winds  among  the  flags, 

And  the  If  af  lies  on  the  grass. 
But  I  walk  alone.     My  hopes  are  gone, 

And  the  summer-time  that  was. 


380 


ELAYNE  LE  SLANG. 


ELAYNE    LE    BLANC. 

O  THAT  sweet  season  on  the  April- 
verge 

Of  womanhood !  "When  smiles  are 
toucht  with  tears, 

And  all  the  unsolaced  summer  sesms 
to  grieve 

With  some  blind  want:  when  Eden- 
exiles  feel 

Their  Paradisal  parentage,  and  search 

Even  yet  some  fragrance  through  the 
thorny  years 

From  reachless  gardens  guarded  by  the 
sword. 

Then  those  that  brood  above  the  fallen 

sun, 
Or  lean  from  lonely  casements  to  the 

moon, 
Turn  round  and  miss  the  touching  of  a 

hand: 
Then  sad  thoughts  seem  to  be  more 

sweet  thar  gp/ones: 
Then  old  songs  have  a  sound  as  pitiful 
As    dead    friends'    voices  sometimes 

heard  in  dreams: 

And  all  a-tiptoe  for  some  great  event, 
The  Present  waits,  her  finger  at  her 

lips, 
The  while  the  pensive  Past  with  meek 

pale  palms, 
Crost,  (where  a  chil j  should  lie)  on  her 

cold  breast, 
And  wistful  eyes  forlorn,  stands  mutely 

t>y» 

Reproaching  Life  with  some  unuttered 

loss; 

An  1  the  heart  pines,  a  prisoned  Danae, 
Till  some  God  comes,  and  makes  the 

air  all  golden. 

In  such  a  mood  as  this,  at  such  an  hour 
As  makes  sad  thoughts  fall  saddest  on 

the  soul, 

She,  in  her  topmost  bower  all  alone, 
High-up  among  the  battlemented  roofs, 
Leaned  from  the  lattice,  where  the  road 

runs  by 

To  Camelot,  and  in  the  bulrush  beds 
The  marish  river  shrinks  his  stagnant 

horn. 
All  round,  along  the  spectral  arras, 


(With  faces  pale  against  the  dreary 

Forms  of  great  Queens— the  women  of 
old  times. 


She  felt  their  frowns  upon  her,  and 

their  smiles, 
And  seemed  to  hear  their  garments 

rustling  near. 

Her  lute  lay  idle  her  love-books  among: 
And,    at    her    feet,    flung    by,    the 

broidered  scarf, 
And  velvet  mantle.     On  the  verge  of 

night 
She  saw  a  bird  float  by,  and  wished  for 

wings: 
She  heard  the  hoarse  frogs  quarrel  in 

the  marsh: 
And  now  and  then,  with  drowsy  song 

and  oar, 
Some    dim    barge  sliding   slow  from 

bridge  to  bridge, 
Down  the  white  river  past,   and  far 

behind 
Left  a  new  silence.    Then  she  fell  to 

muse 

Unto  what  end  she  came  into  this  earth 
Whose  reachless  beauty  made  her  heart 

so  sad, 
As  one  that  loves,  but  hopes  not,  inly 

ails 

In  gazing  on  some  fair  unloving  face. 
Anon,  there  dropt  down  a  great  gulf  of 

sky 
A  star  she  knew;  and  as  she  looked  at 

it, 
Down-drawn  through  her  intensity  of 

gaze, 

One  angry  ray  fell  tangled  in  her  tears, 
And  dashed  its  blinding  brightness  in 

her  eyes. 
She  turned,  and  caught  her  lute,  and 

pensively 
Rippled    a  random  music   down  the 

strings, 
And  sang  .  .  . 

All  night  the  moonbeams  bathe  the 

sward. 
There's  not  an  eye  to-night  in  Joyous- 

Gard  j 

That  is  not  dreaming  something  sweet. 

I  wake  j 

Because  it  is  more  sweet  to  dream 

awake: 
Dreaming  I   see   thy  face  upom  the 

lake. 

I  am  come  up  from  far,  love,  to  behold 

thee, 
That  Last  waited  for  me  so  bravely 

and  well 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 


381 


Thy  sweet  life  long  (for  the  Fairies 

had  told  thee 
I  am  the  Knight  that  shall  loosen  the 

spell), 
And  to-morrow  morn  mine  arms  shall 

infold  thee: 
And  to-morrow  night .  .  .  ah,  who  can 

tell? 

As  the  spirit  of  some  dark  lake 
Pines  at  nightfall,  wild-awake, 
For  the  approaching  consummation 
Of  a  great  moon  he  divines 
Coming  to  her  coronation 
Of  the  dazzling  stars  and  signs, 
So  my  heart,  my  heart, 
Darkly  (ah,  and  tremblingly  !) 
Waits  in  mystic  expectation 
(From  its  wild  source  far  apart) 
Until  it  be  filled  with  thee,  — 
With  the  full-orbed  light  of  thee,  — 
O  beloved  as  thou  art ! 
With  the  soft  sad  smile  that  flashes 
Underneath  thy  long  dark  lashes; 
And  thy  floating  raven  hair 
From  its  wreathed  pearls  let  slip; 
And  thy  breath,  like  balmy  air; 
And  thy  warm  wet  rosy  lip, 
With  my  first  kiss  lingering  there; 
Its  sweet  secret  unrevealed, — 
Sealed  by  mo,  to  me  unsealed  : 
And  .  .  .  but,  ah  !  she  lies  asleep 
In  yon  gray  stone  castle-keep, 
On  her  lids  the  happy  tear; 
And  alone  I  linger  here ; 
And  to-morrow  morn  the  fight; 
And  .  .  .  ah,  me  !  to-morrow  night? 

Here  she  brake,  trembling,  off;  and  on 

the  lute, 
Yet  vibrating  through  its  melodious 

nerves, 
A  great  tear  plashed  and  tinkled.     For 

a  while 
She  sat  and  mused;  and,  heavily,  drop 

by  drop, 
Her  tears  fell  down;    then    through 

them  a  slow  smile 
Stole,  full  of  April-sweetness;  and  she 

sang— 

— It  was  a  sort  of  ballad  of  the  sea: 
A  song  of  weather-beaten  mariners, 
Gray-headed  men  that  had  survived 

all  winds 
And  held  a  perilous  sport  among  the 

waves, 


Who  yet  sang  on  with  hearts  as  bold 

as  when 
They  cleared  their  native  harbor  with 

a  shout, 
And  lifted  golden  anchors  in  the  sun. 

Merrily,  merrily  drove  our  barks, — 
Merrily  up  from  the  morning  beach ! — 
And  the  brine  broke  under  the  prows 

in  sparks ; 
For  a  spirit  sat  high  at  the  helm  of 

each. 
We  sailed  all  day;  and  when  day  was 

done, 
Steered  after  the  wake  of  the  sunken 

sun, 
For  we  meant  to  follow  him  out  of 

reach 
Till  the  golden  dawn  was  again  begun. 

With  lifted  oars,  with  shout  and  song, 
Merry  mariners  all  were  we  ! 
Every  heart  beat  stout  and  strong. 
Through  all  the  world  you  would  not 

see, 
Though  you  should  journey  wide  and 

long, 

A  comelier  company, 
And  where,  the  echoing  creeks  among, 
Merrily,  steadily, 

From  bay  to  bay  our  barks  did  fall, 
You  might  hear  us  singing,  one  and  all, 
A  song  of  the  mighty  sea. 
But,  just  at  twilight,  down  the  rocks 
Dim  forms  trooped  fast,  and  clearer 

grew: 

For  out  upon  the  sea-sand  came 
The  island-people,  whom  we  knew, 
And  called    us:— girls    with    glowing 

locks; 

And  sunburnt  boys  that  tend  the  herd 
Far  up  the  vale;  gray  elders  too. 
With  silver  beards: — their    cries  we 

heard : 
They  called  us,  each  one  by  his  name. 

"  Could  ye  not  wait  a  little  while," 
We  heard  them  sing,  "  for  all  our  sakes? 
A  little  while,  in  this  old  isle." 
They  sung,  "among  the  silver  lakes? 
For  here,"  they  sung,  "from  horn  to 

horn 

Of  flowery  bays  the  land  is  fair, 
The   hillside  glows  with  grapes:  the 

corn 

Grows  golden  in  the  vale  down  there. 
Our  maids  are  sad  for  you,"  they  sung: 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 


"Against  the  field  no  sickle  falls: 
Upon  the  trees  our  harps  are  hung: 
Our  doors  are  void:  and  in  the  stalls 
The  little  foxes  nest;  among 
The  herd-roved  hills  no  shepherd  calls: 
Your  brethren  mourn  for  you,"  they 

sung. 
"Here  weep  your  wives:  here  passed 

your  lives 

Among  the  vines,  when  you  were  young : 
Here  dwell  your  sires:  your  household 

fires 
Grow  cold.     Return  !    return  ! "  they 

sung. 

Then  each  one  saw  his  kinsman  stand 
Upon  the  shore,  and  wave  his  hand : 
And  each  grew  sad.     But  still  we  Bung 
Our  ocean-chorus  bold  and  clear; 
And  still  upon  our  oars  we  hung, 
And  held  our  course  with  steadfast 

cheer. 

"For  we  are  bound  for  distant  shores," 
We  cried,  and  faster  swept  our  oars: 
"  We  pine  to  see  the  faces  there 
Of  men  whose  deeds  we  heard  long 

since, 
Who  haunt  our  dreams:   gray  heroes: 

kings 
Whose  fame  the  wandering  minstrel 

sings: 

And  maidens,  too,  more  fair  than  ours, 
With  deeper  eyes  and  softer  hair, 
Like  hers  that  left  her  island  bowers 
To  wed  the  sullen  Cornish  Prince 
Who  keeps  his  court  upon  the  hill 
By  the  gray  coasts  of  Tyntagill, 
And  each,  before  he  dies,  must  gain 
Some  fairy-land  across  the  main." 

But  still  "return,  beloved,  return  !" 
The  simple  island-people  sung: 
And  still  each  mariner's  heart  did  burn, 
As  each  his  kinsman  could  discern, 
Those  dim  green  rocks  among. 

"O'er  you  the  rough  sea-blasts  will 

blow," 
They  sung,  "  while  here  the  skies  are 

fair: 
Our  paths  are  through  the  fields  we 

know: 
And  yours  you  know  not  where." 

But  we  waved  our  hands  .  .  .  "fare- 
well! farewell!" 

We  cried  .  .  •  "our  white  sails  flap 
the  mast: 


Our  course  is  set :  our  oars  are  wet: 
One  day,"  we  cried,  "is  nearly  past: 
One  dayatbea  !     Farewell !  farewell !" 
No  more  with  you  we  now  may  dwell !" 

And  the  next  day  we  were  driving  free 
(With  never  a  sail  in  sight) 
Uver  the  face  of  the  mighty  sea, 
And  we  counted  the  stars  next  night 
Hise  over  us  by  two  and  three 
With  melancholy  light: 

A  grave-eyed,  earnest  company, 

And  all  round  the  salt  foam  white  ! 

With  this,  she  ceased,  and  sighed  . 

"  though  I  were  far, 
I  know  yon  moated  iris  would  not  shed 
His  purple    crown:    yon    clover-field 

would  ripple 

As  merry  in  tne  waving  wind  as  now: 
As  soft  the  Spring  down  this  bare  hill 

would  steal, 
And  in  the  vale  below  fling  all  her 

flowers: 
Each  year  the  wet  primroses  star  the 

woods: 

And  violets  muffle  the  sharp  rivulets: 
Bound  this  lone  casement's  solitary 

panes 
The  wandering  ivy  move  and  mount 

each  year: 
Each  year  the  red  wheat  gleam  near 

river  banks: 

While,  ah,  with  each  my  memory  from 

the  hearts 
Of  men  would  fade,  and  from  their 

lips  my  name. 
O  which    were  best— the    wide,    the 

windy  sea, 
With  golden  gleams  of  undiscovered 

lands, 
Odors,  and  murmurs — or  the    placid 

Port, 
From  wanton    winds,   from    scornful 

waves  secure, 
Under  the  old,  green,  happy  hills  of 

home?  " 
She  sat  forlorn,  and  pondered.     Night 

was  near, 
And,   marshalling  o'er  the    hills  her 

dewy  camps, 
Came  down  the  outposts  of  the  sentinel 

stars. 
All  in  the  owlet  light  she  sat  forlorn. 

Now  hostel,  hall,  and  grange,  that  eve 
were  crammed: 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 


383 


The  town  being  choked  to  bursting  of 

the  gates: 
For  there  the  King  yet  lay  with  all  his 

Earls, 
And  the  Itound  Table,  numbering  all 

save  one. 

On  many  a  curving  terrace  which  o'er- 

hung 
The  long  gray  river,  swan-like,  through 

tUe  green 
Of    quaintest    yews,    moved,    pacing 

stately  by, 
The  lovely  ladies    of    King  Arthur's 

court. 
Sighing,   she    eyed    them    from    that 

lonely  keep. 

The  Dragon-banners  o'er  the  turrets 

drooped. 
The  heavy  twilight    hanging  in  their 

folds. 
And  now  an  1  then,  from  posterns  in 

the  wall 
The  Knights  stole  lingering  for  some 

last  Good-night, 
Whispered  or  sighed  through  closing 

lattices; 
Or  paused  with  reverence  of  bending 

plumes, 
And  lips    on    jeweled    fingers    gayly 

prest. 
The  silver  cressets  shone  from  pane  to 

pane: 
And    tapers    flitted  by    with    flitting 

forms: 
Clanged  the  dark  streets  with  clash  of 

iron  heels: 
Or  fell  a  sound  of  coits  in  clattering 

courts, 
And  drowsy  horse-boys  singing  in  the 

straw. 

These  noises   floated  upward.      And 

within, 

From  the  great  Hall,  forever  and  anon, 
Brake  gusts  of  revel;  snatches  of  wild 

song, 
And  laughter;  where  her  sire   among 

his  men 
Caroused  between  the  twilight  and  the 

dark. 
The  silence  round  about  her  where  she 

sat, 
Vext  in  itself,   grew  sadder   for  the 

sound. 
She  closed    her    eyes:    before    them 

seemed  to  float 


A  dream  of  lighted  revels,— dance  and 

song 

In  Guenver's  palace:  gorgeous  tourna- 
ments; 
And  rows  of  glittering  eyes  above  the 

Queen 
(Like  stars   in    galaxies  around    the 

moon), 

That  sparkled  recognition  down  below, 
Where  rode  the  Knights  amort  with 

lance  and  plume; 
And  each  his  lady's  sleeve  upon  his 

helm: 
Murmuring  .  .  .  "none  ride  for  me. 

Am  I  not  fair, 
Whom  men  call  the  White  Flower  of 

Astolat?" 

Far,  far  without,  the  wild  gray  marish 
spread, 

A  heron  startled  from  the  pools,  and 
flapped 

The  water  from  his  wings,  and  skirred 
away. 

The  last  long  limit  of  the  dying  light 

Dropped,  all  on  fire,  behind  an  iroi 
cloud: 

And,   here  and  there,  through  some 
wild  chasm  of  blue, 

Tumbled  a  star.     The  mist  upon  the 
fens 

Thickened.     A  billowy  opal  grew  i'  the 
crofts, 

Fed  on  the  land,  and  sucked  into  itself 

Paling  and  park,  close  copse  and  bush- 
less  down, 

Changing  the  world  for  Fairies. 

Then  the  moon 

In  the  low  east,  unprisoned  from  black 
bars 

Of  stagnant  fog  (a  white  light,  wrought 
to  the  full, 

Summed  in  a  perfect  orb)  rose  sud- 
denly up 

Upon  the  silence  with  a  great  surprise, 

And  took  the  inert  landscape  unawares. 

White,  white,  the  snaky  river,  dark  the 

banks: 
And  dark  the  folding  distance,  where 

her  eyes 
Were  wildly  turned,    as   though   the 

whole  world  lay 

In  that  far  blackness  over  Carlyel. 
There  she  espied  Sir  Launcelot,  as  he 

rode 


384 


TO  .-QUEEN  GUENEVEEE. 


His  coal-black  courser  downward  from 

afar, 

For  all  his  armor  glittered  as  lie  went, 
Andshowedlike  silver:  and  his  mighty 

shield, 
By  dint  of  knightly  combat  hackt  and 

worn, 
Looked  like  some  cracked  and  frozen 

moon  that  hangs 
By   night   o'er   Baltic   headlands    all 

alone. 

TO  . 

As,  in  lone  fairy-lands,  up  some  rich 

shelf 
Of  golden  sand  the  wild  wave  moan- 

ingly 
Heaps  its  unvalued  sea-wealth,  weed 

and  gem, 
Then  creeps  back  slow  into  the  salt 

sad  sea: 
So  from  my  life's  new  searched  deeps 

to  thee, 
Beloved,    I  cast  these  weed-flowers. 

Smile  on  them. 
More  than  they  mean  I  know  not  to 

express. 

So  I  shrink  back  into  my  old  sad  self, 
Far  from  all  words  where  love  lies 

fathomless. 

QUEEN  GUENEYEKE. 

THENCE,  up  the  sea-green  floor,  among 

the  stems 
Of  mighty  columns  whose  unmeasured 

shades 
From  aisle  to  aisle,  unheeded  in  the 

sun, 
Moved  without  sound,  I,  following  all 

alone 
A  strange  desire  that  drew  me  like  a 

hand, 
Came  unawares  upon  the  Queen. 

She  sat 
In  a  great  silence,  which  her  beauty 

filled 

Full  to  the  heart  of  it,  on  a  black  chair 
Mailed  all  about  with  sullen  gems  and 

crusts 
Of    sultry   blazonry.    Her   face    was 

bowed, 
A  pause  of  slumbrous  beauty,  o'er  the 

light 
Of  gome  delicious  thought  new-risen 

above 


The    deeps  of    passion.    Bound    her 

stately  head 
A  single  circlet  of  the  red  gold  fine 
Burned  free,  from  which,  on  either 

side  streamed  down 
Twilights  of  her  soft  hair,  from  neck 

to  foot. 
Green  was  her  kirtle  as  the  emerolde 

And  stiff  from  hem  to  hem  with  seams 

of  stones 
Beyond  all  value;  which,  from  left  to 

right 
Disparting,   half  revealed  the  snowy 

gleam 
Of  a  white  robe  of    spotless  samite 

pure. 
And  from  the  soft  repression  of  her 

zone, 
Which  like  a  light  hand  on  a  lutestring 

pressed 

Harmony  from  its  touch,  flowed  warm- 
ly back 
The  bounteous  outlines  of  a  glowing 

grace, 
For  yet  outflowed  sweet  laws  of  lovli- 


Then  did  I  feel  as  one  who,  much  per- 

plext, 
Led  by  strange  legends  and  the  light 

of  stars 

Over  long  regions  of  the  midnight  sand 
Beyond  the  red  tract  of  the  Pyramids, 
Is  suddenly  drawn  to  look  upon  the 

sky 
From  sense  of  unfamiliar  light,  and 

sees, 

Revealed  against  the  constellated  cope 
The  great  cross  of  the  South. 

The  chamber  round 
Was  dropt  with  arras  green;    and  I 

could  hear, 
In  courts  far  off,    a  minstrel  praising 

May, 
Who  sang  .  .  .  Si  douce,  si  douce,  est  la 

Margarete  ! 

To  a  faint  lute.  Upon  the  window-sill, 
Hard  by  a  latoun  bowl  that  blazed  i' 

the  sun 

Perched  a  strange  fowl,  a  Falcon  Pere- 
grine; 
With  all  his  feathers  puft  for  pride, 

and  all 
His  courage  glittering  outward  in  his 

eye; 


THE  NEGLECTED  1IEAET.- APPEARANCES. 


385 


Tor  he  had  flown  from  far,  athwart 
strange  lands, 

And  o'er  the  light  of  many  a  sotting 
sun, 

Lured  by  his  love  (such  sovereignty  of 
old 

Had  Beauty  in  all  coasts  of  Christen- 
dom!) 

To  look  into  the  great  eyes  of  the  Queen! 

THE  NEGLECTED  HEART. 

THIS  heart,  you  would  not  have, 
I  laid  up  in  a  grave 
Of  song:  with  love  en  wound  it; 
And  set  sweet  fancies  blowing  round  it. 
Then  I  to  others  gave  it; 
Because  you  would  not  have  it, 
"  See  you  keep  it  well,"  I  said; 
"This  heart's  sleeping — is  not  dead; 
But  will  wake  some  future  day: 
See  you  keep  it  while  you  may." 

All  great  Sorrows  in  the  world, — 
Some  with  crowns  upon  their  heads, 
And  in  regal  purple  furled; 
Some  with  rosaries  and  beads; 
Some  with  lips  of  scorning,  curled 
At  false  Fortune:  some  in  weeds 
Of  mourning  and  of  widowhood, 
Standing  tearful  and  apart, — 
Each  one  in  his  several  mood, 
Came  to  take  my  heart. 

Then  in  holy  ground  they  set  it: 
With  melodious  weepings  wet  it: 
And  revered  it  as  they  found  it, 
With  wild  fancies  blowing  round  it. 

And  this  heart  (you  would  not  have) 
Being  not  dead,  though  in  the  grave, 
Worked  miracles  and  marvels  strange, 
And  healed  many  maladies: 
Giving  sight  to  sealed-up  eyes, 
And  legs  to  lame  men  sick  for  change. 

The  fame  of  it  grew  great  and  greater. 
Then  said  you,  ' '  Ah,  what's  the  matter? 
How  hath  this  heart  I  would  not  take, 
This  weak  heart  a  child  might  break — 
This  poor,  foolish  heart  of  his — 
Since  won  worship  such  as  this  ?  " 

You  bethought  you  then  .  .  .  "Ah  me 
What  if  this  heart,  I  did  not  choose 
To  retain,  hath  found  the  key 
Of  the  kingdom  ?  and  I  lose 


A  great  power?     Me  he  gave  it: 
Mine  the  right,  and  I  will  have  it." 

Ah,  too  late  !    For  crowds  exclaimed, 
"  Ours  it  is:  and  hath  been  claimed. 
Moreover,  where  it  lies,  the  spot 
Is  holy  ground:  so  enter  not. 
None  but  men  of  mournful  mind, — 
Men  to  darkened  days  resigned; 
Equal  scorn  of  Saint  and  Devil; 
Poor  and  outcast;  halt  and  blind; 
Exiles  from  Life's  golden  revel; 
Gnawing  at  the  bitter  rind 
Of  old  griefs;  or  else,  confined 
In  proud  cares,  to  serve  and  grind, — 
May  enter:  whom  this  heart  shall  cure. 
But  go  thou  by:  thou  art  not  poor: 
Nor  defrauded  of  thy  lot: 
Bless  thyself :  but  enter  not !" 


APPEARANCES. 

WELL,  you  have  learned  to  smile. 
And  no  one  looks  for  traces 
Of  tears  about  your  eyes. 
Your  face  is  like  most  faces. 
And  who  will  ask,  meanwhtle, 
If  your  face  your  heart  belies  ? 

Are  you  happy  ?    You  look  so. 
Well,  I  wish  you  what  you  seem. 
Happy  persons  sleep  so  light ! 
In  your  sleep  you  never  dream  ? 
But  who  would  care  to  know 
What  dreams  you  dreamed  last  night  ? 


HOW  THE  SONG  WAS  MADE. 

I  SAT  low  down,  at  midnight,  in  a  vale 
Mysterious  with  the  silence  of  blue 

pines: 

White-cloven  by  a  snaky  river-tail, 
Uncoiled  from  tangled  wefts  of  silver 
twines. 

Out  of  a  crumbling  castle,  on  a  spike 
Of  splintered  rock,  a  mile  of  change- 
less shade 
Gorged  half  the  landscape.     Down  a 

dismal  dike 

Of  black  hills  the  sluiced  moonbeams 
Streamed,  and  stayed. 

The  world  lay  like  a  poet  in  a  swoon, 
When  God  is  on  him,  filled  with 
heaven,  all  through  — 


38C 


RETROSPECTIONS.— THE  RUINED  PALACE. 


A  dim  face  full  of  dreams  turned  to  the 

moon, 

With  mild  lips  moist  in  melancholy 
dew. 

I    pluckt   blue  mugwort,   livid  man- 
drakes, balls 
Of  blossomed  nightshade,  heads  of 

hemlock,  long 
White  grasses,  grown  in  oozy  intervals 
Of  marsh,  to  make  ingredients  for  a 
song: 

A  song  of  mourning  to  embalm  the 

Past,  — 
The     corpse-cold     Rst,— that     it 

should  not  decay ; 
But  in  dark  vaults  of  memory,  to  the 

last, 

Endure    unchanged:    for    in    some 
future  day 

I  will  bring  my  new  love  to  look  at  it 
(Laying  aside  her  gay  robes  for  a  mo- 
ment) 
That,  seeing  what  love  came  to,  she 

may  sit 

Silent  awhile,  and  muse,   but  make 
no  comment. 


RETKOSPECTIONS. 

TO-NIGHT  she  will  dance  at  the  palace, 
With  the  diamonds  in  her  hair: 

And  the  Prince  will  praise  her  beauty — 
The  lovliest  lady  there  ! 

But  tones,  at  times,  in  the  music 
Will  bring  back  forgotten  things: 

And  her  heart  will  fail  her  sometimes, 
When  her  beauty  is  praised  at  the 
King's. 

There  sits  in  his  silent  chamber 
A  stern  and  sorrowful  man: 

But  a  strange  sweet  dream  comes  to 

him, 
While  the  light  is  burniag  wan, 

Of  a  sunset  among  the  vineyards 

In  a  lone  and  lovely  land, 
And  a  maiden  standing  near  him, 

With  fresh  wild-flowers  in  her  hand. 


THY  VOICE  ACKOSS  MY  SPIRIT 
FALLS. 

THY  voice  across  my  spirit  falls 

Like  some  spent  sea-wind  through  dim 

halls 

Of  ocean-kings,  left  bare  and  wide 
(Green  floors  o'er  which  the  sea- weed 

crawls!) 

Where  once,  long  since,  in  festal  pride 
Some  Chief,  who  roved  and  ruled  the 

tide, 
Among  his  brethren  reigned  and  died. 

I  dare  not  meet  thine  eyes;  for  so, 
In  gazing  there,  1  seem  once  more 
To  lapse  a^vay  through  days  of  yore 
To  homes  where  laugh  and  song  is  o'er, 
Whose  inmates  each  went  long  ago  — 

Like  some  lost  soul,  that  keeps  the 

semblance 

On  its  brow  of  ancient  grace 
Not  all  faded,  wandering  back 
To  silent  chambers,  in  the  track 
Of  the  twilight,  from  the  Place 
Of  retributive  Remembrance. 
Ah,  turn  aside  those  eyes  again  ! 
Their  light  has  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
We  are  not  now  what  we  were  then. 


