Lucile [6]
figure, and fair neck, below The dark drooping feather, as radiant as snow,-- I can only declare, that if I had the chance Of passing three days in the exquisite glance Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now petted That fine English mare, I should much have regretted Whatever might lose me one little half-hour Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my power. For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky Way Could turn into a woman, 'twould look, I dare say, Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that day.
VII.
But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred Vargrave now watched her ride by, I can only affirm that, in watching her ride, As he turned from the window he certainly sigh'd.
CANTO II.
I.
LETTER FROM LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE TO THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS.
BIGORRE, TUESDAY.
"Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, And commands (need I add?) my obedience. Before The night I shall be at Luchon--where a line, If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive My respects. "Yours sincerely, "A. VARGRAVE. "I leave In an hour."
II.
In an hour from the time he wrote this Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss, Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and pursued, In pursuing his course through the blue solitude, The reflections that journey gave rise to. And (Because, without some such precaution, I fear You might fail to distinguish, them each from the rest Of the world they belong to; whose captives are drest, As our convicts, precisely the same one and all, While the coat cut for Peter is pass'd on to Paul) I resolve, one by one, when I pick from the mass The persons I want, as before you they pass, To label them broadly in plain black and white On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he's in sight, I first label my hero.
III.
The age is gone o'er When a man may in all things be all. We have more Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt, Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to; but out Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when Will a new LEONARDO arise on our ken? He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close In the palm of his hand. There were giants in those Irreclaimable days; but in these days of ours, In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to explore; And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains, But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, Till a More or Lavater step into his place: Then the world turns and makes an admiring grimace. Once the men were so great and so few, they appear, Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. Now the men are so many and small, disengage One man from the million to mark him, next moment The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your comment; And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) 'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes belongs, We take the whole age for a hero, in want Of a better; and still, in its favor, descant On the strength and the beauty which, failing to find In any one man, we ascribe to mankind.
IV.
Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve So little, because of the much they conceive: With irresolute finger he knock'd at each one Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, And whatever he did he was sure to regret. That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old, Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd gold, To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, Appear'd in one moment both golden
VII.
But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred Vargrave now watched her ride by, I can only affirm that, in watching her ride, As he turned from the window he certainly sigh'd.
CANTO II.
I.
LETTER FROM LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE TO THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS.
BIGORRE, TUESDAY.
"Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, And commands (need I add?) my obedience. Before The night I shall be at Luchon--where a line, If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive My respects. "Yours sincerely, "A. VARGRAVE. "I leave In an hour."
II.
In an hour from the time he wrote this Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss, Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and pursued, In pursuing his course through the blue solitude, The reflections that journey gave rise to. And (Because, without some such precaution, I fear You might fail to distinguish, them each from the rest Of the world they belong to; whose captives are drest, As our convicts, precisely the same one and all, While the coat cut for Peter is pass'd on to Paul) I resolve, one by one, when I pick from the mass The persons I want, as before you they pass, To label them broadly in plain black and white On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he's in sight, I first label my hero.
III.
The age is gone o'er When a man may in all things be all. We have more Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt, Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to; but out Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when Will a new LEONARDO arise on our ken? He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close In the palm of his hand. There were giants in those Irreclaimable days; but in these days of ours, In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to explore; And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains, But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, Till a More or Lavater step into his place: Then the world turns and makes an admiring grimace. Once the men were so great and so few, they appear, Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. Now the men are so many and small, disengage One man from the million to mark him, next moment The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your comment; And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) 'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes belongs, We take the whole age for a hero, in want Of a better; and still, in its favor, descant On the strength and the beauty which, failing to find In any one man, we ascribe to mankind.
IV.
Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve So little, because of the much they conceive: With irresolute finger he knock'd at each one Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, And whatever he did he was sure to regret. That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old, Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd gold, To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, Appear'd in one moment both golden