III.

Having sent for his guide, He order'd his horse, and determin'd to ride Back forthwith to Bigorre. Then, the guide, who well knew Every haunt of those hills, said the wild lake of Oo Lay a league from Luchon; and suggested a track By the lake to Bigorre, which, transversing the back Of the mountain, avoided a circuit between Two long valleys; and thinking, "Perchance change of scene May create change of thought," Alfred Vargrave agreed, Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full speed.

IV.

His guide rode beside him. The king of the guides! The gallant Bernard! ever boldly he rides, Ever gayly he sings! For to him, from of old, The hills have confided their secrets, and told Where the white partridge lies, and the cock o' the woods; Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes; Where the bear lurks perdu; and the lynx on his prey At nightfall descends, when the mountains are gray; Where the sassafras blooms, and the bluebell is born, And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn; Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread; How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread; Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie asleep, Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts leap; And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales Have whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales; He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leap'd with the boys; Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys An existence untroubled by envy or strife, While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. And so lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides, For BERNARD LE SAUTEUR is the king of all guides!

V.

But Bernard found, that day, neither song not love-tale, Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail To arouse from his deep and profound revery Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be.

VI.

Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their pace, And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face. The breezy and pure inspirations of morn Breathed about them. The scarp'd ravaged mountains, all worn By the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly meander, Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses, And wound through a region of green wildernesses; The waters went whirling above and around, The forests hung heap'd in their shadows profound. Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon, Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux They mark'd; and far down in the sunshine below, Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue, The white happy homes of the valley of Oo, Where the age is yet golden. And high overhead The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. Red granite, and quartz; in the alchemic sun, Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal in one; And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells, And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells; The large violet burn'd; the campanula blue; And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd through The red-berried brambles and thick sassafras; And fragrant with thyme was the delicate grass; And high up, and higher, and highest of all, The secular phantom of snow! O'er the wall Of a gray sunless glen gaping drowsy below, That aerial spectre, reveal'd in the glow Of the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the eye And appears to grow in, and grow out of, the sky And plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight. Only reach'd by the vast rosy ripple of light, And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing, Half unreal, like some mythological king That dominates all in a fable of old, Takes command of a valley as fair to behold As aught in old fables; and, seen or unseen, Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd 'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infinite world Of man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod, Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God.

VII.

Meanwhile, as they journey'd, that serpentine road, Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly show'd A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. Alfred Vargrave's heart beat; for he saw at a glance The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next look Show'd him, joyously ambling beside her, the Duke The rest of the troop which had thus caught his ken He knew not, nor noticed them (women and men). They were laughing and talking together. Soon after His sudden appearance suspended their laughter.

VIII.

"You here!... I imagined you far on your way To Bigorre!"... said Lucile. "What has caused you to stay?" "I AM on my way to Bigorre," he replied, "But since MY way would seem to be YOURS, let me ride For one moment beside you." And then, with a stoop At her ear,... "and forgive me!"

IX.

By this time the troop Had regather'd its numbers. Lucile was as pale As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way to the vale. The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, For even one moment, the whole of the ride. Alfred smiled, as he thought, "he is jealous of her!" And the thought of this jealousy added a spur To his firm resolution and effort to please. He talk'd much; was witty, and quite at his ease.

X.

After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and increased. The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the ground, There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like chamois, the air, And look'd at each other, and halted, and there Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in fright. All announced the approach of the tempest. Erelong, Thick darkness descended the mountains among, And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash. The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon Broke the thunder. The horses took fright, every one. The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. The guides whoop'd. The band was obliged to alight; And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walk'd blind To the darkness before from the darkness behind.

XI.

And the Storm is abroad in the mountains! He fills The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills With dread voices of power. A roused million or more Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake. And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder descends From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends; He howls as he hounds down his prey; and his lash Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash, That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn, Like a woman in fear; then he blows his hoarse horn And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror, Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error Of mountain and mist.

XII.

There is war in the skies! Lo! the black-winged legions of tempest arise O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming below In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunderbolt searching Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo! the lurching And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight of the things seen in heaven!

XIII.

Through the darkness and awe That had gather'd around him, Lord Alfred now saw, Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the air A woman alone on a shelf of the hill, With her cheek coldly propp'd on her hand,—and as still As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above The black lake beneath her. All terror, all love Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd on. For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone In its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snake That encircles a sorceress, charm'd for her sake And lull'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd And caressingly twined round the feet and the head Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calm As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm Of the plangent and laboring tempests roll slow From the caldron of midnight and vapor below. Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the sound Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal, And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile.

XIV.

She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her hand Alfred Vargrave had seized within his; and he felt The light fingers, that coldly and lingeringly dwelt In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. "See! see! Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree!" She exclaim'd,... "like the passion that brings on its breath, To the being it embraces, destruction and death! Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you!" "Lucile! I hear—I see—naught but yourself. I can feel Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vain With the truth that leaps from me. We two meet again 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love,— And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, I humble my head and my heart. I entreat Your pardon, Lucile, for the past—I implore For the future your mercy—implore it with more Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the power Which invisibly touches us both in this hour, By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand—" "The rights!"... said Lucile, and drew from him her hand.

"Yes, the rights! for what greater to man may belong Than the right to repair in the future the wrong To the past? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to restore, To retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your life, Urge the right to repair it, Lucile! Be my wife, My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth, And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth To my life, its contrition!"

XV.

He paused, for there came O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead. With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, "And your pledge to another?"

XVI.