THE  RUINED  PALACE. 

BROKEN  are  the  Palace  windows: 

Botting  is  the  Palace  floor. 
The  damp  wind  lifts  the  arras, 

And  swings  the  creaking  door ; 
But  it  only  startles  the  white  owl 

From    his    perch    on    a  monarch's 

throne, 

And  the  rat  that  was  gnawing  the  harp- 
strings 

A  Queen  once  played  upon. 


Dare  you  linger  here  at  midnight 

Alone,  when  the  wind  is  about, 
And  the  bat,  and  the  newt,  and  the 
viper, 

And  the  creeping  things  come  out? 
Beware  of  these  ghostly  chambers  ! 

Search  not  what  my  heart  hath  been, 
Lest  you  find  a  phantom  sitting 

Where  once  there  sat  a  Queen. 


A    VISION  OF  VIRGINS. 


387 


A  VISION  OP  VIKGINS. 

I  HAD  a  vision  of  the  night. 

It  seemed 

There  was  a  long  red  tract  of  barren 
land, 

Blockt  in  by  black  hills,  where  a  half- 
moon  dreamed 

Of  morn,  and  whitened. 

Drifts  of  dry  brown  sand, 

This  way  and  that,  were  heapt  below: 
and  flats 

Of  water:  —  glaring  shallows,  where 
strange  bats 

Came  and  went,  and  moths  nickered. 
To  the  right, 

A  dusty  road    that    crept  along  the 
waste 

Like  a  white  snake:  and,  farther  up,  I 
traced 

The  shadow  of  a  great  house,  far  in 
sight: 

A  hundred  casements  all  ablaze  with 
light: 

And  forms  that  flit  athwart  them  as  in 
haste: 

And  a  slow  music,  such  as  sometimes 
kings 

Command  at  mighty  revels,  softly  sent 

From  viol,  and  flute,  and  tabor,  and 
the  strings 

Of  many  a  sweet  and  slumbrous  in- 
strument 

That  wound  into  the  mute  heart  of 
the  night 

Out  of  that  distance. 

Then  I  could  perceive 

A  glory  pouring  through  an  open  door, 

And  in  the  light  five  women.     I  be- 
lieve 

They  wore  white  vestments  all  of  them. 
They  were 

Quite  calm;  and  each  still  face  un- 
earthly fair, 

Unearthly  quiet.     So  like  statues  all, 

Waiting     they    stood    without    that 
lighted  hall; 

And  in  their  hands,  like  a  blue  star, 
they  held 

Each  one  a  silver  lamp. 

Then  I  beheld 

A  shadow  in  the  doorway.     And  One 
came 

Crowned  for  a  feast.     I  could  not  see 
the  Face 

The  Form  was  not  all  human.     As  the 
flame 


Streamed  over  it,  a  presence  took  the 

place 
With  awe. 

He,  turning,  took  them  by  the  hand, 
And  led  them  each  up  the  white  stair- 
way, and 
The  door  closed. 

At  that  moment  the  moon  dipped 

Behind  a  rag  of  purple  vapor,  ript 

Off  a  greet  cloud,  some  dead  wind,  ere 
it  spent 

Its  last  breath,  had  blown  open,  and 
so  rent 

You  saw  behind  blue  pools  of  light, 
and  there 

A  wild  star  swimming  in  the  lurid  air. 

The    dream    was    darkened.    And    a 
sense  of  loss 

Fell  like  a  nightmare  on  the  land :  be- 
cause 

The  moon  yet  lingered  in  her  cloud- 
eclipse. 

Then,  in  the  dark,  swelled  sullenly 
across 

The  waste  a  wail  of  women. 

Her  blue  lips 

The  moon  drew  up  out  of  the  cloud. 

Again 

I  had  a  vision  on  that  midnight  plain. 

Five  women:  and  the  beauty  of  de- 
spair 

Upon  their  faces:   locks  of  wild  wet 
hair, 

Clammy  with  anguish,  wandered  low 
and  loose 

O'er  their  bare  breasts,  that  seemed 
too  filled  with,  trouble 

To  feel  the  damp  crawl  of  the  mid- 
night dews 

That  trickled  down  them.     One  was 
bent  half  double, 

A  dismayed  heap,  that  hung  o'er  the 
last  spark 

Of  a  lamp  slowly  dying.     As  she  blew 

The  dull  light  redder,   and  the  dry 
wick  flew 

In  crumbling  sparkles  all  about  the 
dark, 

I  saw  a  light  of  horror  in  her  eyes; 

A  wild  light  on  her  flusht  cheek;  a 
wild  white 

On  her  dry  lips;  an  agony  of  surprise 

Fearfully  fair. 
The  1  imp  dropped.     From  my  sight 


388 


LSOLIN& 


She  fell  into  the  dark. 

Beside  her,  sa 
One  without  motion:   and  her  stern 

face  flat 
Against  the  dark  sky. 

One,  as  still  as  death, 
Hollowed  her  hands  about  her  lamp, 

for  fear 
Some  motion  of  the  midnight,  or  her 

breath, 

Should  fan  out  the  last  flicker.     .Rosy- 
clear 
The  light  oozed,  through  her  fingers, 

o'er  her  face. 
There  was  a  ruined  beauty  hovering 

there 
Over  deep  pain,  and,  dasht  with  lurid 

grace 
A  waning  bloom. 

The  light  grew  dim  and  blear: 
And  she,  too,  slowly  darkened  in  her 

place. 
Another,  with  her  white  hands  hotly 

lockt 

About  her  damp  knees,  muttering  mad- 
ness, rocked 
Forward  and  backward.     But  at  last 

she  stopped, 
And  her  dark  head  upon  her  bosom 

dropped 
Motionless. 

Then  one  rose  up  with  a  cry 
To  the    great  moon;  and  stretched  a 

wrathful  arm 

Of  wild  expostulation  to  the  sky, 
Murmuring,  "These  earth-lamps  fail 

us!  and  what  harm? 
Does  not  the  moon  shine  ?    Let  us  rise 

and  haste 
To  meet  the  Bridegroom  yonder  o'er 

the  waste  ! 
For  now  I  seem  to  catch  once  more  the 

tone 
Of  viols  on  the  night.     'T  were  better 

done, 
At  worst,  to  perish  near  the  golden 

gate, 

And  fall  in  sight  of  glory  one  by  one, 
Than  here  all  night  upon  the  wild,  to 

wait 
Uncertain  ills.      Away!  the  hour    is 

late ! " 

Again  the  moon  dipped. 

I  could  see  no  more. 
Not  the  least  gleam  of  light  did  heaven 
afford. 


At  last,  I  hear  a  knocking  on  a  door, 

And  some  one  crying,  "Open  to  us, 
Lord  ! " 

There  was  an  awful  pause. 

I  heard  my  heart 

Beat. 

Then  a  Voice — "  I  know  you  not.     De- 
part. " 

I  caught,  within,  a  glimpse  of  glory. 
And 

The  door  closed. 

Still  in  darkness  dreamed  the  land. 

I  could  not  see  those  women.     Not  a 
breath ! 

Darkness,  and  awe:  a  darkness  more 
than  death. 

The  darkness  took  them.    ***** 


LEOLINE. 

IN  the  molten-golden  moonlight, 

In  the  deep  grass  warm  and  dry, 
We  watched  the  fire-fly  rise  and  swim 

In  floating  sparkles  by. 
All  mght  the  hearts  of  nightingales. 

Song-steeping,  slumbrous  leaves, 
Flowed  to  us  in  the  shadow  there 

Below  the  cottage-eaves. 

"We  sang  our  songs  together 

Till  the  stars  shook  in  the  skies. 
We    spoke — we     spoke    of     common 
things, 

Yet  the  tears  were  in  our  eyes. 
And  my  hand,— I  know  it  trembled 

To  each  light  warm  touch  of  thine. 
But  we  were  friends,  and  only  friends, 

My  sweet  friend,  Leoline  ! 

Sow  large  the    white  moon    looked, 

Dear! 

There  has  not  ever  been 
Since  those  old  nights  the  same  great 

light 

In  the  moons  which  I  have  seen. 
[  often  wonder,  when  I  think, 
If  you  have  thought  so  too, 
And  the  moonlight  has  grown  dimmer, 

Dear, 
Than  it  used  to  be  to  you. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  warm  west- 
wind 

Comes  faint  across  the  sea, 
It  seems  that  you  have  breathed  on  it, 

So  sweet  it  comes  to  me: 


SPRING  AND    WINTER. 


389 


And  sometimes,  when  the  long  light 
wanes 

In  one  deep  crimson  line, 
I  muse,  "  and  does  she  watch  it  too, 

Far  off,  sweet  Leoline  ?  " 

And  often,  leaning  all  day  long 

My  head  upon  ruy  hands, 
My  heart  aches  for  the  vanisht  time 

In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands: 
Thinking  sadly — "Is  she  happy? 

Has  she  tears  for  those  old  hours  ? 
And  the  cottage  in  the  starlight? 

And  the  songs  among  the  flowers?" 

One  night  we  sat  below  the  porch, 

And  out  in  that  warm  air, 
A  fire-fly,  like  a  dying  star, 

Fell  tangled  in  her  hair; 
But  I  kissed  him  lightly  off  again, 

And  he  glittered  up  the  vine, 
And  died  into  the  darkness 

For  the  love  of  Leoline ! 

Between  two  songs  of  Petrarch 

I've  a  purple  rose-leaf  prest, 
More  sweet  than  common  rose-leaves, 

For  it  once  lay  in  her  breast. 
When  she  gave  me  that  her  eyes  were 
wet, 

The  rose  was  full  of  dew. 
The  rose  is  withered  long  ago: 

The  page  is  blistered  too. 

There's  a  blue  flower  in  my  garden, 

The  bee  loves  more  than  all: 
The  bee  and  I,  we  love  it  both, 

Though  it  is  frail  and  small. 
She  loved  it  too, — long,  long  ago  ! 

Her  love  was  less  than  mine. 
Still  we  are  friends,  but  only  friends, 

My  lost  love,  Leoline  ! 


SPRING  AND  WINTER. 

THE  world  buds  every  year: 

But  the  heart  just  once,  and  when 
The  blossom  falls  off  sere 

No  new  blossom  comes  again. 
Ah,  the  rose  goes  with  the  wind: 
But  the  thorus  remain  behind. 

Was  it  well  in  him,  if  he 

Felt  not  love,  to  speak  of  love  so  ? 
If  he  still  unmoved  must  be, 

Was  it  nobly  sought  to  move  so  ? 


—Pluck  the  flower,  and  yet  not  wear 

it — 
Spurn,  despise  it,  yet  not  spare  it? 

Need  he  say  that  I  was  fair, 
With  such  meaning  in  his  tone, 

Just  to  speak  of  one  whose  hair 
Had  the  same  tinge  as  my  own? 

Pluck  my  life  up,  root  and  bloom, 

Just  to  plant  it  on  her  tomb  ? 

And  she'd  scarce  so  fair  a  face 
(So  he  used  to  say)  as  mine : 

And  her  form  had  far  less  grace: 
And  her  brow  was  far  less  fine: 

But 't  was  just  that  he  loved  then 

More  than  he  can  love  again. 

Why,  if  Beauty  could  not  bind  him, 
Need  he  praise  me,  speaking  low: 

Use  my  ftice  just  to  remind  him 
How  no  face  could  please  him  now? 

Why,  if  loving  could  not  move  him, 

Did  he  teach  me  still  to  love  him  ? 

And  he  said  my  eyes  were  bright, 
But  his  own,  he  said,  were  dim : 

And  my  hand,  he  said,  was  white, 
But  what  was  that  to  him  ? 

"  For,"  he  said,  "  in  gazing  at  you, 

I  seem  gazing  at  a  statue." 

"Yes  !"  he  said,  "he  had  grown  wise 
now: 

He  had  suffered  much  of  yore: 
But  a  fair  face  to  his  eyes  now, 

Was  a  fair  face,  and  no  more. 
Yet  the  anguish  and  the  bliss, 
And  the  dream  too,  had  been  his." 

Then,  why  talk  of  "  lost  romances  " 
Being  "sick  of  sentiment!" 

And  what  meant    those    tones    and 

glances 
If  real  love  was  never  meant? 

Why,  if  his  own  youth  were  withered, 

Must  mine  also  have  been  gathered? 

Why  those  words  a  thought  too  tender 
For  the  commonplaces  spoken? 

Looks  whose  meaning  seemed  to  render 
Help  to  words  when  speech  came 
broken? 

Why  so  late  in  July  moonlight 

Just  to  say  what  's  said  by  noonlight  ? 

And  why  praise  my  youth  for  gladness, 
Keeping  something  in  his  smile 


390 


KING  UERMANDIAZ.—SONG. 


Which  turned  all  my  youth  to  sadness, 

He  still  smiling  all  the \\hile ? 
Since,  when  so  my  youth  was  over 
He  said— "Seek  some  younger  lover ! " 

"For  the  world  buds  once  a  year, 
But  the  heart  just  once,"  he  said. 

True  !  ...  so  now  that  Spring  is  here 
All  my  flowers,  like  his,  are  dead. 

And  the  rose  drops  in  the  wind. 

But  the  thorns  remain  behind. 


KING  HEEMANDIAZ. 

