XXIII.
As some minstrel may fling,Preluding the music yet mute in each string,A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole,Seeking which note most fitly must first move the soul;And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below,Move pathetic in numbers remote;—even soThe voice which was moving the heart of that manFar away from its yet voiceless purpose began,Far away in the pathos remote of the past;Until, through her words, rose before him, at last,Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were goneUnaccomplish'd from life.He was mute.
XXIV.
She went onAnd still further down the dim past did she leadEach yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope,And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slopeOf life's dawning land!'Tis the heart of a boy,With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy!The unproved desire—the unaim'd aspiration—The deep conscious life that forestalls consummationWith ever a flitting delight—one arm's lengthIn advance of the august inward impulse.The strengthOf the spirit which troubles the seed in the sandWith the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expandThe glorious creature! The ages lie shut(Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to putForth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer,Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air.So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly—so, wroughtYear by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought,Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy.Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy!Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene!While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green,A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough,Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may growTo baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest,And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast.Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed?Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed?Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can!Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown manFace our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth.He was dumb.She went one step further.
XXV.
Lo! manhood is come.And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree.And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see:What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch?Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch?There, he saw himself—dark, as he stood on that night,The last when they met and they parted: a sightFor heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice!An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice;It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through.Then he said(Never looking at her, never lifting his head,As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'dThose fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world,'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!"
XXVI.
She went on."So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon!From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last,And to build up the future heaven shatters the past.""Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scanThe heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man?From the past to the present, though late, I appeal;To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!"
XXVII.
Lucile!... the old name—the old self! silenced long:Heard once more! felt once more!As some soul to the throngOf invisible spirits admitted, baptizedBy death to a new name and nature—surprised'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far,Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star,Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalmsOf the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!)The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earthSigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;—So that one word... Lucile!... stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine,For a moment. Anon she resumed here sereneAnd concentrated calm."Let the Nun, then, retraceThe life of the soldier!"... she said, with a faceThat glow'd, gladdening her words."To the present I come:Leave the Past!"There her voice rose, and seem'd as when somePale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praiseOf her hero whose brows she is crowning with bays.Step by step did she follow his path from the placeWhere their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace(Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence.Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance;Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours:And the same sentinels that ascend the same towersAnd report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife,Waged alike to the limits of each human life.She went on to speak of the lone moody lord,Shut up in his lone moody halls: every wordHeld the weight of a tear: she recorded the goodHe had patiently wrought through a whole neighborhood;And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor,By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door.There she paused: and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hueOf his own sombre heart, as the picture she drewOf the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages,Yet working love's work; reading backwards life's pagesFor penance; and stubbornly, many a time,Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme.Then she spoke of the soldier!... the man's work and fame,The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim!Life's inward approval!
XXVIII.
Her voice reach'd his heart,And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apartAnd unseen,—far away,—she had watch'd, year by year,With how many a blessing, how many a tear,And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife:Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life:Bless'd the man in the man's work!"THY work... oh, not mine!Thine, Lucile!"... he exclaim'd... "all the worth of it thine,If worth there be in it!"Her answer convey'dHis reward, and her own: joy that cannot be saidAlone by the voice... eyes—face—spoke silently:All the woman, one grateful emotion!And sheA poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spentIn one silent effort for others!...She bentHer divine face above him, and fill'd up his heartWith the look that glow'd from it.Then slow, with soft art,Fix'd her aim, and moved to it.
XXIX.
