Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Eloise
ELOISE.
Night, lovely nun, had donned her sable vail,
And softly as a dream had stolen forth
From evening's shadowy cloisters, and begun
To light her vestal fires in heaven's high vault.
When these were burning bright, she lifted up
The moon's great golden lamp to heaven's midst,
And shrinking from the light herself had made,
Fled to the shadows of the woods and hills,
To keep her holy vigil. The tired earth slept
Softly as girlhood, and the air was still
As infant's breathing, save when from the grove
Came the low murmur of dew-dripping trees,
And notes of night-birds singing to their loves.
But it was burdened with the sweets of flowers,
And the rich fragrance of magnolia trees,
That lifted their proud, lovely heads afar
Toward the brightness of the beaming sky,
As loving and imploring—as our souls
Go out in prayer to beauty, with a gush
Of holy tenderness we can not quell.
Amid the scene, the only unblest thing,
Walked Manhood, with his hot and painful pulse
Throbbing with scarce less fever even when
Night's holy presence chided his mad dreams.
He walked and mused; anon he flung his arms
With passionate vehemence; and low words,
Uttered with emphasis that thrilled the air,
Came from his writhing lips; and his bent head
Was lifted not toward heaven—as if he feared,
Or had forgot its beauty. Thus he strode,
Muttering his restless fancies to himself,
And making discord in night's silent hymn,
Till from the shadow of an orange grove
Flashed out a sudden vision; and a word
Like one fine note of music caught his ear:
"Alberto!"—but he started not with joy
At the sweet bidding. Sullenly he turned
And gazed in silence, till from very fear
Of this dark mood she fled into his arms,
And nestled timidly upon his breast,
And looked into his face, and spoke again
His name in softest accents: "My Alberto!"
Still did he gaze unmoved, until her tears
Forced from his lips their venom. "Eloise,
Once to have held thee thus within my arms
Would have been bliss like heaven's. But thou art false—
Most beautiful, but false." And with his gaze
Bent sternly on the pale and tearful face
Turned upward to his own, he pushed her back,
And folded up his arms.
"Art thou not mad,
Dearest Alberto; or is this a fraud,
Though strange and cruel, used to try my love?
Tell me if thou dost mean to test my truth."
"Thou hast no truth to prove, fair Eloise;
And I say thou art false, who loved thee most;
Then spare us both these feints and artful words.
I could forgive thee if thou didst not play
The actress with me now. And now I go;
But ere I go, I'll say I do forgive thee.
God bless thee, Eloise!"
"One moment stay!
Leave me not, or I die, this hour and here.
My senses are bewildered, and this seems
An ill-timed jest that you will soon explain.
You can not think me false. Oh, aught but this!
Tell me your love is altered, or protest
That you have never loved me: that would give
Strength to my pride, and I could live and smile;
But part not from me with the cruel charge
That I am the one perjured."
The stern man
Was softened for a moment, and he took
Those clasped hands in his own, and pressed a kiss
Upon the cold, white brow, and laid her head
Again upon his bosom. But the touch
Recalled his iron will. "Nay, Eloise,
Why should I trust thee? Has not all the world
Learned this before I murmured, while I was
The dupe of my own blindness? Do not think
I stoop to breathe reproaches. Never waste
A thought upon my fortunes; for I give
My heart henceforward to ambition's race,
And worship fame alone. Beauty's wiles
Shall never stay my footsteps—men shall be
The instruments of greatness to myself,
And I'll forget that ever I did dream
This vain and broken fancy of first love."
As if an adder coiled about her form,
She started from his arms. "Alberto, hear!
You charge my soul with falsehood for no cause
Save the world's idle babble; cruelly
You break asunder every tie that binds
My very life to yours. I will not say
Again that I am innocent, but turn
Your charge upon yourself; for never love
Coldly and calmly thus relinquished love.
I know the bane that has distilled this ruin.
Go, give your manhood to it! and when age
Comes with its weary heart and feeble pulse,
Weigh then what you have gained against your loss;
I can divine the balance. Go; farewell!"
Alberto gazed upon that hueless face,
With the dark, passionate eyes now bright with scorn,
And the lips ashen with the stifled pain,
And the proud form more peerless in its pride,
Till his brain swam with dizziness; yet turned
And followed his dark monitor, Ambition. * * *
A half-score years had fled. Within a room,
Where wealth and elegance combined with art
To make a home for genius, as are set
Rich gems in finest gold, reclined a man,
The master of the place. The silken lounge
Was placed beside a window, through which stole,
Waving the parted curtains, the sweet breath
Of the young spring-time; and it stirred his hair,
Dallying with the curls, until it brought
The memory of a time when a fair hand
Had parted those dark locks upon his brow,
And twined the jeweled fingers with their shreds,
While he pored over the time-honored tome
That fed his dreams of glory. And there came
Over his heart a yearning to behold
The idol of his youth, to which was given
All his heart knew of love. That one last scene,
Fraught with the destiny of both, came back
With strange distinctness; and a chilling dread
Haunted him like a specter.
Fame was won,
And wealth and honor; all he hoped and wished;
Yet he looked back upon a sea of strife;
And forward, a wide desert met his view;
And what at best was life? When all was won,
Then the desire was dead; and loathingly
He turned him from the spectacle that lay
Within the gilded temple he had sought.
Beneath the splendors of a southern sky,
A palace reared its walls. Stately and fair,
It rose amid a grove of flowering trees,
Whose perfume burdened all the sunny air.
Fountains gushed in the shade, and flowers bloomed,
And vines were clambering over trellised walks,
And balconies were radiant with bloom;
All things without were lovely; and within
Was a charmed dwelling; so much art,
With wealth and skill, had fashioned that was fair.
But one who came, paused at the outer gate,
And pondered long before he took his way
Toward the high-arched portal. There he paused,
And laid his hand upon his beating heart
To still its sickening tumult.
Menials bade
The stranger enter softly, for that death
Was then within their walls. He hushed his heart,
And questioned of them who had lately died;
And they told him this story: "She who lies
Shrouded in yonder chamber, has long been
Bereft of reason, though so sweet and kind,
And so majestic in her daily port,
That none except her household ever knew
The wildness of her fancies. But she had
A phantasy that some one, one Alberto,
Was gone upon a pilgrimage, from which
When he returned he'd claim her for his bride.
And so she planned this palace and these grounds,
And furnished all things to receive her love.
She had a portrait in a certain chamber,
Which she said was Alberto's; and a chair,
Fashioned luxuriously, was set beside
A table covered with the choicest books;
And here she sat sometimes with her guitar,
On a low ottoman, beside that chair,
And thought that she was listened to by him;
And would look up, and smile, and chide his frowns;
But this was only in her wildest moods.
At length her reason came, and she fell ill,
And wasted with consumption. But she died
In the room called Alberto's.
Our lady, sir,
Was very beautiful, and you can see
The corse, if you desire."
He followed them
To the dim chamber of the white-robed dead,
And saw them lift the pall, and then he spoke—
"I am Alberto; leave me here alone!"
Wondering, they turned away, and he knelt down
Beside the flower-strewn bier.
At eve they came
To rouse the stranger from his mournful watch;
But to their kind entreaties no reply
Came from the mourner's lips; and when they raised
His forehead from the bosom of the corse,
They quailed with terror, for he too was dead.
Her love had come at length, and Death had wed them!