THEN,  standing  by  the  shore,  I  saw  the 

moon 
Change  hue,  and  dwindle  in  the  west, 

as  when 
Warm  looks  fade  inward  out  of  dying 

eyes, 
And  the  dim  sea  began  to  moan. 

I  knew 
My  hour  had  come,  and  to  the  bark  I 

went. 
Still  were  the  stately  .decks,  and  hung 

with  silk 
Of  stoled  crimson:  at  the  mast-head 

burned 
A  steadfast  fire  with  influence  like  a 

star, 
And  underneath  a  couch  of  gold.    I 

loosed 
The  dripping  chain.     There  was  not 

any  wind : 

But  all  at  once  the  magic  sails  began 
To  belly  and  heave,  and  like  a  bat  that 

wakes 
And  flits  by  night,  beneath  her  swarthy 

wings 
The  black  ship  rocked  and  moved.     I 

heard  anon 

A  humming  in  the  cordage  and  a  sound 
Like  bees  in  summer,  and  the  bark 

went  on, 

And  on,  and  on,  until  at  last  the  world 
Was  rolled  away  and  folded  out  of 

sight, 

And  I  was  all  alone  on  the  great  sea. 
There  a  deep  awe  fell  on  my  spirit. 

My  wound 

Began  to  bite.  I,  gazing  round,  beheld 
A  lady  sitting  silent  at  the  helm, 
A  woman  white  as  death,  and  fair  as 

dreams. 
I  would  have  asked  her  "  WThither  do 

we  sail?" 


And  "  how  ?"  but  that  my  fear  clung  at 

my  heart, 
And  held  me  still.     She,  answering  my 

doubt, 
Said  slowly,  "To  the  Isle  of  Avalon." 

And  straightway  we  were  nigh  a  strand 

all  gold, 
That  glittered  in  the  moon  between  the 

dusk 
Of    hanging  bowers  made  rich  with 

blooms  and  balms, 
From  which  faint  gusts  came  to  me; 

and  I  heard 
A  sound  of  lutes  among  the  vales,  and 

songs 
And  voices  faint  like  voices  through  a 

dream 
That  said  or  seemed  to  say,  "Hail, 

Hermandiaz !" 

SONG. 

IN  the  warm,  black  mill-pool  winking, 
The  first  doubtful  star  shines  blue: 

And  alone  here  I  lie  thinking 
O  such  happy  thoughts  of  you  ! 

Up  the  porch  the  roses  clamber, 
And  the  flowers  we  sowed  last  June: 

And  the  casement  of  your  chamber 
Shines  between  them  to  the  moon. 

Look  out,  Love  !  fling  wide  the  lattice: 
Wind  the  red  rose  in  your  hair, 

And  the  little  white  clematis 
Which  I  plucked  for  you  to  wear: 

Or  come  down,  and  let  me  hear  you 
Singing  in  the  scented  grass, 

Through  tall  cowslips  nodding  near 

you, 
Just  to  touch  you  as  you  pass. 

For,  where  you  pass,  the  air 

With  warm  hints  of  love  grows  wise: 
You  —  the  dew  on  your  dim  hair, 

And  the  smile  in  your  soft  eyes ! 

From  thehayfield  comes  your  brother; 

There  yoTir  sisters  stand  together, 
Singing  cleur  to  one  another 

Through    the    dark    blue    summer 
weather, 

And  the  maid  the  latch  is  clinking, 
As  she  lets  her  lover  through: 

But  alone,  Love,  I  lie  thinking 
O  such  tender  thoughts  of  you ! 


THE  SWALLOW. -EVENING. 


391 


THE  SWALLOW. 

0  SWALLOW  chirping  in  the  sparkling 

eaves, 
Why  hast  thou  left  far  south  thy 

fairy,  homes, 
To    build    between    these    drenched 

April-leaves, 
And  sing  me  songs  of  Spring  before 

it  comes  ? 

Too  soon  thou   singest !    Yun  black 

stubborn  thorn 

Bursts  not  a  bud:  the  sneaping  wind 
drifts  on. 

She  that  once  flung  thee  crumbs,  and 

in  the  morn 

Sang  from  the  lattice  where  thou 
sing'st,  is  gone. 

Here  is  no  Spring.    Thy  flight  yet  fur- 
ther follow. 

Fly  off,  vain  swallow  ! 

Thou  com'st  to  mock  me  with  remem- 
bered things. 
I  love  thee  not,  O  bird  for  me  too 

gay- 

That  which  I   want  thou    hast, — the 

gift  of  wings: 
Griet — which  I  have — thou  hast  not. 

Fly  away ! 
What  hath  my  roof  for  thee  ?    My  cold 

dark  roof, 
Beneath  whose  weeping  thatch  thine 

eggs  will  freeze ! 
Summer  will  halt  not  here,  so  keep 

aloof. 

Others  are  gone;  go  thou.     In  those 
wet  trees 

1  see  no    Spring,   though    thou    still 

singest  of  it. 
Fare  hence,  false  prophet ! 

CONTRABAND. 

A  HEAP  of  low,  dark,  rocky  coast, 
Where    the    blue-black    sea    sleeps 

smooth  and  even: 
And  the  sun,  just  over  the    reefs  at 

most, 

In  the  amber  part  of  a  pale  blue 
heaven: 

A  village  asleep  below  the  pines, 
Hid  up  the  gray  shore  from  the  low 

slow  sun : 
And  a  maiden  that  lingers  among  the 

vines, 


With  her  feet  in  the  dews,  and  her 
locks  undone: 

The  half-moon  melting  out  of  the  sky; 
And,  just  to  be  seen  still,  a  star  here, 

a  star  there, 
Faint,  high  up  in    the  heart  of  the 

heaven;  so  high 

And  so   faint,  you  can  scarcely  be 
sure  that  they  are  there. 

And  one  of  that  small,  black,  raking 

craft; 
Two  swivel  guns  on  a  round  deck 

handy; 
And  a  great  sloop  sail  with  the  wind 

abaft; 

And  four  brown  thieves  round  a  cask 
of  brandy. 

That's  my  life,  as  I  left  it  last. 
And  what  it  may  be  henceforth  I 

know  not. 

But  all  that  I  keep  of  the  merry  Past 
Are  trifles  like  these,  which  I  care  to 
show  not: — 

A  leathern  flask,  and  a  necklace  of 

pearl; 
These    rusty  pistols,  this    tattered 

chart,  Friend, 

And  the  soft  dark  half  of  a  raven  curl; 
And,  at  evening,  the  thought  of  a 
true,  true  heart,  Friend. 


EVENING. 

ALREADY  evening !     In  the  duskiest 

nook 
Of    yon   dusk    corner,    under    the 

Death's-head, 
Between  the  alembecs,  thrust  this 

legended, 

And  iron-bound,  and  melancholy  book, 
For  I  will  read  no  longer.     The  loud 

brook 
Shelves  his  sharp  light  up  shallow 

banks  thin-spread; 
The  slumbrous  west   grows  slowly 

red,  and  red: 
Up  from  the  ripened  corn  her  silver 

hook 

The  moon  is  lifting:  and  deliciously 
Along  the  warm  blue  hills  the  day  de- 
clines: 

The  first  star  brightens  while    she 
waits  for  me, 


392 


AD  ON.  —  WANT. 


And  round  her  swelling  heart   the 

zone  grows  tight: 
Musing,  half-sad,  in  her  soft  hair  she 

twines 
The  white  rose,  whispering  "he  will 

come  to-night!" 

ADON. 

% 

I  WILL  not  weep  for  Adon ! 
I  will  not  waste  my  breath  to  draw 

thick  sighs 
For  Spring's  dead  greenness.     All  the 

orient  skies 
Are  husht,  and  breathing  out  a  bright 

surprise 
Round    morning's    marshalling    star: 

Rise,  Eos,  rise ! 
Day's  dazzling  spears  are  up:  the 

faint  stars  fade  on 
The  white  hills,— cold,  like  Adon  ! 

O'er  crag,  and  spar,  and  splinter 
Break  down,  and  roll  the  amber  mist, 

stern  light. 
The  black  pines  dream  of  dawn.     The 

skirts  of  night 
Are  ravelled  in  the  East.    And  planted 

bright 
In  heaven,  the  roots    of    ice  shine, 

sharp,  and  white, 
In  frozen  ray,  and  spar,  and  spike, 

and  splinter. 

"Within  me  and  without,  all 's  Win- 
ter. 

Why  Should  I  weep  f  01  Adon  t 
Am  I,  because  the  sweet  past  is  no 

more, 
Dead,  as  the  leaves  upon  the  graves  of 

yore? 
I  will  breathe  boldly,  though  the  air  be 

frore 
With  freezing  fire.     Life  still  beats  at 

the  core 
Of  the  world's  heart,  though  Death 

his  awe  hath  laid  on 
This  dumb  white  corpse  of  Adon. 

THE  PROPHET. 

WHEN  the  East  lightens  with  strange 

hints  of  morn, 
The  first  tinge  of  the  growing  glory 

takes 
The  cold  crown  of  some  husht  high 

alp  forlorn, 
While  yet  o'er  vales  below  the  dark  is 

spread. 


Even  so  the  dawning  Age,  in  silence, 
breaks, 

O  solitary  soul,  on  thy  still  head: 

And  we,  that  watch  below  with  rever- 
ent fear, 

Seeing  thee  crowned,  do  know  that 
is  near. 

WEALTH. 

WAS  it  not  enough  to  dream  the  day  to 

death 
Grandly?  and  finely  feed  on  faint 

perfumes? 
Between  the  heavy  lilacs  draw  thick 

breath, 

While  the  noon  hummed  from  glow- 
ing citron-glooms? 

Or  walk  with  Morning  in  these  dewy 

bowers, 

'Mid  sheaved  lilies,   and  the  moth- 
loved  lips 

Of  purple  asters,  bearded  flat  sun- 
flowers, 

And    milk-white    crumpled    pinks 
with  blood  i'  the  tips? 

But  I  must  also,  gazing  upon  thee, 
Pine  with  delicious  pain,  and  subtle 

smart, 

Till  I  felt  heavy  immortality, 
Laden  with  looks  of  thine,  weigh  on 
my  heart ! 

WANT. 

You  swore  you  loved  me  all  last  June.: 
And  now  December 's  come  and  gone. 

The  Summer  went  with  you — too  soon. 
The  Winter  goes — alone. 

Next  Spring  the    leaves  will  all    be 

green: 
But  love  like  ours,  once  turned  to 

pain, 

Can  be  no  more  what  it  hath  been, 
Though  roses  bloom  again. 

Return,  return  the  unvalued  wealth 
I  gave  !  which  scarcely  profits  you — 

The  heart's  lost  youth — the  soul's  lost 

health— 
In  vain  !  .  .  .  false  friend,  adieu  ! 

I  keep  one  faded  violet 

Of  all  once  ours, — you  left  no  more. 
What  I  have  lost  I  may  forget, 

But  you  cannot  restore. 


A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET.— IN  TRAVEL. 


393 


A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET. 

WILD  bird,  that  wingest  wide  the  glim- 
mering moors, 
Whither,  by  belts  of  yellowing  woods 

away? 
With  pausing  sunset  thy  wild  heart 

allures 
Deep  into  dying  day? 

Would  that  my  heart,  on  wings  like 

thine,  could  pass 
Where  stars  their  light  in  rosy  regions 

lose, — 
A  happy  shadow  o'er  the  warm  brown 

Falling  with  falling  dews  ! 

Hast  thou,  like  me,  some  true-love  of 

thine  own, 

In  fairy  lands  beyond  the  utmost  seas ; 
Who  there,  unsolaced,  yearns  for  thee 

alone, 
And  sings  to  silent  trees  ? 

0  tell  that  woodbird  that  the  Summer 


And  the  suns  darken  and  the  days 

grow  cold; 
And,  tell  her,  love  will  fade  with  fading 

leaves, 
And  cease  in  common  mould. 

Fly  from  the  winter  of  the  world  to  her ! 

Fly,   happy  bird  !     I  follow  in   thy 

flight, 
Till  thou  art  lost  o'er  yonder  fringe  oi  fir 

In  baths  of  crimson  light. 

My  love  is  dying  far  away  from  me. 

She  sits  and  saddens  in  the  fading 

west. 
For  her  I  mourn  all  day,  and  pine  to  be 

At  night  upon  her  breast. 


IN  TEAVEL. 

Now  our  white  sail  flutters  down: 
Now  it  broadly  takes  the  breeze: 
Now  the  wharves  upon  the  town, 
Lessening,  leave  us  by  degrees. 
Blithely  blows  the  morning,  shaking 
On  your  cheek  the  loosened  curls: 


Round  our  prow  the  cleft  wave,  break- 
ing? 

Tumbles  off  in  heaped  pearls, 
Which  in  forks  of  foam  unite, 
And  run  seething  out  to  sea, 
Where  o'er  gleams  of  briny  light, 
Dip  the  dancing  gulls  in  glee. 
Now  the  mountain  serpentine 
Slips  out  many  a  snaky  line 
Down  the  dark  blue  ocean-spine. 


