'Tis the tale of grief and gladness Told by sad St. Pierre of yore, That in front of France's madness Hangs a strange seductive sadness, Grown pathetic evermore. And a perfume round it hovers, Which the pages half reveal, For a folded corner covers, Interlaced, two names of lovers,-- A "Savignac" and "Lucile." As I read I marvel whether, In some pleasant old chateau, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below? Nooked--secluded from espial, Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old chateau? Did it happen that no single Word of mouth could either speak? Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek? Did they feel with that first flushing Some new sudden power to feel, Some new inner spring set gushing At the names together rushing Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"? Did he drop on knee before her-- "_Son Amour, son Coeur, sa Reine_"-- In his high-flown way adore her, Urgent, eloquent implore her, Plead his pleasure and his pain? Did she turn with sight swift-dimming, And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming, With the languorous pupil swimming, Like the love of Mirabeau? Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, For his eager lips to press; In a flash all fate fulfilling Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling-- Crushing life to one caress? Did they sit in that dim sweetness Of attained love's after-calm, Marking not the world--its meetness, Marking Time not, nor his fleetness, Only happy, palm to palm? Till at last she,--sunlight smiting Red on wrist and cheek and hair,-- Sought the page where love first lighting, Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there. * * * * * Did they marry midst the smother, Shame and slaughter of it all? Did she wander like that other Woful, wistful, wife and mother, Round and round his prison wall;-- Wander wailing, as the plover Waileth, wheeleth, desolate, Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover, Waning fast, her wounded mate,-- Wander, till his love's eyes met hers, Fixed and wide in their despair? Did he burst his prison fetters, Did he write sweet, yearning letters, "_A Lucile,--en Angleterre_"? Letters where the reader, reading, Halts him with a sudden stop, For he feels a man's heart bleeding, Draining out its pain's exceeding-- Half a life, at every drop: