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 tomorrow.He open'd the door, and pass'd out.Cousin JohnWatch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.
IX.
His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door,He could hear no reply from within. Yet once moreHe knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried:The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.
X.
No brighter than is that dim circlet of lightWhich enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night,The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shedRound the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bedMatilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayerThat she knew not her husband stood watching her there.With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faintAnd unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaintThe whole place with a sense of deep peace made secureBy the presence of something angelic and pure.And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tombWhere Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom.She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyesLike a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise;Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare,And over them rippled her soft golden hair;Her simple and slender white bodice unlacedConfined not one curve of her delicate waist.As the light that, from water reflected, forever,Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river,So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him,Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim.Reproducing itself in the broken and brightLapse and pulse of a million emotions.That sightBow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did,To her side through the chamber he silently slid,And knelt down beside her—and pray'd at her side.
XI.
Upstarting, she then for the first time descriedThat her husband was near her; suffused with the blushWhich came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gushWhere 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 armRound her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm.Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her faceOn his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embraceWith her soft arms wound heavily round him, as thoughShe fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go:Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsedBy sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsedIn its pressure on his, as the effort within itLived and died with each tender tumultuous minute."O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried—"Forgive me!""Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd;"But I never have blamed you for aught that I know,And I have not one thought that reproaches you now."From her arms he unwound himself gently. And soHe forced her down softly beside him. BelowThe canopy shading their couch, they sat down.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 ownThe weakness which thus to himself hath been shown?From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore,Although in his pride he might perish, beforeHe 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 darken'd hour,The sole friend that CAN have the right or the powerTo be at his side, is the woman that sharesHis fate, if he falter; the woman that bearsThe name dear for HER sake, and hallows the lifeShe has mingled her own with,—in short, that man's wife?""Yes," murmur'd Matilda, "O yes!""Then," he cried,"This chamber in which we two sit, side by side,(And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her),Is now a confessional—you, my confessor!""I?" she falter'd, 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 warm'd by her own;That another feels with her whatever she feelAnd halves her existence in woe or in weal;That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives,Live to put forth the 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 another, O say,The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away?Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come,That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?"She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on himEyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim."That woman," she murmur'd, "indeed were thrice blest!""Then courage, true wife of my heart!" to his breastAs he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried."For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wideTo your heart, can be never closed to it again,And this room is for both an asylum! For whenI pass'd through that door, at the door I left thereA 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 admits here aloneA heart which calamity leaves all your own!"She started... "Calamity, Alfred, to you?""To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it tooThe courage, I trust, to subdue it.""O speak!Speak!" she falter'd 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 skiesWhile the skies smile, and heed not each other: at last,When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast,Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings?So indeed the morn found us,—poor frivolous things!Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set,And the night brings its darkness around us. Oh yetHave we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours?Yes; you, too, have wept!"While the world was yet ours,While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us,And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us,We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be,Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I seeHow deep was my need of thee, dearest, how greatWas 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 smileWhich you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyedWith resentment, an angel's they were at your sideAnd 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 goneFrom our sight evermore."Here, this evening, alone,I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heartUnto yours,—from this clasp be it never to part!Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone,But a prize richer far than that fortune has wonIt is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize,'Tis the heart of my wife!" With suffused happy eyesShe sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart,And tenderly closing them round him, his heartClasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom; and thereDroop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd.Not despair,Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss,Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she wasOf all save the sense of her own love! Anon,However, his words rush'd back to her. "All gone,The fortune you brought me!"And eyes that were dimWith soft tears she upraised; but those tears were for HIM."Gone! my husband?" she said," tell me all! see! I need,To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed,Fuller sense of affliction.""Poor innocent child!"He kiss'd 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?And know not, I knew not myself till this hour,Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power.""And I too," she murmur'd, "I too am no moreThe mere infant at heart you have known me before.I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life.O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife,The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel!For I—love you, my husband!"As though to concealLess from him, than herself, what that motion express'd,She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast."O lovely as woman, beloved as wife!Evening star of my heart, light forever my life!If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus farYou have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star,Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven,There I see you, and know you, and bless the light givenTo lead me to life's late achievement; my own,My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!"
XII.
How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight,That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night!How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth,As she clung to his side, full of trust and of truth!How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'dHer young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'dThe glittering tresses which now shaken looseShower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!
XIII.
O Muse,Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heartTwixt 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 nightingales sung,Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung,Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was givenFrom the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven.He open'd the casement: he led her with him,Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dimLustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heardAloof, the invisible, rapturous bird,With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they sawNot unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet drawHis long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheerFrom the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphereThe mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep,Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheepOf Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknownHollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blownIntermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight,Immersed in the mountains, and put out the lightWhich no longer they needed to read on the faceOf each other life's last revelation.The placeSlept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that neverSleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavorContinued about them, unheeded, unseen,Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the greenSummer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms,And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosomsOf the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts notHis forces, how lovely soever the spotWhere their march lies—the wary, gray strategist, Time,With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd—Grief and Crime,Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing,For his great war with man, new surprises; securingAll outlets, pursuing and pushing his foeTo his last narrow refuge—the grave.
XV.
Sweetly thoughSmiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetlyTheir hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completelyConfiding in that yet untrodden existenceOver which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistanceAnd struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd deviceHung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.
I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hoursIn her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers,'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn backTo her old vacant life, on her old homeless track.She felt her heart falter within her. She satLike some poor player, gazing dejectedly atThe insignia of royalty worn for a night;Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light,And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinksOf her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinksFrom the chill of the change that awaits her.
II.From theseOppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries,Unable to sleep, she descended the stairThat led from her room to the garden.The air,With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand,Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The landLay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave:No sound, save the voice of the long river waveAnd the crickets that sing all the night!She stood still,Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir,And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look,Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book?Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and whoHath 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-reveal'd hope in the skies?Ay, question, and listen! What answer?The soundOf the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound,And the crickets that sing all the night.There are hoursWhich belong to unknown, supernatural powers,Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are allThat 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 anguish, hath pass'dBeyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last;When she traverses nature and space, till she standsIn the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands,Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd,And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.
III.
The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green starWas 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 aroundAnd about, and upon her.A dull muffled sound,And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise,And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyesOf the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn,And scorch out the darkness between them, and turnInto fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shadeOf a creature by fancy some solitude made,And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppressSome soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.
IV.
"At last, then,—at last, and alone,—I and thou,Lucile de Nevers, have we met?"Hush! I knowNot 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 hourIs come; and it holds me and thee in its power,As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well!The timidest maiden that e'er to the spellOf her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight,When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night,Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly,Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!"To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream.She appear'd 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 answer'd, "I listen to hear."For a moment he did not reply.Through the drearAnd dim light between them, she saw that his faceWas disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace,With his arms folded close, and the low restless strideOf a panther, in circles around her, first wide.Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At lastHe stood still, and one long look upon her he cast."Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face?Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst thou traceOne word of thy writing in this wicked scroll,With thine own name scrawl'd 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 turn'd him from her, renewing againThat short restless stride; as though searching in vainFor the point of some purpose within him."Lucile,You shudder to look in my face: do you feelNo reproach when you look in your own heart?""No, Duke,In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke:Not yours!" she replied."No," he mutter'd again,"Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and thenTo Despair you say, 'Act not!'"
V.
He watch'd her awhileWith a chill sort of restless and suffering smile.They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies,Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague propheciesOf the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set,And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wetWith the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'dRound about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed,"Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou—one and all!Only able to injure each other and fall,Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepareFor the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are!O heaven! and what has become of them? allThose 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... in vain!""Duke!" she falter'd."Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was notAlways thus! what I once was, I have not forgot."
VI.
As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'dThrough his voice an emotion that swept every wordInto one angry wail; as, with feverish change,He continued his monologue, fitful and strange."Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torchOf Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch!But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to theeWhose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me!Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine!Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine!My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep:And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep!Well!... how utter soever it be, one mistakeIn the love of a man, what more change need it makeIn 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 youngTo have wholly survived my own portion amongThe great needs of man's life, or exhausted 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 blowAs of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing,Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring!Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remainsAll the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plainsAnd 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 divineWhere they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!'"Vain! all vain!... For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff,I remember'd 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 stirr'd,In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even,In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven,I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres,But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears!It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking,It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking,The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold,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 saidTo 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 nightAnd moans itself mute. Through the indistinct lightA voice clear, and tender, and pure with a toneOf ineffable pity, replied to his own."And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life?Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wifeBy a fraud of the heart which could yield you aloneFor the love in your nature a lie in my own,Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse?Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse,For I then should have wrong'd you!""Wrong'd! ah, is it so?You could never have loved me?""Duke!""Never? oh, no!"(He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said)"Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you ledMy love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour,All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless powerShut up in that cold face of yours! was this well?But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hellWhich has grown in my heart. Oh, that man! first and lastHe tramples in triumph my life! he has castHis shadow 'twixt me and the sun... let it pass!My hate yet may find him!"She murmur'd, "Alas!These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply.Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall tryTo forget every word I have heard, every sightThat has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched nightWhich must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke,Never know greater cause your own heart to rebukeThan 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 mean it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head)"Forgive me! I—have I so wrong'd you, Lucile?I... have I... forgive me, forgive me!""I feelOnly sad, very sad to the soul," she said, "far,Far too sad for resentment.""Yet stand as you areOne moment," he murmur'd. "I think, could I gazeThus awhile on your face, the old innocent daysWould come back upon me, and this scorching heartFree itself in hot tears. Do not, do not departThus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink,Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think.Do not speak 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 nought.There are battles, it may be, in which to have foughtIs more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile,Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to feel—""Could I help you," she murmur'd, "but what can I sayThat your life will respond to?" "My life?" he sigh'd. "Nay,My life hath brought forth only evil, and thereThe wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet ereYou exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames,' think againWhy the field is so barren. With all other menFirst love, though it perish from life, only goesLike the primrose that falls to make way for the rose.For a man, at least most men, may love on through life:Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rifeWith labor, and therefor, with love, for a man.If one love fails, another succeeds, and the planOf man's life includes love in all objects! But I?All such loves from my life through its whole destinyFate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas!Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass!It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition?Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition.Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some greatField wherein to pursue and attain it. The State?I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to drawFrom its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of LuvoisTo defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art?But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart,Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly compress'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics: life's stressNeeds scope, not contraction! what rests? to wear outAt some dark northern court an existence, no doubt,In wretched and paltry intrigues for a causeAs hopeless as is my own life! By the lawsOf a fate I can neither control nor dispute,I am what I am!"
