XV.
He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stoodBut a moment before, and where now roll'd the floodOf the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold,In the young light of sunrise, an image unfoldOf his own youth,—its ardors—its promise of fame—Its ancestral ambition; and France by the nameOf his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light,That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and brightAnd Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to beBrilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein heHad once dwelt, a native!There, rooted and boundTo the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! AroundThe rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shoneTranscendent, that type of a youth that was gone;And he—as the body may yearn for the soul,So he yearn'd to embody that image. His wholeHeart 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 regainThe true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE.As the stream to its first mountain levels, elateIn the fountain arises, the spirit in himArose to that image. The image waned dimInto heaven; and heavenward with it, to meltAs it melted, in day's broad expansion, he feltWith a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense—awed, amazed—Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.
I.
Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rendOr resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend,By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocksThat have shatter'd 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 spreadTo 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 rushOn 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,On the menacing edge of a fiery sky,Grim Doorga, blue-limb'd and red-handed, go by,And the first thing he worships is Terror.Anon,Still impell'd 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 poisonous soul;Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll!On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides high onThe heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion:And man, conquering terror, is worshipp'd by man.A camp has the world been since first it began!From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian; at peace,A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece;But, warring his way through a world's destinies,Lo from Delhi, from Bagdadt, from Cordova, riseDomes of empiry, dower'd with science and art,Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart!New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. But thoseForthwith 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 toil'd and striven;And many have striven, and many have fail'd,And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd,But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted his placeAnd dominion, behold! he is brought face to faceWith a new foe—himself!Nor may man on his shieldEver rest, for his foe is ever afield,Danger ever at hand, till the armed ArchangelSound 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 meOne strain, sad and stern, of that deep EpopeeWhich thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time,Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublimeIn 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, unfoldThe shrill clanging curtains of war!And beholdA 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 Cheronese;And the two foes of man, War and Winter, alliedRound the Armies of England and France, side by sideEnduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast!)Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the East.
III.
Since that sunrise which rose through the calm linden stemsO'er Lucile and Eugene, in the garden of Ems,Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun,This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone,And the fates that I sing of have flowed with the fatesOf a world, in the red wake of war, round the gatesOf that doom'd and heroical city, in which(Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the ditch!),At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear,Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in his lair.
IV.
A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire,Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to one gory mire!There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid 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 oneDouble-bodied, two-headed—by separate waysWinding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each day'sSullen toil adding size to,—concentrated, solid,Indefatigable—the brass-fronted, embodied,And audible [Greek text omitted] gone sombrely forthTo the world from that Autocrat Will of the north!
V.
In the dawn of a moody October, a paleGhostly motionless vapor began to prevailOver city and camp; like the garment of deathWhich (is formed by) the face it conceals.'Twas the breathWar, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire;Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of red fire,And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellowHoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the yellowAnd sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and rock'dAnd roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'dWith fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rainOf red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plainFlared with fitful combustion; where fitfully fellAfar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle,And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloomWith wings of swift flame round that City of Doom.
VI.
So the day—so the night! 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 hailsShot and shell—link by link, out of hardship and pain,Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chainOf those terrible siege-lines!No change to that toilSave the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil.Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd,And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'dBy man or by nature.
VII.
Time passes. The dumb,Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November 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 bramble is gory,And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story.
VIII.
The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the campNo sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp,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 tentLies a young British soldier whose sword...In this place,However, my Muse is compell'd to retraceHer precipitous steps and revert to the past.The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at lastAlfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature,Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and statureThe real man, conceal'd till that moment beneathAll he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheathWhich a man in his wrath flings aside, even soLeaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow.And thus loss of fortune gave value to life.The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife,In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate,Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state,But large their possessions.Sir Ridley, forgivenBy those he unwittingly brought nearer heavenBy one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speechThe hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reachOf the law, died abroad.Cousin John, heart and hand,Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his standBy Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friendOf the home he both shared and assured, to the end,With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhileFaced 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,Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began(Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man),After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor,Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize everMore clear on the broad stream of current opinionThe reflex of powers in himself—that dominionWhich the life of one man, if his life be a truth,May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youthIn his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he wonWorking only for home, love, and duty.One sonMatilda 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 comrades, just glancedDown the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chancedThat a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloomOf his joyous and generous years, and the gloomOf 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 ownDeep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make knownThe 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,From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war,Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the starWhence others sought glory. Thus fighting, he fellOn the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tellBy what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borneTo 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,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 changeless as death,Lay ensheath'd: 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 renewAll that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love,Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move,Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine.Whence or howLove laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.