"Hush, hush!" he exclaim'd, "My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. 'Twere poor honor indeed, to another to give That life of which YOU keep the heart. Could I live In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie? Alas, no! YOUR hand holds my whole destiny. I can never recall what my lips have avow'd; In your love lies whatever can render me proud. For the great crime of all my existence hath been To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen, And most hallow'd—the duty most sacred and sweet, Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. O speak! and restore me the blessing I lost When I lost you—my pearl of all pearls beyond cost! And restore to your own life its youth, and restore The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore! Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the world, When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurl'd! For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man, The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran, Whom the formless indefinite future of youth, With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth I have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream Which, though follow'd forever, forever doth seem As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore Of life's untraversed ocean! I know the sole path To repose, which my desolate destiny hath, Is the path by whose course to your feet I return. And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, The sublimity in you, as he whom at length These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal To his worship?"

XVII.

She spoke not; but Alfred could feel The light hand and arm, that upon him reposed, Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed. But, under their languid mysterious fringe, A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosom Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose-blossom A bee is imprison'd and struggles.

XVIII.

Meanwhile The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold! O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, Rose and rested: while far up the dim airy crags, Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags, The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar, Had already sent forward one bright, signal star The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair, From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear, Had escaped; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with kisses The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses. Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet Had ceased falling around them; when, splash'd, drench'd, and wet, The Duc de Luvois down the rough mountain course Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had thrown; But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone, And the horse, being bred to the instinct which fills The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills, Had scrambled again to his feet; and now master And horse bore about them the signs of disaster, As they heavily footed their way through the mist, The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his wrist, Bruised and bleeding.

XIX.

If ever your feet, like my own, O reader, have traversed these mountains alone, Have you felt your identity shrink and contract At the sound of the distant and dim cataract, In the presence of nature's immensities? Say, Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray, And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd, Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heaped over fold, Track'd the summits from which every step that you tread Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bed Of invisible waters, whose mistical sound Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound? And, laboring onwards, at last through a break In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake? If you have, this description I might have withheld. You remember how strangely your bosom has swell'd At the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soil Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil; And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, To have conquer'd a claim of that wonderful sight.

XX.

Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo! Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow; For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their wings, And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy springs. What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse? When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair France, Did the Spirit of Ill, in his downthrow appalling, Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while falling? Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster unnamed The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed? And later, when Power to Beauty was wed, Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed With the fragile valerian and wild columbine?

XXI.

But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine; For once gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul, All that secret! I saw in a vision the whole Vast design of the ages; what was and shall be! Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery For one moment. I saw, and I heard; and my heart Bore witness within me to infinite art, In infinite power proving infinite love; Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread pageant move— The divine Whence and Whither of life! But, O daughter Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. What I then saw and heard, the world never shall know.

XXII.

The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed, The rain had ceased falling, the mountains reposed. The stars had enkindled in luminous courses Their slow-sliding lamps, when, remounting their horses, The riders retraversed that mighty serration Of rock-work. Thus left to its own desolation, The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last Transient pomp of the pageants of sunset had pass'd, Drew into its bosom the darkness, and only Admitted within it one image—a lonely And tremulous phantom of flickering light That follow'd the mystical moon through the night.

XXIII.

It was late when o'er Luchon at last they descended. To her chalet, in silence, Lord Alfred attended Lucile. As they parted, she whispered him low, "You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply Without time for reflection. Good night!—not good by." "Alas! 'tis the very same answer you made To the Duc de Luvois but a day since," he said. "No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied. Her voice shook. "If you love me, obey me. Abide My answer to-morrow."

XXIV.

Alas, Cousin Jack! You Cassandra in breeches and boots! turn your back To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory Amongst thine own people. I follow my story.



CANTO V.

I.

Up!—forth again, Pegasus!—"Many's the slip," Hath the proverb well said, "'twixt the cup and the lip!" How blest should we be, have I often conceived, Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved! We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be, And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. So it will be, so has been, since this world began! And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out: For the first and last word in life's volume is— Doubt. The face of the most fair to our vision allow'd Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our existence is one Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. O Horace! the rustic still rests by the river, But the river flows on, and flows past him forever! Who can sit down, and say... "What I will be, I will"? Who stand up, and affirm... "What I was, I am still"? Who is that must not, if question'd, say...... "What I would have remain'd or become, I am not"? We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween; And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, But what once in his life, some minute circumstance Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have; But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate, The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. Yet! there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wine Spilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine, O being of beauty and bliss! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone! My days know thee not; and my lips name thee never. Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. We have met: we have parted. No more is recorded In my annals on earth. This alone was afforded To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals; At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom)— Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen Of that better world which thou swayest unseen! My one perfect mistress! my all things in all! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call; For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, And its thoughts are the purest—belov'd, thou art there! And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. The world gave thee not to me, no! and the world Cannot take thee away from me now. I have furl'd The wings of my spirit above thy bright head; At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art more. And in silence I worship, in darkness adore. If life be not that which without us we find— Chance, accident, merely—but rather the mind, And the soul which, within us, surviveth these things, If our real existence have truly its springs Less in that which we do than in that which we feel, Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel! For then, though I name thee not mistress or wife, Thou art mine—and mine only,—O life of my life! And though many's the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, While there's life on the lip, while there's warmth in the wine, One deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine!

II.

This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throes Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, And in fiery fusion commix'd earth and sky. Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to go The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. The wind changeth and whirleth continually: All the rivers run down and run into the sea: The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd: All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fill'd: The sun goeth forth from his chambers; the sun Ariseth, and lo! he descendeth anon. All returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. The great laws of life readjust their infraction, And to every emotion appoint a reaction.

III.

Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, To review the rash step he had taken, and feel What the world would have call'd "his erroneous position." Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recognition: Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt, Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. Ev'ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought.

IV.

He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel Little doubt what the answer would be from Lucile. Her eyes, when they parted—her voice, when they met, Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. And yet, Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, where he loved, Through his mind a vague self-accusation there moved. O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he find A thousand just reasons for what he had done; The vision that troubled him would not be gone. In vain did he say to himself, and with truth, "Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth; And her heart is too young to have deeply involved All its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved. 'Twere a false sense of honor in me to suppress The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. And what reason have I to presume this poor life Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, And without what alone might endear it to her, Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer, Its withdrawal can wrong her? It is not as though I were bound to some poor village maiden, I know, Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth, Or to whose simple fortunes mine own could give worth. Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss Aught that I could procure her. 'Tis best as it is!"

V.

In vain did he say to himself, "When I came To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame Or reproach myself for, in the thoughts of my heart. I could not foresee that its pulses would start Into such strange emotion on seeing once more A woman I left with indifference before. I believed, and with honest conviction believed, In my love for Matilda. I never conceived That another could shake it. I deem'd I had done With the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully on To the soberer manhood, the worthier life, Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my wife. Poor child! she shall learn the whole truth. She shall know What I knew not myself but a few days ago. The world will console her—her pride will support— Her youth will renew its emotions. In short, There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss When once we have parted. 'Tis best as it is!"

VI.

But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas! He yet felt unconvinced that 'TWAS best as it was. Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, That they harrow'd his heart and distracted his mind.

VII.

And then, when he turned from these thoughts to Lucile, Though his heart rose enraptured he could not but feel A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind, Which he saw and revered in her, something unknown And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised, In himself; but he did not feel sure that he knew, Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from view, Remained lofty and lonely in HER. Then, her life, So untamed and so free! would she yield as a wife Independence, long claimed as a woman? Her name So link'd by the world with that spurious fame Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert, In some measure, alas! to her own loss and hurt In the serious thoughts of a man!... This reflection O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection, From which he forever escaped to the thought Doubt could reach not... "I love her, and all else is naught!"

VIII.

His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal Of the letter which reach'd him at last from Lucile. At the sight of the very first words that he read, That letter dropp'd down from his hand like the dead Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and bare A desolate tree in a wide wintry air. He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, Bewilder'd, incredulous. Angry surprise And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. Anon He picked up the page, and read rapidly on.

IX.

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE:

"No, Alfred! If over the present, when last We two met, rose the glamour and mist of the past, It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are plain, And those two paths divide us. "That hand which again Mine one moment has clasp'd as the hand of a brother, That hand and your honor are pledged to another! Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yet For that moment (now past!) I have made you forget What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance. Not less, In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, too, I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. "True, That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, I alone! But oh! deem not it was with the thought Of your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. No! believe me, it was with the firm and unshaken Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be Without peril to YOU, although haply to me The salvation of all my existence. "I own, When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly made known To the world your engagement, my heart and my mind Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find That so much of the life of my life, half unknown To myself, had been silently settled on one Upon whom but to think it would soon be a crime. Then I said to myself, 'From the thraldom which time Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of escape. That image which Fancy seems ever to shape From the solitude left round the ruins of yore, Is a phantom. The Being I loved is no more. What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone Void of life, is the young hero born of my own Perish'd youth: and his image, serene and sublime In my heart rests unconscious of change and of time, Could I see it but once more, as time and as change Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange, See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth, The hard pupil of life and the world: then, oh, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be again Reconciled to the world; and, released from regret, Take the lot fate accords to my choice.' "So we met. But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd: The danger, alas, to yourself! I have err'd. But happy for both that this error hath been Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen! We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed, Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read. My course is decided; my path I discern: Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now. "Return, O return to the young living love! Whence, alas! If, one moment, you wander'd, think only it was More deeply to bury the past love. "And, oh! Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I go On my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoice To treasure in memory all that your voice Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed To my fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed! In the fair morning light, in the orient dew Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth? Yes! YOU will be happy. I, too, in the bliss I foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this Proves me worthy your friendship. And so—let it prove That I cannot—I do not respond to your love. Yes, indeed! be convinced that I could not (no, no, Never, never!) have render'd you happy. And so, Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have plighted, You would have endured, when the first brief, excited Emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse Of honor, but also (to render it worse) Disappointed affection. "Yes, Alfred; you start? But think! if the world was too much in your heart, And too little in mine, when we parted ten years Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears!) Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which then Placed our natures asunder; and we two again, As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. In that self-independence which is to my life Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, Had our course through the world been henceforth side by side, I should have revolted forever, and shock'd Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those Social creeds which you live by. "Oh! do not suppose That I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are right. Best, then, all as it is! "Deem these words life's Good-night To the hope of a moment: no more! If there fell Any tear on this page, 'twas a friend's. "So farewell To the past—and to you, Alfred Vargrave. "LUCILE."

X.

So ended that letter. The room seem'd to reel Round and round in the mist that was scorching his eyes With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, Half chocked him; each word he had read, as it smote Down some hope, rose and grasped like a hand at his throat, To stifle and strangle him. Gasping already For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady, He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both oppress'd And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'd The long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at last Reach'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a wood: It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown, Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat down On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle, And read over again that perplexing epistle.

XI.

In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mind The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind To the pathos breath'd through it. Tears rose in his eyes, And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seem'd to rise. The truth which he saw not the first time he read That letter, he now saw—that each word betray'd The love which the writer had sought to conceal. His love was received not, he could not but feel, For one reason alone,—that his love was not free. True! free yet he was not: but could he not be Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell, And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to tell The truth to Matilda, and she were the first To release him: he had but to wait at the worst. Matilda's relations would probably snatch Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match In which they had yielded, alone at the whim Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him. She herself, careless child! was her love for him aught Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought She last gave to her doll? was she able to feel Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile? He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh! then He had but to fly to Lucile, and again Claim the love which his heart would be free to command. But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand, Or even to seek, or to see, her before He could say, "I am free! free, Lucile, to implore That great blessing on life you alone can confer," 'Twere dishonor in him, 'twould be insult to her. Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee He follow'd so fondly his own revery, That he felt not the angry regard of a man Fix'd upon him; he saw not a face stern and wan Turn'd towards him; he heard not a footstep that pass'd And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at last A hoarse voice aroused him. He look'd up and saw, On the bare heath before him, the Duc de Luvois.

XII.

With aggressive ironical tones, and a look Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion To "the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do better, He fancied, however, to fold up a letter The writing of which was too well known, in fact, His remark as he pass'd to have failed to attract."

XIII.

It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bent Upon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 'twas meant From HIM to provoke it by sneers such as these. A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize The position. He felt that he could not expose His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the ban Of the world, if he now were to fight with this man. And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard face, He was pain'd by the change there he could not but trace. And he almost felt pity. He therefore put by Each remark from the Duke with some careless reply, And coldly, but courteously, waving away The ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display, Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside.

XIV.

Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one stride In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his eyes, And said... "Hold, Lord Alfred! Away with disguise! I will own that I sought you, a moment ago, To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so Upon any excuse. I prefer to be frank. I admit not a rival in fortune or rank To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the right To believe, that she would have been mine. To her sight You return, and the woman is suddenly changed. You step in between us: her heart is estranged. You! who now are betrothed to another, I know: You! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years ago Was coupled by ties which you broke: you! the man I reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began. You! that left her so lightly,—I cannot believe That you love, as I love, her; nor can I conceive You, indeed, have the right so to love her. Milord, I will not thus tamely concede at your word, What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine! I shall yet persevere: I shall yet be, in fine, A rival you dare not despise. It is plain That to settle this contest there can but remain One way—need I say what it is?"

XV.

Not unmoved With regretful respect for the earnestness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied In words which he trusted might yet turn aside The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst!) Had not been accepted.

XVI.

"Accepted! say first Are you free to have offer'd?" Lord Alfred was mute.

XVII.

"Ah, you dare not reply!" cried the Duke. "Why dispute, Why palter with me? You are silent! and why? Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall, That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, You be really sincere, I ask only one word. Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, And there CAN be no quarrel between us. Say on!" Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and conditions with me. I refuse to reply."

XVIII.

As diviners may see Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imminent. There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead, Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge Dividing the Past from the Future, so small That if one should pass over, the other must fall.

XIX.

On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof, Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roof Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged On the heath where they stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman. A guide he appear'd, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash With a short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind The short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, confined By the long boots; the woollen capote; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note.

XX.

The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore The page open and read. Ere a moment was o'er His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes, And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile! You are quite right, Lord Alfred! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be reversed. You are not accepted,—nor free to propose! I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows? I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. This letter—but stay! you can read it—look here!"

XXI.

It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could sanction resentment. He said Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and read...

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUC DE LUVOIS.

"SAINT SAVIOUR.

"Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stay Till I see you again. With no moment's delay I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel Or profess, to come to me directly. "LUCILE."

XXII.

"Your letter!" He then had been writing to her! Coldly shrugging his shoulders, Lord Alfred said, "Sir, Do not let me detain you!" The Duke smiled and bow'd; Placed the note in his bosom; address'd, half aloud, A few words to the messenger,... "Say your despatch Will be answer'd ere nightfall;" then glanced at his watch, And turn'd back to the Baths.

XXIII.

Alfred Vargrave stood still, Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him. And read over her words; rising tears made them dim: "Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now," they said. "My course is decided." Her course? what! to wed With this insolent rival! With that thought there shot Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. But not Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuse Those strange words to the Duke. She was free to refuse Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true: Even then, though, this eager and strange rendezvous, How imprudent! To some unfrequented lone inn, And so late (for the night was about to begin)— She, companionless there!—had she bidden that man? A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran Through his heart.

XXIV.

At that moment he look'd up, and saw, Riding fast through the forest, the Duc de Luvois, Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight. The day was descending. He felt 'twould be night Ere that man reached Saint Saviour.

XXV.

He walk'd on, but not Back toward Luchon: he walk'd on, but knew not in what Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed, He was walking, but still he walk'd on without heed.

XXVI.

The day had been sullen; but, towards his decline, The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine. Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back, The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black. The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven floor Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore, The sight of that refuge where back to its God How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest That now prey'd on his own!

XXVII.

By the thoughts in his breast With varying impulse divided and torn, He traversed the scant heath, and reach'd the forlorn Autumn woodland, in which but a short while ago He had seen the Duke rapidly enter; and so He too enter'd. The light waned around him, and pass'd Into darkness. The wrathful, red Occident cast One glare of vindictive inquiry behind, As the last light of day from the high wood declined, And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam, And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream Fell faintly.

XXVIII.

O Nature, how fair is thy face, And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy grace! Thou false mistress of man! thou dost sport with him lightly In his hours of ease and enjoyment; and brightly Dost thou smile to his smile; to his joys thou inclinest, But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor divinest. While he woos, thou art wanton; thou lettest him love thee; But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot move thee; And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost thou? All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow, And thou laughest and toyest with any new comer, Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer! Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart under That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder! For all those—the young, and the fair, and the strong, Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and long, And who now on thy bosom lie dead? and their deeds And their days are forgotten! O hast thou no weeds And not one year of mourning,—one out of the many That deck thy new bridals forever,—nor any Regrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new, O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to! If the sea and the night wind know aught of these things, They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings.



CANTO VI.

I.

"The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase, And eldrich, and eerie, and strange is the place! The castle betokens a date long gone by. He crosses the courtyard with curious eye: He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set; And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and less Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress, Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise, Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes; Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall: The spell of a wizard is over it all. In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping The sleep which for centuries she has been keeping. If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now cover: If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore Some grief which the world cares to hear of no more. But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her cheek! And how sweet must that voice be, if once she would speak! He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he!) The clew to unravel this old mystery? And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall, The mute men in armor around him, and all The weird figures frown, as though striving to say, 'Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of Today! And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breast To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'd By an Age not thine own!' "But unconscious is he, And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see Aught but ONE form before him! "Rash, wild words are o'er, And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore! And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream. Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart." And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart. It is told in all lands, in a different tongue; Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young. And the tale to each heart unto which it is known Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own.

II.

Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part From strong physical health, and that vigor of heart Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance, From a generous vanity native to France, With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry, Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles: But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles, No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen Floating faint in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood, Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued With impetuous passion, seemed semi-Satanic. Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; in panic You watch them whirl'd down by the torrent. In truth, To the sacred political creed of his youth The century which he was born to denied All realization. Its generous pride To degenerate protest on all things was sunk; Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk. Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod, Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god, And his pastime his purpose. From boyhood possess'd Of inherited wealth, he had learned to invest Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cage Which penury locks, in each vice of an age All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered, Were to him illegitimate. Thus, he appear'd To the world what the world chose to have him appear,— The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still 'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will, That found for the first time—perhaps for the last— In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past, Force, and faith, in the Future. And so, in his mind, To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd The terror of missing his life's destination, Which in her had its mystical representation.

III.

And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares, So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent Of the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sent From the torrent—before him a sound from the tracts Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas In Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd Fast, fast by the Erl King! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, Broke the broad moon above the voluminous Rock-chaos,—the Hecate of that Tartarus! With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel, For a door closed—Luvois was alone with Lucile.

IV.

In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire From a brass lamp before her—a faint hectic fire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever: They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, Those dark eyes—so dark and so deep! "You relent? And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?" There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.

LUCILE.

Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life— Woman's honor.

Luvois.

The last, madam, NOT?

LUCILE.

Both. I glance At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France, As I read them! You say, in this letter... "I know Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shalt not live To make you as wretched as you have made me!"

LUVOIS.

Well, madam, in those words what words do you see That threatens the honor of woman?

LUCILE.

See!... what, What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not, Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soil'd and dishonor'd by more than mere shame If the woman that bore it had first been the cause Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause! Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonor In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, Can shudder, and say, "In that smile is a grave"? No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have In the contest you menace. That contest but draws Every right into ruin. By all human laws Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities Of man's social honor! The Duke droop'd his eyes. "I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite. But you should from the first have done this, for I feel That you knew from the first that I loved you." Lucile This sudden reproach seem'd to startle. She raised A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast. Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd, Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a tear, Falling softly, awoke it. However severe, Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her? Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character, Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd, Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide Might tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty pride? Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life? There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river Which through continents pushes its pathway forever To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use, It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws The river's life into its own life, by laws Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this: The river is lost, if the ocean it miss; If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore; Its sources are infinite; still to the shore, With no diminution of pride, it will say, "I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!" Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she, Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?

V.

At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been Stern or haughty departed; and, humble in mien, She approach'd him and brokenly murmur'd, as though To herself more than him, "Was I wrong? is it so? Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem I may claim on ONE ground—I at least am sincere. You say that to me from the first it was clear That you loved me. But what if this knowledge were known At a moment in life when I felt most alone, And least able to be so? a moment, in fact, When I strove from one haunting regret to retract And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw For a moment the promise of this in the plighted Affection of one who, in nature, united So much that from others affection might claim, If only affection were free? Do you blame The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will, To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain From hope? alas! I too then hoped!"

LUVOIS.

Oh, again, Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile, That you then deign'd to hope—

LUCILE.

Yes! to hope I could feel, And could give to you, that without which all else given Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:— A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope?

LUVOIS.

O Lucile! "Say again," She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er, And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'? I myself hoped no more!" With but ill-suppressed wrath The Duke answer'd... "What, then! he recrosses your path, This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!" Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... "No! no! 'Tis not that—but alas!—but I cannot conceal That I have not forgotten the past—but I feel That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,— In return for what... ah, Duke, what is it?... a heart Which is only a ruin!" With words warm and wild, "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!" He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answer'd, "No!" An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right? You reject ME! Accept HIM?" "I have not done so," She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet—no! But can you with accents as firm promise me That you will not accept him?" "Accept? Is he free? Free to offer?" she said. "You evade me, Lucile," He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel! He might make himself free? Oh, you blush—turn away! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! While you deign to reply to one question from me? I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he? What! silent? I alter my question. If quite Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?" "He might," She said softly.

VI.

Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush And extinguish in man all that's good. In the rush Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste And darken and devastate intellect, chased From its realm human reason. The wild animal In the bosom of man was set free. And of all Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'd By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd To involve all things else in the anguish within it, And on others inflict its own pangs! At that minute What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tell The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell Can illumine alone? He stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near! It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather; Deep midnight in him! They two,—alone and together, Himself and that woman defenceless before him! The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, And uttering words he dared never recall, Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all The brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of a reckless emotion beyond his control; A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd And seeth'd in his heart.

VII.

He had thrown, and had miss'd His last stake.

VIII.

For, transfigured, she rose from the place Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face; Such a dread vade retro was written in light On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I know If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so, She had needed no dagger next morning. She rose And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone, And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable, Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd— "Farewell! We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once more Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Duc de Luvois, adieu!" From the heart-breaking gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room, He felt she was gone—gone forever!

IX.

No word, The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, In which he remain'd. "O return; I repent!" He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent, Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn: An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer. "Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar Of the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!" He walked to the window. The spray on his brow Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below; The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound Of the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly round. A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung, Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of water; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquish'd His unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd. Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him. He ran Down the stairs; reached the door—just to see her depart. Down the mountain the carriage was speeding.

X.

His heart Peal'd the knell of its last hope. He rush'd on; but whither He knew not—on, into the dark cloudy weather— The midnight—the mountains—on, over the shelf Of the precipice—on, still—away from himself! Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering cross Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sank Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them. He knew That the night had divided his whole life in two. Behind him a past that was over forever: Before him a future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done? Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as before, To his old easy, careless existence of yore He could not. He felt that for better or worse A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread, What clew there to cling by? He clung by a name To a dynasty fallen forever. He came Of an old princely house, true through change to the race And the sword of Saint Louis—a faith 'twere disgrace To relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor less Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless Or to ban; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'd To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard field With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, tradition; A mere faded badge of a social position; A thing to retain and say nothing about, Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt. Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of his youth Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in truth! And beyond them, what region of refuge? what field For employment, this civilized age, did it yield, In that civilized land? or to thought? or to action? Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distraction! Not even a desert, not even the cell Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest, Ran riot through that ruin'd world in his breast.

XI.

So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight Of a heaven scaled and lost; in the wide arms of night O'er the howling abysses of nothingness! There As he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching him prayer; But what had he to pray to? The winds in the woods, The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes, Were in commune all round with the invisible Power that walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour. But their language he had not yet learn'd—in despite Of the much he HAD learn'd—or forgotten it quite, With its once native accents. Alas! what had he To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony Of thanksgiving?... A fiery finger was still Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. His will, Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild At its work of destruction within him. The child Of an infidel age, he had been his own god, His own devil. He sat on the damp mountain sod, and stared sullenly up at the dark sky. The clouds Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds Of misshapen, incongruous potents. A green Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between The base of their black barricades, and the ridge Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some bridge, Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrown By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands Dismantled and rent; and reveal'd, through a loop In the breach'd dark, the blemish'd and half-broken hoop Of the moon, which soon silently sank; and anon The whole supernatural pageant was gone. The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, Darken'd round him. One object alone—that gray cross— Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he descried, Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd, wide, As though to embrace him. He turn'd from the sight, Set his face to the darkness, and fled.

XII.

When the light Of the dawn grayly flicker'd and glared on the spent Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sent To the need of some grief when its need is the sorest, He was sullenly riding across the dark forest Toward Luchon. Thus riding, with eyes of defiance Set against the young day, as disclaiming alliance With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp-leaved Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on his way, The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray With the gray glare of morning. Eugene de Luvois, With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw That phantom-like face, could at once recognize, By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim, With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him, And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own; A lie born of that lying darkness now grown Over all in his nature! He answer'd that gaze With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys More intensely than words what a man means convey'd Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which said, "I have triumph'd. The question your eyes would imply Comes too late, Alfred Vargrave!" And so he rode by, And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight, Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite.

XIII.

And it bit, and it rankled.

XIV.

Lord Alfred, scarce knowing, Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one The torture of doubt—had stray'd moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that evening in which With the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through rich Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight, Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery around him avail to recall To his senses their normal perceptions, until, As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world. Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd, In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees, And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same track The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back To Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned! He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. He knew that the night was approaching to day. He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn, Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn, Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. 'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look.

XV.

And the Duke's rankled in him.

XVI.

He rush'd on. He tore His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes, The Countess was gone. And the Duke? The man stared A sleepy inquiry. With accents that scared The man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried, "Who had been there that night!" The man grinn'd and replied, With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay! He went after the lady." No further reply Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no more, Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door. "What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd? In that lone inn—with her!" Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which remain'd On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd?

XVII.

The day was half turn'd to the evening, before He re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look, By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke, Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. Right Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride, Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside, And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, "O, how right have you been! There can never be—no, Never—any more contest between us! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends!" Having utter'd that word, He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train Of his young imitators. Lord Alfred stood still, Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill, Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul With a dull, stifling anguish he could not control. Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd, The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud Some comment upon his gay humor that day? He never was gayer: what makes him so gay? 'Tis, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune, Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn Has at last found a Mars—who, of course, shall be nameless, That vestal that yields to Mars ONLY is blameless! Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs All his heart into tumult?... Lucile de Nevers With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light, Free allusion? Not so as might give him the right To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet To a trite and irreverent compliment set!

XVIII.

Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there roll Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force, THE WORLD.

XIX.

"No!" he mutter'd, "she cannot have sinn'd! True! women there are (self-named women of mind!) Who love rather liberty—liberty, yes! To choose and to leave—than the legalized stress Of the lovingest marriage. But she—is she so? I will not believe it. Lucile! O no, no! Not Lucile! "But the world? and, ah, what would it say? O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day! The gossip's light question! the slanderous jest! She is right! no, we could not be happy. 'Tis best As it is. I will write to her—write, O my heart! And accept her farewell. OUR farewell! must we part— Part thus, then—forever, Lucile? Is it so? Yes! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know. 'Twas a dream! we must waken!"

XX.

