Lucile [84]
nerve derives suffering. "What? Lies my heart, then, so bare?" he moaned bitterly. "Nay," With compassionate accents she hastened to say, "Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, young man, So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan Her features, yet know them not? "Oh, was it spoken, 'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the broken!' Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, done, When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone? Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold? Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that we hold To fulfil it, of Heaven! For Heaven doth still To us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart. Trust to me!" (His two feeble hands in her own She drew gently.) "Trust to me!" (she said, with soft tone): "I am not so dead in remembrance to all I have died to in this world, but what I recall Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, To grieve for both--save from both haply! The dial Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does not. And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot. Looking up to this light, which is common to all, And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall In time's silent circle, so various for each, Is it nothing to know that they never can reach So far, but what light lies beyond them forever? Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor To trace the shade creeping across the young life Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strife With the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith alone, That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun. Trust to me!" She paused: he was weeping. Small need Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed, Had those gentle accents to win from his pale And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old, And in words few as may be shall straightway be told.
XVI.
A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace Was driven from Europe, a young girl--the niece Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while With a lady allied to her race--an old dame Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, In the Faubourg Saint Germain. Upon that fair child, From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. One uncle their place in her life had supplied, And their place in her heart: she had grown at his side, And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, From childhood to girlhood. This fair orphan ward Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heart Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart One ray of response to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere.
Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bare In that ancient mansion; when first the stern tread Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead: Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said--right or wrong-- That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'd The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd through Those desolate chambers; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate. Men now saw appear Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, His severity seem'd to be trebly severe In the
XVI.
A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace Was driven from Europe, a young girl--the niece Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while With a lady allied to her race--an old dame Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, In the Faubourg Saint Germain. Upon that fair child, From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. One uncle their place in her life had supplied, And their place in her heart: she had grown at his side, And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, From childhood to girlhood. This fair orphan ward Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heart Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart One ray of response to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere.
Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bare In that ancient mansion; when first the stern tread Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead: Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said--right or wrong-- That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'd The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd through Those desolate chambers; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate. Men now saw appear Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, His severity seem'd to be trebly severe In the