JOHN.

No!

ALFRED.

Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.

VIII.

JOHN.

I do. But 'tis late. If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?

ALFRED.

No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow. He open'd the door, and pass'd out. Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.

IX.

His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.

X.

No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure. And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom. She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him, Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim. Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. That sight Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he silently slid, And knelt down beside her—and pray'd at her side.

XI.

Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet. As a young fawn uncouches, Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches, She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm. Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go: Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort within it Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute. "O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried— "Forgive me!" "Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd; "But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, And I have not one thought that reproaches you now." From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so He forced her down softly beside him. Below The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, "When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown? From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore, Although in his pride he might perish, before He could plead for the one, or the other avow 'Mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell me now, Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, The sole friend that CAN have the right or the power To be at his side, is the woman that shares His fate, if he falter; the woman that bears The name dear for HER sake, and hallows the life She has mingled her own with,—in short, that man's wife?" "Yes," murmur'd Matilda, "O yes!" "Then," he cried, "This chamber in which we two sit, side by side, (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her), Is now a confessional—you, my confessor!" "I?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head. "Yes! but first answer one other question," he said: "When a woman once feels that she is not alone: That the heart of another is warm'd by her own; That another feels with her whatever she feel And halves her existence in woe or in weal; That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives, Live to put forth the strength which the thought of her gives; Live to shield her from want, and to share with her sorrow; Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow: Will that woman feel less than another, O say, The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away? Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come, That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?" She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim. "That woman," she murmur'd, "indeed were thrice blest!" "Then courage, true wife of my heart!" to his breast As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried. "For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wide To your heart, can be never closed to it again, And this room is for both an asylum! For when I pass'd through that door, at the door I left there A calamity sudden and heavy to bear. One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, We must face it henceforth; but it enters not here, For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone A heart which calamity leaves all your own!" She started... "Calamity, Alfred, to you?" "To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it too The courage, I trust, to subdue it." "O speak! Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and weak. "O yet for a moment," he said, "hear me on! Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer flies, That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies While the skies smile, and heed not each other: at last, When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast, Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings? So indeed the morn found us,—poor frivolous things! Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set, And the night brings its darkness around us. Oh yet Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours? Yes; you, too, have wept! "While the world was yet ours, While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us, And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us, We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be, Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate! But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, Watching o'er us to warn, and to rescue! "That smile Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyed With resentment, an angel's they were at your side And at mine; nor perchance is the day all so far, When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are, May murmur the name of that woman now gone From our sight evermore. "Here, this evening, alone, I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart Unto yours,—from this clasp be it never to part! Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, But a prize richer far than that fortune has won It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 'Tis the heart of my wife!" With suffused happy eyes She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart, And tenderly closing them round him, his heart Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom; and there Droop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd. Not despair, Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was Of all save the sense of her own love! Anon, However, his words rush'd back to her. "All gone, The fortune you brought me!" And eyes that were dim With soft tears she upraised; but those tears were for HIM. "Gone! my husband?" she said," tell me all! see! I need, To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed, Fuller sense of affliction." "Poor innocent child!" He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled, As he told her the tale he had heard—something more, The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore. "Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand, for you; And with these, my Matilda, what may I not do? And know not, I knew not myself till this hour, Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power." "And I too," she murmur'd, "I too am no more The mere infant at heart you have known me before. I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life. O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel! For I—love you, my husband!" As though to conceal Less from him, than herself, what that motion express'd, She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast. "O lovely as woman, beloved as wife! Evening star of my heart, light forever my life! If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus far You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star, Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given To lead me to life's late achievement; my own, My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!"

XII.

How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight, That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night! How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth, As she clung to his side, full of trust and of truth! How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'd Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd The glittering tresses which now shaken loose Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!

XIII.

O Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.

XIV.

Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least! No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung, Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. He open'd the casement: he led her with him, Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight, Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light Which no longer they needed to read on the face Of each other life's last revelation. The place Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms, And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies—the wary, gray strategist, Time, With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd—Grief and Crime, Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing, For his great war with man, new surprises; securing All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe To his last narrow refuge—the grave.

XV.

Sweetly though Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely Confiding in that yet untrodden existence Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.



CANTO V.

I.

When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.

II.

From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill. Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both? What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth? Hath the darkness a dwelling,—save there, in those eyes? And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies? Ay, question, and listen! What answer? The sound Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night. There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms,—stinging creatures, that crawl, Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,— Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last; When she traverses nature and space, till she stands In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands, Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd, And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.

III.

The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar; The spirits of change and of awe, with faint breath, Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. The spirits of awe and of change were around And about, and upon her. A dull muffled sound, And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn, And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade Of a creature by fancy some solitude made, And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.

IV.

