Lucile






CANTO IV.

     I.
     The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it;
     But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it.
     And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic,
     Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic.
     And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly,
     My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly!"

     As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly;
     But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly
     In despite of their languishing looks, on my word,
     That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford.
     Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard
     Better far than Longinus himself can reward
     The appeal to her feelings of which she approves;
     And the critics I most care to please are the Loves.

     Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head
     And a brass on his breast,—when a man is once dead?
     Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then
     Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men.
     The reformer's?—a creed by posterity learnt
     A century after its author is burnt!
     The poet's?—a laurel that hides the bald brow
     It hath blighted!  The painter's?—Ask Raphael now
     Which Madonna's authentic!  The stateman's?—a name
     For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim!
     The soldier's?—three lines on the cold Abbey pavement!
     Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant,
     All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were
     Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair,
     Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade
     And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead,
     Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought,
     A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for naught
     Save the name of John Milton!  For all men, indeed,
     Who in some choice edition may graciously read,
     With fair illustration, and erudite note,
     The song which the poet in bitterness wrote,
     Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this—
     The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss
     The grief of the man: Tasso's song—not his madness!
     Dante's dreams—not his waking to exile and sadness!
     Milton's music—but not Milton's blindness!...
                                                   Yet rise,
     My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes
     Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth!
     Say—the life, in the living it, savors of worth:
     That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim:
     That the fact has a value apart from the fame:
     That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays
     Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days:
     And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writings were lost,
     And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed
     Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt
     In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt
     All that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where, pure
     On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moan'd with the Moor!
     II.
     When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return'd
     He found it deserted.  The lamp dimly burn'd
     As though half out of humor to find itself there
     Forced to light for no purpose a room that was bare.
     He sat down by the window alone.  Never yet
     Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget
     Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new moon!
     The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon,
     Wide open to heaven; and the stars on the stream
     Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the dream
     Of a lover; and all things were glad and at rest
     Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast.
     He endeavor'd to think—an unwonted employment,
     Which appear'd to afford him no sort of enjoyment.
     III.
     "Withdraw into yourself.  But, if peace you seek there for,
     Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare for,"
     Wrote the tutor of Nero; who wrote, be it said,
     Better far than he acted—but peace to the dead!
     He bled for his pupil: what more could he do?
     But Lord Alfred, when into himself he withdrew,
     Found all there in disorder.  For more than an hour
     He sat with his head droop'd like some stubborn flower
     Beaten down by the rush of the rain—with such force
     Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the course
     Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim,
     From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for him.
     At one moment he rose—rose and open'd the door,
     And wistfully look'd down the dark corridor
     Toward the room of Matilda.  Anon, with a sigh
     Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly
     Back again to his place in a sort of submission
     To doubt, and return'd to his former position,—
     That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the face,
     And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space.
     The dream, which till then had been lulling his life,
     As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought; and his wife
     And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses,
     Forgotten; but now o'er the troubled abysses
     Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt
     To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept
     All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had been
     Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen.
     IV.
     How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not,
     Till he started, as though he were suddenly shot,
     To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt,
     Which was making some noise in the passage without.
     A sound English voice; with a round English accent,
     Which the scared German echoes resentfully back sent;
     The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver
     Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver;
     Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot
     Which reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot:
     And the door was flung suddenly open, and on
     The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John
     Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or
     Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major
     On some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless bestow
     With a warmth for which only starvation and snow
     Could render one grateful.  As soon as he could,
     Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food
     Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces.
     Then the two men sat down and scann'd each other's faces:
     And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken
     With unwonted emotion.  The hand that had shaken
     His own trembled somewhat.  In truth he descried
     At a glance, something wrong.
     V.
                                  "What's the matter?" he cried.
     "What have you to tell me?"

     JOHN.

                                   What! have you not heard?

     ALFRED.

     Heard what?

     JOHN.

                  This sad business—

     ALFRED.

                                      I? no, not a word.

     JOHN.

     You received my last letter?

     ALFRED.

                                   I think so.  If not,
     What then?

     JOHN.

                 You have acted upon it?

     ALFRED.

                                           On what?

     JOHN.

     The advice that I gave you—

     ALFRED.

                                  Advice?—let me see?
     You ALWAYS are giving advice, Jack, to me.
     About Parliament, was it?

     JOHN.

                                 Hang Parliament! no,
     The Bank, the Bank, Alfred!

     ALFRED.

                                  What Bank?

     JOHN.

                                              Heavens! I know
     You are careless;—but surely you have not forgotten,—
     Or neglected... I warn'd you the whole thing was rotten.
     You have drawn those deposits at least?

     ALFRED.

                                              No, I meant
     To have written to-day; but the note shall be sent
     To-morrow, however.

     JOHN.

                          To-morrow? too late!
     Too late! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait?

     ALFRED.

     Mercy save us! you don't mean to say...

     JOHN.

                                            Yes, I do.

     ALFRED.

     What! Sir Ridley?

     JOHN.

                        Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too!

     ALFRED.

     But his own niece?... In Heaven's name, Jack...

     JOHN.

                                                      Oh, I told you
     The old hypocritical scoundrel would...

     ALFRED.

                                            Hold! you
     Surely can't mean we are ruin'd?

     JOHN.

                                        Sit down!
     A fortnight ago a report about town
     Made me most apprehensive.  Alas, and alas!
     I at once wrote and warn'd you.  Well, now let that pass.
     A run on the Bank about five days ago
     Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though.
     I drove down to the city at once; found the door
     Of the Bank close: the Bank had stopp'd payment at four.
     Next morning the failure was known to be fraud:
     Warrant out for McNab: but McNab was abroad:
     Gone—we cannot tell where.  I endeavor'd to get
     Information: have learn'd nothing certain as yet—
     Not even the way that old Ridley was gone:
     Or with those securities what he had done:
     Or whether they had been already call'd out:
     If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt.
     Twenty families ruin'd, they say: what was left,—
     Unable to find any clew to the cleft
     The old fox ran to earth in,—but join you as fast
     As I could, my dear Alfred?*
     *These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse,
     Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse;
     Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire,
     Or Time was calcined by electrical fire;
     Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic,
     Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic.
     VI.
                                     He stopp'd here, aghast
     At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face
     Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space.
     "Courage, courage!"... said John,... "bear the blow like a man!"
     And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred.  There ran
     Through that hand a quick tremor.  "I bear it," he said,
     "But Matilda? the blow is to her!"  And his head
     Seem'd forced down, as he said it.

     JOHN.

                                         Matilda?  Pooh, pooh!
     I half think I know the girl better than you.
     She has courage enough—and to spare.  She cares less
     Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress.

     ALFRED.

     The fault has been mine.

     JOHN.

                               Be it yours to repair it:
     If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t.

     ALFRED.

     I might have averted.

     JOHN.

                            Perhaps so.  But now
     There is clearly no use in considering how,
     Or whence, came the mischief.  The mischief is here.
     Broken shins are not mended by crying—that's clear!
     One has but to rub them, and get up again,
     And push on—and not think too much of the pain.
     And at least it is much that you see that to her
     You owe too much to think of yourself.  You must stir
     And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake.  Who knows?
     Something yet may be saved from this wreck.  I suppose
     We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.

