Vaudracour and Julia

O happy time of youthful lovers (thusMy story may begin) O balmy time,In which a love-knot on a lady's browIs fairer than the fairest star in heaven!To such inheritance of blessed fancy(Fancy that sports more desperately with mindsThan ever fortune hath been known to do)The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by yearsWhose progress had a little oversteppedHis stripling prime. A town of small repute,Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a MaidWho heard the heart-felt music of his suitWith answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,From which her graces and her honours sprung:And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,With haughty indignation, spurned the thoughtOf such alliance.--From their cradles up,With but a step between their several homes,Twins had they been in pleasure; after strifeAnd petty quarrels, had grown fond again;Each other's advocate, each other's stay;And, in their happiest moments, not content,If more divided than a sportive pairOf sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hoveringWithin the eddy of a common blast,Or hidden only by the concave depthOf neighbouring billows from each other's sight.

Thus, not without concurrence of an ageUnknown to memory, was an earnest givenBy ready nature for a life of love,For endless constancy, and placid truth;But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure layReserved, had fate permitted, for supportOf their maturer years, his present mindWas under fascination;--he beheldA vision, and adored the thing he saw.Arabian fiction never filled the worldWith half the wonders that were wrought for him.Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;Life turned the meanest of her implements,Before his eyes, to price above all gold;The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;Her chamber-window did surpass in gloryThe portals of the dawn; all paradiseCould, by the simple opening of a door,Let itself in upon him:--pathways, walks,Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,Surcharged, within him, overblest to moveBeneath a sun that wakes a weary worldTo its dull round of ordinary cares;A man too happy for mortality!

So passed the time, till whether through effectOf some unguarded moment that dissolvedVirtuous restraint--ah, speak it, think it, not!Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who sawSo many bars between his present stateAnd the dear haven where he wished to beIn honourable wedlock with his Love,Was in his judgment tempted to declineTo perilous weakness, and entrust his causeTo nature for a happy end of all;Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed,And bear with their transgression, when I addThat Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,Carried about her for a secret griefThe promise of a mother.To concealThe threatened shame, the parents of the MaidFound means to hurry her away by night,And unforewarned, that in some distant spotShe might remain shrouded in privacy,Until the babe was born. When morning came,The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss,And all uncertain whither he should turn,Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soonDiscovering traces of the fugitives,Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat.Easily may the sequel be divined--Walks to and fro--watchings at every hour;And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,Is busy at her casement as the swallowFluttering its pinions, almost within reach,About the pendent nest, did thus espyHer Lover!--thence a stolen interview,Accomplished under friendly shade of night.

I pass the raptures of the pair;--such themeIs, by innumerable poets, touchedIn more delightful verse than skill of mineCould fashion; chiefly by that darling bardWho told of Juliet and her Romeo,And of the lark's note heard before its time,And of the streaks that laced the severing cloudsIn the unrelenting east.--Through all her courtsThe vacant city slept; the busy winds,That keep no certain intervals of rest,Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayedHer fires, that like mysterious pulses beatAloft;--momentous but uneasy bliss!To their full hearts the universe seemed hungOn that brief meeting's slender filament!

They parted; and the generous VaudracourReached speedily the native threshold, bentOn making (so the Lovers had agreed)A sacrifice of birthright to attainA final portion from his father's hand;Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would fleeTo some remote and solitary place,Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven,Where they may live, with no one to beholdTheir happiness, or to disturb their love.But now of this no whisper; not the less,If ever an obtrusive word were droppedTouching the matter of his passion, still,In his stern father's hearing, VaudracourPersisted openly that death aloneShould abrogate his human privilegeDivine, of swearing everlasting truth,Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.

"You shall be baffled in your mad intentIf there be justice in the court of France,"Muttered the Father.--From these words the YouthConceived a terror; and, by night or day,Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soonFound dreadful provocation: for at nightWhen to his chamber he retired, attemptWas made to seize him by three armèd men,Acting, in furtherance of the father's will,Under a private signet of the State.One the rash Youth's ungovernable handSlew, and as quickly to a second gaveA perilous wound--he shuddered to beholdThe breathless corse; then peacefully resignedHis person to the law, was lodged in prison,And wore the fetters of a criminal.

Have you observed a tuft of wingèd seedThat, from the dandelion's naked stalk,Mounted aloft, is suffered not to useIts natural gifts for purposes of rest,Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and froThrough the wide element? or have you markedThe heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough,Within the vortex of a foaming flood,Tormented? by such aid you may conceiveThe perturbation that ensued; --ah, no!Desperate the Maid--the Youth is stained with blood;Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet!Yet as the troubled seed and tortured boughIs Man, subjected to despotic sway.

For him, by private influence with the Court,Was pardon gained, and liberty procured;But not without exaction of a pledge,Which liberty and love dispersed in air.He flew to her from whom they would divide him--155He clove to her who could not give him peace--Yea, his first word of greeting was,--"All rightIs gone from me; my lately-towering hopes,To the least fibre of their lowest root,Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine,I thine--the conscience-stricken must not wooThe unruffled Innocent,--I see thy face,Behold thee, and my misery is complete!"

"One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden--"One,For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?"Then with the father's name she coupled wordsOf vehement indignation; but the YouthChecked her with filial meekness; for no thoughtUncharitable crossed his mind, no senseOf hasty anger rising in the eclipseOf true domestic loyalty, did e'erFind place within his bosom.--Once againThe persevering wedge of tyrannyAchieved their separation: and once moreWere they united,--to be yet againDisparted, pitiable lot! But hereA portion of the tale may well be leftIn silence, though my memory could addMuch how the Youth, in scanty space of time,Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughtsThat occupied his days in solitudeUnder privation and restraint; and what,Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,And what, through strong compunction for the past,He suffered--breaking down in heart and mind!

Doomed to a third and last captivity,His freedom he recovered on the eveOf Julia's travail. When the babe was born,Its presence tempted him to cherish schemesOf future happiness. "You shall return,Julia," said he, "and to your father's houseGo with the child.--You have been wretched; yetThe silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighsToo heavily upon the lily's head,Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.Malice, beholding you, will melt away.Go!--'tis a town where both of us were born;None will reproach you, for our truth is known;And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fateRemain unpitied, pity is not in man.With ornaments--the prettiest, nature yieldsOr art can fashion, shall you deck our boy,And feed his countenance with your own sweet looksTill no one can resist him.--Now, even now,I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;My father from the window sees him too;Startled, as if some new-created thingEnriched the earth, or Faery of the woodsBounded before him;--but the unweeting ChildShall by his beauty win his grandsire's heartSo that it shall be softened, and our lovesEnd happily, as they began!"

These gleamsAppeared but seldom; oftener was he seenPropping a pale and melancholy faceUpon the Mother's bosom; resting thusHis head upon one breast, while from the otherThe Babe was drawing in its quiet food.--That pillow is no longer to be thine,Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must passInto the list of things that cannot be!Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hearsThe sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced,That dooms her to a convent.--Who shall tell,Who dares report, the tidings to the lordOf her affections? so they blindly askedWho knew not to what quiet depths a weightOf agony had pressed the Sufferer down:The word, by others dreaded, he can hearComposed and silent, without visible signOf even the least emotion. Noting this,When the impatient object of his loveUpbraided him with slackness, he returnedNo answer, only took the mother's handAnd kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain,Or care, that what so tenderly he pressedWas a dependant on the obdurate heartOf one who came to disunite their livesFor ever--sad alternative! preferred,By the unbending Parents of the Maid,To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.--So be it!

In the city he remainedA season after Julia had withdrawnTo those religious walls. He, too, departs--245Who with him?--even the senseless Little-one.With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,For the last time, attendant by the sideOf a close chair, a litter, or sedan,In which the Babe was carried. To a hill,That rose a brief league distant from the town,The dwellers in that house where he had lodgedAccompanied his steps, by anxious loveImpelled;--they parted from him there, and stoodWatching below till he had disappearedOn the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took,Throughout that journey, from the vehicle(Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiledThe tender infant: and at every inn,And under every hospitable treeAt which the bearers halted or reposed,Laid him with timid care upon his knees,And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look,Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.

This was the manner in which VaudracourDeparted with his infant; and thus reachedHis father's house, where to the innocent childAdmittance was denied. The young man spakeNo word of indignation or reproof,But of his father begged, a last request,That a retreat might be assigned to himWhere in forgotten quiet he might dwell,With such allowance as his wants required;For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stoodDeep in a forest, with leave given, at the ageOf four-and-twenty summers he withdrew;And thither took with him his motherless Babe,And one domestic for their common needs,An aged woman. It consoled him hereTo attend upon the orphan, and performObsequious service to the precious child,Which, after a short time, by some mistakeOr indiscretion of the Father, died.--The Tale I follow to its last recessOf suffering or of peace, I know not which:Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

From this time forth he never shared a smileWith mortal creature. An InhabitantOf that same town, in which the pair had leftSo lively a remembrance of their griefs,By chance of business, coming within reachOf his retirement, to the forest lodgeRepaired, but only found the matron there,Who told him that his pains were thrown away,For that her Master never uttered wordTo living thing--not even to her.--Behold!While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;But, seeing some one near, as on the latchOf the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk--And, like a shadow, glided out of view.Shocked at his savage aspect, from the placeThe visitor retired.

Thus lived the YouthCut off from all intelligence with man,And shunning even the light of common day;Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through FranceFull speedily resounded, public hope,Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,Rouse him: but in those solitary shadesHis days he wasted, an imbecile mind!