He, the soldier humane,He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the painOf a youth disappointed; whose life had made knownThe value of man's life!... that youth overthrownAnd retrieved, had it left him no pity for youthIn another? his own life of strenuous truthAccomplish'd in act, had it taught him no careFor the life of another?... oh no! everywhereIn the camp which she moved through, she came face to faceWith some noble token, some generous traceOf his active humanity..."Well," he replied,"If it be so?""I come from the solemn bedsideOf a man that is dying," she said. "While we speak,A life is in jeopardy.""Quick then! you seekAid or medicine, or what?""'Tis not needed," she said."Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid!You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) canSave the life of this man. Will you save it?""What man?How?... where?... can you ask?"She went rapidly onTo her object in brief vivid words... The young sonOf Matilda and Alfred—the boy lying thereHalf a mile from that tent door—the father's despair,The mother's deep anguish—the pride of the boyIn the father—the father's one hope and one joyIn the son:—-the son now—wounded, dying! She toldOf the father's stern struggle with life: the boy's bold,Pure, and beautiful nature: the fair life before himIf that life were but spared... yet a word might restore him!The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene!Its pathos: the girl's love for him; how, half slainIn his tent, she had found him: won from him the tale;Sought to nurse back his life; found her efforts still failBeaten back by a love that was stronger than life;Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strifeWherein England and France in their best blood, at last,Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the past.And shall nations be nobler than men? Are not greatMen the models of nations? For what is a stateBut the many's confused imitation of one?Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the sonOf his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchanceAn innocent life,—here, when England and FranceHave forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore,And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent gore?She went on to tell how the boy had clung stillTo life, for the sake of life's uses, untilFrom his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, stricken downBy the news that the heart of Constance, like his own,Was breaking beneath...But there "Hold!" he exclaim'd,Interrupting, "Forbear!"... his whole face was inflamedWith the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke,Had been gathering silent—at last the storm brokeIn grief or in wrath..."'Tis to him, then," he cried,...Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride,"That I owe these late greetings—for him you are here—For his sake you seek me—for him, it is clear,You have deign'd at the last to bethink you againOf this long-forgotten existence!""Eugene!""Ha! fool that I was!"... he went on,... "and just now,While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to growAlmost boyish again, almost sure of ONE friend!Yet this was the meaning of all—this the end!Be it so! There's a sort of slow justice (admit!)In this—that the word that man's finger hath writIn fire on my heart, I return him at last.Let him learn that word—Never!""Ah, still to the pastMust the present be vassal?" she said. "In the hourWe last parted I urged you to put forth the powerWhich I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life.Yours, the promise to strive: mine—to watch o'er the strife.I foresaw you would conquer; you HAVE conquer'd much,Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such,And am here to record and applaud it. I sawNot the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois,One peril—one point where I feared you would failTo subdue that worst foe which a man can assail,—Himself: and I promised that, if I should seeMy champion once falter, or bend the brave knee,That moment would bring me again to his side.That moment is come! for that peril was pride,And you falter. I plead for yourself, and another,For that gentle child without father or mother,To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France,For your own nobler nature—and plead for Constance!"At the sound of that name he averted his head."Constance!... Ay, she enter'd MY lone life" (he said)"When its sun was long set; and hung over its nightHer own starry childhood. I have but that light,In the midst of much darkness! Who names me but sheWith titles of love? And what rests there for meIn the silence of age save the voice of that child?The child of my own better life, undefiled!My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts!""Say,"Said the Soeur Seraphine—"are you able to layYour hand as a knight on your heart as a manAnd swear that, whatever may happen, you canFeel assured for the life you thus cherish?""How so?"He look'd up. "if the boy should die thus?""Yes, I knowWhat your look would imply... this sleek stranger forsooth!Because on his cheek was the red rose of youthThe heart of my niece must break for it!"She cried,"Nay, but hear me yet further!"With slow heavy stride,Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent,He was muttering low to himself as he went.Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart just so longAs their wings are in growing; and when these are strongThey break it, and farewell! the bird flies!"...The nunLaid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, "The sunIs descending, life fleets while we talk thus! oh, yetLet this day upon one final victory set,And complete a life's conquest!"He said, "Understand!If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose handMy heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life!Can her home be my home? Can I claim in the wifeOf that man's son the child of my age? At her sideShall he stand on my hearth? Shall I sue to the brideOf... enough!"Ah, and you immemorial hallsOf my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet fallsOn my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past,Present,—all, in one silence! old trees to the blastOf the North Sea repeating the tale of old days,Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky waysShall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the windProphesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mindOf my boyhood, with whispers from out the far yearsOf love, fame, the raptures life cools down with tears!Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave aloneRouse your echoes?""O think not," she said, "of the sonOf the man whom unjustly you hate; only thinkOf this young human creature, that cries from the brinkOf a grave to your mercy!"Recall your own words(Words my memory mournfully ever records!)How with love may be wreck'd a whole life! then, Eugene,Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once againAt this young soldier sinking from life here—dragg'd downBy the weight of the love in his heart: no renown,No fame comforts HIM! nations shout not aboveThe lone grave down to which he is bearing the loveWhich life has rejected! Will YOU stand apart?You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart!You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led onThrough the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won,By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth,Such as lies at your door now: who have but, in truth,To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word,And by that word you rescue a life!"He was stirr'd.Still he sought to put from him the cup, bow'd his faceon his hand; and anon, as though wishing to chaseWith one angry gesture his own thoughts aside,He sprang up, brush'd past her, and bitterly cried,"No!—Constance wed a Vargrave!"—I cannot consent!"Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine.The low tentIn her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the heightFrom which those imperial eyes pour'd the lightOf their deep silent sadness upon him.No wonderHe felt, as it were, his own stature shrink underThe compulsion of that grave regard! For betweenThe Duc de Luvois and the Soeur SeraphineAt that moment there rose all the height of one soulO'er another; she look'd down on him from the wholeLonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days,There were long months and years in that heart-searching gaze;And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrill'd throughAnd transfix'd him."Eugene de Luvois, but for you,I might have been now—not this wandering nun,But a mother, a wife—pleading, not for the sonOf another, but blessing some child of my own,His,—the man's that I once loved!... Hush! that which is doneI regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's bestWhich God sends. 'Twas his will: it is mine. And the restOf that riddle I will not look back to. He readsIn your heart—He that judges of all thoughts and deeds.With eyes, mine forestall not! This only I say:You have not the right (read it, you, as you may!)To say... 'I am the wrong'd."'..."Have I wrong'd thee?—wrong'd THEE!"He falter'd, "Lucile, ah, Lucile!""Nay, not me,"She murmur'd, "but man! The lone nun standing hereHas no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the sphereOf earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she,The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in me,Demands from her grave reparation to man,Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you can,This voice from the grave!""Hush!" he moan'd, "I obeyThe Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile! let this payEvery debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on:I follow you, Soeur Seraphine!... To the sonOf Lord Alfred Vargrave... and then,"...As he spokeHe lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smokePointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd,Of the city beneath them..."Then, THERE, underground,And valete et plaudite, soon as may be!Let the old tree go down to the earth—the old treeWith the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the root!Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young shoot?A Vargrave!... this pays all... Lead on! In the seedSave the forest!...I follow... forth, forth! where you lead."
XXX.
The day was declining; a day sick and damp.In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly campOf the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent(Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bentOn the daylight departing, the sick man was sittingUpon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting,Cross'd the silence between him and death, which seem'd near,—"Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd! else, how bearThis intense and intolerable solitude,With its eye on my heart and its hand on my blood?Pulse by pulse! Day goes down: yet she comes not again.Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain,Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange! and scarcely feel sad.Oh, to think of Constance THUS, and not to go mad!But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his ownDull doings..."
XXXI.
Between those sick eyes and the sunA shadow fell thwart.
XXXII.
'Tis the pale nun once more!But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door?How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloomOf the battle, with long, longing looks, that dim plumeWhich now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'dTo where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd!How that stern face had haunted and hover'd aboutThe dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubtHad the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero. (What's likeA boy's love for some famous man?)... Oh, to strikeA wild path through the battle, down striking perchanceSome rash foeman too near the great soldier of France,And so fall in his glorious regard!... Oft, how oft,Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloftThe dim battle that plume dance and dart—never seenSo near till this moment! how eager to gleanEvery stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praiseOf his hero—each tale of old venturous daysIn the desert! And now... could he speak out his heartFace to face with that man ere he died!
XXXIII.
With a startThe sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him,To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dimSanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the dinAnd rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within,Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun(Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun)Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plumeSeem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloomWhich momently put out the world.
XXXIV.
To his sideMoved the man the boy dreaded yet loved... "Ah!"... he sigh'd,"The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes,All the mother's! The old things again!"Do not rise.You suffer, young man?"THE BOY.Sir, I die.THE DUKE.Not so young!THE BOY.So young? yes! and yet I have tangled amongThe fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mineOther lives than my own. Could my death but untwineThe vext skein... but it will not. Yes, Duke, young—so young!And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrongIrreparable!... late, too late to repair.If I knew any means... but I know none!... I swear,If this broken fraction of time could extendInto infinite lives of atonement, no endWould seem too remote for my grief (could that be!)To include it! Not too late, however, for meTo entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?THE DUKE.You wrong—my forgiveness—explain.THE BOY.Could I live!Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink,I falter... Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I thinkShould free my soul hence.Ah! you could not surmiseThat a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyesWere following you evermore (heeded not!)While the battle was flowing between us: nor whatEager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft wentWith the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent,Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain,Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain!Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste airGrew stern at the gleam which said... "Off! he is there!"I know not what merciful mystery nowBrings you here, whence the man whom you see lying lowOther footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave.But death is at hand, and the few words I haveYet to speak, I must speak them at once.Duke, I swear,As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!)That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois,I loved your niece—loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw,And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'dBorn to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'dOf this love's cruel consequence as it rests nowEver fearfully present before me, I vowThat the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tombInto which I descend... Oh why, whilst there was roomIn life left for warning, had no one the heartTo warn me? Had any one whisper'd... "Depart!"To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse!Had any one hinted... "Beware of the curseWhich is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell,Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell,And then... then the blow fell on BOTH! This is whyI implore you to pardon that great injuryWrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knowsHow unwittingly!THE DUKE.Ah!... and, young soldier, supposeThat I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?—THE BOY.Of whom?THE DUKE.Of yourself.THE BOY.Duke, I bear in my heart to the tombNo boyish resentment; not one lonely thoughtThat honors you not. In all this there is naught'Tis for me to forgive.Every glorious actOf your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact,To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own.And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon,A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these,Were they so many lying and false witnesses,Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue?I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you!In this great world around us, wherever we turn,Some grief irremediable we discern;And yet—there sits God, calm in Heaven above!Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love?I judge not.THE DUKE.Enough! Hear at last, then, the truthYour father and I—foes we were in our youth.It matters not why. Yet thus much understand:The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his hand.I was not of those whom the buffets of fateTame and teach; and my heart buried slain love in hate.If your own frank young heart, yet unconscious of allWhich turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall,And unable to guess even aught that the furrowAcross these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow,Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life,'Twill at least comprehend how intense was the strifeWhich is closed in this act of atonement, wherebyI seek in the son of my youth's enemyThe friend of my age. Let the present releaseHere acquitted the past! In the name of my niece,Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give,Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me,—and live?Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joyChased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy:As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined,Struggles outward through shadows, the varying windAlternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison,So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risenTo answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb;A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him.With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sankOn the breast of the nun, who stood near."Yes, boy! thankThis guardian angel," the Duke said. "I—you,We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live! be trueTo your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake!""Yes, Duke: I will live. I MUST live—live to makeMy whole life the answer you claim," the boy said,"For joy does not kill!"Back again the faint headDeclined on the nun's gentle bosom. She sawHis lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdrawAnd leave them a moment together.He eyedThem both with a wistful regard; turn'd and sigh'd,And lifted the tent-door, and pass'd from the tent.
XXXV.
Like a furnace, the fervid, intense occidentFrom its hot seething levels a great glare struck upOn the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cupSome witch watches boiling wild portents arise,Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and ting'd with strange dyes,Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird shapesAs of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, apes,Chimeras, and hydras: whilst—ever the sameIn the midst of all these (creatures fused by his flame,And changed by his influence!) changeless, as when,Ere he lit down to death generations of men,O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which thereWith wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to mimic in air,The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone.And shall shine on the ages we reach not—the sun!
XXXVI.
Nature posted her parable thus in the skies,And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors ariseAnd fall, pass and change, group themselves and revolveRound the great central life, which is love: these dissolveAnd resume themselves, here assume beauty, there terror;And the phantasmagoria of infinite error,And endless complexity, lasts but a while;Life's self, the immortal, immutable smileOf God, on the soul in the deep heart of HeavenLives changeless, unchanged: and our morning and evenAre earth's alternations, not Heaven's.
XXXVII.
