Lucile

Dedication

I DEDICATE to you a work, which is submitted to the public with a diffidence and hesitation proportioned to the novelty of the effort it represents. For in this poem I have abandoned those forms of verse with which I had most familiarized my thoughts, and have endeavored to follow a path on which I could discover no footprints before me, either to guide or to warn.

There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to prolonged effort ; when, the labor which has become a habit having ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and stand, with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the abrupt and naked result. As regards myself, in the present instance, the force of all such sensations is increased by the circumstances to which I have referred. And in this moment of discouragement and doubt, my heart instinctively turns to you, from whom it has so often sought, from whom it has never failed to receive, support.

I do not inscribe to you this book because it contains anything that is worthy the beloved and honiv Dedication.

Canto I

Letter from the Comtesse de Nevers to Lord Alfred Vargrave.

" I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, So long since you may have forgotten it now, (When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers

to grow,) Your last words recorded a pledge — what you will — A promise — the time is now come to fulfil. The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, I desire to receive from your hand. You discern My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. The distance to Luchon is short. I remain A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego one brief page from the summer romance

Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your

place At her feet, in the Ught of her fair English face. I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel I desire nothing much.

" Your friend always,

" Lucile."

II. Now in May Fair, of course, — in the fair month of

May— When life is abundant, and busy, and gay : When the markets of London are noisy about Young ladies, and strawberries, — " only just out :" Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves. And young ladies on sale for the strawberry-leaves : When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd notes Fly about like white butterflies — gay Httle motes In the sunbeam of Fashion ; and even Blue Books Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks ; And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern, Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn, Those lots which so often decide if our day Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay) Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other Than Cadmus, himself, put together, to bother The heads of Hellenes ; — I say, in the season Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason Why, when quietly munching your dry-toast and

butter, Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd

In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd, An odor of violets faint as the Spring, And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring. But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection. When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection ; Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease, Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath, A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, Are all a man finds for his day's occupation, The whole case, believe me, is totally changed, And a letter may alter the plans we arranged Over-night, for the slaughter of Time — a wild beast. Which, though classified yet by no naturalist. Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare. And more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the Bear.

III. I marvel less, therefore, that, having already

Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady,

Lord Alfred was startled.

The month is September ;

Time, morning ; the scene at Bigorre ; (pray remember

These facts, gentle reader, because I intend

To fling all the unities by at the end.)

He walk'd to the window. The morning was chill :

The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the hill:

Liicile.

' Lord Alfred was startled."

The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind : And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his

mind, Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing : And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it. To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd

" Confound it !"

IV

What the thoughts were which led to this bad interjection,

Sir, or Madam, I leave to your future detection ;

For whatever they were, they were burst in upon.

As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin John.

Cousin John.

A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool !

Lord Alfred.

Who.?

John.

The man who has anything better to do ; And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades His position as Man, to this worst of all trades. Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, To travel about with a woman in love, — Unless she's in love with himself.

Indeed ! why

Alfred.

Are you here then, dear Jack .?

John.

Can't you guess it }

Alfred.

Not I.

John.

Because I have nothing that's better to do. I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you.

I o Lucile.

On the whole (I must own), than be bored by myself.

That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf — Your Will-o'-the-wisp — that has led you and me Such a dance through these hills —

Alfred.

Who, Matilda ?

John.

Yes ! she, Of course ! who but she could contrive so to keep One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling asleep For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four }

Alfred.

What's the matter?

John.

Why, she is — a matter, the more I consider about it, the more it demands An attention it does not deserve ; and expands Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline, When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, Is entitled to take in this very small star, Already too crowded, as / think, by far. You read Malthus and Sadler }

Alfred.

Of course.

John.

To what use,

When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse

Of one mere human creature's legitimate space In this world ? Mars, Apollo, Virorum ! the case Wholly passes my patience.

My own is worse tried.

John.

Yours, Alfred ?

Alfred.

Read this, if you doubt, and decide.

John {reading the letter').

" I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are got'jig to marry Miss Darcy. Of old — " What is this }

Alfred.

Read it on to the end, and you'll know.

John {continues reading).

" When we parted, your last words recorded a

vow — What you will" . . .

Hang it ! this smells all over, I swear, Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair You promised a lock of ?

Alfred.

Read on. You'll discern.

John {continues).

" Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return." . . .

Lucile.

" Read it on to the end, and you'll know.''

Humph ! . . . Letters ! . . . the matter is worse

than I guess'cl ; ^

I have my misgivings —

Alfred.

Well, read out the rest.

And advise.

John.

Eh ? . . . Where was I ? . . . {co7itinues)

Will forego one brief page from the sutiimer

romance Of her courtship." . . .

Egad ! a romance, for my part, I'd forego every page of, and not break my heart !

Alfred.

Continue !

John {reading).

" And spare you one day from your place At her feet." . . .

• Pray forgive me the passing grimace. I wish you had MY place I

{reads)

" I trust you will feel I desire nothing much. Your friend "...

Bless me ! "Lucile "?

The Comtesse de Nevers ?

Alfred.

Yes.

John.

What will you do .'' Alfred.

You ask me just what I would rather ask you.

John.

You can't go.

Alfred.

I must.

John.

And Matilda .'

Alfred.

Oh, that You must manage!

14 Liuile.

John.

Must I ? I decline it, though, flat. In an hour the horses will be at the door. And Matilda is now in her habit. Before I have finish'd my breakfast, of course I receive A message for "dear Cousin John!" ... I must

leave At the jeweller's the bracelet which you broke last

night ; I must call for the music. " Dear Alfred is right : The black shawl looks best : will I change it ? Of

course I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows

what ; Will I see the dog-doctor }" Hang Beau ! I will

not.

Alfred.

Tush, tush ! this is serious.

John.

It is.

Alfred.

Very well.

You must think-

JOHN.

What excuse will you make, tho' ?

Liicilc. 15

Alfred.

Oh, tell Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits, Jack ! . . .

the deuce !

Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's

use .'' Excuses are clothes which, when asked unawares. Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares. You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt.

John.

My dear fellow, Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello.

Alfred.

You joke.

John.

I am serious. Why go to Luchon }

Alfred.

Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John. Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire, Before I extinguish forever the fire Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that

dawn Of my days where the twilights of life were first

drawn By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love : In short, from the dead Past the gravestone to move ; Of the years long departed forever to take One last look, one final farewell ; to awake

The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, And once more be, though but for an hour. Jack — a boy !

John.

You had better go hang yourself.

Alfred.

No ! were it but To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut, It were worth the step back. Do you think we

should live With the living so lightly, and learn to survive That wild moment in which to the grave and its

gloom We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the

tomb Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for

our sake .'' If the dead could return, or the corpses awake }

John.

Nonsense !

Alfred.

Not wholly. The man who gets up A fill'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his

cup.

Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness,

goes Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, And yet starved in the sight of luxurious things ;

Lucile.

Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but

half tasted, Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune ; who

hath wasted

V

"The I'KiiibT liv HIS bed.'

One part of Hfe's grand possibilities ; — friend, That man will bear with him, be sure, to the end, A blighted experience, a rancor within : You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin.

John.

I see you remember the cynical story Of that wicked old piece of Experience — a hoary

Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed (Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led, And observing, with no small amount of surprise. Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind : " Well, . . . no," . . . says Lothario, " I think not.

I find, On reviewing my Hfe, which in most things was

pleasant, I never neglected, when once it was present. An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, I have naught to regret ;" . . . and so, smiling, his

soul Took its flight from this world.

Alfred.

Well, Regret or Remorse,

Which is best }

John.

Why, Regret.

Alfred.

No ; Remorse, Jack, of course ; For the one is related, be sure, to the other. Regret is a spiteful old maid : but her brother, Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret !

John.

Bref ! you mean, then, to go }

Bref! I do.

John.

One word . . . stay !

Are you really in love with Matilda ?

Alfred.

Love, eh .-* What a question ! Of course.

John.

Were you really in love With Madame de Nevers ?

Alfred.

What ; Lucile ? No, by Jove,

Never really.

John.

She's pretty .''

Alfred.

Decidedly so.

At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. As soft, and as sallow as Autumn — with hair Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge which

the air Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting

sun.

Eyes — the wistful gazelle's ; the fine foot of a

fairy ; And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white and

airy;

Lucile.

;= r * ,"-- " She's pretty ?"

A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one - * knows.

I ' Something in her there was, set you thinking J of those

y Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that hectic and deep Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep.

John.

Coquette ?

Alfred.

Not at all. 'T was her one fault. Not she! I had loved her the better, had she less loved me. The heart of a man 's like that delicate weed Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed,

Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. 'T is a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.

John.

Women change so.

Alfred.

Of course.

John.

And, unless rumor errs, I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers* Was at Baden the rage — held an absolute court Of devoted adorers, and really made sport Of her subjects.

Alfred.

Indeed !

John.

When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it .-*

* O Shakespeare ! how couldst thou ask "What 's in a name ?" 'T is the devil 's in it, when a bard has to frame English rhymes for alliance with names that are French : And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench All too far on that license which critics refuse, With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, 'Twixt my British-born verse and my French heroine, Since, however auspiciously wedded they be. There is many a pair that yet cannot agree. Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, Whom necessity, not inclination, unites.

Alfred.

Pooh!

Pray would you have had her dress ahvays in black, And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack? Besides, 't was my fault the engagement was broken.

John.

Most likely. How was it. ^

Alfred.

The tale is soon spoken.

She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next.' She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd. I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry. I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd. At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd

treason.

In short, my dear fellow, 't was time, as you see, Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'T was

she By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse. And declare myself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the story you know.

John.

No, indeed.

Alfred.

Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdi-

nando Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. I think that I acted exceedingly well, Considering the time when this rupture befell, For Paris was charming just then. It deranged All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed — Wrote for Naples, then vacant — obtain'd it — and so Join'd my new post at once ; but scarce reach'd it,

when lo !

My first news from Paris informs me Lucile Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret ; I ask to renew the engagement.

John.

And she.^

Alfred.

Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing ! We each keep our letters ... a portrait ... a ring . . . With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other shall call for them back.

John.

Pray go on.

Alfred.

My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin To supply the grim deficit found in our days, When Love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She

obeys.

She goes out in the world ; takes to dancing once

more, — A pleasure she rarely indulged in before. I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 'T is a taste I had never before, my dear John) Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho ! now, Jack, You know all.

John [after a pa use) .

You are really resolved to go back ?

Alfred.

Eh, where }

John.

To that worst of all places — the past. You remember Lot's wife }

Alfred.

'T was a promise when last We parted. My honor is pledged to it.

John.

Well, What is it you wish me to do }

Alfred.

You must tell Matilda, I meant to have call'd — to leave word — To explain — but i-Ke time was so pressing —

Lucile.

" She goes out in the world."

John.

My lord.

Your lordship's obedient ! I really can't do . . .

Alfred.

You wish then to break off my marriage ?

John.

No, no !

But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take These letters.

Alfred.

Not see ? would you have me, then, break A promise my honor is pledged to .''

John ijiumnimg).

" Off, off.

And away ! said the stranger' . . .

Alfred.

Oh, good ! oh, you scoff !

John.

At what, my dear Alfred ?

Alfred.

At all things !

John.

Indeed } Alfred.

Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed : That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you : I see You have no feeling left in you, even for me ! At honor you jest ; you are cold as a stone To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have

none ; You have lost faith in all things. You carry a blight About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight Of such callous indifference, who could be calm ? I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm

That is left me in Gilead you '11 turn into gall. Heartless, cold, unconcern'd . . .

John,

Have you done ? Is that all ?

"Well, then, listen to me ! I presume when you made Up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains. Ere you finally settled the point. What remains But to stick to your choice ? You want money : 'tis

here.

A settled position : 't is yours. A career : You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich. Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch To be running away, on the eve of all this. To a woman whom never for once did you miss All these years since you left her ? Who knows

what may hap ?

This letter — to me — is a palpable trap. The woman has changed since you knew her. Perchance She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken romance.

When women begin to feel youth and their beauty Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty To let nothing else slip away unsecured Which these, while they lasted, might once have

procured.

Lucile 's a coquette to the end of her fingers, I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish lingers

To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover To the feet he has left ; let intrigue now recover What truth could not keep. 'T were a vengeance,

no doubt — A triumph ;— but why vcwi'sX you bring it about ? You are risking the substance of all that you

schemed To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you

have dream 'd.

Alfred.

But there 's nothing to risk. You exaggerate. Jack. You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back.

John.

Ay, but how .''... discontented, unsettled, upset, Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret ; Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough To make your betroth'd break off all in a huff. Three days, do you say ? But in three days who

knows

may happen } I don't, nor do you, I suppose.