From  the  boatside,  while  we  pass, 
I  can  see,  as  in  a  glass, 
Pirates  on  the  flat  sea-sand, 
Carousing  ere  they  put  from  land; 
And  the  purple-pointed  crests 
Of  hills  whereon  the  morning  rests 
Whose  ethereal  vivid  peaks 
Glimmer  in  the  lucid  creeks. 
Now  th«se  wind  away ;  and  now 
Hamlets  up  the  mountain-brow 
Peep  and  peer  from  roof  to  roof; 
And  gray  castle-walls  aloof 
O'er  wide  vineyards  just  in  grape, 
From  whose  serfs  old  Barons  held 
Tax  and  toll  in  feudal  eld, 
Creep  out  of  the  uncoiling  cape. 
Now  the  long  low  layer  of  mist 
A  slow  trouble  rolls  and  lifts, 
With  a  broken  billowy  motion, 
From  the  rocks  and  from  the  rifts, 
Laying  bare,  just  here  and  there, 
Black  stone-pines,  at  morn  dew-kist 
By  salt  winds  from  bound  to  bound 
Of  the  great  sea  freshening  round; 
Wattled  folds  on  bleak  brown  downs 
Sloping  high  o'er  sleepy  towns; 
Lengths  of  shore  and  breadths  of  ocean 


Love,  lean  here  upon  my  shoulder, 
And  look  yonder,  love,  with  me: 
Now  I  think  that  I  can  see 
In  the  merry  market-places 
Sudden  warmths  of  sunny  faces: 
Many  a  lovely  laughing  maiden 
Bearing  on  her  loose  dark  locks 
Rich  fruit-baskets  heavy-laden, 
In  and  out  among  the  rocks, 
Knowing  not  that  we  behold  her. 
Now,  love,  tell  me,  can  you  hear, 
Growing  nearer,  and  more  near, 
Sound  of  song,  and  plash  of  oar, 
From  wild  bays,  and  inlets  hoar, 
While  above  yon  isles  afar 
Ghostlike  sinks  last  night's  last  star  ? 


394 


CIIANGES.-JUDICUM  PARIDIS. 


CHANGES. 

WHOM  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  sel- 
dom wed. 
Time  rules  us  all.     And  Life,  indeed, 

is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope 

was  dead. 

And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose 
our  lot. 

Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard  to 

bear: 
Much    given  away    which    it  were 

sweet  to  keep. 
God  help  us  all !  who  need,  indeed, 

His  care. 

And  yet,  I  know,  the  Shepherd  loves 
his  sheep. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 
Upon  my  knee  his  earliest  infant 

prayer. 

He  has  his  father's  eager  eyes,  I  know. 
And  they  say,  too,  his  mother's  sun- 
ny hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon 

my  knee, 
And  I  can  feel  his  light  breath  come 

and  go, 
I  think  of  one  (Heaven  help  and  pity 

me ! 

Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved, 
long  ago. 

Who  might  have  been  .  .  .  ah,  what  I 

dare  not  think ! 
We  all  are  changed.     God  judges 

for  us  best. 
God  help  us  do  our  duty,   and  not 

shrink, 

And  trust  in  heaven  humbly  for  the 
rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some  ap- 
pear 
Too  cold  at  times;  and  some  too  gay 

and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.     Some  woes 

are  hard  to  bear. 

Who  knows  the  Past  ?  and  who  can 
judge  us  right  ? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might 

have  been, 

And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt  to 
fall  1 


My  little  child  —  he  sleeps  and  smiles 

between 

These  thoughts  and  me.    In  heaven 
we  shall  know  all ! 

JUDICUM  PAKIDIS. 

I  SAID,  when  young,   "Beauty's  the 

supreme  joy. 
Her  I  will  choose,  and  in  all  forms 

will  face  her; 
Eye  to  eye,  lip  to  lip,  and  so  embrace 

her 

With  my  whole  heart. "    I  said  this  be- 
ing a  boy. 

First,  I  will  seek  her,  —naked,  or  clad 

only 
In  her  own  godhead,  as  I  know  of 

yore 
Great  bards  beheld  her. "    So  by  sea 

and  shore 

I  sought,  her,  and  among  the  mountains 
lonely. 

"  There  be  great  sunsets  in  the  won- 
drous West; 

And  marvel  in  the  orbings  of  the 
moon; 

And  glory  in  the  jubilees  of  June; 
And  power  in  the  deep  ocean.     For  the 
rest, 

"  Green-glaring  glaciers;  purple  clouds 

of  pine 

White  walls  of  ever-roaring  cataracts ; 
Blue  thunder  drifting  over  thirsty 

tracts ; 

The  homes  of  eagles;  these,  too,   are 
divine, 

"  And  terror  shall  not  daunt  me —  so  it 

be 

Beautiful  —  or  in  storm  or  in  eclipse: 
Kocking  pink  shells,    or   wrecking 

freighted  ships, 
I  shall  not  shrink  to  find  her  in  the  sea. 

"Next,  I  will  seek  her — in  all  shapes 

of  wood, 

Or  brass,  or  marble ;  or  in  colors  clad; 
And  sensuous  lines,    to    make  my 

spirit  glad. 

And  she  shall  change  her  dress  with 
every  mood. 

"  Rose-latticed  casements,  lone  in  sum- 
mer-lands — 


JUDICUM  PAEIDIS. 


Some  witch's  bower:  pale  sailors  on 

the  marge 

Of  magic  seas,  in  an  enchanted  barge 
Stranded,    at    sunset,  upon  jewelled 

sands: 

"  White  nymphs  among  the  lilies :  shep- 
herd kings: 
And     pink-hooved     Fawns:      and 

mooned  Endymions: 
From  every  channel  through  which 

Beauty  runs 

To  fertilize  the  world  with  lovely  things. 
"  I  will  draw  freely,  and  be  satisfied. 
Also,  all  legends  of  her  apparition 
To  men,  in  earliest  times,  in  each 

condition, 
I  will  inscribe  on  portraits  of  my  bride. 

"Then,  that  no  single  sense  be  want- 
ing, 

Music;  and  all  voluptuous  combina- 
tions 

Of  sound,  with  their  melodious  pal- 
pitations 

To  charm  the  ear,  the  cells  of  fancy 
haunting. 

•'And  in  her  courts  my  life  shall  be 

outrolled 

As  one  unfurls  some  gorgeous  tapes- 
try, 
Wrought  o'er    with    old  Olympian 

heraldry, 

All  purple-woven  stiff  with    blazing 
gold. 

"And  I  will  choose  no  sight  for  tears 

to  flow: 

I  will  not  look  at  sorrow:  I  will  see 
Nothing  less  fair  and  full  of  majesty 
Than  young   Apollo  leaning    on  his 
bow. 

"And  I  will  let  things  come  and  go: 

nor  range 
For  knowledge:  but  from  moments 

pluck  delight, 
The  while  the  great  days  ope  and 

shut  in  light, 

And  wax  and  wane  about  me,  rich  with 
change. 

"  Some  cup  of  dim  hills,  where  a  white 

moon  lies, 

Dropt  out  of  weary  skies  without  a 
breath, 


In  a  great  pop}:  a  slumbrous  vale 

beneath: 

And  blue  damps  prickling  into  white 
fire-flies : 

"  Some  sunset  vision  of  an  Oread,  less 
Than  half  an  hour    ere    moonrise 

caught  asleep 
With  a  flusht  cheek,  among  crusht 

violets  deep, — 

A  warm   half-glimpse  of    milk-white 
nakedness, 

"On  sumptuous  summer  eves:  shall 

wake  for  me 
Kapture  from  all  the  various  stops 

of  life; 

Making  it  like  some  charmed  Arcad- 
ian fife 
Filled  by  a  wood-god  with  his  ecstasy." 

These  things  I  said  while  I  was  yet  a 

koy, 

And  the  world  showed  as  between 
dream  and  making 

A  man  may  see  the  face  he  loves. 

So,  breaking 

Silence  I  cried  ..."  Thou  art  the  su- 
preme Joy  !" 

My  spirit,  as  a  lark  hid  near  the  sun, 
Carolled  at  morning.     But  ere  she 

had  dropt 
Half  down  the  rainbow-colored  years 

that  propped 

Her  gold  cloud  up,  and  broadly,  one 
by  one 

The  world's  great  harvest-lands  broke 

on  her  eye, 
She  changed  her  tone,  .  .  .  "What 

is  it  I  may  keep  ? 

For  look  here,  how  the  merry  reap- 
ers reap : 

Even  children  glean:   and  each  puts 
something  by. 

"  The  pomps  of  morning  pass:  when 
evening  comes, 

What  is  retained  of  these  which  I  may 

show? 

If  for  the  hills  I  leave  the  fields  be- 
low 

I  fear  to    die  an    exile  from    men's 
homes. 

"Though    here  I  see  the  orient  pa- 
geants p;iss, 


JUDICUM  PARIDIS. 


I  am  not  richer  thaji  the  merest  bind 
That  toils  below,  all  day,  among  his 

kind, 
And  clinks  at  eve  glad  horns  in  the  dry 


Then,  pondering  long,   at    length    I 

made  confession. 
"I  have  erred  much,  rejecting  all 

that  man  did  : 

For  all  my  pains  I  shall  go  empty- 
handed: 

And  Beauty,  of  its  nature  foils  posses- 
sion." 

Thereafter,   I  said  .  .  .  "Knowledge 

is  most  fair. 

Surely  to  know  is  better  than  to  see. 
To  see  is  loss:  to  know  is  gain:  and 

we 

Grow  old.    I  will  store  thriftily,  with 
care." 

In  which  mood  I  endured  for  many 

years, 
Valuing  all  things  for  their  further 

uses: 
And  seeking  knowledge  at  all  open 

sluices: 

Though  oft  the  stream  turned  blackish 
with  my  tears. 

Yet  not  the  less,  for  years  in  this  same 

mood 

I  rested:  nor  from  any  object  turned 
That  had  its  secret  to  be  spelled  and 

learned, 

Murmuring  ever,  "Knowledge  is  most 
good." 

Unto  which  end  I  shunned  the  revel- 
ling 
And  ignorant  crowd,  that    eat  the 

fruits  and  die: 

And  call  out  Plato  from  his  century 
To  be  my  helpmate:  and  made  Homer 
sing. 

Until  the  awful  Past  in  gathered  heaps 
Weighed  on  my  brain,  and  sunk  into 

my  soul, 
And  saddened  through  my  nature, 

till  the  whole 

Of  life  was  darkened  downward  to  the 
deeps. 

And,  wave  on  wave,  the  melancholy 
ages 


Crept  o'er  my  spirit:  and  the  years 

displaced 
The  landmarks    of    the    days:  life 

waned  effaced 

From    action  by  the  sorrows  of  the 
sages: 

And  my  identity  became  at  last 

The  record  of  those  others:  or,  if 

more, 
A  hollow  shell  the  sea  sung  in:  a 

shore 

Of  footprints  which  the  waves  washed 
from  it  fast. 

And  all  was  as  a  dream  whence,  hold- 
ing breath, 
It  seemed,  at  times,  just  possible  to 

break 
By  some  wild  nervous  effort,  with  a 

shriek, 
Into  the  real  world  of  life  and  death. 

But  that  thought  saved  me.     Through 

the  dark  I  screamed 
Against  the  darkness,  and  the  dark- 
ness broke, 
And  broke  that  nightmare:  back  to 

life  I  woke, 

Though  weary  with  the  dream  which  I 
had  dreamed. 

O  fife  !  life !  life !    With  laughter  and 

with  tears 
I  tried  myself:  I  knew  that  I  had 

need 
Of  pain  to  prove  that  this  was  life 

indeed, 

With  its  warm  privilege  of  hopes  and 
fears. 

O  Love  of  man  made  Life  of  man,  that 

saves ' 
O  man  that  standest  looking  on  the 

light: 
That  standest  on  the  forces  of  tho 

night: 

That  standest  up  between  the  stars  and 
graves ! 

O  man !  by  man's  dread  privilege  of 

pain, 
Dare  not  to  scorn  thine  own  soul  nor 

thy  brother's: 
Though  thon  be  more  or  less  than 

all  the  others. 

Man's  life  is  all  too  sad  for  man's  dis- 
dain. 


JUDIGUM  PAEIDIS. 


397 


The  smiles  of  seraphs  are  less  awful 

far 

Than  are  the  tears  of  this*humanity, 
That  sound,  in   dropping  through 

Eternity, 

Heard  in  God's  ear  beyond  the  furthest 
star. 

If  that  be  true, — the  hereditary  hate 
Of    Love's    lost    Kebel,    since     the 

worlds  began, — 
The  very  Fiend,  in  hating,  honors 

Man: 

Flattering    with  Devil-homage  Man's 
estate. 

If  two  Eternities,  at  strife  for  us, 
Around  each  human  soul  wage  silent 

war, 
Dare  we  disdain  ourselves,  though 

fall'n  we  are, 
"With  Hell  and  Heaven  looking  on  us 

thus? 
Whom  God  hath  loved,  whom  Devils 

dare  not  scorn, 

Despise  not  thou, — the  meanest  hu- 
man creature. 
Climb,  if  thou  canst,  the  heights  of 

thy  own  nature, 

'And  look  toward  Paradise  where  each 
was  born. 

So  I  spread  sackcloth   on  my  former 

pride: 
And  sat  down,  clothed  and  covered 

up  with  shame: 
And  cried  to  God  to  take  away  my 

blame 

Among  my  brethren:  and  to  these  I 
cried 

To  come  between  my  crime  and  my 

despair, 
That  they  might  help  my  heart  up, 

when  God  sent 

Upon  my  soul  its  proper  punishment, 
Lest  that  should  be  too  great  for  me  to 
bear. 

And  so  I  made  my  choice:  and  learned 

to  live 
Again,  and  worship,   as  my  spirit 

yearned : 
So  much  had  been  admired — so  much 

been  learned — 

So  much  been  given  me — 0,  how  much 
to  give ! 


