Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Crozat's Daughter
CROZAT'S DAUGHTER.
[DEDICATED TO CHARLES GAYARRE.]
Oh! she lies in queenly bower, and her couch is soft and silken,
And her maidens stand around her grouped to wait her slightest word;
Oh! she lies like any princess upon perfumed mattress, milken-
White, of 'broidered silks of India looms, the fairest e'er preferred.
Oh, right regally and daintily the lady's bower is furnished,
And right faithfully and watchfully the lady's self is tended;
But God help her! what cares she how her bower is kept and garnished,
Or what sees she that her maidens stand with eyes upon her bended?
Heard she not, or did she dream it, in swoon she so long lay in,
That the young Duke Louis Gascon was betrothed by his mother?
Ah, she knows not—and she dares not ask even her favorite maiden,
For her sacred secret never shall be given to another.
So she closeth her faint eyelids and shuts in the painful vision—
Shuts it in her inmost soul of souls, and hides it there alone;
Shrinking fearfully and full of shame from her own pride's derision,
And enduring all the agony she striveth to disown.
Oh! you should have seen the struggle! why, her face looked harder, whiter
Than a block of sculptured marble—and as motionless it was!
And her hands, save that they seemed to strain and clasp each other tighter,
Had the frozen and the stony look by which death's seeming awes.
So not even the raiment rustled o'er the penthouse of her sighing—
O'er the bosom that was holding such a boundless world of woe;
So she looked as though a statue—a rare statue—had been lying
In her place, to cheat the lookers on, her life made such small show.
And that only the dark lashes on her cheek were black as ever,
And the tresses, lying blackly on the pillow, just the same,
You would think the mould of beauty on the silken couch had never
Smiled a smile, or sighed a sorrow, or had borne a living name.
Thus she lay, so fair and rigid, with her maidens weeping round her—
Thus she lay, so still and pallid, when a low, appalling cry,
Such as men have seldom uttered, broke in part the spell that bound her,
And a father's sorrow won from her an audible, faint sigh.
"Oh, my daughter!" cried the father; "oh, my darling—my Lorenzia!
Who hath slain thee? What hath harmed thee? Ah, that thou shouldst die and leave me!"
Then a few slow tears came stealing down his cheeks and cooled his phrensy;
Still he whispered 'twixt his anguish, "Grave restore her, or receive me;"
Till his sorrow seemed to give her strength, and she looked up, essaying
Such a faint, slow, sad, and flickering smile, more touching than mere pain,
That her father's heart was broken yet once more, and without staying,
All the fountains of his tears run o'er in hot and sudden rain.
Yet he wept not long—'twas not his mood—his was a different mould;
And this the only spell by which his soul could e'er be shaken;
For to all besides his daughter was his bearing proud and cold,
And men knew no other theme his softness could awaken.
So all calmly soon he turned him to the maidens round him waiting,
And inquired of them still calmly how their mistress had come ill;
And they then—the favorite foremost—quick began the tale by stating,
Between sobs and lamentations she had not the power to still,
That as she was gayly chatting, at her mistress' feet reclining,
Stringing pearls to braid that evening in the tresses of her hair,
She bethought her of a rumor of the duke, which she divining
Would engage her mistress' hearing—being always well aware
How they fondly loved each other as a sister and a brother—
And the rumor was, that Louis was betrothed the day before
To a very lovely lady, chosen for him by his mother:
Here, she said, "down dropped her mistress, and lay prone upon the floor."
Then she went on to say further, how they raised her up, and laid her
On her couch, and summoned leeches, and how long she lay in swoon;
And how, when they found her living, the physician's potion made her
To lie in a deathlike stupor since before the stroke of noon.
But enough had now been told him, and he turned and bent once lowly
O'er the pillow of his darling, till his lips had touched her brow;
Then went straightway out in silence, looking grave and treading slowly:
On that moment he had taken before God a solemn vow!
On that same night, by the river, a young noble walked in sorrow,
Cursing bitterly the destiny for which he had been born;
Cursing, too, the young Duke Gascon, who, before the world, tomorrow
Would espouse, in first betrothal, the sweet Countess Delaimorn.
His beloved—his own heart's idol—she whose soul, so true and tender,
Long ago to him was given—they would sell her hand for gold!
Oh! he cursed the wretched barter! and swore wildly to defend her
With his good sword at the altar—but he would not see her sold!
Thus he raved, upbraiding Heaven—and his ancestors upbraiding,
That the scion of their princely house was heir of wealth so mean;
That he—a duke, too—must endure a grievance so degrading
As that an equal should intrude he and his love between.
Thus he fretted his soul vainly, on the rocks of hard misfortune—
Thus he lashed his foaming spirit, till it seethed like any sea;
Till one treading soft behind him, gently spoke, "Let me importune
You, sir duke, to speak more calmly, and with some less energy."
"Ha! a listener! who are you, sir, that have dared to track me hither.
Or presumed to give me counsel as to what way I should speak?"