     "O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast!
     A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd!
     I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind!
     And now, in a flash, I see all things!"
                                              As though
     To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low
     On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on
     And fell momently, heavily, one after one.
     John felt no desire to find instant relief
     For the trouble he witness'd.
                                    He guess'd, in the grief
     Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission
     Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition:
     Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse
     To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use
     Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely
     The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly.
     So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down
     The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own
     Cordial heart for Matilda.
                                 Thus, silently lost
     In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd
     The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung
     O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among
     The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there,
     That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear,
     The sobs of a man!  Yet so far in his own
     Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown
     Unconscious of Alfred.
                             And so for a space
     There was silence between them.
     VII.
                                      At last, with sad face
     He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile
     A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile,
     Approach'd him,—stood o'er him,—and suddenly laid
     One hand on his shoulder—
                                "Where is she?" he said.
     Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears
     And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears
     In some foreign language to hear himself greeted,
     Unable to answer.
                        "Where is she?" repeated
     His cousin.
                  He motioned his hand to the door;
     "There, I think," he replied.  Cousin John said no more,
     And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations,
     Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications.
     So again there was silence.
                                  A timepiece at last
     Struck the twelve strokes of midnight.
                                             Roused by them, he cast
     A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw
     His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew
     The hands down from his face.
                                    "It is time she should know
     What has happen'd," he said,... "let us go to her now."
     Alfred started at once to his feet.
                                          Drawn and wan
     Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was—a man.
     Strong for once, in his weakness.  Uplifted, fill'd through
     With a manly resolve.
                            If that axiom be true
     Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine
     That "id sum quod cogito;"—that which, in fine
     A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought
     And feeling, the man is himself.
                                       He had fought
     With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow
     The survivor of much which that strife had laid low
     At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife,
     Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life
     Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name,
     To be his, had he claim'd it.  The man's dream of fame
     And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only
     There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely
     In all save the love he could give her.  The lord
     Of that heart he arose.  Blush not, Muse, to record
     That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not
     Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot,
     But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf
     He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself,
     But of her; as he murmur'd,
                                  "One moment, dear jack!
     We have grown up from boyhood together.  Our track
     Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth
     Through the same silent gateways, to manhood.  In truth,
     There is none that can know me as you do; and none
     To whom I more wish to believe myself known.
     Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know.
     Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now.
     In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite
     Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might
     Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true
     As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU
     From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt
     By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about.
     Tell me truth.  Do I owe this alone to the sake
     Of those old recollections of boyhood that make
     In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal
     From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel
     Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago?
     Or is it... (I would I could deem it were so!)
     That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior,
     Your heart has divined in me something superior
     To that which I seem; from my innermost nature
     Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature?
     Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire
     For truth?  Some one spark of the soul's native fire
     Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust
     Which life hath heap'd o'er it?  Some one fact to trust
     And to hope in?  Or by you alone am I deem'd
     The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd
     To my own self?"

     JOHN.

                       No, Alfred! you will, I believe,
     Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve
     For having belied your true nature so long.
     Necessity is a stern teacher.  Be strong!

     "Do you think," he resumed,... "what I feel while I speak
     Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak
     As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?"

     JOHN.

                                                     No!

     ALFRED.

     Thank you, cousin! your hand then.  And now I will go
     Alone, Jack.  Trust to me.
     VIII.
     JOHN.

                                 I do.  But 'tis late.
     If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?

     ALFRED.

                                          No, no! it will wait
     (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow;
     If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow.
     He open'd the door, and pass'd out.
                                          Cousin John
     Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.
     IX.
     His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door,
     He could hear no reply from within.  Yet once more
     He knock'd lightly.  No answer.  The handle he tried:
     The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.
     X.
     No brighter than is that dim circlet of light
     Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night,
     The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed
     Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed
     Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer
     That she knew not her husband stood watching her there.
     With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint
     And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint
     The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure
     By the presence of something angelic and pure.
     And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb
     Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom.
     She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes
     Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise;
     Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare,
     And over them rippled her soft golden hair;
     Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced
     Confined not one curve of her delicate waist.
     As the light that, from water reflected, forever,
     Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river,
     So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him,
     Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim.
     Reproducing itself in the broken and bright
     Lapse and pulse of a million emotions.
                                             That sight
     Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee.  Knowing scarce what he did,
     To her side through the chamber he silently slid,
     And knelt down beside her—and pray'd at her side.
     XI.
     Upstarting, she then for the first time descried
     That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush
     Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush
     Where the tears sparkled yet.
                                    As a young fawn uncouches,
     Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches,
     She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm
     Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm.
     Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face
     On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace
     With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though
     She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go:
     Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed
     By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed
     In its pressure on his, as the effort within it
     Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute.
     "O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried—
     "Forgive me!"
                    "Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd;
     "But I never have blamed you for aught that I know,
     And I have not one thought that reproaches you now."
     From her arms he unwound himself gently.  And so
     He forced her down softly beside him.  Below
     The canopy shading their couch, they sat down.
     And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own,
     "When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length,
     That he is but a child in the midst of his strength,
     But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own
     The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown?
     From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore,
     Although in his pride he might perish, before
     He could plead for the one, or the other avow
     'Mid his intimate friends?  Wife of mine, tell me now,
     Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour,
     The sole friend that CAN have the right or the power
     To be at his side, is the woman that shares
     His fate, if he falter; the woman that bears
     The name dear for HER sake, and hallows the life
     She has mingled her own with,—in short, that man's wife?"
     "Yes," murmur'd Matilda, "O yes!"
                                        "Then," he cried,
     "This chamber in which we two sit, side by side,
     (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her),
     Is now a confessional—you, my confessor!"
     "I?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head.
     "Yes! but first answer one other question," he said:
     "When a woman once feels that she is not alone:
     That the heart of another is warm'd by her own;
     That another feels with her whatever she feel
     And halves her existence in woe or in weal;
     That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives,
     Live to put forth the strength which the thought of her gives;
     Live to shield her from want, and to share with her sorrow;
     Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow:
     Will that woman feel less than another, O say,
     The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away?
     Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come,
     That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?"
     She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him
     Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim.
     "That woman," she murmur'd, "indeed were thrice blest!"
     "Then courage, true wife of my heart!" to his breast
     As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried.
     "For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wide
     To your heart, can be never closed to it again,
     And this room is for both an asylum!  For when
     I pass'd through that door, at the door I left there
     A calamity sudden and heavy to bear.
     One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear,
     We must face it henceforth; but it enters not here,
     For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone
     A heart which calamity leaves all your own!"
     She started... "Calamity, Alfred, to you?"
     "To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it too
     The courage, I trust, to subdue it."
                                           "O speak!
     Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and weak.
     "O yet for a moment," he said, "hear me on!
     Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun,
     Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer flies,
     That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies
     While the skies smile, and heed not each other: at last,
     When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast,
     Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings?
     So indeed the morn found us,—poor frivolous things!
     Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set,
     And the night brings its darkness around us.  Oh yet
     Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours?
     Yes; you, too, have wept!
                                "While the world was yet ours,
     While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us,
     And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us,
     We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be,
     Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see
     How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great
     Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate!
     But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile,
     Watching o'er us to warn, and to rescue!
                                               "That smile
     Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyed
     With resentment, an angel's they were at your side
     And at mine; nor perchance is the day all so far,
     When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are,
     May murmur the name of that woman now gone
     From our sight evermore.
                               "Here, this evening, alone,
     I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart
     Unto yours,—from this clasp be it never to part!
     Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone,
     But a prize richer far than that fortune has won
     It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize,
     'Tis the heart of my wife!"  With suffused happy eyes
     She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart,
     And tenderly closing them round him, his heart
     Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom; and there
     Droop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd.
                                                    Not despair,
     Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss,
     Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was
     Of all save the sense of her own love!  Anon,
     However, his words rush'd back to her.  "All gone,
     The fortune you brought me!"
                                   And eyes that were dim
     With soft tears she upraised; but those tears were for HIM.
     "Gone! my husband?" she said," tell me all! see! I need,
     To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed,
     Fuller sense of affliction."
                                   "Poor innocent child!"
     He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled,
     As he told her the tale he had heard—something more,
     The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore.
     "Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand, for you;
     And with these, my Matilda, what may I not do?
     And know not, I knew not myself till this hour,
     Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power."
     "And I too," she murmur'd, "I too am no more
     The mere infant at heart you have known me before.
     I have suffer'd since then.  I have learn'd much in life.
     O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife,
     The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel!
     For I—love you, my husband!"
                                    As though to conceal
     Less from him, than herself, what that motion express'd,
     She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast.
     "O lovely as woman, beloved as wife!
     Evening star of my heart, light forever my life!
     If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus far
     You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star,
     Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven,
     There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given
     To lead me to life's late achievement; my own,
     My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!"
     XII.
     How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight,
     That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night!
     How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth,
     As she clung to his side, full of trust and of truth!
     How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'd
     Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd
     The glittering tresses which now shaken loose
     Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!
     XIII.
                                                     O Muse,
     Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart
     Twixt these two silent souls!  There's a joy beyond art,
     And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.
     XIV.
     Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least!
     No music, save such as the nightingales sung,
     Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung,
     Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given
     From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven.
     He open'd the casement: he led her with him,
     Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim
     Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels.  They heard
     Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird,
     With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw
     Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw
     His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer
     From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere
     The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep,
     Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep
     Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown
     Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown
     Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight,
     Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light
     Which no longer they needed to read on the face
     Of each other life's last revelation.
                                            The place
     Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never
     Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor
     Continued about them, unheeded, unseen,
     Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green
     Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms,
     And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms
     Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not
     His forces, how lovely soever the spot
     Where their march lies—the wary, gray strategist, Time,
     With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd—Grief and Crime,
     Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing,
     For his great war with man, new surprises; securing
     All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe
     To his last narrow refuge—the grave.
     XV.
                                            Sweetly though
     Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly
     Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely
     Confiding in that yet untrodden existence
     Over which they were pausing.  To-morrow, resistance
     And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device
     Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.

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