Here  is  the  choice,  and  now  the  time, 

O  chooser ! 
Endless  the    consequence    though 

brief  the  choice. 
Echoes  are  waked  down  ages  by  thy 

voice: 

Speak:  and  be  thou  the  gainer  or  the 
loser. 

And  I  bethought  me  long.  .  .  "Though 

garners  split, 
If  none  but  thou  be  fed  art  thou  more 

full?" 

For  surely  Knowledge  and  the  Beau- 
tiful 
Are  human ;  must  have  love,  or  die  for  it! 

To  Give  is  better  than  to  Know  or  See: 
And  both  are  means:  and  neither  is 

the  end: 
Knowing  and  seeing,  if  none  call  thee 

friend, 

Beauty  and    knowledge    have    done 
naught  for  thee. 

Though  I  at  Aphrodite  all  day  long 
Gaze  until  sunset  with  a  thirsty  eye, 
I  shall  not  drain  her  boundless  beauty 

dry 

By  that  wild  gaze:  nor  do  her  fair  face 
wrong. 

For  who  gives,  giving,  doth  win  back 

his  gift: 
And  knowledge  by  division  grows  to 

more: 
Who  hides  the  Master's  talent  shall 

die  poor, 

And  starve  at  last  of  his  own  thankless 
thrift. 

I  did  this  for  another:  and,  behold  ! 
My  work  hath  blood  in  it:  but  thine 

hath  none: 
Done  for  thyself,  it   dies  in  being 

done: 

To  what  thou  buyest  thou  thyself  art 
sold. 

Give  thyself  utterly  away.     Be  lost. 
Choose   some   one,  something:  not 

thyself,  thy  own: 
Thou  canst  not  perish:  but,  thrice 

greater  grown, — 

Thy  gain  the  greatest  where  thy  loss 
was  most, — 


NIGHT.— HEUOS  HYPERIONIDES. 


i 


Thou  in  another  shalt  thyself  new-find. 

The  single  globule,  lost  in  the  wide 
sea, 

Becomes  an  ocean.     Each  identity 
Is  greatest  in  the  greatness  of  its  kind. 

"Who  serves  for  gain,  a  slave,  by  thank- 
less pelf 

Is  paid:  who  gives  himself  is  price- 
less, free. 

I  give  myself,  a  man,  to  God:  lo,  He 
Eenders  me  back  a  saint  unto  myself ! 

NIGHT. 

COME  to  me,  not  as  once  thou  earnest, 

Night ! 

With  light  and  splendor  up  the  gor- 
geous West; 
Easing  the  heart's  rich  sense  of  thee 

with  sighs 
Sobbed  out  of  all  emotion  on  Love's 

breast: 

While  the  dark  world  waned  waver- 
ing into  rest, 
Half  seen  athwart  the  dim  delicious 

light 
Of  languid  eyes: 

But  softly,  soberly;  and  dark  —  more 

dark! 
Till  my  life's  shadow  lose  itself  in 

thine. 

Athwart  the  light  of  slowly-gather- 
ing tears, 

That  come  between  me  and  the  star- 
light, shine 

From  distant  melancholy  deeps  di- 
vine, 
While  day  slips  downward  through  a 

rosy  arc 
To  other  spheres. 

SONG. 

FLOW,  freshly  flow, 

Dark  stream,  below ! 

While  stars  grow  light  above: 

By    willowy   banks,    through    lonely 

downs, 

Past  terraced  walls  in  silent  towns, 
And  bear  me  to  my  love  ! 

Still,  as  we  go, 

Blow,  gently  blow, 

Warm  wind,  and  blithely  move 

These  dreamy  sails,  that  slowly  glide, — 


A  shadow  on  the  shining  tide 
That  bears  me  to  my  love. 

Fade,  sweetly  fade 

In  dewy  shade     71 

On  lonely  grange  and  grove, 

0  lingering  day  !  and  bring  the  night 
Through    all    her    milk-white    mazes 

bright 
That  trembles  o'er  my  love. 

The  sunset  wanes 

From  twinkling  panes. 

Dim,  misty  myriads  move 

Down  glimmering  streets.     One  light  I 

see  — 

One  happy  light,  that  shines  for  me, 
And  lights  me  to  my  love ! 

FOEBEAEANCE. 

CALL  me  not,  Love,  unthankful  or  un- 
kind, 

That  I  have  left  my  heart  with  thee, 
and  fled. 

1  were  not  worth  that  wealth  which  I 

resigned, 

Had  I  not  chosen  poverty  instead. 
Grant  me  but  solitude !     I  dare  not 

swerve 
From    my    soul's    law,  —  a    slave, 

though  serving  thee. 
I  but  forbear  more  grandly  to  deserve: 
The  free  gift  only  cometh  of  the  free. 

HELIOS  HYPEEIONIDES. 

HELIOS  all  day  long  his  allot  ed  labor 

pursues; 
No  rest  to  his  passionate  heart  and 

his  panting  horses  given, 
From  the  moment  when  roseate-fin-. 

gered  Eos  kindles  the  dews 
And  spurns  the  salt  sea-floors,   as-, 

cending  silvery  the  heaven, 
Until  from  the  hand  of  Eos  Hesperos, 

trembling,  receives 
His  fragrant  lamp,  and  faint  in  the 

twilight  hangs  it  up. 
Then  the  over-wearied  son  of  Hyperion 

lightly  leaves 
His  dusty  chariot,  and  softly  slips 

into  his  golden  cup: 
And  to  holy  Ethiopia,  under  the  ocean- 
stream, 

Back  from  the  sunken  retreats  of  the 
sweet  Hesperides, 


ELISABETTA  SIRANI. 


399 


Leaving  his  unloved  labor,  leaving  his 

unyoked  team, 
He  sails  to  his  much-loved  wife;  and 

stretches  his  limbs  at  ease 
In  a  laurelled  lawn  divine,  on  a  bed  of 

beaten  gold, 

Where  he  pleasantly  sleeps,  forget- 
ting his  travel  by  lands  and  seas, 
Till  again  the  clear-eyed  Eos  comes 

with  a  finger  cold, 
And  again,  from  his  white  wife  sever- 
ed, Hyperionides 
Leaps  into  his  naming  chariot,  angrily 

gathers  the  reins, 
Headlong  flings  his  course  through 

Uranos,  much  in  wrath, 
And  over  the  seas  and  mountains,  over 

the  rivers  and  plains, 
Chafed  at  heart,  tumultuous,  pushes 
his  burning  path. 


ELISABETTA  SIRANI. 

1665. 
JUST  to  begin,  —  and  end !  so  much,  — 

no  more ! 

To  touch  upon  the  very  point  at  last 
Where  life  should  cling:  to  feel  the 

solid  shore 
Safe;  where,  the  seething  sea's  strong 

toil  o'erpast, 
Peace  seemed  appointed ;  then  with  all 

the  store 
Half-undivulgedof  the  gleaned  ocean 

cast, 
Like  a  discouraged  wave's  on  the  bleak 

strand, 
Where  what  appeared  some  temple 

(whose  glad  Priest 
To  gather  ocean's  sparkling  gift  should 

stand, 
Bidding  the  wearied  wave,  from  toil 

releast, 
Sleep  in  the  marble  harbors  bathed 

with  bland 
And  quiet  sunshine,   flowing  from 

full  east 
Among  the  laurels)   proves  the   dull 

blind  rock's 

Fantastic  front, — to  die,  a  disallowed, 
Dasht  purpose:  which    the    scornful 

shore-cliffs  mocks, 
Even  as  it  sinks;  and  all  its  wealth 

bestowed 

In  vain, — mere  food  to  feed,  perchance, 
stray  flocks 


Of  the  coarse  sea-gull !   weaving  its 

own  shroud 

Of  idle  foam,  swift  ceasing  to  be  seen  ! 
— Sad,  sad,  my  father !  .  .  .  yet  it 

comes  to  this. 
For  I  am  dying.     All  that  might  have 

been — 
That  must  have  been  ! .  .  .  the  daysr 

so  hard  to  miss, 
So  sure  to  come !  .  .  .  eyes,  lips,  that 

seemed  to  lean 
In  on  me  at  my  work,  and  almost 

kiss 
The  curls  bowed  o'er  it,  ...  lost !     O, 

never  doubt 
I  should  have  lived  to  know  them  all 

again, 
And  from  the  crowd  of  praisers  single 

out 
For  special  love  those  forms  beheld 

so  plain 
Beforehand.    When  my  pictures,  borne 

about 
Bologna,  to  the  church    doors,  led 

their  train 

Of  kindling  faces,  turned,  as  by  they  go, 
Up  to  these  windows, — standing  at 

your  side 
Unseen,  to  see  them,  I  (be  sure !)  should 

know 
And  welcome  back  those  eyes  and 

lips,  descried 

Long  since  in  fancy,  for  I  loved  them  so, 
And  so  believed  them  !     Think  !  .  .  . 

Bologna's  pride 
My  paintings ! .  .  .  Guido  Reni's  mantle 

mine  .  .  . 
And    I,    the  maiden  artist,   prized 

among 
The  masters, . . .  ah,  that  dream  was  too 

divine 

For  earth  to  realize  !    I  die  so  young, 
All  this  escapes  me  !    God,  the  gift  be 

Thine, 
Not  man's  then  .  .  .  better  so  !    That 

throbbing  throng 
Of  human  faces  fades  out  fast.     Even 

yours, 

Beloved  ones,  the  inexorable  Fate 
(For  all  our  vowed  affections!)  scarce 

endures 

About  me.    Must  I  go  then,  desolate 
Out  from  among  you  ?    Nay,  my  work 

insures 

Fit  guerdon  somewhere, — though  the 
gift  must  wait ! 


400 


ELISABETTA  SIRANL 


Had  Hived  longer,  life  would  sure  have 

set 
Earth's  gift  of  fame  in  safety.     But 

I  die. 
Death  must  make  safe  the  heavenly 

guerdon  yet. 

I  trusted  time  for  immortality, — - 
There  was  my  error !    Father,  never 

let 

Doubt  of  reward  confuse  my  mem- 
ory ! 
Besides, — I  have  done  much  :  and  what 

is  done 
Is  well  done.  All  my  heart  conceived, 

my  hand 
Made  fast .  .  .  mild  martyr,  saint,  and 

weeping  nun, 
And  truncheoned  prince,  and  warrior 

with  bold  brand, 
Yet  keep  my  life  upon  them; — as  the 

sun, 
Though  fallen  below  the  limits  of  the 

land, 

Still  sees  on  every  form  of  purple  cloud 
His  painted  presence. 

Flaring  August 's  here, 
September's  coming  !  Summer's  broid- 

ered  shroud 

Is  borne  away  in  triumph  by  the  year: 
Red    Autumn    drops,    from    all    his 

branches  bowed, 
His  careless  wealth  upon  the  costly 

bier. 

"We  must  be  cheerful.     Set  the  case- 
ment wide. 
One  last  look  o'er  the  places  I  have 

loved, 
One  last  long  look !  .  .  .  Bologna,  0 

my  pride 
Among  thy  palaced    streets  !    The 

days  have  moved 
Pleasantly  o'er  us.     What  has  been 

denied 
To  our  endeavor?    Life  goes  unre- 

proved. 
To  make  the  best  of  all  things,  is  the 

best 
Of  all  means  to  be  happy.     This  I 

know, 
But   cannot   phrase    it    finely.     The 

night's  rest 
The  day's  toil  sweetens.      Flowers 

are  warmed  by  snow. 
All  's  well  God  wills.     Work  out  this 

grief.    Joy's  zest 
Itself  is  salted  with  a  touch  of  woe. 


There's  nothing  comes  to  us  may  not 

be  borne, 
Except  a  too  great  happiness.     But 

this 
Comes  rarely.     Though  I  know  that 

you  will  mourn 
The    little    maiden    helpmate    you 

must  miss, 

Thanks  be  to  God,  I  leave  you  not  for- 
lorn. 

There  should  be  comfort  in  this  dy- 
ing kiss. 

Let  Barbara  keep  my  colors  for  her- 
self. 

I  'm  sorry  that  Lucia  went  away 
In  some  unkindness.     'T  was  a  cheer- 
ful elf  ! 
Send  her  my  scarlet  ribands,  mother; 

say 
I  thought  of  her.     My  palette 's  on  the 

shelf, 

Surprised,  no  doubt,  at  such  long 
holiday. 


S 


In  the  south  window,   on  the   easel 

stands 
My  picture  for  the  Empress  Elean- 

ore. 
Still  wanting  some  few  touches,  these 


Must  leave  to  others.     Yet  there  's 

time  before 
The  year  ends.     And  the    Empress' 

own  commands 
You  '11  find  in  writing.     Barbara's 

brush  is  more 
Like  mine  than  Anna's;  let  her  finish 

it. 
0,  ...  and  there  's  'Maso,  our  poor 

fisherman ! 
You  '11  find  my  work  done  for  him: 

something  fit 
To  hang  among  his  nets:  you  liked 

the  plan 
My  fancy  took  to  please  our  friend's 

dull  wit, 

Scarce  brighter  than  his  old  tin  fish- 
ing-can. .  .  . 
St.   Margaret,  stately  as  a  ship  full 

sail, 
Leading  a  dragon  by  an  azure  band; 


The  ribbon  flutters 


he  gale; 


The    monster    follows    the    Saint's 

guiding  hand, 
Wrinkled  to  one  grim  smile  from  head 

to  tail: 
For  in    his    horny    hide  his  heart 

grows  bland. 


