Lucile | Page 8

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 he lock'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 her little impertinent look of surprise, And her round
youthful figure, and fair neck, below The dark drooping feather, as
radiant as snow,-- I can only declare, that if I 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 from the bright Milky
Way Could turn into a woman, 'twould look, I dare say, Not more fresh
than Matilda was looking that day.
VII.
But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh With which Alfred
Vargrave now watched her ride by, I can only affirm that, in watching
her ride, As he turned from the window he certainly sigh'd.

CANTO II.
I.
LETTER FROM LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE TO THE
COMTESSE DE NEVERS.
BIGORRE, TUESDAY.
"Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, 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 (Because, without some such
precaution, I fear 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 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 availed 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