"At last, then,—at last, and alone,—I and thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met? "Hush! I know Not for me was the tryst. Never mind—it is mine; And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, They remove not, until we have spoken. My hour Is come; and it holds me and thee in its power, As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well! The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight, When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!" To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream. She appear'd with a start to awaken. The stream, When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again, Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. "Continue," she answer'd, "I listen to hear." For a moment he did not reply. Through the drear And dim light between them, she saw that his face Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace, With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide. Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. "Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face? Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst thou trace One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul?" In his face there was something so wrathful and wild, That the sight of it scared her. He saw it, and smiled, And then turn'd him from her, renewing again That short restless stride; as though searching in vain For the point of some purpose within him. "Lucile, You shudder to look in my face: do you feel No reproach when you look in your own heart?" "No, Duke, In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke: Not yours!" she replied. "No," he mutter'd again, "Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then To Despair you say, 'Act not!'"

V.

He watch'd her awhile With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'd Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed, "Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou—one and all! Only able to injure each other and fall, Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are! O heaven! and what has become of them? all Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall: That glorious faith in inherited things: That sense in the soul of the length of her wings; Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human, Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman, Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again, Give me back the young heart that I gave thee... in vain!" "Duke!" she falter'd. "Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was not Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot."

VI.

As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. "Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch! But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine! My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep: And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep! Well!... how utter soever it be, one mistake In the love of a man, what more change need it make In the steps of his soul through the course love began, Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys; What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring! Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!'

"Vain! all vain!... For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears! It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!"

VII.

He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity, replied to his own. "And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life? Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own, Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse? Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, For I then should have wrong'd you!" "Wrong'd! ah, is it so? You could never have loved me?" "Duke!" "Never? oh, no!" (He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said) "Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well? But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell Which has grown in my heart. Oh, that man! first and last He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast His shadow 'twixt me and the sun... let it pass! My hate yet may find him!" She murmur'd, "Alas! These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try To forget every word I have heard, every sight That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had! Adieu!" "Stay, Lucile, stay!"... he groaned, "I am mad, Brutalized, blind with pain! I know not what I said. I mean it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head) "Forgive me! I—have I so wrong'd you, Lucile? I... have I... forgive me, forgive me!" "I feel Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, "far, Far too sad for resentment." "Yet stand as you are One moment," he murmur'd. "I think, could I gaze Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink, Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think. Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought. There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to feel—" "Could I help you," she murmur'd, "but what can I say That your life will respond to?" "My life?" he sigh'd. "Nay, My life hath brought forth only evil, and there The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet ere You exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames,' think again Why the field is so barren. With all other men First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. For a man, at least most men, may love on through life: Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife With labor, and therefor, with love, for a man. If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan Of man's life includes love in all objects! But I? All such loves from my life through its whole destiny Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas! Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass! It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition? Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art? But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart, Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly compress 'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics: life's stress Needs scope, not contraction! what rests? to wear out At some dark northern court an existence, no doubt, In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause As hopeless as is my own life! By the laws Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, I am what I am!"

VIII.

For a while she was mute. Then she answer'd, "We are our own fates. Our own deeds Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds But men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might say That all life attests, that 'the will makes the way.' Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth, Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth Our upholding, because the white lily no more Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore? Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugene De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in pain, Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul That the great master hand which sweeps over the whole Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetch Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart, Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart, Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if less Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express Just the one note the great final harmony needs. And what best proves there's life in a heart?—that it bleeds? Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain! Cease the sin with the sorrow! See morning begin! Pain must burn itself out if not fuel'd by sin. There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light. Let hate and despondency die with the night!"

He was moved by her words. As some poor wretch confined In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mind Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again, Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known strain, Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill With music and memory, and, as it were, The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thing It once sought,—the poor idiot who pass'd for a king, Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'd A madman more painfully mad than the rest.— So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore The forces of thought: he recaptured the whole Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul Reflected on his: he appear'd to awake From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake: His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him: He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim, But he murmur'd... "Lucile, not for me that sun's light Which reveals—not restores—the wild havoc of night. There are some creatures born for the night, not the day. Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower. Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize Enough desolation."

IX.

"The pride that claims here On earth to itself (howsoever severe To itself it may be) God's dread office and right Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, And against heaven's service. "Eugene de Luvois, Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law. Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all His own doomsman." Her words seem'd to fall With a weight of tears in them. He look'd up, and saw That sad serene countenance, mournful as law And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him: and heard In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird.

X.

"Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly. "Eugene," She continued, "in life we have met once again, And once more life parts us. Yon day-spring for me Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me yet The belief that it is not in vain we have met! I plead for the future. A new horoscope I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a hope: I plead for a memory; yours, yours alone, To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, Be the memory mine. "Once of yore, when for man Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began, Men aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled far From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and sought Not repose, but employment in action or thought, Life's strong earnest, in all things! oh, think not of me, But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny: I plead for your life, with its duties undone, With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon; And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead For all that you miss, and for all that you need."

XI.

Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke, A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret broke; And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell, On his ear, where he kneel'd, softly, soothingly fell. All within him was wild and confused, as within A chamber deserted in some roadside inn, Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night, To quaff and carouse; in each socket each light Is extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wall With wild ribald ballads; serenely o'er all, For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faint Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint, Seen through some broken frame, appears noting meanwhile The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn Oped behind her; and pure as the pure light of dawn She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyes From their sight to be melting away in the skies That expanded around her.

XII.

There pass'd through his head A fancy—a vision. That woman was dead He had loved long ago—loved and lost! dead to him, Dead to all the life left him; but there, in the dim Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas hers; And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers: "O soul to its sources departing away! Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power, One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour I name not my heart, and I speak not to thine. Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart denies, Hope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon skies, This wild night is passing away while I speak: Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break! Something wakens within me, and warms to the beam: Is it hope that awakens? or do I but dream? I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark Of a new light within me to solace the dark Unto which I return; or perchance it may be The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. I know not. Thou goest thy way: I my own; For good or for evil, I know not. Alone This I know; we are parting. I wish'd to say more, But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er. Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the pain For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again. I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not love, That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done. Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. I was madden'd, delirious! I saw you return To him—not to me; and I felt my heart burn With a fierce thirst for vengeance—and thus... let it pass! Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas! Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 'Tis to meet nevermore. Is it not so? Who knows, Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies? Or what altars of his in the desert may rise? Is it not so, Lucile? Well, well! Thus then we part Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart!"

XIII.

And again clearer far than the chime of a bell, That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. "Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for my own Seems no more through that world in which henceforth alone You must work out (as now I believe that you will) The hope which you speak of. That work I shall still (If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away. Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I say That the great moral combat between human life And each human soul must be single. The strife None can share, though by all its results may be known. When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore, For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street, Or in solitude even, but never again Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugene. For we know not the way we are going, nor yet Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life hath set No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, I will promise: whatever your path, or my own, If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war, You falter and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide, In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, To warn, if you will, or incite, or control; And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!"

XIV.

The voice ceased. He uplifted his eyes. All alone He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place was the Sunrise! It rose In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose, The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, Realms of rose, in the Orient! and breathless, and bold, While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one, The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun! Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere! Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope, The spirits of morning were whispering, "HOPE!"

XV.

He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold Of his own youth,—its ardors—its promise of fame— Its ancestral ambition; and France by the name Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light, That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone; And he—as the body may yearn for the soul, So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole Heart arose to regain it. "And is it too late?" No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain The true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE. As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate In the fountain arises, the spirit in him Arose to that image. The image waned dim Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense—awed, amazed— Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.



CANTO VI.

I.

Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. He leaps with a wail into being; and lo! His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head: 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her solitudes spread To daunt him: her forces dispute his command: Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to brand: Her seas yawn to engulf him: her rocks rise to crush: And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush On their startled invader. In lone Malabar, Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and far, 'Mid the cruel of eye and the stealthy of claw (Striped and spotted destroyers!) he sees, pale with awe, On the menacing edge of a fiery sky, Grim Doorga, blue-limb'd and red-handed, go by, And the first thing he worships is Terror. Anon, Still impell'd by necessity hungrily on, He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance, And the last cry of fear wakes the first of defiance. From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul; Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll! On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides high on The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion: And man, conquering terror, is worshipp'd by man.

A camp has the world been since first it began! From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian; at peace, A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece; But, warring his way through a world's destinies, Lo from Delhi, from Bagdadt, from Cordova, rise Domes of empiry, dower'd with science and art, Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart!

New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. But those Forthwith they are peopled for man by new foes! The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her own, And bold must the man be that braves the Unknown! Not a truth has to art or to science been given, But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd and striven; And many have striven, and many have fail'd, And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd, But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted his place And dominion, behold! he is brought face to face With a new foe—himself! Nor may man on his shield Ever rest, for his foe is ever afield, Danger ever at hand, till the armed Archangel Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final evangel.

II.

Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cymbals of pleasure, Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial the measure! Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time, Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublime In the light of the aureole over her head, Hears, and heeds not the wound in her heart fresh and red. Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold The shrill clanging curtains of war! And behold A vision! The antique Heraclean seats; And the long Black Sea billow that once bore those fleets, Which said to the winds, "Be ye, too, Genoese!" And the red angry sands of the chafed Cheronese; And the two foes of man, War and Winter, allied Round the Armies of England and France, side by side Enduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast!) Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the East.

