Lucile Part 45

While he yet Watched the skies, with this thought in his heart; while he set Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and wind, And embraced the new life which that hour had reveal'd,-- Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and conceal'd; Lucile left the tent and stood by him.

Her tread Aroused him; and, turning towards her, he said: "O Soeur Seraphine, are you happy?"

"Eugene, What is happier than to have hoped not in vain?"

She answer'd,--"And you?"

"Yes."

"You do not repent?"

"No."

"Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. He musingly bent His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart Where he stood, sigh'd, as though to his innermost heart, "O bless'd are they, amongst whom I was not, Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot, Predicts a pure evening; who, sunlike, in light Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set bright!"

But she in response, "Mark yon ship far away, Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day, With all its hush'd thunders shut up! Would you know A thought which came to me a few days ago, Whilst watching those ships?... When the great Ship of Life Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strife Of earth's angry element,--masts broken short, Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten--drives safe into port; When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand; When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar, The mariner turns to his rest evermore; What will then be the answer the helmsman must give?

Will it be... 'Lo our log-book! Thus once did we live In the zones of the South; thus we traversed the seas Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides; Thence follow'd the west wind; here, eastward we turn'd; The stars fail'd us there; just here land we discern'd On our lee; there the storm overtook us at last; That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast; There the mermen came round us, and there we saw bask A siren?' The Captain of Port will he ask Any one of such questions? I cannot think so!

But... 'What is the last Bill of Health you can show?'

Not--How fared the soul through the trials she pa.s.s'd?

But--What is the state of that soul at the last?"

"May it be so!" he sigh'd. "There the sun drops, behold!"

And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip Of a long reef of cloud; and o'er sullen ravines And ridges the raw damps were hanging white screens Of melancholy mist.

"Nunc dimittis?" she said.

"O G.o.d of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days Returning, admit s.p.a.ce for prayer and for praise, In both these confirm us!

"The helmsman, Eugene, Needs the compa.s.s to steer by. Pray always. Again We two part: each to work out Heaven's will: you, I trust, In the world's ample witness; and I, as I must, In secret and silence: you, love, fame, await; Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one gate When all's over. The ways they are many and wide, And seldom are two ways the same. Side by side May we stand at the same little door when all's done!

The ways they are many, the end it is one.

He that knocketh shall enter: who asks shall obtain: And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eugene!"

She turn'd to depart.

"Whither? whither?"... he said.

She stretch'd forth her hand where, already outspread On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw The French camp-fires kindling.

"See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart Made as one man's by one hope! The hope 'tis your part To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse.

I go to my work: you to yours."

x.x.xVIII.

Whilst she spoke, On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun.

"Our cha.s.seurs are at it!" he mutter'd.

She turn'd, Smiled, and pa.s.s'd up the twilight.

He faintly discern'd Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists: by and by The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more.

x.x.xIX.

Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is o'er.

The mission of genius on earth! To uplift, Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift, The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever.

The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate.

The mission of woman on earth! to give birth To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth.

The mission of woman: permitted to bruise The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse, Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse, The blessing which mitigates all: born to nurse, And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile.

XL.

A power hid in pathos: a fire veil'd in cloud: Yet still burning outward: a branch which, though bow'd By the bird in its pa.s.sage, springs upward again: Through all symbols I search for her sweetness--in vain!

Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love In act. Pure was hers: and the dear G.o.d above, Who knows what His creatures have need of for life, And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the sh.o.r.e Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No life Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.

The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the face that makes glorious their own, Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary?

Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit.

XLI.

The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog; The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog.

The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt; All within, light, warmth, calm!

In the twilight, longwhile Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent.

At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went.