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 brightlyIn 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 bardBetter far than Longinus himself can rewardThe 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 headAnd a brass on his breast,—when a man is once dead?Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were thenTheirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men.The reformer’s?—a creed by posterity learntA century after its author is burnt!The poet’s?—a laurel that hides the bald browIt hath blighted! The painter’s?—Ask Raphael nowWhich Madonna’s authentic! The stateman’s?—a nameFor 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 wereUnregarded to sport with thine odorous hair,Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shadeAnd 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 naughtSave 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 missThe 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 eyesWhich 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, paysScorn of lesser delights, and laborious days:And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare’s writings were lost,And his genius, though never a trace of it crossedPosterity’s path, not the less would have dweltIn the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have feltAll that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where, pureOn its death-bed, wrong’d Love lay, have moan’d with the Moor!
II.
When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return’dHe found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn’dAs though half out of humor to find itself thereForced to light for no purpose a room that was bare.He sat down by the window alone. Never yetDid the heavens a lovelier evening begetSince 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 streamWere trembling like eyes that are loved on the dreamOf a lover; and all things were glad and at restSave 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 hourHe sat with his head droop’d like some stubborn flowerBeaten down by the rush of the rain—with such forceDid the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the courseOf 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 corridorToward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sighOf an incomplete purpose, he crept quietlyBack again to his place in a sort of submissionTo 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 wifeAnd his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses,Forgotten; but now o’er the troubled abyssesOf the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leaptTo their freedom new-found, and resistlessly sweptAll his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had beenLong 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-driverMingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver;Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a bootWhich reveal’d by its sound no diminutive foot:And the door was flung suddenly open, and onThe threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor JohnWas seized in that sort of affectionate rage orFrenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa MajorOn some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless bestowWith a warmth for which only starvation and snowCould render one grateful. As soon as he could,Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be foodAny 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 takenWith unwonted emotion. The hand that had shakenHis own trembled somewhat. In truth he descriedAt 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 knowYou 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 meantTo have written to-day; but the note shall be sentTo-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 youThe old hypocritical scoundrel would…
ALFRED.
Hold! youSurely can’t mean we are ruin’d?
JOHN.
Sit down!A fortnight ago a report about townMade 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 agoConfirm’d my forebodings too terribly, though.I drove down to the city at once; found the doorOf 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 getInformation: 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 cleftThe old fox ran to earth in,—but join you as fastAs 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, aghastAt the change in his cousin, the hue of whose faceHad 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 ranThrough that hand a quick tremor. “I bear it,” he said,“But Matilda? the blow is to her!” And his headSeem’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 lessThan 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 nowThere 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 herYou owe too much to think of yourself. You must stirAnd arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows?Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I supposeWe 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 thoughTo shut out the vision, he bow’d his head lowOn his hands; and the great tears in silence roll’d onAnd fell momently, heavily, one after one.John felt no desire to find instant reliefFor the trouble he witness’d.He guess’d, in the griefOf his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admissionOf some error demanding a heartfelt contrition:Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuseTo the heart of a man re-aroused to the useOf the conscience God gave him, than simply and merelyThe neglect for which now he was paying so dearly.So he rose without speaking, and paced up and downThe long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his ownCordial heart for Matilda.Thus, silently lostIn his anxious reflections, he cross’d and re-cross’dThe place where his cousin yet hopelessly hungO’er the table; his fingers entwisted amongThe 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 ownKindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grownUnconscious of Alfred.And so for a spaceThere was silence between them.
VII.
At last, with sad faceHe stopp’d short, and bent on his cousin awhileA pain’d sort of wistful, compassionate smile,Approach’d him,—stood o’er him,—and suddenly laidOne hand on his shoulder—“Where is she?” he said.Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tearsAnd gazed vacantly at him, like one that appearsIn some foreign language to hear himself greeted,Unable to answer.“Where is she?” repeatedHis 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 lastStruck the twelve strokes of midnight.Roused by them, he castA half-look to the dial; then quietly threwHis arm round the neck of his cousin, and drewThe hands down from his face.“It is time she should knowWhat has happen’d,” he said,… “let us go to her now.”Alfred started at once to his feet.Drawn and wanThough his face, he look’d more than his wont was—a man.Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill’d throughWith a manly resolve.If that axiom be trueOf the “Sum quia cogito,” I must opineThat “id sum quod cogito;”—that which, in fineA man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thoughtAnd feeling, the man is himself.He had foughtWith himself, and rose up from his self-overthrowThe survivor of much which that strife had laid lowAt his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife,Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized lifeWhich, though yet unfulfill’d, seem’d till then, in that name,To be his, had he claim’d it. The man’s dream of fameAnd of power fell shatter’d before him; and onlyThere rested the heart of the woman, so lonelyIn all save the love he could give her. The lordOf that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to recordThat his first thought, and last, at that moment was notOf the power and fame that seem’d lost to his lot,But the love that was left to it; not of the pelfHe 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 trackHas been through the same meadows in childhood: in youthThrough the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth,There is none that can know me as you do; and noneTo 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 spiteOf vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which mightHave turn’d from me many a heart strong and trueAs your own, I have never turn’d round and miss’d YOUFrom my side in one hour of affliction or doubtBy my own blind and heedless self-will brought about.Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sakeOf those old recollections of boyhood that makeIn your heart yet some clinging and crying appealFrom a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feelMight 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 superiorTo that which I seem; from my innermost natureNot wholly expell’d by the world’s usurpature?Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desireFor truth? Some one spark of the soul’s native fireMoving under the ashes, and cinders, and dustWhich life hath heap’d o’er it? Some one fact to trustAnd to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem’dThe mere frivolous fool I so often have seem’dTo my own self?”