X.
Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night?A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain,Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain,To and fro, up and down.But it is not the windThat is lifting it now: and it is not the mindThat hath moulded that vision.A pale woman enters,As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentersIts dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmerThere, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer,The sufferer sees that still form floating on,And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.She is flitting before him. She pauses. She standsBy his bedside all silent. She lays her white handsOn the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressingSoftly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressingSlips from them. A comforting quietude stealsThrough the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feelsThe slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood.Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hoodOf 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 minist'ring careMeanwhile has been silently changing and cheeringThe aspect of all things around him.ReveringSome power unknown, and benignant, he bless'dIn silence the sense of salvation. And restHaving loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintlySigh'd... "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintlyAnd minist'ring spirit!"A whisper sereneSlid, softer than silence... "The Soeur Seraphine,A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquireAught 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: 'Tis more braveTo live than to die. Sleep!"He sleeps: he is sleeping.
XII.
He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steepingThe 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 returningSlowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp yet burning,Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.He said,"If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healingOf that balmy voice; if it may be, revealingThy mission of mercy; whence art thou?""O sonOf Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! OneWho 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 meOf this ministration; to them, and to thee,Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocationIs 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 smoothThe hot pillow; and added... "Yet more than anotherIs thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,I know them—I know them.""Oh, can it be? you!My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,'You know them?"She bowed, half averting her headIn silence.He brokenly, timidly said,"Do they know I am thus?""Hush!"... she smiled, as she drewFrom her bosom two letters: and—can it be true?That beloved and familiar writing!He burstInto tears... "My poor mother—my father! the worstWill have reach'd them!""No, no!" she exclaimed, with a smile,"They know you are living; they know that meanwhileI am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!"But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hotFever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.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 follow'd day. And, as wave follow'd wave,With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, draveThrough that young hardy frame novel currents of health.Yet some strange obstruction, which life's health by stealthSeemed to cherish, impeded life's progress. And stillA feebleness, less of the frame than the will,Clung about the sick man—hid and harbor'd withinThe sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale and thin:And clothed the wan fingers with languor.And there,Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care,Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien,And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine!
XIV.
A strange woman truly! not young; yet her face,Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the traceOf a beauty which time could not ruin. For the wholeQuiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, the soulSeemed to fill with its own light, like some sunny fountainEverlastingly fed from far off in the mountainThat pours, in a garden deserted, its streams,And all the more lovely for loneliness seems.So that, watching that face, you could scarce pause to guessThe years which its calm careworn lines might express,Feeling only what suffering with these must have pastTo 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 ownLaid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender toneOf her voice moved the silence.She said... "I have heal'dThese wounds of the body. Why hast thou conceal'd,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 spotFrom which every nerve derives suffering."What?Lies my heart, then, so bare?" he moaned bitterly."Nay,"With compassionate accents she hastened to say,"Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, young man,So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scanHer features, yet know them not?"Oh, was it spoken,'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the broken!'Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, done,When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone?Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold?Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that we holdTo fulfil it, of Heaven! For Heaven doth stillTo us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skillWon from long intercourse with affliction, and artHelp'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart.Trust to me!" (His two feeble hands in her ownShe drew gently.) "Trust to me!" (she said, with soft tone):"I am not so dead in remembrance to allI have died to in this world, but what I recallEnough of its sorrow, enough of its trial,To grieve for both—save from both haply! The dialReceives many shades, and each points to the sun.The shadows are many, the sunlight is one.Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does not.And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot.Looking up to this light, which is common to all,And down to these shadows, on each side, that fallIn time's silent circle, so various for each,Is it nothing to know that they never can reachSo far, but what light lies beyond them forever?Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavorTo trace the shade creeping across the young lifeWhich, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strifeWith the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith alone,That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun.Trust to me!"She paused: he was weeping. Small needOf added appeal, or entreaty, indeed,Had those gentle accents to win from his paleAnd parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief taleOf 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 PeaceWas driven from Europe, a young girl—the nieceOf a French noble, leaving an old Norman pileBy the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a whileWith a lady allied to her race—an old dameOf a threefold legitimate virtue, and name,In the Faubourg Saint Germain.Upon that fair child,From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled.One uncle their place in her life had supplied,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 wardSeem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heartOf that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impartOne ray of response to the eyes which, aboveHer fair infant forehead, look'd down with a loveThat seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chillLofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hillWhich is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere.Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bareIn that ancient mansion; when first the stern treadOf its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead:Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother),Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate motherHad placed on his bosom. 'Twas said—right or wrong—That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long,To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd,In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'dThe light of wild orgies. Be that false or true,Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd throughThose desolate chambers; and calm and severeWas the life of their inmate.Men now saw appearEvery morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face,Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron caseTears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were,His severity seem'd to be trebly severeIn 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 seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to standA lone, and unloved, and unlovable man.There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the planOf his life, that love fail'd to pass over.That childAlone did not fear him, nor shrink from him; smiledTo his frown, and dispell'd it.The sweet sportive elfSeem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, in himself.Ever welcome he suffer'd her glad face to glideIn on hours when to others his door was denied:And many a time with a mute moody lookHe would watch her at prattle and play, like a brookWhose babble disturbs not the quietest spot,But soothes us because we need answer it not.But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood beforeA change came among them. A letter, which boreSudden consequence with it, one morning was placedIn the hands of the lord of the chateau. He pacedTo and fro in his chamber a whole night aloneAfter reading that letter. At dawn he was gone.Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he return'dWith a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the child learn'dThat they were of the same race and name. With a faceSad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the raceHe confided the orphan, and left them aloneIn the old lonely house.In a few days 'twas known,To the angry surprise of half Paris, that oneOf the chiefs of that party which, still clinging onTo the banner that bears the white lilies of France,Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chanceOf restoring their own, had renounced the watchwordAnd the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword,For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate!)By legitimate parents.And meanwhile, elateAnd in no wise disturbed by what Paris might say,The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away:—"To the life of inaction farewell! After all,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 lanceOf the Arab to follow! I go! vive la France!"Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as years fled,'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women ledLone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child grewInto girlhood; and, like a sunbeam, sliding throughHer green quiet years, changed by gentle degreesTo the loveliest vision of youth a youth seesIn his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl,And as perfect: a noble and innocent girl,With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the lightOf her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright!Then her guardian wrote to the dame,... "Let ConstanceGo with you to Paris. I trust that in FranceI may be ere the close of the year. I confideMy life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side,The world which we live in."To Paris then cameConstance to abide with that old stately dameIn that old stately Faubourg.The young EnglishmanThus met her. 'Twas there their acquaintance began,There it closed. That old miracle, Love-at-first-sight,Needs no explanations. The heart reads arightIts destiny sometimes. His love neither chiddenNor check'd, the young soldier was graciously biddenAn habitual guest to that house by the dame.His own candid graces, the world-honor'd nameOf his father (in him not dishonor'd) were bothFair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath,The old lady observed, was return'd by Constance.And as the child's uncle his absence from FranceYet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratulation)Wrote to him a lengthen'd and moving narrationOf 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 clearLimpid eyes; then the pleasure with which she awaitedHer cousin's approval of all she had stated.At length from that cousin an answer there came,Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame."Let Constance leave Paris with you on the dayYou receive this. Until my return she may stayAt her convent awhile. If my niece wishes everTo behold me again, understand, she will neverWed that man."You have broken faith with me. Farewell!"No appeal from that sentence.It needs not to tellThe 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 faceOf a life where invisible hands seemed to traceO'er the threshold these words... "Hope no more!"Unreturn'dHad his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'dThat weakness which suffers a woman to lieAt the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dryAnd wither the sap of life's purpose. But thereLay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dareTo forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone?Recording a love that drew sorrow uponThe woman he loved, for himself dare he seekSurcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak,Beat him down, and destroy'd him?News reach'd him indeed,Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to readFrom the dame who had care of Constance (it was oneTo whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known,A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which saidThat Constance, although never a murmur betray'dWhat she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day,And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away.It was then he sought death.
XVII.
Thus the tale ends. 'Twas toldWith such broken, passionate words, as unfoldIn glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pauseOf its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws,The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof,And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roofAt intervals wirbled. And when all was said,The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head,And fell into a feverish slumber.Long whileSat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smileThat was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her faceAnd made it like heaven, was fled from its placeIn her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness thereSeem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care,As low to herself she sigh'd..."Hath it, Eugene,Been so long, then, the struggle?... and yet, all in vain!Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man,And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can?Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so!And then—soul of mine, whither? whither?"
XVIII.
