Griselda: a society novel in rhymed verse. Blunt Wilfrid Scawen

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      Then London lacks not of attractions fit

      For serious minds, and treasures infinite

      Of art and science for ingenious eyes,

      And learning for such wits as would be wise,

      Lectures in classes, galleries, schools of art:

      In each Griselda played conspicuous part —

      Pupil and patron, ay, and patron-saint

      To no few poor who live by pens and paint.

      The world admired and flattered as a friend,

      And only wondered what would be the end.

      And so the days went by. Griselda's face,

      Calm in its outline of romantic grace,

      Became a type even to the vulgar mind

      Of all that beauty means when most refined,

      The visible symbol of a soul within,

      Conceived immaculate of human sin,

      And only clothed in our humanity

      That we may learn to praise and better be.

      Where'er she went, instinctively the crowd

      Made way before her, and ungrudging bowed

      To one so fair as to a queen of earth,

      Ruling by right of conquest and of birth.

      And thus I first beheld her, standing calm

      In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm,

      One opera night, the centre of all eyes,

      So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise.

      Some one behind me whispered "Lady L.!

      His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale."

      His Lordship! I beheld a placid man,

      With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan,

      And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face

      Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace

      Of youth or age, and so had left it bare,

      As it had left its colour to his hair.

      An old young man perhaps, or really old,

      Which of the two could never quite be told.

      I judged him younger than his years gave right:

      His looks betrayed him least by candlelight.

      Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me

      Sublime, the priest of her divinity

      At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough

      Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff

      My tale requires than this first boyish love,

      Which never found the hour its fate to prove.

      My Lady smiling motions with her hand;

      The crowd falls back; his Lordship, gravely bland,

      Leads down the steps to where his footmen stay

      In state. Griselda's carriage stops the way!

      And was Griselda happy? Happy? – Yes,

      In her first year of marriage, and no less

      Perhaps, too, in her second and her third.

      For youth is proud, nor cares its last sad word

      To ask of fate, and not unwilling clings

      To what the present hour in triumph brings.

      It was enough, as I have said, for her

      That she was young and fortunate and fair.

      The world that loved her was a lovely world,

      The rest she knew not of. Fate had not hurled

      A single spear as yet against her life.

      She would not argue as 'twixt maid and wife,

      Where both were woman, human nature, man,

      Which held the nobler place in the world's plan.

      Her soul at least was single, and must be

      Unmated still through its eternity.

      And, even here in life, what reason yet

      To doubt or question or despair of Fate?

      Her youth, an ample web, before her shone

      For hope to weave its subtlest fancies on,

      If she had cared to dream. Her lot was good

      Beyond the common lot of womanhood,

      And she would prove her fortune best in this,

      That she would not repine at happiness.

      Thus to her soul she argued as the Spring

      Brought back its joy to each begotten thing —

      Begotten and begetting. Who shall say

      Which had the better reason, she or they?

      In the fourth year a half acknowledged grief

      Made its appearance in Griselda's life.

      Her sisters married, younger both than she,

      Mere children she had thought, and happily.

      Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss,

      Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress.

      Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote

      Things that like swords against her bosom smote,

      The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears.

      Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears.

      Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown,

      Had vanished from the world. She was alone.

      When she returned to London, earlier

      Than was her custom, in the following year,

      She found her home a desert, dark and gaunt;

      L. House looked emptier, gloomier than its wont.

      Griselda sighed, for on the table lay

      Two letters, which announced each in its way

      The expected tidings of her sisters' joy.

      Either was brought to bed – and with a boy.

      Her generous heart leaped forth to these in vain,

      It could not cheat a first sharp touch of pain,

      But yielded to its sorrow.

      That same night,

      Lord L., whose sleep was neither vexed nor light,

      And who for many years had ceased to dream,

      Beheld a vision. Slowly he became

      Aware of a strange light which in his eyes

      Shone to his vast discomfort and surprise;

      And, while perplexed with vague mistrusts СКАЧАТЬ