Lucile [70]
of fame And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely In all save the love he could give her. The lord Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself, But of her; as he murmur'd, "One moment, dear jack! We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, There is none that can know me as you do; and none To whom I more wish to believe myself known. Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know. Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about. Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake Of those old recollections of boyhood that make In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago? Or is it . . . (I would I could deem it were so!) That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem; from my innermost nature Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature? Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native fire Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd To my own self?"
JOHN.
No, Alfred! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long. Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!
"Do you think," he resumed, . . . "what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?"
JOHN.
No!
ALFRED.
Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.
VIII.
JOHN.
I do. But 'tis late. If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?
ALFRED.
No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow. He open'd the door, and pass'd out. Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.
IX.
His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.
X.
No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure. And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom. She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through
JOHN.
No, Alfred! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long. Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!
"Do you think," he resumed, . . . "what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?"
JOHN.
No!
ALFRED.
Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.
VIII.
JOHN.
I do. But 'tis late. If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?
ALFRED.
No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow. He open'd the door, and pass'd out. Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.
IX.
His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.
X.
No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure. And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom. She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through