The Princess | Page 9

good of womankind.~'?'Let me die too,' said Cyril, 'having seen?And heard the Lady Psyche.'
I struck in:?'Albeit so masked, Madam, I love the truth;?Receive it; and in me behold the Prince?Your countryman, affianced years ago?To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was,?And thus (what other way was left) I came.'?'O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none;?If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was?Disrooted, what I am is grafted here.?Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe?Within this vestal limit, and how should I,?Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt?Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls.'?'Yet pause,' I said: 'for that inscription there,?I think no more of deadly lurks therein,?Than in a clapper clapping in a garth,?To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be,?If more and acted on, what follows? war;?Your own work marred: for this your Academe,?Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo?Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass?With all fair theories only made to gild?A stormless summer.' 'Let the Princess judge?Of that' she said: 'farewell, Sir--and to you.?I shudder at the sequel, but I go.'
'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I rejoined,?'The fifth in line from that old Florian,?Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall?(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow?Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights)?As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell,?And all else fled? we point to it, and we say,?The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold,?But branches current yet in kindred veins.'?'Are you that Psyche,' Florian added; 'she?With whom I sang about the morning hills,?Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly,?And snared the squirrel of the glen? are you?That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow,?To smoothe my pillow, mix the foaming draught?Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read?My sickness down to happy dreams? are you?That brother-sister Psyche, both in one??You were that Psyche, but what are you now?'?'You are that Psyche,' said Cyril, 'for whom?I would be that for ever which I seem,?Woman, if I might sit beside your feet,?And glean your scattered sapience.'
Then once more,?'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I began,?'That on her bridal morn before she past?From all her old companions, when the kind?Kissed her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties?Would still be dear beyond the southern hills;?That were there any of our people there?In want or peril, there was one to hear?And help them? look! for such are these and I.'?'Are you that Psyche,' Florian asked, 'to whom,?In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn?Came flying while you sat beside the well??The creature laid his muzzle on your lap,?And sobbed, and you sobbed with it, and the blood?Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept.?That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept.?O by the bright head of my little niece,?You were that Psyche, and what are you now?'?'You are that Psyche,' Cyril said again,?'The mother of the sweetest little maid,?That ever crowed for kisses.'
'Out upon it!'?She answered, 'peace! and why should I not play?The Spartan Mother with emotion, be?The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind??Him you call great: he for the common weal,?The fading politics of mortal Rome,?As I might slay this child, if good need were,?Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on whom?The secular emancipation turns?Of half this world, be swerved from right to save?A prince, a brother? a little will I yield.?Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you.?O hard, when love and duty clash! I fear?My conscience will not count me fleckless; yet--?Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise?You perish) as you came, to slip away?Today, tomorrow, soon: it shall be said,?These women were too barbarous, would not learn;?They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all.'
What could we else, we promised each; and she,?Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced?A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused?By Florian; holding out her lily arms?Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said:?'I knew you at the first: though you have grown?You scarce have altered: I am sad and glad?To see you, Florian. ~I~ give thee to death?My brother! it was duty spoke, not I.?My needful seeming harshness, pardon it.?Our mother, is she well?'
With that she kissed?His forehead, then, a moment after, clung?About him, and betwixt them blossomed up?From out a common vein of memory?Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth,?And far allusion, till the gracious dews?Began to glisten and to fall: and while?They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice,?'I brought a message here from Lady Blanche.'?Back started she, and turning round we saw?The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood,?Melissa, with her hand upon the lock,?A rosy blonde, and in a college gown,?That clad her like an April daffodilly?(Her mother's colour) with her lips apart,?And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes,?As bottom agates seen to wave and float?In crystal currents of clear morning seas.
So stood that same