Large, slow,Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell."HERE, at least, I have fail'd 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 heartWhich hath never since then (thrice endear'd 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 follow'd, from Alfred, a fewBlotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew,With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth,So unlike his own; how in beauty and truthHe had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave!And how he had striven his son's youth to saveFrom the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own,And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son,In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'dTo be bless'd by a pledge that the past was redeem'd,And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speakOf the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to breakUnawares on his dreams with retributive pain,And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back againThe hopes of the future. To sue for consentPride forbade: and the hope his old foe might relentExperience rejected... "My life for the boy's!"(He exclaim'd); "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!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine... "heart to heart!THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part?Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole.Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then!... Soul to soul!"She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on,Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone.
XX.Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bentO'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tentThere sits a French General—bronzed by the sunAnd sear'd by the sands of Algeria. OneWho forth from the wars of the wild KabyleeHad strangely and rapidly risen to beThe idol, the darling, the dream and the starOf the younger French chivalry: daring in war,And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed,Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed)The Army of France: and had risen, in partFrom a singular aptitude proved for the artOf that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise,And stratagem, which to the French camp suppliesIts subtlest intelligence; partly from chance;Partly, too, from a name and position which FranceWas proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact,From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act,In frequent emergencies startlingly shown,To the rank which he now held,—intrepidly wonWith many a wound, trench'd in many a scar,From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar.
XXI.
All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bearSmiling token of provident order and care.All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery standsIn 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 messengers go,Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil:To report how the sapper contends with the soilIn the terrible trench, how the sick man is faringIn the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing,Constructing, within moves the brain of one man,Moving all.He is bending his brow o'er some planFor the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane.The officer standing behind him is fainTo refer to the angel solicitous caresOf the Sisters of Charity: one he declaresTo be known through the camp as a seraph of grace;He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each placeWhere suffering is seen, silent, active—the Soeur...Soeur... how do they call her?"Ay, truly, of herI have heard much," the General, musing, replies;"And we owe her already (unless rumor lies)The lives of not few of our bravest. You meanAh, 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 wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace,In some facts traced to her, something more than the graceOf 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 permissionTo tend some sick man in the Second DivisionOf our Ally; they say a relation.""Ay, so?A relation?""'Tis said so.""The name do you know?"Non, mon General."While they spoke yet, there wentA murmur and stir round the door of the tent."A Sister of Charity craves, in a caseOf urgent and serious importance, the graceOf brief private speech with the General there.Will the General speak with her?""Bid her declareHer mission.""She will not. She craves to be seenAnd be heard.""Well, her name, then?""The Soeur Seraphine.""Clear the tent. She may enter."
XXII.
The tent has been clear'd,The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard,A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his browOn his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, nowUnwitness'd, 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, unrepress'd,Steals th' impatient sigh which reveals in man's breastA conflict conceal'd, and experience at strifeWith itself,—the vex'd heart's passing protest on life.He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light treadOf a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his head,Said, "Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well knownTo the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own.I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks;In the name of all those you have saved to our ranksI record them. Sit! Now then, your mission?"The nunPaused silent. The General eyed her anonMore keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A changeDarken'd over his features. He mutter'd "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 waitYour answer, my time halts but hurriedly. StateThe cause why you seek me.""The cause? ay, the cause!"She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause,—As one who, awaked unawares, would put backThe sleep that forever returns in the trackOf dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the lessSettle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress,Like doves to a pent-house,—a movement she made,Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd her headAnd folded her hands on her bosom: long, spare,Fatigued, mournful hands! Not a stream of stray hairEscaped the pale bands; scarce more pale than the faceWhich they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case.She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague aweO'er his sense, such as ghosts cast."Eugene de Luvois,The cause which recalls me again to your side,Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd," she replied."I come to fulfil it."He sprang from the placeWhere he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face;And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the groundThat he trod on (as one who walks fearing the soundOf his footstep may startle and scare out of sightSome strange sleeping creature on which he would 'lightUnawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand laidOn her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head,Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appealAgainst doubt: stagger'd backward, and murmur'd... "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 murmur'd, "long dead! all that lived in our lives—Thine and mine—saving that which ev'n life's self survives,The soul! 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. What may reachFrom my life to thy life (so wide each from each!)Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would speak.May I do so?"He said (work'd and white was his cheekAs he raised it), "Speak to me!"Deep, tender, serene,And sad was the gaze which the Soeur SeraphineHeld on him. She spoke.