XIX.
If ever your feet, like my own,O reader, have traversed these mountains alone,Have you felt your identity shrink and contractAt the sound of the distant and dim cataract,In the presence of nature's immensities? Say,Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray,And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd,Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heaped over fold,Track'd the summits from which every step that you treadRolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bedOf invisible waters, whose mistical soundFills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound?And, laboring onwards, at last through a breakIn 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 swell'dAt the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soilOf this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil;And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height,To have conquer'd a claim of that wonderful sight.
XX.
Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo!Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow;For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their wings,And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy springs.What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse?When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair France,Did the Spirit of Ill, in his downthrow appalling,Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while falling?Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster unnamedThe base of thy mountainous pedestal framed?And later, when Power to Beauty was wed,Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bedWith the fragile valerian and wild columbine?
XXI.
But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine;For once gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul,All that secret! I saw in a vision the wholeVast design of the ages; what was and shall be!Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mysteryFor one moment. I saw, and I heard; and my heartBore witness within me to infinite art,In infinite power proving infinite love;Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread pageant move—The divine Whence and Whither of life! But, O daughterOf Oo, not more safe in the deep silent waterIs 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 coursesTheir slow-sliding lamps, when, remounting their horses,The riders retraversed that mighty serrationOf rock-work. Thus left to its own desolation,The lake, from whose glimmering limits the lastTransient pomp of the pageants of sunset had pass'd,Drew into its bosom the darkness, and onlyAdmitted within it one image—a lonelyAnd tremulous phantom of flickering lightThat follow'd the mystical moon through the night.
XXIII.
It was late when o'er Luchon at last they descended.To her chalet, in silence, Lord Alfred attendedLucile. As they parted, she whispered him low,"You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I knowAll the worth of, believe me. I cannot replyWithout time for reflection. Good night!—not good by.""Alas! 'tis the very same answer you madeTo the Duc 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. AbideMy answer to-morrow."
XXIV.
Alas, Cousin Jack!You Cassandra in breeches and boots! turn your backTo the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for gloryAmongst thine own people.I follow my story.
I.
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 conceived,Had we really achieved what we nearly 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 manIs the part which he never hath fully play'd out:For the first and last word in life's volume is—Doubt.The face of the most fair to our vision allow'dIs the face we encounter and lose in the crowd.The thought that most thrills our existence is oneWhich, before we can frame it in language, is gone.O 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 that must not, if question'd, say......"WhatI would have remain'd or become, I am not"?We are ever behind, or beyond, or besideOur intrinsic existence. Forever at hideAnd seek with our souls. Not in Hades aloneDoth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone,Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve.Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give.Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath beenJust about to be happy, at some time, I ween;And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance,But what once in his life, some minute circumstanceWould have fully sufficed to secure him the blissWhich, missing it then, he forever must miss.And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave,Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have;But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate,The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late.The Future's great veil our breath fitfully 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 beaker I dip,Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wineSpilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine,O being of beauty and bliss! seen and knownIn the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone!My days know 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 recordedIn my annals on earth. This alone was affordedTo the man whom men know 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 coralline halls,'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals;At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies; for whomThe almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom)—Thou abidest and reignest forever, O QueenOf that better world which thou swayest 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—belov'd, 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 worldCannot take thee away from me now. I have furl'dThe wings of my spirit above thy bright head;At thy feet are my soul's immortalities 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, surviveth these things,If our real existence have truly its springsLess 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 beaker I dip,While there's life on the lip, while there's warmth in the wine,One deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine!
II.
This world, on whose peaceable breast we reposeUnconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throesOf a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry,And in fiery fusion commix'd earth and sky.Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to goThe round of its orbit in peace, long ago.The wind changeth and whirleth continually:All the rivers run down and run into the sea:The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd:All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fill'd:The sun goeth forth from his chambers; the sunAriseth, and lo! he descendeth anon.All returns to its place. Use and Habit are powersFar stronger than Passion, in this world of ours.The great laws of life readjust their infraction,And to every emotion appoint a reaction.
III.
Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile,To review the rash step he had taken, and feelWhat the world would have call'd "his erroneous position."Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recognition:Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn outOn the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt,Sends us in his account for the garment we bought.Ev'ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought.
IV.
He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feelLittle 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 deem'd himself loved, where he loved,Through his mind a vague self-accusation there moved.O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would riseThe infantine face of Matilda, with eyesSo sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind,That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he findA 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 involvedAll its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved.'Twere a false sense of honor in me to suppressThe sad truth which I owe it to her to confess.And what reason have I to presume this poor lifeOf my own, with its languid and frivolous strife,And without what alone might endear it to her,Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer,Its withdrawal can wrong her?It is not as thoughI were bound to some poor village maiden, I know,Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth,Or to whose simple fortunes mine own could give worth.Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not missAught that I could procure her. 'Tis best as it is!"
V.
In vain did he say to himself, "When I cameTo this fatal spot, I had nothing to blameOr reproach myself for, in the thoughts of my heart.I could not foresee that its pulses would startInto such strange emotion on seeing once moreA woman I left with indifference before.I believed, and with honest conviction believed,In my love for Matilda. I never conceivedThat another could shake it. I deem'd I had doneWith the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully onTo the soberer manhood, the worthier life,Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my wife.Poor child! she shall learn the whole truth. She shall knowWhat 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 missWhen once we have parted. 'Tis best as it is!"
VI.
But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas!He yet felt unconvinced that 'TWAS best as it was.Out of reach of all reason, forever would riseThat infantine face of Matilda, with eyesSo sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind,That they harrow'd his heart and distracted his mind.
VII.
And then, when he turned from these thoughts to Lucile,Though his heart rose enraptured he could not but feelA vague sense of awe of her nature. BehindAll the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind,Which he saw and revered in her, something unknownAnd unseen in that nature still troubled his own.He felt that Lucile penetrated and prizedWhatever was noblest and best, though disguised,In himself; but he did not feel sure that he knew,Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from view,Remained lofty and lonely in HER.Then, her life,So untamed and so free! would she yield as a wifeIndependence, long claimed as a woman? Her nameSo link'd by the world with that spurious fameWhich the beauty and wit of a woman assert,In some measure, alas! to her own loss and hurtIn the serious thoughts of a man!... This reflectionO'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection,From which he forever escaped to the thoughtDoubt could reach not... "I love her, and all else is naught!"
VIII.
His hand trembled strangely in breaking the sealOf the letter which reach'd him at last from Lucile.At the sight of the very first words that he read,That letter dropp'd down from his hand like the deadLeaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and bareA desolate tree in a wide wintry air.He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes,Bewilder'd, incredulous. Angry surpriseAnd dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. AnonHe picked up the page, and read rapidly on.
IX.
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE:"No, Alfred!If over the present, when lastWe 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 againMine one moment has clasp'd as the hand of a brother,That hand and your honor are pledged to another!Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yetFor that moment (now past!) I have made you forgetWhat was due to yourself and that other one. Yes,Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance. Not less,In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, too,I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it."True,That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought,I alone! But oh! deem not it was with the thoughtOf your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken.No! believe me, it was with the firm and unshakenConviction, at least, that our meeting would beWithout peril to YOU, although haply to meThe salvation of all my existence."I own,When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly made knownTo the world your engagement, my heart and my mindSuffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to findThat so much of the life of my life, half unknownTo myself, had been silently settled on oneUpon whom but to think it would soon be a crime.Then I said to myself, 'From the thraldom which timeHath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of escape.That image which Fancy seems ever to shapeFrom 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 loneVoid of life, is the young hero born of my ownPerish'd youth: and his image, serene and sublimeIn my heart rests unconscious of change and of time,Could I see it but once more, as time and as changeHave made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange,See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youthIs no more, and what rests now is only, in truth,The hard pupil of life and the world: then, oh, then,I should wake from a dream, and my life be againReconciled to the world; and, released from regret,Take the lot fate accords to my choice.'"So we met.But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd:The danger, alas, to yourself! I have err'd.But happy for both that this error hath beenDiscover'd as soon as the danger was seen!We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed,Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read.My course is decided; my path I discern:Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now."Return,O return to the young living love! Whence, alas!If, one moment, you wander'd, think only it wasMore deeply to bury the past love."And, oh!Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I goOn my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoiceTo treasure in memory all that your voiceHas avow'd to me, all in which others have clothedTo my fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed!In the fair morning light, in the orient dewOf that young life, now yours, can you fail to renewAll 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 blissI foresee for you, I shall be happy. And thisProves me worthy your friendship. And so—let it proveThat I cannot—I do not respond to your love.Yes, indeed! be convinced that I could not (no, no,Never, never!) have render'd you happy. And so,Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have plighted,You would have endured, when the first brief, excitedEmotion was o'er, not alone the remorseOf 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 parted ten yearsEre this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears!)Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which thenPlaced 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 lifeIts 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 shock'dYour respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd,Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all thoseSocial creeds which you live by."Oh! do not supposeThat I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are right.Best, then, all as it is!"Deem these words life's Good-nightTo the hope of a moment: no more! If there fellAny tear on this page, 'twas a friend's."So farewellTo the past—and to you, Alfred Vargrave."LUCILE."