"You have misconstrued my manner, sir," the stranger said, "and neither
Can I tell you my name or title; but your audience I seek,
On a matter of some moment to us both—to you more truly—
And I pray you do not check me by a word till I have done;
For my time is very precious, and I have arrived but newly,
And must be upon my homeward way before to-morrow sun.
"Here's a debt I owed your father—sums extorted in the trouble
Of the civil wars that ruined many a house of noble blood;
Here, I make you restitution; it were well if it were double.
As it is, there are some millions; may they do you service good!"
Then the gold he paid down quickly, while his auditor stood gazing,
Like one spellbound, on this magic wealth, and on this strange magician—
Gazing eagerly, yet deeming that the princely jewels blazing
In his grasp were but a dream, and not his wishes' full fruition.
So before his thanks were uttered, or his stupor wholly banished,
In such silence as he came to him the stranger hurried thence,
And the noble's grateful blessing was not spoken ere had vanished
Every trace of how his sudden wealth had come, or even whence.
"Oh! my brain, if you have mocked me—oh! my soul, if you are dreaming—
Never let me waken, Heaven! let the happy madness last;
Let my glittering fancies fool me, for I swear this present seeming
Is a glory and a triumph to the anguish of the past!"
Some hours later on that evening, Crozat sat beside the pillow
Of his child, now deeply sleeping in her beauty, still and pale;
But his features were grown softer—there was oil upon the billow,
And a fiat had gone forth to still the fury of the gale.
He had saved a fragile vessel, with its fine and costly burden,
And he hoped in time to trust her freight again upon the sea;
And what matter that it cost him dear! her safety was the guerdon
He had asked, and all he cared for; and the purchase had been free.
But the stain upon his conscience not the end attained could alter;
In the price he purposed giving was his honor not included;
From the truth he would not vary—in the right he could not falter,
And the bidding of his manly soul was not to be eluded.
And still, not quite the time had come for priest or for confession,
And until it came, his life of lives hung by a single hair—
His daughter's life, more dear than his—oh, dear beyond expression;
For the world, with all its treasures, with his one could not compare.
Thus, with love and pride at warfare—with his noble soul attainted
Of a treason 'gainst the son of him who was his earliest friend—
Mused the merchant-noble, on whose mind one only scene was painted,
And that scene his daughter's death, which he was striving to forefend,
So no sleep came to his eyelids—through the long night slowly pacing
O'er and o'er the velvet carpet, watched he how his darling rested;
Watched her breath, and watched her pulses, and the shadows that kept chasing
Through her soul, disturbed by visions on her changing face attested.
But the morning brought requital; it was whispered in the palace
That Duke Gascon had been slighted by the Countess Delaimorn;
And though some refused it credence, saying 'twas a tale of malice,
One, who kept the secret, knew full well the meaning of her scorn.
Oh! he blessed the power of gold, that buys the miser's late relenting;
Oh! he praised the good king Mammon that he had such worthy slaves;
Oh! he thanked the Countess Delaimorn for her so firm dissenting—
And he prayed, "Heaven send the rival duke the triumph that he craves."
And his prayer was answered, truly! for a week had but departed
Ere the lily-handed Delaimorn took other rank and name;
And the young Duke Louis Gascon hardly seemed the less light-hearted
That he had been made the loser in this sort of high-bred game.
And the Crozat's drooping flower—oh, she tried to smile so brightly,
And to speak so gay, while secretly her heart was slowly breaking;
But the father's eye was faithful, and he guessed her trouble rightly—
And he swore again the solemn vow which there was no forsaking!
Crozat stood before the duchess—his confession said and ended—
All the wrong which he had done her in the well-contrived frustration
Of the marriage of Duke Louis, with his daughter's story blended,
And he waited for her answer in unwonted trepidation;
For his heart could not but quail to think the answer that might follow,
And his father's love could not but hope she would accept his offer—
For who that longs with all his soul believes his hopes are hollow?
Or who that thought to be refused, his daughter's hand would proffer?
Listen, Crozat! for she speaketh, and her voice is the completeness
Of all softness and smooth accent, all delightful modulation;
And your doom, though she should doom you, being spoken in such sweetness,
Would be soothed of half its sorrow by this honeyed intonation.
Oh, the bitterness of scorn concealed! it stingeth like an adder;
Oh! the canker of a wound that's hid beneath the balm of flowers!
Why, the very choice she took of words but made his soul the madder,
And the agony of her mild speech taxed all his manliest powers.
"I forgive you," spoke the duchess; "I forgive you, noble Crozat,
Knowing the feelings which a parent entertaineth for his child,
And commend them; and doubt not but your motives have been those that
In a court of the affections would be legal;" here she smiled.
"And as I have bred Lorenzia up, and loved her as a daughter,
So I still do think the child my own to cherish and to love;
And for beauty and for sweetness have I truly ever thought her
Incomparable, though less like earth than like saints above.
"But, friend Crozat, with our race is blent no blood except the highest;
Every branch, for age on age, has been nobly sprung and grafted,
Never losing aught of royalty, but ever keeping nighest
To the throne, and to the scepter, which indeed our uncles wafted.
In the histories of nations will you find our names recorded,
Going back in kingly pedigree, a proud, distinguished race;
To whose faithful aristocracy this honor was awarded,
To be first in glory, first in fame, and first in wealth and place.