ELI8ABETTA  SIRANL 


401 


--Where  are  you,  dear  ones  V 

'T  is  the  dull,  faint  chill, 
Which  soon  will  shrivel  into  burn- 
ing pain  ! 
Dear  brother,  sisters,  father,  mother, 

—still    . 
Stand  near  me  !    While  your  faces 

fixt  remain 

Within  my  sense,  vague  fears  of  un- 
known ill 
Are  softly  crowded  out,  .  .  .  and  yet, 

't  is  vain  ! 
Greet   Guilio    Banzi;    greet  Antonio; 

freet  Bartolomeo,  kindly  when 
'm  gone, 
And  in  the  school-room,  as  of  old,  you 

meet, 
— Ah,   yes  !    you  11  miss  a   certain 

merry  tone, 
A  cheerful  face,  a  smile  that  should 

complete 
The  vague  place  in  the  household 

picture  grown 
To  an  aspect    so    familiar,   it  seems 

strange 
That    aught    should    alter     there. 

Mere  life,  at  least, 
Could  not  have  brought  the  shadow  of 

a  change 
Across  it.     Safely  the  warm  years 

increast 
Among  us.    I  have  never  sought  to 

range 

From  our  small  table  as  earth's  gen- 
eral feast, 
To  higher   places:   never    loved  but 

y°u> 

Dear  family  of  friends,  except  my 

art: 
Nor  any  form  save  those  my  pencil 

drew 
E'er  quivered  in  the   quiet  of  my 

heart. 

I  die  a  maiden  to  Madonna  true, 
And  would  have  so  continued.  .   .  . 

There,  the  smart, 
The  pang,  the  faintness  !  .  .  . 

Ever,  as  I  lie 

Here,  with  the   Autumn  sunset  on 
my  face, 


And  heavy  in  my  curls  (whilst  it,  and  I, 
Together,  slipping  softly  from  the 

place 
We  played  in,    pensively  prepare  to 

die), 
A  low  warm  humming  simmers  in  my 

ears, 

— Old  Summer  afternoons  !  faint  frag- 
ments rise 
Out  of  my  broken  life  ...  at  times 

appears 

Madonna-like  a  moon  in  mellow  skies : 
The  three  Fates  with  the  spindle  and 

the  shears: 
The    Grand    Duke  Cosmo  with    the 

Destinies: 
St.  Margaret  with  her  dragon :  fitful 

cheers 

Along  the  Via  Urbana  come  and  go: 
Belogna  with  her  towers  !  .  .  .  Then 

all  grows  dim, 
And  shapes    itself  anew,   softly  and 

slow, 
To  cloistered  glooms  through  which 

the  silver  hymn 

Eludes  the  sensitive  silence ;  whilst  be- 
low 
The    southwest   window,  just    one 

single,  slim, 
And  sleepy  sunbeam,  powders    with 

waved  gold 
A  lane  of   gleamy  mist  along  the 

gloom, 
Whereby    to    find    its  way,    through 

manifold 

Magnificence,  to  Guido  Beni's  tomb, 
Which,  set  in  steadfast  splendor,  I  be- 
hold. 

And  all  the  while,   I  scent  the  in- 
cense fume, 
Till  dizzy  grows  the  brain,  and  dark 

the  eye 
Beneath  the  eyelid.     When  the  end 

is  come, 
There,  by  his  tomb  (our  master's)  let 

me  lie, 
Somewhere,  not  too  far  off;  beneath 

the  dome 
Of  our  own  Lady  of  the  Rosary: 

Safe,  where   old  friends  will    pass; 
amd  still  near  home  ! 


402  LAST  WORDS. 


LAST  WOKDS. 

WILL,  are  you  sitting  and  watching  there  yet?    And  I  know,  by  a  certain  skill 
That  grows  out  of  utter  wakefulness,  the  night  must  be  far  spent,  Will: 
For,  lying  awake  so  many  a  night,  I  have  learned  at  last  to  catch 
From  the  crowing  cock,  and  the  clanging  clock,  and  the  sound  of  the  beating 

watch, 

A  misty  sense  of  the  measureless  march  of  Time,  as  he  passes  here, 
Leaving  my  life  behind  him;  and  I  know  that  the  dawn  is  near. 
But  you  have  been  watching  three    nights,   Will,  and  you   looked  so  wan 

to-night, 

I  thought,  as  I  saw  you  sitting  there,  in  the  sad  monotonous  light 
Of  the  moody  night-lamp  near  you,  that  I  could  not  choose  but  close 
My  lids  as  fast,  and  lie  as  still,  as  though  I  lay  in  a  doze: 
For,  I  thought,  "He  will  deem  I  am  dreaming,  and  then  he  may  steal  away, 
And  sleep  a  little:  and  this  will  be  well."    And  truly,  I  dreamed,  as  I  lay 
Wide  awake,  but  all  as  quiet,  as  though,  the  last  office  done, 
They  had  streaked  me  out  for  the  grave,  Will,  to  which  they  will  bear  me  anon. 
Dreamed;   for  old  things  and  places  came  dancing  about  my  brain, 
Like  ghosts  that  dance  in  an  empty  house :  and  my  thoughts  went  slipping 

again 

By  green  back-ways  forgotten  to  a  stiller  circle  of  time. 
Where  violets,  faded  forever,  seemed  blowing  as  once  in  their  prime: 
And  I  fancied  that  you  and  I,  Will,  were  boys  again  as  of  old, 
At  dawn  on  the  hill-top  together,  at  eve  in  the  field  by  the  fold; 
Till  the  thought  of  this  was  growing  too  wildly  sweet  to  be  borne, 
And  I  oped  my  eyes,  and  turned  me  round,  and  there,  in  the  light  forlorn, 
I  find  you  sitting  beside  me.    But  the  dawn  is  at  hand,  I  know. 
Sleep  a  little.    I  shall  not  die  to-night.    You  may  leave  me.    Go. 
Eh  !  is  it  time  for  the  drink?  must  you  mix  it  ?  it  does  me  no  good. 
But  thanks,  old  friend,  true  friend  !  I  would  live  for  your  sake,  if  I  could. 
Ay,  there  are  some  good  things  in  life,  that  fall  not  away  with  the  rest. 
And,  of  all  best  things  upon  earth,  I  hold  that  a  faithful  friend  is  the  best. 
For  woman,  Will,  is  a  thorny  flower:  it  breaks,  and  we  bleed  and  smart: 
The  blossom  falls  at  the  fairest,  and  the  thorn  runs  into  the  heart. 
And  woman's  love  is  a  bitter  fruit;  and,  however  he  bite  it,  or  sip, 
There 's  many  a  man  has  lived  to  curse  the  taste  of  that  fruit  on  his  lip. 
But  never  was  any  man  yet,  as  I  ween,  be  he  whosoever  he  may, 
That  has  known  what  a  true  friend  is,  Will,  and  wished  that  knowledge  away. 
You  were  proud  of  my  promise,  faithful  despite  of  my  fall, 
Sad,  when  the  world  seemed  over  sweet,  sweet  when  the  world  turned  gall: 
When  I  cloaked  myself  in  the  pride  of  praise  from  what  God  grieved  to  see, 
You  saw  through  the  glittering  lie  of  it  all,  and  silently  mourned  for  me: 
When  the  world  took  back  what  the  world  had  given,  and  scorn  with  praise 

changed  place, 

I,  from  my  sackcloth  and  ashes,  look  up,  and  saw  hope  glow  on  your  face: 
Therefore,  fair  weather  be  yours,  Will,  whether  it  shines  or  pours, 
And,  if  I  can  slip  out  of  my  grave,  my  spirit  will  visit  yours. 

O  woman  eyes  that  have  smiled  and  smiled,  O  woman  lips  that  have  kist 

The  life-blood  out  of  my  heart,  why  thus  forever  do  you  persist, 

Pressing  out  of  the  dark  all  round,  to  bewilder  my  dying  hours 

With  your  ghostly  sorceries  brewed  from  the  breath  of  your  poison-flowers  ? 

Still,  though  the  idol  be  broken,  I  see  at  their  ancient  revels, 

The  riven  altar  around,  come  dancing  the  self -same  devils. 

Lente  currite,  lente  currite,  noctisequi! 


LAST  WORDS.  403 


Linger  a  little,  O  Time,  and  let  me  be  saved  ere  I  die. 

How  many  a  night  'neath  her  window  have  I  walked  in  the  wind  and  rain, 

Only  to  look  at  her  shadow  fleet  over  the  lighted  pane. 

Alas !  't  was  the  shadow  that  rested,  't  was  herself  that  fleeted,  you  see, 

And  now  I  am  dying,  I  know  it:  —  dying,  and  where  is  she ! 

Dancing  divinely,  perchance,  or,  over  her  soft  harp  strings, 

Dsing  the  past  to  give  pathos  to  the  little  new  song  that  she  sings. 

Bitter?  I  dare  not  be  bitter  in  the  few  last  hours  left  to  live. 

Needing  so  much  forgiveness,  God  grant  me  at  least  to  forgive. 

There  can  be  no  space  for  the  ghost  of  her  face  down  in  the  narrow  room, 

And  the  mole  is  blind,  and  the  worm  is  mute,  and  there  must  be  rest  in  the  tomb. 

And  just  one  failure  more  or  less  to  a  life  that  seems  to  be 

(Whilst  I  lie  looking  upon  it,  as  a  bird  ©n  the  broken  tree 

She  hovers  about,  ere  making  wing  for  a  land  of  lovlier  growth, 

Brighter  blossom,  and  purer  air,  somewhere  far  off  in  the  south,) 

Failure,  crowning  failure,  failure  from  end  to  end, 

Just  one  more  or  less,  what  matter,  to  the  many  no  grief  can  mend  ? 

Not  to  know  vice  is  virtue,  not  fate,  however  men  rave: 

And,  next  to  this  I  hold  that  man  to  be  but  a  coward  and  slavo 

Who  bears  the  plague-spot  about  him,  and,  knowing  it,  shrinks  or  fears 

To  brand  it  out,  though  the  burning  knife  should  hiss  in  his  heart's  not  tears. 

But  I  have  caught  the  contagion  of  a  world  that  I  never  loved, 

Pleased  myself  with  approval  of  those  that  I  never  approved, 

Paltered  with  pleasures  that  pleased  not,  and  fame  where  no  fame  could  be, 

And  how  shall  I  look,  do  you  think.  Will,  when  the  angels  are  looking  on  me? 

Yet  oh  !  the  confident  spirit  once  mine,  to  dare  and  to  do ! 

Take  the  world  into  my  hand,  and  shape  it,  and  make  it  anew: 

Gather  all  men  in  my  purpose,  men  in  their  darkness  and  dearth, 

Men  in  their  meanness  and  misery,  made  of  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Mould  them  afresh,  and  make  out  of  them  Man,  with  his  spirit  sublime, 

Man,  the  great  heir  of  Eternity,  dragging  the  conquests  of  Time ! 

Therefore  I  mingled  among  them,  deeming  the  poet  should  hold 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own,  as  the  world  in  the  ark  was  of  old; 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own  to  be  types  of  a  nobler  race, 

When  the  old  world  passeth  away  and  the  new  world  taketh  his  place. 

Triple  fool  in  my  folly  !  purblind  and  impotent  worm, 

Thinking  to  move  the  world,  who  could  not  myself  stand  firm ! 

Cheat  of  a  worn-out  trick,  as  one  that  on  shipboard  roves 

Wherever  the  wind  may  blow,  still  deeming  the  continent  moves! 

Blowing  the  frothy  bubble  of  life's  brittle  purpose  away; 

Child,  ever  chasing  the  morrow,  who  now  cannot  ransom  a  day: 

Still  I  called  Fame  to  lead  onward,  forgetting  she  follows  behind 

Those  who  know  whither  they  walk  through  the  praise  or  dispraise  of  mankind. 

All  my  life  (looking  back  on  it)  shows  like  the  broken  stair 

That  winds  round  a  ruined  tower,  and  never  will  lead  anywhere. 

Friend,  lay  your  hand  in  my  own,  and  swear  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 

My  body  borne  out  from  the  door,  ere  the  grass  on  my  grave  shall  be  green, 

You  will  burn  every  book  I  have  written.    And  so  perish,  one  and  all, 

Each  trace  of  the  struggle  that  failed  with  the  life  that  I  cannot  recall. 

Dust  and  ashes,  earth's  dross,  which  the  mattock  may  give  to  the  mole  ! 

Something,  though  stained  and  defaced,  survives,  as  I  trust,  with  the  soul. 

Something  ?  .  .  .  Ay,  something  comes  back  to  me  .  .  .  Think  !  that  I  might 

have  been  .  .  .  what? 

Almost,  I  fancy  at  times,  what  I  meant  to  have  been,  and  am  not. 
Where  was  the  fault  ?    Was  it  strength  fell  short?    And  yet  (I  can  speak  of 

it  now !) 


40-1  LAST  WORDS. 


