And restore to your own life its youth, and restore The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore!

Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the world, When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurl'd!

For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man, The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran, Whom the formless indefinite future of youth, With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth I have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream Which, though follow'd forever, forever doth seem As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore Of life's untraversed ocean! I know the sole path To repose, which my desolate destiny hath, Is the path by whose course to your feet I return.

And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, The sublimity in you, as he whom at length These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal To his worship?"

XVII.

She spoke not; but Alfred could feel The light hand and arm, that upon him reposed, Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed.

But, under their languid mysterious fringe, A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosom Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose-blossom A bee is imprison'd and struggles.

XVIII.

Meanwhile The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold!

O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, Rose and rested: while far up the dim airy crags, Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags, The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar, Had already sent forward one bright, signal star The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair, From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear, Had escaped; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with kisses The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses.

Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet Had ceased falling around them; when, splash'd, drench'd, and wet, The Duc de Luvois down the rough mountain course Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had thrown;

But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone, And the horse, being bred to the instinct which fills The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills, Had scrambled again to his feet; and now master And horse bore about them the signs of disaster, As they heavily footed their way through the mist, The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his wrist, Bruised and bleeding.

XIX.