Lucile [37]
a reckless emotion beyond his control; A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd And seeth'd in his heart.
VII.
He had thrown, and had miss'd His last stake.
VIII.
For, transfigured, she rose from the place Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face; Such a dread vade retro was written in light On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I know If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so, She had needed no dagger next morning. She rose And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone, And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable, Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd-- "Farewell! We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once more Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Duc de Luvois, adieu!" From the heart-breaking gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room, He felt she was gone--gone forever!
IX.
No word, The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, In which he remain'd. "O return; I repent!" He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent, Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn: An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer. "Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar Of the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!" He walked to the window . The spray on his brow Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below; The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound Of the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly round. A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung, Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of water; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquish'd His unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd. Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him. He ran Down the stairs; reached the door--just to see her depart. Down the mountain the carriage was speeding.
X.
His heart Peal'd the knell of its last hope. He rush'd on; but whither He knew not--on, into the dark cloudy weather-- The midnight--the mountains--on, over the shelf Of the precipice--on, still--away from himself! Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering cross Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sank Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them. He knew That the night had divided his whole life in two. Behind him a past that was over forever: Before him a future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done? Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as before, To his old easy, careless existence of yore He could not. He felt that for better or worse A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread, What clew there to cling by? He clung by a name To a dynasty fallen forever. He came Of an old princely house, true through change to the race And the sword of Saint Louis--a faith 'twere disgrace To relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor less Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless Or to ban; and
VII.
He had thrown, and had miss'd His last stake.
VIII.
For, transfigured, she rose from the place Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face; Such a dread vade retro was written in light On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I know If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so, She had needed no dagger next morning. She rose And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone, And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable, Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd-- "Farewell! We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once more Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Duc de Luvois, adieu!" From the heart-breaking gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room, He felt she was gone--gone forever!
IX.
No word, The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, In which he remain'd. "O return; I repent!" He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent, Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn: An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer. "Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar Of the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!" He walked to the window . The spray on his brow Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below; The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound Of the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly round. A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung, Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of water; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquish'd His unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd. Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him. He ran Down the stairs; reached the door--just to see her depart. Down the mountain the carriage was speeding.
X.
His heart Peal'd the knell of its last hope. He rush'd on; but whither He knew not--on, into the dark cloudy weather-- The midnight--the mountains--on, over the shelf Of the precipice--on, still--away from himself! Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering cross Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sank Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them. He knew That the night had divided his whole life in two. Behind him a past that was over forever: Before him a future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done? Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as before, To his old easy, careless existence of yore He could not. He felt that for better or worse A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread, What clew there to cling by? He clung by a name To a dynasty fallen forever. He came Of an old princely house, true through change to the race And the sword of Saint Louis--a faith 'twere disgrace To relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor less Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless Or to ban; and