"Not that I would say our blood in aught is different from your own,
Or that a peasant's son may not be nobler that a king's;
For virtue makes the serf a king, and vice degrades a throne;
Yet there is a certain pride of power a use of power brings;
Nor that we are happy—for such cares on our position wait,
We have no choice where hearts are played, and only play our hands;
We are not born to happiness, but only to be great,
And on our greatness' highest point our altar of hope stands.
"If I chose to have my son forsake his birthright and his duty
(For it is his duty now to keep our princely fame unspotted),
And give his soul, like other men, to worship of mere beauty,
Your daughter surely were the one of all the world allotted.
But he must wed with one whose name will live like ours in story,
Who can confer, as he confers, a world-wide reputation;
Whose family mark history's page with deeds of fadeless glory,
And who control, as we have done, the interests of a nation.
"Yet, if"—and here she smiled again, as if her fancy needed
Excuse for being so wild a one—"yet if, like the Medici,
You had so risen, by giant strides, that princes had conceded
Your right to rule among their powers, truly I might say this, I
No longer, seeing your daughter's love, could hold your suit as idle;
Yet think that now 'twere far more wise to check this bud of feeling,
And by all gentle arts and means its froward strength to bridle—
Believing that these now fresh wounds will soon be safely healing."
Then rising up with stately grace, she friendlily extended
Her jeweled hand, which Crozat kissed, and silently departed.
But oh! the war of thoughts that in his wounded soul contended,
And oh, the wild, wild hopes that then into existence started!
Did she not say, if he had won a kingly place and power?
And could he not, and would he not? Ah, in that western world,
So boundless and so glorious, should be his daughter's dower:
And kingdoms, crowns, and scepters through his princely visions whirled.
A name on the historic page! oh, would not nations tell it,
That he, a peasant, had arisen to rule with highborn kings?
And will not France take up the theme, and be most proud to swell it,
When he, her regent, to her arms such fair possessions brings?
"It shall be done!" he swore the oath deep in his inmost heart:
"A prince I'll be, o'er such a wide and beautiful domain,
That France shall be but as a speck, a small deciduous part,
Which I, a monarch, can shake off, whene'er I choose to reign."
And then the tears—the slow, great tears which manhood seldom sheds,
Swelled upward from his bursting heart into his burning eyes,
Till all his soul gave way; and as a fire enkindled spreads,
Darted the arrows through his frame of nameless agonies.
This for his daughter—how should he teach her to bear this scorning—
How hide her from its blighting breath, or save her from despair?
How keep that flower, as frail and fair as the wild-rose of morning,
From withering ere his noon of hope, in pity's stifling air?
Oh, how hope deferred destroyeth the eye's brightness! how it stealeth
From the lip its hue of coral, from the cheek its sea-shell pink;
Oh, how hardly with the youthful heart the hand of sorrow dealeth,
And how surely, like a stranded ship, the broken heart will sink!
On a couch, nor soft, nor silken, lies the merchant-noble's daughter;
Hard and cold the bed they give her, hard and cold, and snowy white;
And she chides not, and she weeps not, that to this her maids have brought her,
But she lieth still and patient through the long and woful night.
There are many waxen tapers burning in the lady's chamber,
And the censers smoke with incense that she ever loved the best;
And a trembling hand upon her breast hath laid a cross of amber,
To denote our sin and sorrow; still she showeth no unrest!
She was ever sweet and patient, and this seemeth but the meekness
Of her crushed and broken spirit, bearing death without complaint;
For she looks but as she ever looked in pain-embittered weakness—
The same sweet ghost of wasted youth—the same half-earthly saint!
Ah, to see her thus, so fair and still, calls tears of easy shedding,
And our eyes run o'er with gentle grief, that passeth soon to smiling;
But oh! there is another grief we look upon with dreading,
And which, once seen, from memory there is no more exiling:
A noble man—a proud, high man, whose years are yet unfaded,
Who standeth like a giant tree to guard a tender flower—
To see him fade, as perisheth the fragile plant he shaded,
And grow a gray and bent old man, down-stricken in an hour!
Oh, long had Crozat toiled and striven, with fate his toil opposing;
Long had he pampered his wild hopes boldly against despairing,
But day by day, and month by month, his failures were disclosing,
And time, which wore so fast with him, his last of hopes was wearing.
"O God!" he said, "forget my vow, my vow of sinful wrath,
When mad with pain and stinging pride I swore to be a king;
Oh! save my child—my angel child—the starlight of my path,
And take for sacrifice all else to which my passions cling.
"O Heaven!" he cried, "take not again my heart's most sacred treasure;
Thou hast my youth's dear idol now among thy angel throng;
Forgive me, Heaven, if in her child I've had too proud a pleasure,
And leave me yet a little while this love than death more strong."
But ah! the reed was broken, and the soul that leaned upon it
Fell and rose not, but lay stricken by an infinite despair;
And the tomb of Crozat's daughter bears the simple story on it
Of two hearts—both by love broken—child's and parent's, mouldering there!