self-appointed task-work of maturer years; less confident indeed of your approval, but not less confident of your love; and anxious only to realize your presence between myself and the public, and to mingle with those severer voices to whose final sentence I submit my work the beloved and gracious accents of your own. OWEN MEREDITH. 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 In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd, 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, Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, 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? |