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Lucile



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CANTO I. I. LETTER FROM THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE. "I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am toldYou are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old,So long since you may have forgotten it now(When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers to grow),Your last words recorded a pledge—what you will—A promise—the time is now come to fulfil.The letters I ask you, my lord, to return,I desire to receive from your hand. You discernMy reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain.The distance to Luchon is short. I remainA month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance,Will forego one brief page from the summer romanceOf her courtship, and spare you one day from your placeAt her feet, in the light of her fair English face.I desire nothing more, and trust you will feelI desire nothing much."Your friend always,"LUCILE." II. Now in May Fair, of course,—in the fair month of May—When life is abundant, and busy, and gay:When the markets of London are noisy aboutYoung ladies, and strawberries,—"only just out;"Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves,And young ladies on sale for the strawberry-leaves:When cards, invitations, and three-cornered notesFly about like white butterflies—gay little motesIn the sunbeam of Fashion; and even Blue BooksTake a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks;And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern,Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn,Those lots which so often decide if our dayShall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay)Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or otherThan Cadmus, himself, put together, to botherThe heads of Hellenes;—I say, in the seasonOf Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reasonWhy, when quietly munching your dry toast and butter,Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutterAt the sight of a neat little letter, address'dIn a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd,An odor of violets faint as the Spring,And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring.But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection,When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection;Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease,Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees,Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath,A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath,A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation,Are all a man finds for his day's occupation,The whole case, believe me, is totally changed,And a letter may alter the plans we arrangedOver-night, for the slaughter of time—a wild beast,Which, though classified yet by no naturalist,Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare,And more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the Bear. III. I marvel less, therefore, that, having alreadyTorn open this note, with a hand most unsteady,Lord Alfred was startled.The month is September;Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray rememberThese facts, gentle reader, because I intendTo fling all the unities by at the end.)He walk'd to the window....