V

Of all the good things in this good world around us, The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us, And which, for that reason, we least care about, And can best spare our friends, is good counsel,

no doubt.

But advice, when 't is sought from a friend (though

civility May forbid to avow it), means mere liability

In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, Which we deem that a true friend is bound to indorse.

A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore.

Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the more Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment opposed it. And, having the worst of the contest, he closed it With so firm a resolve his bad ground to maintain, That, sadly perceiving resistance was vain. And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack Came to terms, and assisted his cousin to pack A slender valise (the one small condescension Which his final remonstrance obtain'd), whose dimension Excluded large outfits ; and, cursing his stars, he Shook hands with his friend and return'd to Miss Darcy.

VI

Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd. Ere helock'd up and quitted his chamber, discern 'd Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright In what Virgil has call'd ' Youth's purpureal light' (I like the expression, and can't find a better). He sigh'd as he look'd at her. Did he regret her ? In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair, As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air, And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue eyes. With their little impertinent look of surprise, And her round youthful figure, and fair neck, below The dark drooping feather, as radiant as snow, —

Liicile.

I can only declare, that if / had the chance Of passing three days in the exquisite glance

Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now petted

That fine English mare, I should much have regretted

Whatever might lose me one little half-hour

Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my power.

For, if one drop of milk froni the bright Milky Way

Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare say, Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that day.

' Discekn'd Matilda ride rv."

VII

But whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred Vargrave now watch'd her ride

by,

I can only afifirm that, in watching her ride, As he turn'd from the window, he certainly sigh'd.

CANTO II. Letter from Lord Alfred Vargrave to

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS.

"BiGORRE, Tuesday.

"Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bi-

gorre.

And commands (need I add ?) my obedience. Before The night I shall be at Luchon — where a line, If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive My respects.

" Yours sincerely,

" A. Vargrave.

" I leave In an hour."

II.

In an hour from the time he wrote this, Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss, Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and

pursued.

In pursuing his course through the blue solitude, The reflections that journey gave rise to.

And here (Because, without some such precaution, I fear

Lucile.

You might fail to distinguish them each from the rest

Of the world they belong to ; whose captives are drest, As our convicts, precisely the same, one and all, While the coat cut for Peter is pass'd on to Paul) I resolve, one by one, when I pick from the mass The persons I want, as before you they pass.

To label them broadly in plain black and white On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he 's

in sight, I first label my hero.

III.

The age is gone o'er When a man may in all things be all. We have

more Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt. Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to ; but out Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when Will a new LEONARDO arise on our ken ? He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone

'Pursuing his course through the blue solitude."

To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close In the palm of his hand. There were giants in those Irreclaimable days ; but in these days of ours, In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more Than the 'live giant's eyesight avail'd to explore ; And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains, But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, Till a More or Lavater step into his place : Then the world turns and makes an admiring grimace.

Once the men were so great and so few, they appear, Through a distant Olympian atmosphere. Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. Now the men are so many and small, disengage One man from the million to mark him, next moment The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your comment ; And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) 'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes belongs, We take the whole age for a hero, in want Of a better ; and still, in its favor, descant On the strength and the beauty which, failing to

find In any one man, we ascribe to mankind.

IV.

Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who

achieve So little, because of the much they conceive. With irresolute finger he knock'd at each one Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. His course, by each star that would cross it, was set. And whatever he did he was sure to regret. That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old, Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd

gold.

To him., ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, Appear'd in one moment both golden and argent. The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one, May hope to achieve it before life be done ; But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes. Only reaps from the hopes which around him he

sows A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm That crawls on in the dust to the definite term Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, In its limited vision, is happier far Than the Half- Sage, whose course, fix'd by no

friendly star, Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows Each will still be as distant wherever he goes.

Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable, Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave seem'd able

To dazzle, but not to illumine mankind.

A character wavering, fitful, uncertain,

As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain,

Vague, flitting, but on it forever impressing

The shape of some substance at which you stand

guessing : When you said, " All is worthless and weak here,"

behold !

Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold Great outlines of strenuous truth in the man : When you said, " This is genius," the outlines grew

wan.

And his life, though in all things so gifted and

skiird, Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fulfill'd.

VI.

In the budding of youth, ere wild winds can deflower