III.

Since that sunrise which rose through the calm linden stems O'er Lucile and Eugene, in the garden of Ems, Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun, This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone, And the fates that I sing of have flowed with the fates Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the gates Of that doom'd and heroical city, in which (Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the ditch!), At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear, Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in his lair.

IV.

A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire, Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to one gory mire! There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, While those two famished ogres—the Siege, the Defence, Face to face, through a vapor frore, dismal, and dun, Glare, scenting the breath of each other. The one Double-bodied, two-headed—by separate ways Winding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each day's Sullen toil adding size to,—concentrated, solid, Indefatigable—the brass-fronted, embodied, And audible [Greek text omitted] gone sombrely forth To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north!

V.

In the dawn of a moody October, a pale Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail Over city and camp; like the garment of death Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. 'Twas the breath War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire; Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of red fire, And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellow Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the yellow And sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and rock'd And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'd With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain Flared with fitful combustion; where fitfully fell Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle, And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom With wings of swift flame round that City of Doom.

VI.

So the day—so the night! So by night, so by day, With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it wails, In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails Shot and shell—link by link, out of hardship and pain, Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain Of those terrible siege-lines! No change to that toil Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil. Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd, And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'd By man or by nature.

VII.

Time passes. The dumb, Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come. And its snows have been bathed in the blood of the brave; And many a young heart has glutted the grave: And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story.

VIII.

The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the camp No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, That seems searching for something it never can find. The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh spent: And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent Lies a young British soldier whose sword... In this place, However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow. And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate, Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their possessions. Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach Of the law, died abroad. Cousin John, heart and hand, Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his stand By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhile Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's faithful smile. Late in life he began life in earnest; and still, With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, Through long, and laborious, and difficult days, Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man), After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of current opinion The reflex of powers in himself—that dominion Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth, May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won Working only for home, love, and duty. One son Matilda had borne him; but scarce had the boy, With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chanced That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloom Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell: No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, Captious April engenders; but deep as his own Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. When first a wild war-note through England was sent, He, transferring without either token or word, To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the star Whence others sought glory. Thus fighting, he fell On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tell By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borne To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn. Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side, He lay, dark.

IX.

But a wound deeper far, undescried, The young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth, In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath, The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through. There are loves in man's life for which time can renew All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move, Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. Whence or how Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now.

X.

Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night? A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain, To and fro, up and down. But it is not the wind That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind That hath moulded that vision. A pale woman enters, As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concenters Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, The sufferer sees that still form floating on, And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Through the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feels The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping! A soft voice says... "Sleep!" And he sleeps: he is sleeping.

XI.

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there. Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him. Revering Some power unknown, and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd... "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit!" A whisper serene Slid, softer than silence... "The Soeur Seraphine, A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave To live than to die. Sleep!" He sleeps: he is sleeping.

XII.

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. As the dawn to the darkness, so life seemed returning Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp yet burning, Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. He said, "If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing Thy mission of mercy; whence art thou?" "O son Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead: To thee, and to others, alive yet"... she said... "So long as there liveth the poor gift in me Of this ministration; to them, and to thee, Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, There her land! there her kindred!" She bent down to smooth The hot pillow; and added... "Yet more than another Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, I know them—I know them." "Oh, can it be? you! My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,' You know them?" She bowed, half averting her head In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, "Do they know I am thus?" "Hush!"... she smiled, as she drew From her bosom two letters: and—can it be true? That beloved and familiar writing! He burst Into tears... "My poor mother—my father! the worst Will have reach'd them!" "No, no!" she exclaimed, with a smile, "They know you are living; they know that meanwhile I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!" But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest: And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, The calm voice say... "Sleep!" And he sleeps, he is sleeping.

XIII.

And day follow'd day. And, as wave follow'd wave, With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, drave Through that young hardy frame novel currents of health. Yet some strange obstruction, which life's health by stealth Seemed to cherish, impeded life's progress. And still A feebleness, less of the frame than the will, Clung about the sick man—hid and harbor'd within The sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale and thin: And clothed the wan fingers with languor. And there, Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care, Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien, And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine!

XIV.

A strange woman truly! not young; yet her face, Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the whole Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, the soul Seemed to fill with its own light, like some sunny fountain Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. So that, watching that face, you could scarce pause to guess The years which its calm careworn lines might express, Feeling only what suffering with these must have past To have perfected there so much sweetness at last.

XV.

Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out, His brief thrifty fires, and the wind was about, The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own Laid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender tone Of her voice moved the silence. She said... "I have heal'd These wounds of the body. Why hast thou conceal'd, Young soldier, that yet open wound in the heart? Wilt thou trust NO hand near it?" He winced, with a start, As of one that is suddenly touched on the spot From which every nerve derives suffering. "What? Lies my heart, then, so bare?" he moaned bitterly. "Nay," With compassionate accents she hastened to say, "Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, young man, So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan Her features, yet know them not? "Oh, was it spoken, 'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the broken!' Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, done, When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone? Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold? Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that we hold To fulfil it, of Heaven! For Heaven doth still To us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart. Trust to me!" (His two feeble hands in her own She drew gently.) "Trust to me!" (she said, with soft tone): "I am not so dead in remembrance to all I have died to in this world, but what I recall Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, To grieve for both—save from both haply! The dial Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does not. And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot. Looking up to this light, which is common to all, And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall In time's silent circle, so various for each, Is it nothing to know that they never can reach So far, but what light lies beyond them forever? Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor To trace the shade creeping across the young life Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strife With the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith alone, That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun. Trust to me!" She paused: he was weeping. Small need Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed, Had those gentle accents to win from his pale And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old, And in words few as may be shall straightway be told.

XVI.

A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace Was driven from Europe, a young girl—the niece Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while With a lady allied to her race—an old dame Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, In the Faubourg Saint Germain. Upon that fair child, From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. One uncle their place in her life had supplied, And their place in her heart: she had grown at his side, And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, From childhood to girlhood. This fair orphan ward Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heart Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart One ray of response to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere.

Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bare In that ancient mansion; when first the stern tread Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead: Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said—right or wrong— That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'd The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd through Those desolate chambers; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate. Men now saw appear Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, His severity seem'd to be trebly severe In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least, Was benignant to others. The poor parish priest, Who lived on his largess, his piety praised. The peasant was fed, and the chapel was raised, And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to stand A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan Of his life, that love fail'd to pass over. That child Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him; smiled To his frown, and dispell'd it. The sweet sportive elf Seem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, in himself. Ever welcome he suffer'd her glad face to glide In on hours when to others his door was denied: And many a time with a mute moody look He would watch her at prattle and play, like a brook Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot, But soothes us because we need answer it not.

But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before A change came among them. A letter, which bore Sudden consequence with it, one morning was placed In the hands of the lord of the chateau. He paced To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone. Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he return'd With a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the child learn'd That they were of the same race and name. With a face Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race He confided the orphan, and left them alone In the old lonely house. In a few days 'twas known, To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on To the banner that bears the white lilies of France, Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance Of restoring their own, had renounced the watchword And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword, For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate!) By legitimate parents. And meanwhile, elate And in no wise disturbed by what Paris might say, The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away:— "To the life of inaction farewell! After all, Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall, But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure, In whatever makes death noble, life strong and pure. Freedom! action!... the desert to breathe in—the lance Of the Arab to follow! I go! vive la France!"

Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as years fled, 'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women led Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child grew Into girlhood; and, like a sunbeam, sliding through Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl, And as perfect: a noble and innocent girl, With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the light Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright! Then her guardian wrote to the dame,... "Let Constance Go with you to Paris. I trust that in France I may be ere the close of the year. I confide My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side, The world which we live in." To Paris then came Constance to abide with that old stately dame In that old stately Faubourg. The young Englishman Thus met her. 'Twas there their acquaintance began, There it closed. That old miracle, Love-at-first-sight, Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden Nor check'd, the young soldier was graciously bidden An habitual guest to that house by the dame. His own candid graces, the world-honor'd name Of his father (in him not dishonor'd) were both Fair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath, The old lady observed, was return'd by Constance. And as the child's uncle his absence from France Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratulation) Wrote to him a lengthen'd and moving narration Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer: His father's fair fame; the boy's deference to her; His love for Constance,—unaffected, sincere; And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear Limpid eyes; then the pleasure with which she awaited Her cousin's approval of all she had stated.

At length from that cousin an answer there came, Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame.

"Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day You receive this. Until my return she may stay At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever To behold me again, understand, she will never Wed that man. "You have broken faith with me. Farewell!" No appeal from that sentence. It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover: The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life where invisible hands seemed to trace O'er the threshold these words... "Hope no more!"

Unreturn'd Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd That weakness which suffers a woman to lie At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dare To forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone? Recording a love that drew sorrow upon The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, Beat him down, and destroy'd him? News reach'd him indeed, Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Constance (it was one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day, And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. It was then he sought death.

XVII.

Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told With such broken, passionate words, as unfold In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof, And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roof At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head, And fell into a feverish slumber. Long while Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face And made it like heaven, was fled from its place In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, As low to herself she sigh'd... "Hath it, Eugene, Been so long, then, the struggle?... and yet, all in vain! Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man, And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can? Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so! And then—soul of mine, whither? whither?"

XVIII.

Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. "HERE, at least, I have fail'd not"... she mused... "this is well!" She drew from her bosom two letters. In one, A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. "The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile! The hope of a home saved by thee—of a heart Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!) Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son! And if not"... the letter went brokenly on, "Heaven help us!" Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, So unlike his own; how in beauty and truth He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave! And how he had striven his son's youth to save From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own, And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son, In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'd To be bless'd by a pledge that the past was redeem'd, And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak Of the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to break Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back again The hopes of the future. To sue for consent Pride forbade: and the hope his old foe might relent Experience rejected... "My life for the boy's!" (He exclaim'd); "for I die with my son, if he dies! Lucile! Heaven bless you for all you have done! Save him, save him, Lucile! save my son! save my son!"

XIX.

"Ay!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine... "heart to heart! THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part? Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole. Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then!... Soul to soul!" She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on, Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone.

XX.

Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent There sits a French General—bronzed by the sun And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee Had strangely and rapidly risen to be The idol, the darling, the dream and the star Of the younger French chivalry: daring in war, And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) The Army of France: and had risen, in part From a singular aptitude proved for the art Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise, And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; Partly, too, from a name and position which France Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact, From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, In frequent emergencies startlingly shown, To the rank which he now held,—intrepidly won With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar.

XXI.

All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bear Smiling token of provident order and care. All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands In groups round the music of mirth-breathing bands. In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, The messengers come and the messengers go, Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil: To report how the sapper contends with the soil In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring In the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing, Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, Moving all. He is bending his brow o'er some plan For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. The officer standing behind him is fain To refer to the angel solicitous cares Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace; He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place Where suffering is seen, silent, active—the Soeur... Soeur... how do they call her? "Ay, truly, of her I have heard much," the General, musing, replies; "And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean Ah, how do they call her?... the Soeur—Seraphine (Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once heard."

"Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." "On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind, Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, And if possible, let her come to me. We shall, I think, aid each other." "Oui, mon General: I believe she has lately obtained the permission To tend some sick man in the Second Division Of our Ally; they say a relation." "Ay, so? A relation?" "'Tis said so." "The name do you know?" Non, mon General." While they spoke yet, there went A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. "A Sister of Charity craves, in a case Of urgent and serious importance, the grace Of brief private speech with the General there. Will the General speak with her?" "Bid her declare Her mission." "She will not. She craves to be seen And be heard." "Well, her name, then?" "The Soeur Seraphine." "Clear the tent. She may enter."

XXII.

The tent has been clear'd, The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his brow On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, now Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary, As a curtain let fall by a hand that's grown weary, Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unrepress'd, Steals th' impatient sigh which reveals in man's breast A conflict conceal'd, and experience at strife With itself,—the vex'd heart's passing protest on life. He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light tread Of a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his head, Said, "Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own. I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks; In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks I record them. Sit! Now then, your mission?" The nun Paused silent. The General eyed her anon More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd "Strange! strange! Any face should so strongly remind me of HER! Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir? Does it move as of old? Psha! "Sit, Sister! I wait Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State The cause why you seek me." "The cause? ay, the cause!" She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause,— As one who, awaked unawares, would put back The sleep that forever returns in the track Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the less Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress, Like doves to a pent-house,—a movement she made, Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd her head And folded her hands on her bosom: long, spare, Fatigued, mournful hands! Not a stream of stray hair Escaped the pale bands; scarce more pale than the face Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case. She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague awe O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast. "Eugene de Luvois, The cause which recalls me again to your side, Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd," she replied. "I come to fulfil it." He sprang from the place Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face; And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the sound Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light Unawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand laid On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal Against doubt: stagger'd backward, and murmur'd... "Lucile? Thus we meet then?... here!... thus?" "Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, As I pledged you my word that we should meet again. Dead,..." she murmur'd, "long dead! all that lived in our lives— Thine and mine—saving that which ev'n life's self survives, The soul! 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. What may reach From my life to thy life (so wide each from each!) Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would speak. May I do so?" He said (work'd and white was his cheek As he raised it), "Speak to me!" Deep, tender, serene, And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Seraphine Held on him. She spoke.

XXIII.

As some minstrel may fling, Preluding the music yet mute in each string, A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole, Seeking which note most fitly must first move the soul; And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, Move pathetic in numbers remote;—even so The voice which was moving the heart of that man Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, Far away in the pathos remote of the past; Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone Unaccomplish'd from life. He was mute.

XXIV.

She went on And still further down the dim past did she lead Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land! 'Tis the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy! The unproved desire—the unaim'd aspiration— The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation With ever a flitting delight—one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse. The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand The glorious creature! The ages lie shut (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air. So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly—so, wrought Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene! While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast. Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed? Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed? Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can! Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. He was dumb. She went one step further.

