Lucile [26]
late when o'er Luchon at last they descended. To her chalet, in silence, Lord Alfred attended Lucile. As they parted, she whispered him low, "You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply Without time for reflection. Good night!--not good by." "Alas! 'tis the very same answer you made To the Duc de Luvois but a day since," he said. "No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied. Her voice shook. "If you love me, obey me. Abide My answer to-morrow."
XXIV.
Alas, Cousin Jack! You Cassandra in breeches and boots! turn your back To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory Amongst thine own people. I follow my story.
CANTO V.
I.
Up!--forth again, Pegasus!--"Many's the slip," Hath the proverb well said, "'twixt the cup and the lip!" How blest should we be, have I often conceived, Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved! We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be, And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. So it will be, so has been, since this world began! And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out: For the first and last word in life's volume is-- Doubt. The face of the most fair to our vision allow'd Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our existence is one Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. O Horace! the rustic still rests by the river, But the river flows on, and flows past him forever! Who can sit down, and say . . . "What I will be, I will"? Who stand up, and affirm . . . "What I was, I am still"? Who is that must not, if question'd, say . . . . . . "What I would have remain'd or become, I am not"? We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween; And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, But what once in his life, some minute circumstance Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have; But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate, The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. Yet! there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wine Spilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine, O being of beauty and bliss! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone! My days know thee not; and my lips name thee never. Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. We have met: we have parted. No more is recorded In my annals on earth. This alone was afforded To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals; At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom)-- Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen Of that better world which thou swayest unseen! My one perfect mistress! my all things in all! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call; For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, And its thoughts are the purest--belov'd, thou art there! And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. The world gave thee not to me, no! and the world
XXIV.
Alas, Cousin Jack! You Cassandra in breeches and boots! turn your back To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory Amongst thine own people. I follow my story.
CANTO V.
I.
Up!--forth again, Pegasus!--"Many's the slip," Hath the proverb well said, "'twixt the cup and the lip!" How blest should we be, have I often conceived, Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved! We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be, And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. So it will be, so has been, since this world began! And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out: For the first and last word in life's volume is-- Doubt. The face of the most fair to our vision allow'd Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our existence is one Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. O Horace! the rustic still rests by the river, But the river flows on, and flows past him forever! Who can sit down, and say . . . "What I will be, I will"? Who stand up, and affirm . . . "What I was, I am still"? Who is that must not, if question'd, say . . . . . . "What I would have remain'd or become, I am not"? We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween; And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, But what once in his life, some minute circumstance Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have; But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate, The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. Yet! there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wine Spilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine, O being of beauty and bliss! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone! My days know thee not; and my lips name thee never. Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. We have met: we have parted. No more is recorded In my annals on earth. This alone was afforded To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals; At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom)-- Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen Of that better world which thou swayest unseen! My one perfect mistress! my all things in all! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call; For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, And its thoughts are the purest--belov'd, thou art there! And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. The world gave thee not to me, no! and the world