LUCIL E. PART I. CANTO I. I. Letter from the COMTESSE DE NEVERS to LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE. 'I HEAR from Bigorre you are there. I am told 'You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, 'So long since you may have forgotten it now, '(When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers to grow,) 'Your last words recorded a pledge-what you will 'A promise-the time is now come to fulfil. 'The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, 'I desire to receive from your hand. You discern 'My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. 'The distance to Serchon is short. I remain 'A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, 'Will forego one brief page from the summer romance 'Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your place 'At her feet, in the light of her fair English face. 'I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel 'I desire nothing much. 'Your friend always, 'LUCILE.' II. Now in May Fair, of course,—in the fair month of May- When the markets of London are noisy about Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring. Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath, Over-night, for the slaughter of Time-a wild beast, III. I marvel less, therefore, that, having already Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady, The month is September; Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray remember To fling all the unities by at the end.) He walk'd to the window. The morning was chill: IV. What the thoughts were which led to this bad interjection, Sir, or Madam, I leave to your future detection; For whatever they were, they were burst in upon, As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin John. COUSIN JOHN. A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool! LORD ALFRED. Who? JOHN. The man who has anything better to do; And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades Unless she's in love with himself. Because I have nothing that's better to do. I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, Your Will-o'-the-wisp-that has led you and me ALFRED. Who, Matilda? JOHN. Yes! she, Of course! who but she could contrive so to keep ALFRED. What's the matter? JOHN. Why, she is a matter, the more I consider about it, the more it demands An attention it does not deserve; and expands Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline, When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, Is entitled to take in this very small star, Already too crowded, as I think, by far. ALFRED. Of course. JOHN. To what use, When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse In this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum! the case 'I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old' What is this? ALFRED. Read it on to the end, and you'll know. JOHN (continues reading). 'When we parted, your last words recorded a vow 'What you will' Hang it this smells all over, I swear, Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair ALFRED. Read on. You'll discern. |