XXV.

Lo! manhood is come. And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree. And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see: What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch? Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch? There, he saw himself—dark, as he stood on that night, The last when they met and they parted: a sight For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice! An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. Then he said (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world, 'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!"

XXVI.

She went on. "So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon! From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, And to build up the future heaven shatters the past." "Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scan The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man? From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!"

XXVII.

Lucile!... the old name—the old self! silenced long: Heard once more! felt once more! As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature—surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalms Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!) The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;— So that one word... Lucile!... stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine, For a moment. Anon she resumed here serene And concentrated calm. "Let the Nun, then, retrace The life of the soldier!"... she said, with a face That glow'd, gladdening her words. "To the present I come: Leave the Past!" There her voice rose, and seem'd as when some Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise Of her hero whose brows she is crowning with bays. Step by step did she follow his path from the place Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace (Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence. Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance; Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours: And the same sentinels that ascend the same towers And report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife, Waged alike to the limits of each human life. She went on to speak of the lone moody lord, Shut up in his lone moody halls: every word Held the weight of a tear: she recorded the good He had patiently wrought through a whole neighborhood; And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door. There she paused: and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hue Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, Yet working love's work; reading backwards life's pages For penance; and stubbornly, many a time, Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme. Then she spoke of the soldier!... the man's work and fame, The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim! Life's inward approval!

XXVIII.

Her voice reach'd his heart, And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apart And unseen,—far away,—she had watch'd, year by year, With how many a blessing, how many a tear, And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife: Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life: Bless'd the man in the man's work! "THY work... oh, not mine! Thine, Lucile!"... he exclaim'd... "all the worth of it thine, If worth there be in it!" Her answer convey'd His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said Alone by the voice... eyes—face—spoke silently: All the woman, one grateful emotion! And she A poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spent In one silent effort for others!... She bent Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his heart With the look that glow'd from it. Then slow, with soft art, Fix'd her aim, and moved to it.

XXIX.