While he yetWatched the skies, with this thought in his heart; while he setThus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind,Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and wind,And embraced the new life which that hour had reveal'd,—Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and conceal'd;Lucile left the tent and stood by him.Her treadAroused him; and, turning towards her, he said:"O Soeur Seraphine, are you happy?""Eugene,What is happier than to have hoped not in vain?"She answer'd,—"And you?""Yes.""You do not repent?""No.""Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. He musingly bentHis looks on the sunset, and somewhat apartWhere he stood, sigh'd, as though to his innermost heart,"O bless'd are they, amongst whom I was not,Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot,Predicts a pure evening; who, sunlike, in lightHave traversed, unsullied, the world, and set bright!"But she in response, "Mark yon ship far away,Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day,With all its hush'd thunders shut up! Would you knowA thought which came to me a few days ago,Whilst watching those ships?... When the great Ship of LifeSurviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strifeOf earth's angry element,—masts broken short,Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten—drives safe into port;When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand,Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand;When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar,The mariner turns to his rest evermore;What will then be the answer the helmsman must give?Will it be... 'Lo our log-book! Thus once did we liveIn the zones of the South; thus we traversed the seasOf the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides;Thence follow'd the west wind; here, eastward we turn'd;The stars fail'd us there; just here land we discern'dOn our lee; there the storm overtook us at last;That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast;There the mermen came round us, and there we saw baskA siren?' The Captain of Port will he askAny one of such questions? I cannot think so!But... 'What is the last Bill of Health you can show?'Not—How fared the soul through the trials she pass'd?But—What is the state of that soul at the last?""May it be so!" he sigh'd. "There the sun drops, behold!"And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and goldIn the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading stripOf light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lipOf a long reef of cloud; and o'er sullen ravinesAnd ridges the raw damps were hanging white screensOf melancholy mist."Nunc dimittis?" she said."O God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the deadAnd the dying we stand here alive, and thy daysReturning, admit space for prayer and for praise,In both these confirm us!"The helmsman, Eugene,Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. AgainWe two part: each to work out Heaven's will: you, I trust,In the world's ample witness; and I, as I must,In secret and silence: you, love, fame, await;Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one gateWhen all's over. The ways they are many and wide,And seldom are two ways the same. Side by sideMay we stand at the same little door when all's done!The ways they are many, the end it is one.He that knocketh shall enter: who asks shall obtain:And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eugene!"She turn'd to depart."Whither? whither?"... he said.She stretch'd forth her hand where, already outspreadOn the darken'd horizon, remotely they sawThe French camp-fires kindling."See yonder vast host, with its manifold heartMade as one man's by one hope! The hope 'tis your partTo aid towards achievement, to save from reverseMine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse.I go to my work: you to yours."
XXXVIII.
Whilst she spoke,On the wide wasting evening there distantly brokeThe low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon,From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun."Our chasseurs are at it!" he mutter'd.She turn'd,Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight.He faintly discern'dHer form, now and then, on the flat lurid skyRise, and sink, and recede through the mists: by and byThe vapors closed round, and he saw her no more.
XXXIX.
Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is o'er.The mission of genius on earth! To uplift,Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift,The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavorTo degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever.The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait,To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate.The mission of woman on earth! to give birthTo the mercy of Heaven descending on earth.The mission of woman: permitted to bruiseThe head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse,Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse,The blessing which mitigates all: born to nurse,And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to healThe sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile.
XL.
A power hid in pathos: a fire veil'd in cloud:Yet still burning outward: a branch which, though bow'dBy the bird in its passage, springs upward again:Through all symbols I search for her sweetness—in vain!Judge her love by her life. For our life is but loveIn act. Pure was hers: and the dear God above,Who knows what His creatures have need of for life,And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strifeLed her soul into peace. Love, though love may be givenIn vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heavenMore clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dreamWore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a streamThat breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shoreOf the great sea which hushes it up evermoreWith its little wild wailing. No stream from its sourceFlows seaward, how lonely soever its course,But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever roseAnd set, without influence somewhere. Who knowsWhat earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No lifeCan be pure in its purpose and strong in its strifeAnd all life not be purer and stronger thereby.The spirits of just men made perfect on high,The army of martyrs who stand by the ThroneAnd gaze into the face that makes glorious their own,Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow,Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary,The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary?Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the SpiritEcho: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit.
XLI.
The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog;The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog.The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without,War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt;All within, light, warmth, calm!In the twilight, longwhileEugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smileLinger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent.At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went.