Lucile [73]
of trust and of truth! How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'd Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd The glittering tresses which now shaken loose Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!
XIII.
O Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.
XIV.
Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least! No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung, Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. He open'd the casement: he led her with him, Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight, Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light Which no longer they needed to read on the face Of each other life's last revelation. The place Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms, And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies--the wary, gray strategist, Time, With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd--Grief and Crime, Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing, For his great war with man, new surprises; securing All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe To his last narrow refuge--the grave.
XV.
Sweetly though Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely Confiding in that yet untrodden existence Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.
CANTO V.
I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.
II.
From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill. Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? Orion, Arcturus,
XIII.
O Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.
XIV.
Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least! No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung, Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. He open'd the casement: he led her with him, Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight, Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light Which no longer they needed to read on the face Of each other life's last revelation. The place Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms, And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies--the wary, gray strategist, Time, With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd--Grief and Crime, Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing, For his great war with man, new surprises; securing All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe To his last narrow refuge--the grave.
XV.
Sweetly though Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely Confiding in that yet untrodden existence Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.
CANTO V.
I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.
II.
From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill. Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? Orion, Arcturus,