Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it

seem'd,

Had she deem'd

Too self-conscious to lose all in love?
That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,
So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd
In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide
Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride?

Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife

Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?

There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the

river,

Which through continents pushes its pathway for ever
To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose
This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,
It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.
The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws

The river's life into its own life, by laws

Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is

this:

The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;

If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea
Is the sea still, for ever. Its deep heart will be
Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore;
Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,
With no diminution of pride, it will say,
'I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!'
Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she,
Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?

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V.

At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been Stern or haughty departed; and, humbled in mien, She approach'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as tho' To herself, more than him, 'Was I wrong? is it so? 'Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem 'Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem 'I may claim on one ground-I at least am sincere. 'You say that to me from the first it was clear

'That you loved me. But what if this knowledge were 'known

'At a moment in life when I felt most alone, 'And least able to be so? a moment, in fact,

• When I strove from one haunting regret to retract

'And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil

'Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still

'So bitterly blame me, Eugène de Luvois,

'If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw

For a moment the promise of this in the plighted

'Affection of one who, in nature, united

6

So much that from others affection might claim,

'If only affection were free? Do you blame

The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free

'From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me

6

There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will,

To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still

Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain

'From hope? alas! I too then hoped!'

THE DUKE.

O again,

Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile,

That you then deign'd to hope

THE COUNTESS.

Yes! to hope I could feel,

And could give to you, that without which, all else given
Were but to deceive, and to injure you even :-
A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then,
Do you blame that one hope?

THE DUKE.

O Lucile!

'Say again,

She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone,
Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own
• To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er,
'And for ever, I said to you then, "Hope no more "?
'I myself hoped no more!'

With but ill-suppress'd wrath
The Duke answer'd.. 'What, then! he recrosses your path,
This man, and you have but to see him, despite
• Of his troth to another, to take back that light

Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!'

Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... 'No!no!
''Tis not that-but-alas ! - but I cannot conceal
That I have not forgotten the past but I feel

6

6

That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,

Rank-wealth-love-esteem-in return for a heart

Which is only a ruin!'

With words warm and wild,

'Tho' a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild

'And restore it, the Duke cried; 'tho' ruin'd it be,

'Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!'

He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her

eyes

Answer'd 'No!'

An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise

And to break into flame, as tho' fired by the light
Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, 'Am I right?
You reject me! accept him?'

'I have not done so,'

She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, 'Not yet-no!

'But can you with accents as firm promise me

6

That you will not accept him?'

Free to offer?' she said.

'Accept? Is he free?

'You evade me, Lucile,'

He replied; 'ah, you will not avow what you feel ! 'He might make himself free? Oh you blush-turn away!

'Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say!

While you deign to reply to one question from me ?

'I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he?
'What! silent? I alter my question. If quite
• Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?'

She said softly.

'He might,'

VI.

Those two whisper'd words, in his breast,

As he heard them, in one deadly moment releast

All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush
And extinguish in man all that's good. In the rush
Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste
And darken and devastate intellect, chased

From its realm human reason.

The wild animal

In the bosom of man was set free. And of all
Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce
As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce
And to rend, rush'd upon him: fierce jealousy, swell'd
By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd
To involve all things else in the anguish within it,
And on others inflict its own pangs!

At that minute

What pass'd thro' his mind, who shall say? who may tell The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of

hell

Can illumine alone?

He stared wildly around

That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound Reach'd that room, thro' the dark evening air, save the drear

Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near!

It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather;
Deep midnight in him! They two, -lone and together,
Himself, and that woman defenceless before him!
The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him.