"See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart Made as one man's by one hope! The hope 'tis your part To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse.
I go to my work: you to yours."
XXXVIII.
Whilst she spoke, On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun.
"Our chasseurs are at it!" he mutter'd.
She turn'd, Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight.
He faintly discern'd Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists: by and by The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more.
XXXIX.
Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is o'er.
The mission of genius on earth! To uplift, Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift, The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever.
The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate.
The mission of woman on earth! to give birth To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth.
The mission of woman: permitted to bruise The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse, Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse, The blessing which mitigates all: born to nurse, And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile.
XL.
A power hid in pathos: a fire veil'd in cloud:
Yet still burning outward: a branch which, though bow'd By the bird in its passage, springs upward again:
Through all symbols I search for her sweetness--in vain!
Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love In act. Pure was hers: and the dear God above, Who knows what His creatures have need of for life, And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shore Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No life Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.
The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the face that makes glorious their own, Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary?
Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit.
XLI.
The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog;
The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog.
The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt;
All within, light, warmth, calm!
In the twilight, longwhile Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent.
At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went.