With head bow'd, as though By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. Drawn apart From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start, Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast, A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. He order'd his horse to be ready anon: Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on, And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room. It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloom Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light On the mantel-piece; there a large card caught his sight— A large card, a stout card, well-printed and plain, Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. It gave a respectable look to the slab That it lay on. The name was—

SIR RIDLEY MACNAB.

Full familiar to him was the name that he saw, For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law. Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known As wearing the longest philacteried gown Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of, A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of This world and the next; having largely invested Not only where treasure is never molested By thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ball Where interest was high, and security small. Of mankind there was never a theory yet Not by some individual instance upset: And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception did Ridley present. Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. The leader of every religious society, Christian knowledge he labor'd t though life to promote With personal profit, and knew how to quote Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantage To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age.

XXI.

Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, A waiter his head through the doorway protruded; "Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak." Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek; He brushed them away with a gesture of pride. He glanced at the glass; when his own face he eyed, He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his head, He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said, "Sir Ridley may enter." In three minutes more That benign apparition appeared at the door. Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release, In company there with his sister and niece, Found himself now at Luchon—distributing tracts, Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts For Exeter Hall; he was starting that night For Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight, That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting out For the same destination: impatient, no doubt! Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriage Through his speech trickled softly, like honey: his carriage Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the weather; If his young friend agreed, why not travel together? With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown Of perplexity, during this speech, up and down Alfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a pause And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd—"My dear Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here— Half an hour at the most—to conclude an affair Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot), Before I accept your kind offer." "Why not?" Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfred Vargrave, before Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door. A few moments later, with footsteps revealing Intense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling, He was rapidly pacing the garden below. What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know. But before one half-hour into darkness had fled, In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. His tread Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face Betrayed there the least agitation. "The place You so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept." And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'd Smiling into the carriage. And thus, out of sight, They drove down the dark road, and into the night.

XXII.

Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so far As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, "We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!" Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small supply with us. Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when Alfred suddenly thought—"Here's a man of ripe age, At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage, Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise; Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes Some few of the reasons which make me believe That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieve And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and doubt." For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. It was snapp'd up at once. "What is truth? "jesting Pilate Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futility. Had he address'd it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it Admitted discussion! and certainly no man Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical Roman Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk! Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you the scheme Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his theme! Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he! He'll prove you the whole plan in plain A B C. Here's your sun—call him A; B's the moon; it is clear How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place, (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face!) Their science in plain A B C to accord To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a word Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. Alas! Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pass. 'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emits The water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's wits; Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability Of imparting to others a truth with facility Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight, Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate More freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms, And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms; But if every street charity shook an investment, Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment, The length of the process would limit the act; And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed. As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking continued to go Onward somehow, together—on into the night— The midnight—in which they escape from our sight.

XXIII.

And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night; And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun. And the world laugh'd. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre. And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew, With her white morning robe flitting joyously through The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed. Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, And radiant confidence, childlike delight, That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight. And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'd From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, The thought of another?" "Look up, my sweet flower!" He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto thee Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!" "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. "No more," He repeated. And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er! My course, too, is decided, Lucile! Was I blind To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, Or sympathize with it?"

XXIV.

And here the first part Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd On the actors within it—the Heart, and the World. Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,— Have they solved it? Appear! answer, Husband and Wife.

XXV.

Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA.

"Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart, And the places of old... never, never to part! Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set; From the children that cry for the birth, and behold, There is no strength to bear them—old Time is SO old! From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth: From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd, Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd; Back,—back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the beauty of times that are faded forever! To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River! Where I too, the child of a day that is done, First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come! Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright? Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old, When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold? Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly trod O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god? How he frown'd while around him we carelessly play'd! That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd, Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast From some vague supernatural grief in the past. For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he frown'd, To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found, In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss. Alas! you may haply remember me yet The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget. I come—a sad woman, defrauded of rest: I bear to you only a laboring breast: My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world: The dove from my bosom hath flown far away: It is flown and returns not, though many a day Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming. Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. I know not what Ararat rises for me Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea: I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills, Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills: But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast Wakes and whispers me on—to the East! to the East! Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind? Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain? Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again? Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent? Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent? To a voice who shall render an image? or who From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew? I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life. Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife. I would sleep for a while. I am weary. "My friend, I had meant in these lines to regather, and send To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 'tis vain! Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again; Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er, Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore Whence too far I have wander'd. "How many long years Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears, While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's premature Moans of pain at what women in silence endure! To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes alone, That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know, Many years since,—how many! "A few months ago I seem'd reading it backward, that page! Why explain Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again. The old superstition! the idol of old! It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould Is not to the forest more lost than to me That emotion. I bury it here by the sea Which will bear me anon far away from the shore Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more. And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave. Hark! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave, Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home! I come, O you whispering voices, I come! My friend, ask me nothing. "Receive me alone As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring: It may be an angel that, weary of wing, Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom, Or only a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom. This only I know: that in Europe at least Lives the craft or the power that must master our East. Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at last? Both they and their altars pass by with the Past. The gods of the household Time thrust from the shelf; And I seem as unreal and weird to myself As those idols of old. "Other times, other men, Other men, other passions! "So be it! yet again I turned to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, And the light of those lands where the great sun is born! Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feel The repose which hath fled from my own. "Your LUCILE."



PART II.



CANTO I.

I.

Hail, Muse! But each Muse by this time has, I know, Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own bow All too long; so I leave unassaulted the portal Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal.

