Lucile [89]
And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, Move pathetic in numbers remote;--even so The voice which was moving the heart of that man Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, Far away in the pathos remote of the past; Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone Unaccomplish'd from life. He was mute.
XXIV.
She went on And still further down the dim past did she lead Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land! 'Tis the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy! The unproved desire--the unaim'd aspiration-- The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation With ever a flitting delight--one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse. The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand The glorious creature! The ages lie shut (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air. So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly--so, wrought Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene! While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast. Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed? Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed? Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can! Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. He was dumb. She went one step further.
XXV.
Lo! manhood is come. And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree. And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see: What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch? Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch? There, he saw himself--dark, as he stood on that night, The last when they met and they parted: a sight For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice! An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. Then he said (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world, 'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!"
XXVI.
She went on. "So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon! From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, And to build up the future heaven shatters the past." "Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scan The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man? From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!"
XXVII.
Lucile! . . . the old name--the old self! silenced long: Heard once more! felt once more! As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature--surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalms Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!) The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;-- So that one word . . . Lucile! . . . stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine, For
XXIV.
She went on And still further down the dim past did she lead Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land! 'Tis the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy! The unproved desire--the unaim'd aspiration-- The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation With ever a flitting delight--one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse. The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand The glorious creature! The ages lie shut (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air. So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly--so, wrought Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene! While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast. Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed? Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed? Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can! Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. He was dumb. She went one step further.
XXV.
Lo! manhood is come. And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree. And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see: What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch? Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch? There, he saw himself--dark, as he stood on that night, The last when they met and they parted: a sight For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice! An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. Then he said (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world, 'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!"
XXVI.
She went on. "So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon! From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, And to build up the future heaven shatters the past." "Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scan The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man? From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!"
XXVII.
Lucile! . . . the old name--the old self! silenced long: Heard once more! felt once more! As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature--surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalms Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!) The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;-- So that one word . . . Lucile! . . . stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine, For