Lucile [90]
a moment. Anon she resumed here serene And concentrated calm. "Let the Nun, then, retrace The life of the soldier!" . . . she said, with a face That glow'd, gladdening her words. "To the present I come: Leave the Past!" There her voice rose, and seem'd as when some Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise Of her hero whose brows she is crowning with bays. Step by step did she follow his path from the place Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace (Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence. Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance; Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours: And the same sentinels that ascend the same towers And report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife, Waged alike to the limits of each human life. She went on to speak of the lone moody lord, Shut up in his lone moody halls: every word Held the weight of a tear: she recorded the good He had patiently wrought through a whole neighborhood; And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door. There she paused: and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hue Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, Yet working love's work; reading backwards life's pages For penance; and stubbornly, many a time, Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme. Then she spoke of the soldier! . . . the man's work and fame, The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim! Life's inward approval!
XXVIII.
Her voice reach'd his heart, And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apart And unseen,--far away,--she had watch'd, year by year, With how many a blessing, how many a tear, And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife: Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life: Bless'd the man in the man's work! "THY work . . . oh, not mine! Thine, Lucile!" . . . he exclaim'd . . . "all the worth of it thine, If worth there be in it!" Her answer convey'd His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said Alone by the voice . . . eyes--face--spoke silently: All the woman, one grateful emotion! And she A poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spent In one silent effort for others! . . . She bent Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his heart With the look that glow'd from it. Then slow, with soft art, Fix'd her aim, and moved to it.
XXIX.
He, the soldier humane, He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the pain Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made known The value of man's life! . . . that youth overthrown And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth In another? his own life of strenuous truth Accomplish'd in act, had it taught him no care For the life of another? . . . oh no! everywhere In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face With some noble token, some generous trace Of his active humanity . . . "Well," he replied, "If it be so?" "I come from the solemn bedside Of a man that is dying," she said. "While we speak, A life is in jeopardy." "Quick then! you seek Aid or medicine, or what?" "'Tis not needed," she said. "Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can Save the life of this man. Will you save it?" "What man? How? . . . where? . . . can you ask?" She went rapidly on To her object in brief vivid words . . . The young son Of Matilda and Alfred--the boy lying there Half a mile from that tent door--the father's despair, The mother's deep anguish--the pride of the boy In the father--the father's one hope and
XXVIII.
Her voice reach'd his heart, And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apart And unseen,--far away,--she had watch'd, year by year, With how many a blessing, how many a tear, And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife: Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life: Bless'd the man in the man's work! "THY work . . . oh, not mine! Thine, Lucile!" . . . he exclaim'd . . . "all the worth of it thine, If worth there be in it!" Her answer convey'd His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said Alone by the voice . . . eyes--face--spoke silently: All the woman, one grateful emotion! And she A poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spent In one silent effort for others! . . . She bent Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his heart With the look that glow'd from it. Then slow, with soft art, Fix'd her aim, and moved to it.
XXIX.
He, the soldier humane, He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the pain Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made known The value of man's life! . . . that youth overthrown And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth In another? his own life of strenuous truth Accomplish'd in act, had it taught him no care For the life of another? . . . oh no! everywhere In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face With some noble token, some generous trace Of his active humanity . . . "Well," he replied, "If it be so?" "I come from the solemn bedside Of a man that is dying," she said. "While we speak, A life is in jeopardy." "Quick then! you seek Aid or medicine, or what?" "'Tis not needed," she said. "Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can Save the life of this man. Will you save it?" "What man? How? . . . where? . . . can you ask?" She went rapidly on To her object in brief vivid words . . . The young son Of Matilda and Alfred--the boy lying there Half a mile from that tent door--the father's despair, The mother's deep anguish--the pride of the boy In the father--the father's one hope and