He, the soldier humane, He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the pain Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made known The value of man's life!... that youth overthrown And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth In another? his own life of strenuous truth Accomplish'd in act, had it taught him no care For the life of another?... oh no! everywhere In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face With some noble token, some generous trace Of his active humanity... "Well," he replied, "If it be so?" "I come from the solemn bedside Of a man that is dying," she said. "While we speak, A life is in jeopardy." "Quick then! you seek Aid or medicine, or what?" "'Tis not needed," she said. "Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can Save the life of this man. Will you save it?" "What man? How?... where?... can you ask?" She went rapidly on To her object in brief vivid words... The young son Of Matilda and Alfred—the boy lying there Half a mile from that tent door—the father's despair, The mother's deep anguish—the pride of the boy In the father—the father's one hope and one joy In the son:—-the son now—wounded, dying! She told Of the father's stern struggle with life: the boy's bold, Pure, and beautiful nature: the fair life before him If that life were but spared... yet a word might restore him! The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene! Its pathos: the girl's love for him; how, half slain In his tent, she had found him: won from him the tale; Sought to nurse back his life; found her efforts still fail Beaten back by a love that was stronger than life; Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife Wherein England and France in their best blood, at last, Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the past. And shall nations be nobler than men? Are not great Men the models of nations? For what is a state But the many's confused imitation of one? Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance An innocent life,—here, when England and France Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore, And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent gore? She went on to tell how the boy had clung still To life, for the sake of life's uses, until From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, stricken down By the news that the heart of Constance, like his own, Was breaking beneath... But there "Hold!" he exclaim'd, Interrupting, "Forbear!"... his whole face was inflamed With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke, Had been gathering silent—at last the storm broke In grief or in wrath... "'Tis to him, then," he cried,... Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, "That I owe these late greetings—for him you are here— For his sake you seek me—for him, it is clear, You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again Of this long-forgotten existence!" "Eugene!" "Ha! fool that I was!"... he went on,... "and just now, While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow Almost boyish again, almost sure of ONE friend! Yet this was the meaning of all—this the end! Be it so! There's a sort of slow justice (admit!) In this—that the word that man's finger hath writ In fire on my heart, I return him at last. Let him learn that word—Never!" "Ah, still to the past Must the present be vassal?" she said. "In the hour We last parted I urged you to put forth the power Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. Yours, the promise to strive: mine—to watch o'er the strife. I foresaw you would conquer; you HAVE conquer'd much, Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such, And am here to record and applaud it. I saw Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, One peril—one point where I feared you would fail To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail,— Himself: and I promised that, if I should see My champion once falter, or bend the brave knee, That moment would bring me again to his side. That moment is come! for that peril was pride, And you falter. I plead for yourself, and another, For that gentle child without father or mother, To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, For your own nobler nature—and plead for Constance!" At the sound of that name he averted his head. "Constance!... Ay, she enter'd MY lone life" (he said) "When its sun was long set; and hung over its night Her own starry childhood. I have but that light, In the midst of much darkness! Who names me but she With titles of love? And what rests there for me In the silence of age save the voice of that child? The child of my own better life, undefiled! My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts!" "Say," Said the Soeur Seraphine—"are you able to lay Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man And swear that, whatever may happen, you can Feel assured for the life you thus cherish?" "How so?" He look'd up. "if the boy should die thus?" "Yes, I know What your look would imply... this sleek stranger forsooth! Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth The heart of my niece must break for it!" She cried, "Nay, but hear me yet further!" With slow heavy stride, Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, He was muttering low to himself as he went. Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart just so long As their wings are in growing; and when these are strong They break it, and farewell! the bird flies!"... The nun Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, "The sun Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus! oh, yet Let this day upon one final victory set, And complete a life's conquest!" He said, "Understand! If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose hand My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life! Can her home be my home? Can I claim in the wife Of that man's son the child of my age? At her side Shall he stand on my hearth? Shall I sue to the bride Of... enough! "Ah, and you immemorial halls Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet falls On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past, Present,—all, in one silence! old trees to the blast Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days, Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the wind Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far years Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with tears! Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone Rouse your echoes?" "O think not," she said, "of the son Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only think Of this young human creature, that cries from the brink Of a grave to your mercy! "Recall your own words (Words my memory mournfully ever records!) How with love may be wreck'd a whole life! then, Eugene, Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once again At this young soldier sinking from life here—dragg'd down By the weight of the love in his heart: no renown, No fame comforts HIM! nations shout not above The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love Which life has rejected! Will YOU stand apart? You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart! You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won, By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, Such as lies at your door now: who have but, in truth, To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word, And by that word you rescue a life!" He was stirr'd. Still he sought to put from him the cup, bow'd his face on his hand; and anon, as though wishing to chase With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, He sprang up, brush'd past her, and bitterly cried, "No!—Constance wed a Vargrave!"—I cannot consent!" Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. The low tent In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the height From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light Of their deep silent sadness upon him. No wonder He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under The compulsion of that grave regard! For between The Duc de Luvois and the Soeur Seraphine At that moment there rose all the height of one soul O'er another; she look'd down on him from the whole Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days, There were long months and years in that heart-searching gaze; And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrill'd through And transfix'd him. "Eugene de Luvois, but for you, I might have been now—not this wandering nun, But a mother, a wife—pleading, not for the son Of another, but blessing some child of my own, His,—the man's that I once loved!... Hush! that which is done I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's best Which God sends. 'Twas his will: it is mine. And the rest Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads In your heart—He that judges of all thoughts and deeds. With eyes, mine forestall not! This only I say: You have not the right (read it, you, as you may!) To say... 'I am the wrong'd."'... "Have I wrong'd thee?—wrong'd THEE!" He falter'd, "Lucile, ah, Lucile!" "Nay, not me," She murmur'd, "but man! The lone nun standing here Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the sphere Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she, The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in me, Demands from her grave reparation to man, Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you can, This voice from the grave!" "Hush!" he moan'd, "I obey The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile! let this pay Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on: I follow you, Soeur Seraphine!... To the son Of Lord Alfred Vargrave... and then,"... As he spoke He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd, Of the city beneath them... "Then, THERE, underground, And valete et plaudite, soon as may be! Let the old tree go down to the earth—the old tree With the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the root! Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young shoot? A Vargrave!... this pays all... Lead on! In the seed Save the forest!... I follow... forth, forth! where you lead."

XXX.

The day was declining; a day sick and damp. In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly camp Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent (Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting, Cross'd the silence between him and death, which seem'd near, —"Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd! else, how bear This intense and intolerable solitude, With its eye on my heart and its hand on my blood? Pulse by pulse! Day goes down: yet she comes not again. Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain, Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange! and scarcely feel sad. Oh, to think of Constance THUS, and not to go mad! But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his own Dull doings..."

XXXI.

Between those sick eyes and the sun A shadow fell thwart.

XXXII.

'Tis the pale nun once more! But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door? How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloom Of the battle, with long, longing looks, that dim plume Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd! How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubt Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero. (What's like A boy's love for some famous man?)... Oh, to strike A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, And so fall in his glorious regard!... Oft, how oft, Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft The dim battle that plume dance and dart—never seen So near till this moment! how eager to glean Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise Of his hero—each tale of old venturous days In the desert! And now... could he speak out his heart Face to face with that man ere he died!