X.
So ended that letter.The room seem'd to reelRound and round in the mist that was scorching his eyesWith a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise,Half chocked him; each word he had read, as it smoteDown some hope, rose and grasped like a hand at his throat,To stifle and strangle him.Gasping alreadyFor relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady,He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both oppress'dAnd excited. The letter he thrust in his breast,And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'dThe long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at lastReach'd 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 ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat downOn a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle,And read over again that perplexing epistle.
XI.
In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mindThe raw mist of resentment which first made him blindTo the pathos breath'd through it. Tears rose in his eyes,And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seem'd to rise.The truth which he saw not the first time he readThat letter, he now saw—that each word betray'dThe 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 beFree erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell,And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to tellThe truth to Matilda, and she were the firstTo release him: he had but to wait at the worst.Matilda's relations would probably snatchAny pretext, with pleasure, to break off a matchIn which they had yielded, alone at the whimOf their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him.She herself, careless child! was her love for him aughtSave the first joyous fancy succeeding the thoughtShe last gave to her doll? was she able to feelSuch a love as the love he divined in Lucile?He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh! thenHe had but to fly to Lucile, and againClaim 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 beforeHe could say, "I am free! free, Lucile, to imploreThat great blessing on life you alone can confer,"'Twere dishonor in him, 'twould be insult to her.Thus still with the letter outspread on his kneeHe follow'd so fondly his own revery,That he felt not the angry regard of a manFix'd upon him; he saw not a face stern and wanTurn'd towards him; he heard not a footstep that pass'dAnd repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at lastA hoarse voice aroused him.He look'd up and saw,On the bare heath before him, the Duc de Luvois.
XII.
With aggressive ironical tones, and a lookOf concentrated insolent challenge, the DukeAddress'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusionTo "the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusionHad, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do better,He fancied, however, to fold up a letterThe writing of which was too well known, in fact,His remark as he pass'd to have failed to attract."
XIII.
It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bentUpon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 'twas meantFrom HIM to provoke it by sneers such as these.A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seizeThe position. He felt that he could not exposeHis own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to thoseIdle tongues that would bring down upon him the banOf the world, if he now were to fight with this man.And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard face,He was pain'd by the change there he could not but trace.And he almost felt pity.He therefore put byEach remark from the Duke with some careless reply,And coldly, but courteously, waving awayThe ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display,Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside.
XIV.
Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one strideIn advance, raised a hand, fix'd 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 soUpon any excuse. I prefer to be frank.I admit not a rival in fortune or rankTo the hand of a woman, whatever be hersOr her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers.I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the rightTo believe, that she would have been mine. To her sightYou return, and the woman is suddenly changed.You step in between us: her heart is estranged.You! who now are betrothed to another, I know:You! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years agoWas coupled by ties which you broke: you! the manI reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began.You! that left her so lightly,—I cannot believeThat you love, as I love, her; nor can I conceiveYou, 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 plainThat to settle this contest there can but remainOne way—need I say what it is?"
XV.
Not unmovedWith regretful respect for the earnestness provedBy the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave repliedIn words which he trusted might yet turn asideThe quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain,And, with stately urbanity, strove to explainTo the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst!)Had not been accepted.
XVI.
"Accepted! say firstAre you free to have offer'd?"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 cannot deny'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal,And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall,That you stepp'd 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 gall'd and impatient. This toneRoused a strong irritation he could not repress."You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still lessThe power, to make terms and conditions with me.I refuse to reply."
XVIII.
As diviners may seeFates they cannot avert in some figure occult,He foresaw in a moment each evil resultOf the quarrel now imminent.There, face to face,'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd 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 ridgeOf that perilous, narrow, invisible bridgeDividing the Past from the Future, so smallThat if one should pass over, the other must fall.
XIX.
On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof,Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roofOf the forest in view, where the skirts of it vergedOn the heath where they stood, at full gallop emergedA horseman.A guide he appear'd, by the sashOf red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lashWith a short wooden handle, slung crosswise behindThe short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, confinedBy the long boots; the woollen capote; and the rein,A mere hempen cord on a curb.Up the plainHe wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank,Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank,And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote,Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note.
XX.
The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gestOf apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'dHimself of the letter, changed color, and toreThe page open and read.Ere a moment was o'erHis whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes,And a smile to his lips. While with startled surpriseLord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd 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 engagedBy aught that could sanction resentment. He saidNot a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and read...THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUC DE LUVOIS.
"SAINT SAVIOUR."Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stayTill I see you again. With no moment's delayI entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feelOr profess, to come to me directly."LUCILE."
