Lucile [79]
I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore, For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street, Or in solitude even, but never again Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugene. For we know not the way we are going, nor yet Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life hath set No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, I will promise: whatever your path, or my own, If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war, You falter and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide, In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, To warn, if you will, or incite, or control; And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!"
XIV.
The voice ceased. He uplifted his eyes. All alone He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place was the Sunrise! It rose In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose, The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, Realms of rose, in the Orient! and breathless, and bold, While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one, The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun! Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere! Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope, The spirits of morning were whispering, "HOPE!"
XV.
He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold Of his own youth,--its ardors--its promise of fame-- Its ancestral ambition; and France by the name Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light, That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone; And he--as the body may yearn for the soul, So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole Heart arose to regain it. "And is it too late?" No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain The true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE. As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate In the fountain arises, the spirit in him Arose to that image. The image waned dim Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense--awed, amazed-- Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.
CANTO VI.
I.
Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. He leaps with a wail into being; and lo! His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head: 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her solitudes spread To daunt him: her forces dispute his command: Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to brand: Her seas yawn to engulf
XIV.
The voice ceased. He uplifted his eyes. All alone He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place was the Sunrise! It rose In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose, The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, Realms of rose, in the Orient! and breathless, and bold, While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one, The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun! Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere! Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope, The spirits of morning were whispering, "HOPE!"
XV.
He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold Of his own youth,--its ardors--its promise of fame-- Its ancestral ambition; and France by the name Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light, That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone; And he--as the body may yearn for the soul, So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole Heart arose to regain it. "And is it too late?" No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain The true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE. As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate In the fountain arises, the spirit in him Arose to that image. The image waned dim Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense--awed, amazed-- Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.
CANTO VI.
I.
Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. He leaps with a wail into being; and lo! His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head: 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her solitudes spread To daunt him: her forces dispute his command: Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to brand: Her seas yawn to engulf