Lucile [14]
From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky.
"But the mariners heed not the bird any more. They are felling the masts--they are cutting the sails; Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales.
"Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; And who heeds the bird? 'Save the silk and the gold!' And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away!
"Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven-- To be 'whelmed in the storm, or above it to soar, And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven!
"And the ship rides the waters and weathers the gales: From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, Save a child sitting lonely, who misses--the bird!"
CANTO III.
I.
With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod! For my road is a rough one: flint, stubble, and clod, Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no few, And I gallop up-hill, now.
There's terror that's true In that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel, Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some devil, Follow'd ever one mask through the mad masquerade, Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('tis said), He unmasked, with a kiss, the strange lady, and stood Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. In this Mask of the Passions, call'd Life, there's no human Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman, But, when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at last Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. For truth is appalling and eldrich, as seen By this world's artificial lamplights and we screen From our sight the strange vision that troubles our life. Alas! why is Genius forever at strife With the world, which, despite the world's self, it ennobles? Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles And offends the effete life it comes to renew? 'Tis the terror of truth! 'tis that Genius is true!
II.
Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) Was a woman of genius: whose genius, indeed, With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that life The chance had been hers to escape from this strife In herself; finding peace in the life of another From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to smother. But the chance fell too soon, when the crude restless power Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower, Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd; And that moment, once lost, had been never recall'd. Yet it left her heart sore: and, to shelter her heart From approach, she then sought, in that delicate art Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies Of feminine wit, which repel while they please, A weapon, at once, and a shield to conceal And defend all that women can earnestly feel. Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress, She felt frighten'd at times by her very success: She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the stars: Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars If they keep us behind prison windows: impassion'd Her heart rose and burst the light cage she had fashion'd Out of glittering trifles around it.
Unknown To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, Embraced the idea of self-immolation. The strong spirit in her, had her life been but blended With some man's whose heart had her own comprehended, All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly thrown. For him she had struggled and striven alone; For him had aspired; in him had transfused All the gladness and grace of her nature; and used For him only the spells of its delicate power: Like the ministering fairy that brings from her bower To some maze all the treasures, whose use the fond elf, More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself. But standing apart, as she ever had done, And her genius, which needed a vent, finding none In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's power, She unconsciously made it her bulwark and
"But the mariners heed not the bird any more. They are felling the masts--they are cutting the sails; Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales.
"Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; And who heeds the bird? 'Save the silk and the gold!' And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away!
"Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven-- To be 'whelmed in the storm, or above it to soar, And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven!
"And the ship rides the waters and weathers the gales: From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, Save a child sitting lonely, who misses--the bird!"
CANTO III.
I.
With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod! For my road is a rough one: flint, stubble, and clod, Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no few, And I gallop up-hill, now.
There's terror that's true In that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel, Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some devil, Follow'd ever one mask through the mad masquerade, Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('tis said), He unmasked, with a kiss, the strange lady, and stood Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. In this Mask of the Passions, call'd Life, there's no human Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman, But, when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at last Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. For truth is appalling and eldrich, as seen By this world's artificial lamplights and we screen From our sight the strange vision that troubles our life. Alas! why is Genius forever at strife With the world, which, despite the world's self, it ennobles? Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles And offends the effete life it comes to renew? 'Tis the terror of truth! 'tis that Genius is true!
II.
Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) Was a woman of genius: whose genius, indeed, With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that life The chance had been hers to escape from this strife In herself; finding peace in the life of another From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to smother. But the chance fell too soon, when the crude restless power Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower, Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd; And that moment, once lost, had been never recall'd. Yet it left her heart sore: and, to shelter her heart From approach, she then sought, in that delicate art Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies Of feminine wit, which repel while they please, A weapon, at once, and a shield to conceal And defend all that women can earnestly feel. Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress, She felt frighten'd at times by her very success: She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the stars: Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars If they keep us behind prison windows: impassion'd Her heart rose and burst the light cage she had fashion'd Out of glittering trifles around it.
Unknown To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, Embraced the idea of self-immolation. The strong spirit in her, had her life been but blended With some man's whose heart had her own comprehended, All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly thrown. For him she had struggled and striven alone; For him had aspired; in him had transfused All the gladness and grace of her nature; and used For him only the spells of its delicate power: Like the ministering fairy that brings from her bower To some maze all the treasures, whose use the fond elf, More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself. But standing apart, as she ever had done, And her genius, which needed a vent, finding none In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's power, She unconsciously made it her bulwark and