XXII.
"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 bow'd;Placed the note in his bosom; address'd, half aloud,A few words to the messenger,... "Say your despatchWill be answer'd ere nightfall;" then glanced at his watch,And turn'd back to the Baths.
XXIII.
Alfred Vargrave stood still,Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will.He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him.And read over her words; rising tears made them dim:"Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now," they said."My course is decided." Her course? what! to wedWith this insolent rival! With that thought there shotThrough his heart an acute jealous anguish. But notEven thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuseThose strange words to the Duke. She was free to refuseHimself, free the Duke to accept, it was true:Even then, though, this eager and strange rendezvous,How imprudent! To some unfrequented lone inn,And so late (for the night was about to begin)—She, companionless there!—had she bidden that man?A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ranThrough his heart.
XXIV.
At that moment he look'd up, and saw,Riding fast through the forest, the Duc de Luvois,Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight.The day was descending. He felt 'twould be nightEre that man reached Saint Saviour.
XXV.
He walk'd on, but notBack toward Luchon: he walk'd on, but knew not in whatDirection, nor yet with what object, indeed,He was walking, but still he walk'd on without heed.
XXVI.
The day had been sullen; but, towards his decline,The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine.Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back,The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black.The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven floorHad suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore,The sight of that refuge where back to its GodHow many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod,Had borne from the world all the same wild unrestThat now prey'd on his own!
XXVII.
By the thoughts in his breastWith varying impulse divided and torn,He traversed the scant heath, and reach'd the forlornAutumn woodland, in which but a short while agoHe had seen the Duke rapidly enter; and soHe too enter'd. The light waned around him, and pass'dInto darkness. The wrathful, red Occident castOne glare of vindictive inquiry behind,As the last light of day from the high wood declined,And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam,And far off on the stillness the voice of the streamFell faintly.
XXVIII.
O Nature, how fair is thy face,And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy grace!Thou false mistress of man! thou dost sport with him lightlyIn his hours of ease and enjoyment; and brightlyDost thou smile to his smile; to his joys thou inclinest,But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor divinest.While he woos, thou art wanton; thou lettest him love thee;But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot move thee;And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost thou?All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow,And thou laughest and toyest with any new comer,Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer!Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart underThat fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder!For all those—the young, and the fair, and the strong,Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and long,And who now on thy bosom lie dead? and their deedsAnd their days are forgotten! O hast thou no weedsAnd not one year of mourning,—one out of the manyThat deck thy new bridals forever,—nor anyRegrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new,O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to!If the sea and the night wind know aught of these things,They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings.
I.
"The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase,And eldrich, and eerie, and strange is the place!The castle betokens a date long gone by.He crosses the courtyard with curious eye:He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yetFrom strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set;And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and lessLike aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress,Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise,Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes;Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall:The spell of a wizard is over it all.In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleepingThe sleep which for centuries she has been keeping.If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some loverWhose lost golden locks the long grasses now cover:If she moan in her dream, it must be to deploreSome grief which the world cares to hear of no more.But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her cheek!And how sweet must that voice be, if once she would speak!He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he!)The clew to unravel this old mystery?And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall,The mute men in armor around him, and allThe weird figures frown, as though striving to say,'Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of Today!And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breastTo a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'dBy an Age not thine own!'"But unconscious is he,And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to seeAught but ONE form before him!"Rash, wild words are o'er,And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore!And the gray morning sees, as it drearily movesO'er a land long deserted, a madman that rovesThrough a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream.Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the schemeOf man's waking existence, he wanders 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 the old, heard with smiles by the young.And the tale to each heart unto which it is knownHas a different sense. It has puzzled my own.
II.
Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in partFrom strong physical health, and that vigor of heartWhich physical health gives, and partly, perchance,From a generous vanity native to France,With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry,Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarryOr turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles:But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles,No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the windIts pleasure pursues with impetuous mind.Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had beenMen of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seenFloating faint in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood,Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursuedWith impetuous passion, seemed semi-Satanic.Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; in panicYou watch them whirl'd down by the torrent.In truth,To the sacred political creed of his youthThe century which he was born to deniedAll realization. Its generous prideTo degenerate protest on all things was sunk;Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk.Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod,Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god,And his pastime his purpose.From boyhood possess'dOf inherited wealth, he had learned to investBoth his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cageWhich penury locks, in each vice of an ageAll the virtues of which, by the creed he revered,Were to him illegitimate.Thus, he appear'dTo the world what the world chose to have him appear,—The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mereReformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will,That found for the first time—perhaps 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 join'dThe terror of missing his life's destination,Which in her had its mystical representation.