VIII.
For a while she was mute.Then she answer'd, "We are our own fates. Our own deedsAre our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creedsBut men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might sayThat 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 worthOur upholding, because the white lily no moreIs as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore?Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchanceJudge this matter. I am but a woman, and FranceHas for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, EugeneDe Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in pain,Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soulThat the great master hand which sweeps over the wholeOf this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretchTo shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetchIts response the truest, most stringent, and smart,Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart,Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if lessSharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to expressJust the one note the great final harmony 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!Pain must burn itself out if not fuel'd by sin.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 confinedIn cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mindWanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hearA voice heard long since, silenced many a year,And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again,Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known strain,Which brings back his boyhood upon it, untilThe mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fillWith music and memory, and, as it were,The long-troubled spirit grows slowly awareOf the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thingIt once sought,—the poor idiot who pass'd for a king,Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'dA madman more painfully mad than the rest.—So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'erHis echoing heart, seem'd in part to restoreThe forces of thought: he recaptured the wholeOf his life by the light which, in passing, her soulReflected on his: he appear'd to awakeFrom a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake:His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him:He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim,But he murmur'd..."Lucile, not for me that sun's lightWhich 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 towerDwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower.Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyesGrown familiar with ruins may yet recognizeEnough desolation."
IX.
"The pride that claims hereOn earth to itself (howsoever severeTo itself it may be) God's dread office and rightOf 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 allHis own doomsman."Her words seem'd to fallWith a weight of tears in them.He look'd up, and sawThat sad serene countenance, mournful as lawAnd tender as pity, bow'd o'er him: and heardIn 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 us. Yon day-spring for meLifts the veil of a future in which it may beWe shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me yetThe belief that it is not in vain we have met!I plead for the future. A new horoscopeI 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 manFaith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began,Men aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled farFrom the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the warWith the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and soughtNot repose, but employment in action or thought,Life's strong earnest, in all things! oh, 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 fulfilment, I pleadFor 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 kneel'd, softly, soothingly fell.All within him was wild and confused, as withinA chamber deserted in some roadside inn,Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night,To quaff and carouse; in each socket each lightIs extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wallWith wild ribald ballads; serenely o'er all,For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faintThrough the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint,Seen through some broken frame, appears noting meanwhileThe ruin all round with a sorrowful smile.And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawnOped behind her; and pure as the pure light of dawnShe stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyesFrom their sight to be melting away in the skiesThat expanded around her.
XII.
There pass'd through his headA fancy—a vision. That woman was deadHe had loved long ago—loved and lost! dead to him,Dead to all the life left him; but there, in the dimDewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas hers;And he 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 to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power,One hope to my heart. But in this parting hourI 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? Behold, in yon skies,This wild night is passing away while I speak:Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning 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 sparkOf a new light within me to solace the darkUnto which I return; or perchance it may beThe last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me.I know not. Thou goest thy way: I my own;For good or for evil, I know not. AloneThis I know; we are parting. I wish'd to say more,But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er.Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the painFor long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again.I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reproveOther 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 madden'd, delirious! I saw you returnTo him—not to me; and I felt my heart burnWith 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 not 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 partOnce again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart!"
XIII.
And again clearer far than the chime of a bell,That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell."Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for my ownSeems no more through that world in which henceforth aloneYou 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 sayThat the great moral combat between human lifeAnd each human soul must be single. The strifeNone can share, though by all its results may be known.When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone.I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore,For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore,I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meetBy the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street,Or in solitude even, but never againShall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugene.For we know not the way we are going, nor yetWhere our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life hath setNo 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 chanceThat the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lanceLost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war,You falter and hesitate, if from afarI, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be)O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should seeThat my presence could rescue, support you, or guide,In the hour of that need I shall be at your side,To warn, if you will, or incite, or control;And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!"
XIV.
The voice ceased.He uplifted his eyes.All aloneHe 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 roseIn 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 roll'd back one by one,The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun!Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign beganIn the heaven, 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 breezeFloated up, flutter'd 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 whispering, "HOPE!"