How  my  spirit  sung  like  the  resonant  nerve  of  a  warrior's  battle-bow 

When  the  shaft  has  leapt  from  the  string,  what  time,  her  first  bright  banner 

unfurled, 

Song  aimed  her  arrowy  purpose  in  me  sharp  at  the  heart  of  the  world. 
Was  it  the  hand  that  faltered,  unskilled  ?  or  was  it  the  eye  that  deceived  ? 
However  I  reason  it  out,  there  remains  a  failure  time  has  not  retrieved. 
I  said  I  would  live  in  all  lives  that  beat,  and  love  in  all  loves  that  be: 
I  would  crown  me  lord  of  all  passions;  and  the  passions  were  lords  of  me. 
I  would  compass  every  circle,  I  would  enter  at  every  door, 
In  the  starry  spiral  of  science,  and  the  labyrinth  of  lore, 
Only  to  follow  the  flying  foot  of  love  to  his  last  retreat. 
Fool !  that  with  man's  all-imperfect  would  circumscribe  God's  all-complete  ! 
Arrogant  error !  whereby  I  staived  like  the  fool  in  the  fable  of  old, 
Whom  the  gods  destroyed  by  the  gift  he  craved,  turning  all  things  to  gold. 
Be  wise:  know  what  to  leave  unknown.    The  flowers  bloom  on  the  brink, 
But  black  death  lurks  at  the  bottom.    Help  men  to  enjoy,  not  to  think, 

0  poet  to  whom  I  give  place  !  cull  the  latest  effect,  leave  the  cause. 

Few  that  dive  for  the  pearl  of  the  deep  but  are  crushed  in  the  kraken's  jaws. 

While  the  harp  of  Arion  is  heard  at  eve  over  the  glimmering  ocean: 

He  floats  in  the  foam,  on  the  dolphin's  back,  gliding  with  gentle  motion, 

Over  the  rolling  water,  under  the  light  of  the  beaming  star, 

And  the  nymphs,  half  asleep  on  the  surface,  sail  moving  his  musical  car. 

A  little  knowledge  will  turn  youth  gray.    And  I  stood,  chill  in  the  sun, 

Naming  you  each  of  the  roses;  blest  by  the  beauty  of  none. 

My  song  had  an  after-savor  of  the  salt  of  many  tears, 

Or  it  burned  with  a  bitter  foretaste  of  the  end  as  it  now  appears: 

And  the  world  that  had  paused  to  listen  awhile,  because  the  first  notes  were  gay, 

Passed  on  its  way  with  a  sneer  and  a  smile:    "  Has  he  nothing  fresher  to  say  ? 

This  poet's  mind  was  a  weedy  flower  that  presently  comes  to  naught !  " 

For  the  world  was  not  so  sad  but  what  my  song  was  sadder,  it  thought. 

Comfort  me  not.    For  if  aught  be  worse  than  failure  from  over-stress 

Of  a  lif  e's  prime  purpose,  it  is  to  sit  down  content  with  a  little  success. 

Talk  not  of  genius  baffled.    Genius  is  master  of  man. 

Genius  does  what  it  must,  and  talent  does  what  it  can. 

Blot  out  my  name,  that  the  spirits  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Burns 

Look  not  down  on  the  praises  of  fools  with  a  pity  my  soul  yet  spurns. 

And  yet,  had  I  only  the  trick  of  an  aptitude  shrewd  of  its  kind, 

1  should  have  lived  longer,  I  think,  more  merry  of  heart  and  of  mind. 
Surely  I  knew  (who  better?)  the  innermost  secret  of  each 

Bird,  and  beast,  an.l  flower.     Failed  I  to  give  to  them  speech? 
All  the  pale  spirits  of  storm,  that  sail  down  streams  of  the  wind, 
Cleaving  the  thunder-cloud,  with  wild  hair  blowing  behind; 
All  the  soft  seraphs  that  float  in  the  light  of  the  crimson  eve, 
When  Hesper  begins  to  glitter,  and  the  heavy  woodland  to  heave: 
All  the  white  nymphs  of  the  water  that  dwell  'mid  the  lilies  alone: 
And  the  buskined  maids  for  the  love  of  whom  the  hoary  oak-trees  groan; 
They  came  to  my  call  in  the  forest;  they  crept  to  my  feet  from  the  river: 
They  softly  looked  out  of  the  sky  when  I  sung,  and  their  wings  beat  with  breath- 
less endeavor 

The  blocks  of  the  broken  thunder  piling  their  stormy  lattices, 
Over  the  moaning  mountain  walls,  and  over  the  sobbing  seas. 
So  many  more  reproachful  faces  around  my  bed  ! 

Voices  moaning  about  me:  "  Ah  !  couldst  thou  not  heed  what  we  said?  " 
Peace  to  the  pa^t !  it  skills  not  now:  these  thoughts  that  vex  it  in  vain 
Arejout  the  dnst  of  a  broken  purpose  blowing  about  the  brain 
Which  presently  will  be  tenantless,  when  the  wanton  worms  carouse, 
And  the  mole  builds  over  my  bones  his  little  windowless  house. 


LAST  WORDS.  405 


It  is  growing  darker  and  stranger,  "Will,  and  colder, — dark  and  cold, 
Dark  and  cold  !    Is  the  lamp  gone  out  ?    Give  me  thy  hand  to  hold. 
No:  't  is  life's  brief  candle  burning  down.     Tears?  tears,  Will !    Why, 
This  which  we  call  dying  is  only  ceasing  to  die. 
It  is  but  the  giving  over  a  game  all  lose.     Fear  life,  not  death. 
The  hard  thing  was  to  live,  Will.     To  whatever  bourn  this  breath 
Is  going,  the  way  is  easy  now.     With  flowers,  and  music,  life, 
Like  a  pagan  sacrifice,  leads  us  along  to  this  dark  High  Priest  with  the  knife. 
I  have  been  too  peevish  at  mere  mischance.    For  whether  we  build  it,  friend, 
Of  brick  or  jasper,  life's  large  base  dwindles  into  this  point  at  the  end, 
A  kind  of  nothing !    Who  knows  whether  't  is  fittest  to  weep  or  laugh 
At  those  thin  curtains  the  spider  spins  o'er  each  dusty  epitaph  ? 
I  talk  wildly.     But  this  I  know,  that  not  even  the  best  and  first, 
When  all  is  done,  can  claim  by  desert  what  even  to  the  last  and  worst 
Of  us  weak  workmen,  God  from  the  depth  of  his  infinite  mercy  giveth. 
These  bones  shall  rest  in  peace,  for  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth. 
Doubtful  images  come  and  go;  and  I  seem  to  be  passing  them  by. 
Bubbles  these  be  of  the  mind,  which  show  that  the  stream  is  hurrying  nigh 
To  the  home  of  waters.     Already  I  feel,  in  a  sort  of  still  sweet  awe, 
The  great  main  current  of  all  that  I  am  beginning  to  draw  and  draw 
Into  perfect  peace.    I  attain  at  last!    Life's  a  long,  long  reaching  out 
Of  the  soul  to  something  beyond  her.     Now  conies  the  end  of  all  doubt. 
The  vanishing  point  in  the  picture !    I  have  uttered  weak  words  to-night, 
And  foolish.     A  thousand  failures,  what  are  these  in  the  sight 
Of  the  One  All-Perfect  who,  whether  man  fails  in  his  work,  or  succeeds, 
Builds  surely,  solemnly  up  from  our  broken  days  and  deeds 
The  infinite  purpose  of  time.    We  are  but  day-laborers  all, 
Early  or  late,  or  first  or  last  at  the  gate  in  the  vine-yard  wall. 
Lord  !  if,  in  love,  though  fainting  oft,  I  have  tended  thy  gracious  Vine, 
(),  quench  the  thirst  on  the.^  e  dying  lips,  Thou  who  pourest  the  wine  ! 
Hush  !  I  am  in  the  way  to  study  a  long,  long  silence  now. 
I  know  at  last  what  I  cannot  tell:  I  see  what  I  may  not  show. 
Pray  awhile  for  my  soul.    Then  sleep.    There  is  nothing  in  this  to  fear. 
I  shall  sleep  into  death.    Night  sleeps.    The  hoarse  wolf  howls  not  near, 
No  dull  owl  beats  the  casement,  and  no  rough-bearded  star 
Stares  on  my  mild  departure  from  yon  dark  window  bar. 
Nature  takes  no  notice  of  those  that  are  coming  or  going. 

To-morrow  make  ready  my  grave,  Will.     To-morrow  new  flowers  will  be 
blowing. 


INDEX. 

170 

PAOR 

205 

Fancy  A 

Failure 

247 

392 

Farewell,  A  

376 

A  1'  Entresol                            

187 

Fatality     .  . 

166 

Aloe   The 

.  209 

Fatima 

233 

385 

Forbearance 

398 

APPLE  OP  LIFE,  THE  

146 

Fount  of  Truth,  The     

211 

376 

Fugitive,  The  

235 

Artist    The 

.  358 

Ghost  Story  A 

232 

375 

Astarte                            

195 

Going  Back  Again 

233 

376 

Good-Night  in  the  Porch 

.  338 
219 

At  Home  After  the  Ball 

197 

Heart  and  Nature,  The 

At  Home  During  the  Ball  

196 

An  Cafe  *  *  * 

..   .   .198 

Helios  Hyperionides 

398 

222 

How  the  Song  was  Made 

385 

192 

In  Travel  

.  393 

Babylonia  

216 

Bird  at  Sunset,  A  
Bluebeard  

393 
233 

.  168 

Canticle  of  Love  The  

..  230 

Judicium  Paridis  

.  223 
394 

211 

Kin**1  Hermandiaz 

390 

Castle  of  Kin"  Macbeth  The. 

234 

Chain  to  Wear,  A  

181 

King  Limos  

234 

179 

King  Solomon  

242 

394 

Last  Message,  The  

184 

Chess-Board,  The  

203 

Cloud  The                          

169 

Last  Remonstrance,  The. 

..204 
.  214 
402 

CLYTEMNESTRA 

267 

Last  Time  that  I  met  Lady  Ruth,  The  .  . 
Last  Words 

207 

Condemned  Ones                   

176 

Leoline  

388 

Contraband 

391 

Leafless  Hours 

222 

243 

Letter  to  Cordelia  A 

246 

Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi      

182 

Love-Letter,  A  

173 

t)eath-in-Life 

234 

LUCILE  
Madame  la  Marquise  

7 
.  190 

Death  of  King  Hacon,  The  

210 

Desire                   .                 

164 

Magic  Land,  The  

164 

Dream  A 

241 

Macomicros, 

226 

Earl's  Return  The  

..  343 

Matrimonial  Counsels  

.  215 

"  Medio  de  Font  Leporum.  "  

.  210 

Elayne  Le  Blanc 

380 

Meeting  Again.   

375 

Elizabetta  Sirani 

..  399 

The  Mermaiden 

376 

Epilogue 
Part      I  

257 

Metempsichosis 

235 

Midges,  

213 

Part    II..                          

258 

MINOR  POEMS  

369 

Part  III. 

261 

Misanthropes 

247 

Eros 

167 

Morning  and  Meeting 

168 

249 

Mystery 

227 

Evening     .  .                         

391 

Nfmii?H  .. 

221 

Evening  in  Tuscany  An 

376 

408 


INDEX. 


The  Neglected  Heart 

News 

Night 

Night  in  the  Fisherman's  Hut  :  A 
Part  1.     The  Fisherman's  Daughter 
"    II.     The  Legend  of  Lord  Ros- 

encrantz 

"III.     Daybreak 

'  IV.     Breakfast 

Novel,  The 

North  Sea,  The 

On  my  Twenty -fourth  Year 

On  the  Sea 

Once , 

Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guenevere  The 

The  Prophet 

The  Portrait 

Prayer,  A 

"  Presus  in  ^Egaeo  " 

Progress 

Prophet,  The 

Psalm  of  Confession,  A 


385    Spring  and  Winter. 

385  |  Storm,  The 

398 


253 


Queen  Guenevere . . . 
Quiet  Moment,  A... 

Remembrance,  A... 

Requiescat. 

Retrospections 

Root  and  Leaf 

Ruined  Palace,  The. 


Seaside  Songs.    I. 
II. 

See-saw 

Shore,  The 

Silence 

Since 

Small  People 

Song 

Song 

Song 

Song 

Sorcery 

Soul's  Loss,  A 

Soul's  Science,  The. . . 


256 
386 
169 
386 

379 
379 
215 
235 
181 
172 
232 
203 
378 
390 
398 
205 
356 
253 


: 389 

177 

Summer-Time  that  was,  The  379 

Sunset  Fancy,  A 374 

Swallow,  The 391 

TANNHAUSER 266 

Terra  Incognita, jgg 

To 384 

To  Cordelia 245 

To  Mignonne 206 

To  the  Queen  of  Serpents 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETER  RON- 
SARD. 
"Void   le  Boii  que  ma  Saincte  An- 

gelctte  " 207 

"  Cache  pour  cette  Nuict  " 208 

"  Les  Espices  sont  a  Ceres  " 208 

' '  Ma  Douce  Jouvence  " 208 

"Page  suy  Moy  " 208 

Vampire,  The 179 

Venice 184 

Vision 166 

Voice  Across  My  Spirit  Falls,  Thy 386 

Vision  of  Virgins,    A 387 

WANDERER,  THE. 

Dedication.     To  J.  F 153 

Prologue. 

Part      1 154 

Part    II 159 

Part  III 160 

Book    I.     In  Italy 164 

Book  II.     In  France. 


Book  III.     In  England 
Book  IV,     T     "    ' '      ' 
Book   V. 
Book  VI. 
Epilogue 
Part    I 


209 

In  Switzerland 219 

In  Holland 222 

Palingenesis 249 

257 

Part  II 258 

PartHI , 261 

Want 392 

Warnings 392 

Wealth 392 

The  Wife's  Tragedy 361 

"Ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth  which  was 

crucified"...                                         ..  244 


THE  END. 


PR  4950  .E80  SMC 

Lytton,  Edward  Robert  Bulwer 


me  poetical  works  of  Owen 
Household  ed.  -- 


Meredith