Lucile [75]
the wall of the garden. The skies, Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'd Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed, "Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou--one and all! Only able to injure each other and fall, Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are! O heaven! and what has become of them? all Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall: That glorious faith in inherited things: That sense in the soul of the length of her wings; Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human, Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman, Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again, Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . in vain!" "Duke!" she falter'd. "Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was not Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot."
VI.
As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. "Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch! But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine! My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep: And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep! Well! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake In the love of a man, what more change need it make In the steps of his soul through the course love began, Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys; What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring! Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!'
"Vain! all vain! . . . For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears! It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!"
VII.
He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity, replied to his own. "And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life? Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own, Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse? Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, For I then should have wrong'd you!" "Wrong'd!
VI.
As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. "Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch! But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine! My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep: And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep! Well! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake In the love of a man, what more change need it make In the steps of his soul through the course love began, Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys; What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring! Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!'
"Vain! all vain! . . . For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears! It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!"
VII.
He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity, replied to his own. "And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life? Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own, Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse? Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, For I then should have wrong'd you!" "Wrong'd!