Lucile [48]
sleep through such dreams as encumber With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat.
XIV.
The Duc de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of Chance. The idler from England, the idler from France, Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial pleasure: An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure, And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd away. 'Twas a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings;--the men who had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt, Is why, on the night I am speaking about, My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end.
XV.
Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began With a few modest thalers--away they all ran-- The reserve follow'd fast in the rear. As his purse Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it: 'Tis an old law in physics--Natura abhorret Vacuum--and my lord, as he watch'd his last crown Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have deck'd On that day of all days when an empire was wreck'd On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd the last Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast! Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why, Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye Had long been intently regarding him there,-- That some gaze was upon him too searching to bear. He rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it fable? Was it dream? Was it waking? Across the green table, That face, with its features so fatally known-- Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely his own What was it? Some ghost from its grave come again? Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain? Or was it herself with those deep eyes of hers, And that face unforgotten?--Lucile de Nevers!
XVI.
Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem, Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream! 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hush'd, That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. The brief noon of beauty was passing away, And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. And now, as all around her the dim evening stole, With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved For the want of that tender assurance received From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye, Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou naught,--I am by!" And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd existence, Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance: A strange sort of faint-footed fear,--like a mouse That comes out, when 'tis dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, And the forms on the arras are all that move there.
In Rome,--in the Forum,--there open'd one night A gulf. All the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods: then the oracle said:-- "Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd likely enough To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke: "O Quirites! to this Heaven's question is come: What to Rome is most precious? The manhood of Rome." He plunged, and the gulf closed. The tale is not new; But the moral applies many ways, and is true. How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy'd? 'Tis a warm human one
XIV.
The Duc de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of Chance. The idler from England, the idler from France, Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial pleasure: An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure, And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd away. 'Twas a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings;--the men who had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt, Is why, on the night I am speaking about, My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end.
XV.
Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began With a few modest thalers--away they all ran-- The reserve follow'd fast in the rear. As his purse Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it: 'Tis an old law in physics--Natura abhorret Vacuum--and my lord, as he watch'd his last crown Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have deck'd On that day of all days when an empire was wreck'd On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd the last Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast! Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why, Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye Had long been intently regarding him there,-- That some gaze was upon him too searching to bear. He rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it fable? Was it dream? Was it waking? Across the green table, That face, with its features so fatally known-- Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely his own What was it? Some ghost from its grave come again? Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain? Or was it herself with those deep eyes of hers, And that face unforgotten?--Lucile de Nevers!
XVI.
Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem, Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream! 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hush'd, That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. The brief noon of beauty was passing away, And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. And now, as all around her the dim evening stole, With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved For the want of that tender assurance received From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye, Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou naught,--I am by!" And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd existence, Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance: A strange sort of faint-footed fear,--like a mouse That comes out, when 'tis dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, And the forms on the arras are all that move there.
In Rome,--in the Forum,--there open'd one night A gulf. All the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods: then the oracle said:-- "Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd likely enough To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke: "O Quirites! to this Heaven's question is come: What to Rome is most precious? The manhood of Rome." He plunged, and the gulf closed. The tale is not new; But the moral applies many ways, and is true. How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy'd? 'Tis a warm human one