Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and hurl'd, Under clefts of the hills, which, convulsing the world, Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent caverns above, To trouble at times in the light court of Jove All its frivolous gods, with an undefined awe, Of wrong'd rebel powers that own'd not their law.
For his sake, I am fain to believe that, if born To some lowlier rank (from the world's languid scorn Secured by the world's stern resistance) where strife, Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose to life, He possibly might have contrived to attain Not eminence only, but worth. So, again, Had he been of his own house the first-born, each gift Of a mind many-gifted had gone to uplift A great name by a name's greatest uses.
But there He stood isolated, opposed, as it were, To life's great realities; part of no plan;
And if ever a nobler and happier man He might hope to become, that alone could be when With all that is real in life and in men What was real in him should have been reconciled;
When each influence now from experience exiled Should have seized on his being, combined with his nature, And form'd as by fusion, a new human creature:
As when those airy elements viewless to sight (The amalgam of which, if our science be right, The germ of this populous planet doth fold)
Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold!
Where a void seem'd before, there a substance appears, From the fusion of forces whence issued the spheres!
VII.
But the permanent cause why his life fail'd and miss'd The full value of life was,--where man should resist The world, which man's genius is call'd to command, He gave way, less from lack of the power to withstand, Than from lack of the resolute will to retain Those strongholds of life which the world strives to gain.
Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way, With the moral thereof tightly tack'd to it. Say--
"Let any man once show the world that he feels Afraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels:
Let him fearlessly face it, 'twill leave him alone:
But 'twill fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone."
VIII.
The moon of September, now half at the full, Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland the lull Of the quiet blue air, where the many-faced hills Watch'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, the light, foam-footed rills, Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of their courts, And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports, Lord Alfred (by this on his journeying far)
Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar, And brokenly humming an old opera strain, And thinking, perchance, of those castles in Spain Which that long rocky barrier hid from his sight;
When suddenly, out of the neighboring night, A horseman emerged from a fold of the hill, And so startled his steed that was winding at will Up the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which led O'er the mountain--the reins on its neck, and its head Hanging lazily forward--that, but for a hand Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command, Both rider and horse might have been in a trice Hurl'd horribly over the grim precipice.
IX.
As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided, And the oath with which nothing can find unprovided A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded, Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did Now and then) his erectness; and looking, not ruder Than such inroad would warrant, survey'd the intruder, Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glory My hero, and finished abruptly this story.
X.
The stranger, a man of his own age or less, Well mounted, and simple though rich in his dress, Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of France.
His face, which was pale, gather'd force from the glance Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes.
With a gest of apology, touch'd with surprise, He lifted his hat, bow'd and courteously made Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as betray'd, At the first word he spoke, the Parisian.
XI.
I swear I have wander'd about in the world everywhere;
From many strange mouths have heard many strange tongues;
Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my lungs;
Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own;
In many a language groaned many a groan;
And have often had reason to curse those wild fellows Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd jealous, Making human audacity stumble and stammer When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar.
But the language of languages dearest to me Is that in which once, O ma toute cherie, When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for hours, You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd Je t'aime.
XII.
The Italians have voices like peacocks; the Spanish Smell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and Danish Have something too Runic, too rough and unshod, in Their accents for mouths not descended from Odin;
German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheezing And coughing; and Russian is nothing but sneezing;
But, by Belus and Babel! I never have heard, And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word Of that delicate idiom of Paris without Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt, By the wild way in which my heart inwardly flutter'd That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been utter'd And whene'er I hear French spoken as I approve I feel myself quietly falling in love.
XIII.
Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased By a something, an accent, a cadence, which pleased His ear with that pledge of good breeding which tells At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark In the horseman a man one might meet after dark Without fear.
And thus, not disagreeably impress'd, As it seem'd, with each other, the two men abreast Rode on slowly a moment.
XIV.
STRANGER.
I see, Sir, you are A smoker. Allow me!
ALFRED.
Pray take a cigar.
STRANGER.
Many thanks! . . . Such cigars are a luxury here.
Do you go to Luchon?
ALFRED.
Yes; and you?
STRANGER.