Hail, Murray!—not Lindley,—but Murray and Son. Hail, omniscient, beneficent, great Two-in-One! In Albermarle Street may thy temple long stand! Long enlighten'd and led by thine erudite hand, May each novice in science nomadic unravel Statistical mazes of modernized travel! May each inn-keeper knave long thy judgment revere, And the postboys of Europe regard thee with fear; While they feel, in the silence of baffled extortion, That knowledge is power! Long, long, like that portion Of the national soil which the Greek exile took In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to thy wit Not to pay through his nose just for following it! May'st thou long, O instructor! preside o'er his way, And teach him alike what to praise and to pay! Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once again I invoke, lest, unskill'd, I should wander in vain. To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse; For I sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. Yes! thy spirit descends upon mine, O John Murray! And I start—with thy book—for the Baths in a hurry.

II.

"At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine; And from thence the road, winding by Ehrenbreitstein, Passes over the frontier of Nassua. ("N. B. No custom-house here since the Zollverein." See Murray, paragraph 30.) "The route, at each turn, Here the lover of nature allows to discern, In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale: The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail In the foliage observable here: and, moreover, The soil is carbonic. The road, under cover Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that hems Round this beautiful spot, brings the traveller to—"EMS. A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every day. At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you pay Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur Is attach'd to the place; but most travellers prefer (Including, indeed, many persons of note) To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep green banks of which Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich; And between the high road and the river is laid Out a sort of a garden, call'd 'THE Promenade.' Female visitors here, who may make up their mind To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day long, Troops of donkeys—sure-footed—proverbially strong;" And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes, Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses.

III.

'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these springs In the month when the merle on the maple-bough sings, Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths By a similar sickness, there came to the Baths Four sufferers—each stricken deep through the heart, Or the head, by the self-same invisible dart Of the arrow that flieth unheard in the noon, From the sickness that walketh unseen in the moon, Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each Infects with his own sores the next within reach. First of these were a young English husband and wife, Grown weary ere half through the journey of life. O Nature, say where, thou gray mother of earth, Is the strength of thy youth? that thy womb brings to birth Only old men to-day! On the winds, as of old, Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold; Thy forests are green as of yore; and thine oceans Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions: But man—thy last birth and thy best—is no more Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight of yore, With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the eyes, The firm foot on the earth, the high heart in the skies; But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth, Born too late or too early. The lady, in truth, Was young, fair, and gentle; and never was given To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold Tresses brighter than those which her soft hand unroll'd From her noble and innocent brow, when she rose, An Aurora, at dawn, from her balmy repose, And into the mirror the bloom and the blush Of her beauty broke, glowing; like light in a gush From the sunrise in summer. Love, roaming, shall meet But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet— Eyes brighter—brows whiter—a figure more fair— Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair— Than thine, Lady Alfred! And here I aver (May those that have seen thee declare if I err) That not all the oysters in Britain contain A pearl pure as thou art. Let some one explain,— Who may know more than I of the intimate life Of the pearl with the oyster,—why yet in his wife, In despite of her beauty—and most when he felt His soul to the sense of her loveliness melt— Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: indeed, The more that he miss'd it the greater the need; Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly spare All the charms that he found for the one charm not there.

IV.

For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly demands The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. And the value of all things exists, not indeed In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's need. Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and youth, Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet in truth Unfulfill'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth (In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), Had remain'd, while the beauty and youth, unredeem'd From a vague disappointment at all things, but seem'd Day by day to reproach him in silence for all That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to recall. No career had he follow'd, no object obtain'd In the world by those worldly advantages gain'd From nuptials beyond which once seem'd to appear, Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. All that glitter'd and gleam'd through the moonlight of youth With a glory so fair, now that manhood in truth Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy gold Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and mould!

V.

Fairy gold! moss and leaves! and the young Fairy Bride? Lived there yet fairy-lands in the face at his side? Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast watch'd Some pale and impalpable vapor, detach'd From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all The chill'd splendor reluctantly waned in the deep Of its own native heaven? Even so seem'd to creep O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil Of a sadness unconscious. The lady grew pale As silent her lord grew: and both, as they eyed Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly sigh'd. Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give? True, we know what life is—but, alas! do we live? The grammar of life we have gotten by heart, But life's self we have made a dead language—an art, Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 'twas spoken When the silence of passion the first time was broken! Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt; But the last man, at best, was but learned about What the first, without learning, ENJOYED. What art thou To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now? A science. What wert thou to him that from ocean First beheld thee appear? A surprise,—an emotion! When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in the heart, When it thrills as it fills every animate part, Where lurks it? how works it?... We scarcely detect it. But life goes: the heart dies: haste, O leech, and dissect it! This accursed aesthetical, ethical age Hath so finger'd life's hornbook, so blurr'd every page, That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story With its fables of faery, its legends of glory, Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new To the children that read it insipidly through. We know too much of Love ere we love. We can trace Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face When we see it at last. 'Tis the same little Cupid, With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost stupid, We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our shelves, And copied a hundred times over, ourselves, And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, Still, that horrible sense of the deja connu!

VI.

Perchance 'twas the fault of the life that they led; Perchance 'twas the fault of the novels they read; Perchance 'twas a fault in themselves; I am bound not To say: this I know—that these two creatures found not In each other some sign they expected to find Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind; And, missing it, each felt a right to complain Of a sadness which each found no word to explain. Whatever it was, the world noticed not it In the light-hearted beauty, the light-hearted wit. Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 'tis the case, Each must speak to the crowd with a mask on his face. Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went, She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase content? Yes. While to its voice for a moment she listen'd, The young cheek still bloom'd and the soft eyes still glisten'd; And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid things That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which proved Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot, 'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that was not: And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd, (As they turn'd to each other, each flush'd from the crowd,) And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd more dear Than the praises of others had grown to her ear, She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret: "Yes!... he loves me," she sigh'd; "this is love, then—and YET!"