Lucile [66]
What was it chill'd you both now? Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how Love is nourish'd by love. Well! henceforth you will prove Your heart worthy of love,--since it knows how to love."
XIII.
"What gives you such power over me, that I feel Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?" Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face Of Lucile. There pass'd suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. "The pupil of sorrow, perchance," . . . she replied. "Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaim'd . . . "O confide To my heart your affliction. In all you made known I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!"
"And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears Of another have not flow'd for me many years."
It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and Thus together they enter'd the house.
XIV.
'Twas the room Of Matilda. The languid and delicate gloom Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. The casement oped into the garden. The pale Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone nightingale Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side, Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, Save by guardian angels. As when, sparkling yet From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech, Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, So united, yet diverse, the two women there Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows? All that heart gain'd from heart? Leave the lily, the rose, Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew? A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen, The footsteps of sentinel angels between The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell From earth's heart, which it eased . . . "All is well! all is well!"
CANTO IV.
I.
The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it; But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic, Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly!"
As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly; But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard Better far than Longinus himself can reward The appeal to her feelings of which she approves; And the critics I most care to please are the Loves.
Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head And a brass on his breast,--when a man is once dead? Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's?--a creed by posterity learnt A century after its author is burnt! The poet's?--a laurel that hides the bald brow It hath blighted! The painter's?--Ask Raphael now Which Madonna's authentic! The stateman's?--a name For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim! The soldier's?--three lines on the cold Abbey pavement! Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster,
XIII.
"What gives you such power over me, that I feel Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?" Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face Of Lucile. There pass'd suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. "The pupil of sorrow, perchance," . . . she replied. "Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaim'd . . . "O confide To my heart your affliction. In all you made known I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!"
"And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears Of another have not flow'd for me many years."
It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and Thus together they enter'd the house.
XIV.
'Twas the room Of Matilda. The languid and delicate gloom Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. The casement oped into the garden. The pale Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone nightingale Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side, Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, Save by guardian angels. As when, sparkling yet From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech, Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, So united, yet diverse, the two women there Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows? All that heart gain'd from heart? Leave the lily, the rose, Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew? A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen, The footsteps of sentinel angels between The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell From earth's heart, which it eased . . . "All is well! all is well!"
CANTO IV.
I.
The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it; But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic, Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly!"
As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly; But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard Better far than Longinus himself can reward The appeal to her feelings of which she approves; And the critics I most care to please are the Loves.
Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head And a brass on his breast,--when a man is once dead? Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's?--a creed by posterity learnt A century after its author is burnt! The poet's?--a laurel that hides the bald brow It hath blighted! The painter's?--Ask Raphael now Which Madonna's authentic! The stateman's?--a name For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim! The soldier's?--three lines on the cold Abbey pavement! Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster,