Lucile [15]
tower, And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she hurl'd Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the world.
And the permanent cause why she now miss'd and fail'd That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place Say--the world and the woman opposed face to face, Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir, Offended the world, which in turn wounded her.
As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fit To this character, also, its moral: to wit, Say--the world is a nettle; disturb it, it stings: Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things, If you would not be stung, it behoves you to settle Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle; For she could not; nor would she avoid it: she tried With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside, And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing To trample the world without feeling its sting.
III.
One lodges but simply at Luchon; yet, thanks To the season that changes forever the banks Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light cloud O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring down The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town, And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar, And the blue-bells that purple the dapple-gray scaur, One sees with each month of the many-faced year A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs, In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road, Yet withdrawn from its noise: 'twas a peaceful abode. And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like hoods Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resinous woods. The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended The steep garden paths, every odor had blended Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes, With the balms floated down from the dark wooded slopes: A light breeze at the window was playing about, And the white curtains floated, now in, and now out. The house was all hush'd when he rang at the door, Which was open'd to him in a moment, or more, By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shined In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, 'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was wound.
IV.
Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. He remembered the nurse of Lucile. The old dame, Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when he came, With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door. The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown, To pine, a pale flow'ret, in great Paris town. She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, when she read The letter that told her, her father was dead. An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. He had wander'd the world through, by land and by sea, And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by the wave On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd His command: often baffled, he ever prevail'd, In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and fed By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France, And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Freelance, Had wander'd in search of it, over the world Into India.
But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile Of a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while, And whose council he prompted and govern'd by stealth); Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, Who died giving birth to this daughter, before He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance Had secured her
And the permanent cause why she now miss'd and fail'd That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place Say--the world and the woman opposed face to face, Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir, Offended the world, which in turn wounded her.
As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fit To this character, also, its moral: to wit, Say--the world is a nettle; disturb it, it stings: Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things, If you would not be stung, it behoves you to settle Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle; For she could not; nor would she avoid it: she tried With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside, And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing To trample the world without feeling its sting.
III.
One lodges but simply at Luchon; yet, thanks To the season that changes forever the banks Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light cloud O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring down The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town, And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar, And the blue-bells that purple the dapple-gray scaur, One sees with each month of the many-faced year A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs, In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road, Yet withdrawn from its noise: 'twas a peaceful abode. And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like hoods Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resinous woods. The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended The steep garden paths, every odor had blended Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes, With the balms floated down from the dark wooded slopes: A light breeze at the window was playing about, And the white curtains floated, now in, and now out. The house was all hush'd when he rang at the door, Which was open'd to him in a moment, or more, By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shined In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, 'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was wound.
IV.
Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. He remembered the nurse of Lucile. The old dame, Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when he came, With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door. The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown, To pine, a pale flow'ret, in great Paris town. She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, when she read The letter that told her, her father was dead. An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. He had wander'd the world through, by land and by sea, And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by the wave On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd His command: often baffled, he ever prevail'd, In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and fed By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France, And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Freelance, Had wander'd in search of it, over the world Into India.
But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile Of a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while, And whose council he prompted and govern'd by stealth); Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, Who died giving birth to this daughter, before He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance Had secured her