JOHN.
No, Alfred! you will, I believe,Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieveFor having belied your true nature so long.Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!
“Do you think,” he resumed,… “what I feel while I speakIs no more than a transient emotion, as weakAs these weak tears would seem to betoken it?”
JOHN.
No!
ALFRED.
Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will goAlone, 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 JohnWatch’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 moreHe 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 lightWhich enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night,The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shedRound the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bedMatilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayerThat she knew not her husband stood watching her there.With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faintAnd unearthly effulgence which seem’d to acquaintThe whole place with a sense of deep peace made secureBy the presence of something angelic and pure.And not purer some angel Grief carves o’er the tombWhere Love lies, than the lady that kneel’d in that gloom.She had put off her dress; and she look’d to his eyesLike 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 unlacedConfined 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 brightLapse and pulse of a million emotions.That sightBow’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 descriedThat her husband was near her; suffused with the blushWhich came o’er her soft pallid cheek with a gushWhere 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 armRound her waist, on her brow press’d one kiss long and warm.Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her faceOn his breast, she hung lock’d in a clinging embraceWith her soft arms wound heavily round him, as thoughShe fear’d, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go:Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsedBy sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsedIn its pressure on his, as the effort within itLived 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 soHe forced her down softly beside him. BelowThe 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 ownThe 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, beforeHe 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 powerTo be at his side, is the woman that sharesHis fate, if he falter; the woman that bearsThe name dear for HER sake, and hallows the lifeShe 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 feelAnd 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 himEyes 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 breastAs he folded and gather’d her closely, he cried.“For the refuge, to-night in these arms open’d wideTo your heart, can be never closed to it again,And this room is for both an asylum! For whenI pass’d through that door, at the door I left thereA 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 aloneA heart which calamity leaves all your own!”She started… “Calamity, Alfred, to you?”“To both, my poor child, but ‘twill bring with it tooThe 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 skiesWhile 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 yetHave 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 seeHow deep was my need of thee, dearest, how greatWas 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 smileWhich you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyedWith resentment, an angel’s they were at your sideAnd 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 goneFrom our sight evermore.“Here, this evening, alone,I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heartUnto 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 wonIt is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize,’Tis the heart of my wife!” With suffused happy eyesShe sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart,And tenderly closing them round him, his heartClasp’d in one close embrace to her bosom; and thereDroop’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 wasOf 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 dimWith 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 moreThe 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 concealLess 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 farYou 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 givenTo 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’dHer young head on his bosom, and sadly caress’dThe glittering tresses which now shaken looseShower’d gold in his hand, as he smooth’d them!
XIII.
O Muse,Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heartTwixt 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 givenFrom 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 dimLustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heardAloof, the invisible, rapturous bird,With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they sawNot unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet drawHis long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheerFrom the throat of the vale; o’er the dark sapphire sphereThe mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep,Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheepOf Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknownHollow glooms freshen’d odors around them were blownIntermittingly; then the moon dropp’d from their sight,Immersed in the mountains, and put out the lightWhich no longer they needed to read on the faceOf each other life’s last revelation.The placeSlept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that neverSleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavorContinued about them, unheeded, unseen,Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the greenSummer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms,And stealing a finger of change o’er the bosomsOf the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts notHis forces, how lovely soever the spotWhere 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; securingAll outlets, pursuing and pushing his foeTo his last narrow refuge—the grave.
XV.
Sweetly thoughSmiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetlyTheir hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completelyConfiding in that yet untrodden existenceOver which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistanceAnd struggle; to-night, Love his hallow’d deviceHung forth, and proclaim’d his serene armistice.