Lucile [42]
Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment, The length of the process would limit the act; And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed. As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking continued to go Onward somehow, together--on into the night-- The midnight--in which they escape from our sight.
XXIII.
And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night; And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun. And the world laugh'd. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre. And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew, With her white morning robe flitting joyously through The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed. Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, And radiant confidence, childlike delight, That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight. And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'd From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, The thought of another?" "Look up, my sweet flower!" He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto thee Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!" "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. "No more," He repeated. And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er! My course, too, is decided, Lucile! Was I blind To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, Or sympathize with it?"
XXIV.
And here the first part Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd On the actors within it--the Heart, and the World. Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,-- Have they solved it? Appear! answer, Husband and Wife.
XXV.
Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA.
"Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart, And the places of old . . . never, never to part! Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set; From the children that cry for the birth, and behold, There is no strength to bear them--old Time is SO old! From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth: From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd, Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd; Back,--back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the beauty of times that are faded forever! To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River! Where I too, the child of a day that is done, First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come! Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright? Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old, When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold? Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly
XXIII.
And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night; And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun. And the world laugh'd. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre. And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew, With her white morning robe flitting joyously through The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed. Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, And radiant confidence, childlike delight, That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight. And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'd From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, The thought of another?" "Look up, my sweet flower!" He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto thee Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!" "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. "No more," He repeated. And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er! My course, too, is decided, Lucile! Was I blind To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, Or sympathize with it?"
XXIV.
And here the first part Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd On the actors within it--the Heart, and the World. Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,-- Have they solved it? Appear! answer, Husband and Wife.
XXV.
Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA.
"Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart, And the places of old . . . never, never to part! Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set; From the children that cry for the birth, and behold, There is no strength to bear them--old Time is SO old! From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth: From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd, Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd; Back,--back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the beauty of times that are faded forever! To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River! Where I too, the child of a day that is done, First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come! Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright? Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old, When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold? Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly