FRAGMENTS OF CORINNE'S THOUGHTS.
My genius lives no longer: I regret
Its death: I own I should have loved that yet
My lays had waked his sympathy; my name
Might still have reach'd him, heralded by fame.
I err'd by hoping that in his own land
The thoughts, the feelings—that our fate united—
The influence of habit could withstand—
Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be blighted.
There is so much to say 'gainst maid like me!
How futile must the only answer be!
"Such was her heart—her mind;" a poor reply
For hosts who know not what I was, nor why.
Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind,
The more it towers, more morally refined:
The more we know, the better we forgive;
Whoe'er feels deeply, feels for all who live.
How can two beings who confided all,
Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers,
And immortality, bear this swift fall,
Thus to each other become once more strangers?
What a mysterious sentiment is love!
Nothing, if not all other ties above—
Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel—
Or—colder than the simplest friendship's zeal.
This most involuntary sense on earth,
Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?
What storms it raises deep within the breast!
Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?
Talent should be a refuge; as when one[1]
Imprison'd to a cloister, art's true son,
Bequeath'd its walls such traces of his doom,
That genius glorified monastic gloom!
But he, though captive, suffer'd from without;
His bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;
When grief is there, all efforts lose their force,
The spring of comfort's poison'd from its source.
Sometimes I view myself as one apart,
Impartially, and pity my own heart;
Was I not mental, kind to others' pain,
Generous, and frank? Then why all this in vain?
Is the world really so vile, that charms
Like these but rob us of our needful arms?
'Tis pitiful! Spite all my youth hath shown,
Despite my glory, I shall die unknown;
Nor leave one proof of what I might have been.
Had I learnt happiness, or could defy
This all-devouring fever—men had seen
Me contemplate them from a station high.
Tracking the hidden links between yon heaven
And human nature; but the clue is riven.
How, how think freely, while each painful breath
But bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?
Oh! why would he forbear to render blest
A heart whose secret he alone possess'd?
To him—him only spoke my inmost soul!
'Tis easy to leave those chance may control,
The common herd—but she who must admire,
Yet judge ere fancy kindles love's chaste fire,
Expansive as it is, to soul like hers,
There's but one object in the universe!
I learnt life from the poets; 'tis not thus;
Vainly they strive to change the truth, for us
Who live to wake from their soft dreams, and see
The barrenness of life's reality!
Remembering what I was but chafes my pride.
Why tell me I could charm, if not for love?
Why inspire confidence, to make me prove
But the more fearful anguish when it died?
Will he, in any other, meet more mind
Than was my own? a heart more true and kind?
No! but—congenial with heartlessness—
He will be more content in finding less.
In presence of the sun, or starry spheres,
To deserve love we need but to desire—
For love ennobles all that it endears;
Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.
But ah, society! where each must owe
His fate but to factitious joy or woe—
Where what is said of him becomes the test—
How soon it hardens e'en the trifler's breast.
Could men once meet, free from this false control,
How pure an air were breathed into the soul!
How would the mind, refresh'd by feelings true,
Teem with ideas natural and new!
E'en Nature's cruel; this praised face
Is fading: what avails it now
That still I pour affection's vow,
Without one look my prayer to grace?
These tear-dimm'd eyes no more express,
As once they might, my tenderness.
Within my bosom is a pain
No language ever can explain—
I have no strength for task like this;
Love, only love, could sound the abyss.
How happy men! in honor's strife
They burst the chains of hated life.
We hope no solace from the throng;
Our torture is to bear,
Stirless and mute, a lone life long,
The presence of Despair.
Sometimes, when listing music's tone,
It tells of powers so late mine own,
Song, dance, and poesie—I start,
As I could fly from this sad heart,
To joy again; a sudden chill
Reminds me that the world would say,
"Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill
To brave the living, and the day!"
I wish I now could find a spell
'Gainst misery in the crowd: 'twas well
To mix there once, lest solitude
Should bear my thoughts too far through fate,
My mind grew flexible, imbued
With gay impressions; 'tis too late;
Features and feelings fix for aye:
Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they?
Ah! if't were in a moment o'er,
Fain would I taste of hope once more!
But all is done: life can but be
A burning desert now to me;
The drop of water, like the river,
Sullied with bitterness forever,
A single day's enjoyment is
Impossible, as years of bliss.
Guilty towards me as I must deem
My love—compared with other men
What mindless things of art they seem!
How does he rise an angel then!—
E'en though his sword of flame consume
My life, and devastate my doom;
Heaven lends the one beloved his power
Thus to avenge each misspent hour.
'Tis not first love that must endure;
It springs but from the dreams of youth;
But if, with intellect mature,
We meet the mind long sought in vain,
Fancy is then subdued by truth,
And we have reason to complain.
"What maniacs!" the many cry,
"Are those for love who live or die!
As if, when such frail boon is reft,
A thousand blessings were not left!"
Enthusiasm, though the seed
Of every high heroic deed,
Each pious sacrifice—its lot
Is scorn, from those who feel it not.
All then is folly, if they will,
Save their own selfish care
Of mortal life; this nobler thrill
Is madness everywhere.
Alas! it is my worst distress
That he alone my thoughts could guess;
Too late and vainly may he find
That I alone could read his mind.
Mine own should thus be understood;
In friendship's varying degrees
Easy, yet difficult to please:
With cordial hours for all the good,
But with affection deep and true,
Which but for one, for him I knew.
Feeling and fancy, wit and reason,
Where now such union can I find,
Seek the world through—save his—whose treason
'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind
Blends all these charms; unless I dream'd
He was the wonder he but seem'd.
How, then, to others should I speak?
In whom confide? what subjects seek?
What end, aim, interest remains?
The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains,
Already known, what should I fear?
Or what expect? before me cast
A future changeless, wan, and drear,
As but the spectre of my past!
Why, why is happiness so brief?
Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail?
Is nature's natural order grief?
Unwonted pain soon finds relief
When its strange throes our frames assail—
Joy to the soul's less usual: there
The habitual state is this despair.
How mutable the world appears
Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears![2]
Another life! another life
That is my hope! but still such force
Hath this we bear, that we demand
In heaven the same rebellious band
Of passions that here caused our strife.
The northern zealots paint the shade
Still hunting, with his hound and horse,
The phantom stag, through cloudy glade;
Yet dare we call such shapes unreal?
Naught here is sure save that Distress—
Whose power all suffer who can feel—
Keeps her unpitying promises!
I dream of immortality!
No more of that which man can give;
Once in the future did I live,
The present seem'd too old for me.[3]
All I now ask of Him on high,
Is, that my heart may never die!
Father! the offering and the shrine
A mortal spurns; with grace divine,
Deign to receive—'tis thine!—'tis thine!
I know my days will be but few;
That thought restores a sense of rest:
'Tis sweet to feel, as now I do,
Death draw Grief's barb from out my breast.
'Tis Superstition's sad retreat,
More than the home of pious trust;
Devotion to the blest is sweet.—
What gratitude to the All Just
Ought Oswald's wife to feel! O God, she must.
And yet misfortune oft improves,
Corrects us, teaches us to weigh
Our errors with our sufferings: they
Are wedded: we repent the loves
Of earth, when salutary time
And solitude inspires love more sublime.
'Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil
A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still:—
What innocence is in the thoughts of those
About to leave this life of passion's woes!
The secret which not genius' self can share,
The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer?
May not some simple thought, by reverie
Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery?
Vast as the efforts which the soul may make
They weary her in vain; she cannot take
This latest step; life must be still unknown
Till its last hour on earth be well-nigh flown I
'Tis time mine should repose; and who will sigh—
'Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high!
[1] Domenichino.
[2] "Ahi! null' altro che pianto al mondo dura."—PETRARCH.
[3] That idea is Dante's.
CHAPTER VI.
Prince Castel Forte quitted Rome, to settle near Corinne. She felt most grateful for this proof of friendship, and yet ashamed that she could not requite it, even by such conversation as of yore: now she was silent and abstracted; her failing health robbed her of all the strength required, even for a momentary triumph over her absorbing griefs. That interest, which the heart's courtesy inspires, she could still at times evince; but her desire to please was lost forever. Unhappy love freezes all our affections: our own souls grow inexplicable to us. More than we gained while we were happy, we lose by the reverse. That added life which made us enjoy nature, lent an enchantment to our intercourse with society; but the heart's vast hope once lost, existence is impoverished, and all spontaneous impulses are paralyzed. Therefore, a thousand duties command women, and men still more, to respect and fear the passion they awaken, since it may devastate the mind as well as the heart.
Sometimes Castel Forte might speak for several minutes to Corinne without a reply, because she neither understood nor even heard him. When she did, her answers had none of that glowing animation once so remarkable; they merely dragged on the dialogue for a few seconds, and then she relapsed into silence. Sometimes, as she had done at Naples, she would smile in pity over her own failures. The amiable prince humored her on all her favorite topics. She would thank him, by pressing his hand, and once, after a walk on the banks of the Arno, began to jest with her accustomed grace: he gazed, and listened in glad surprise; but she abruptly broke off, and rushed from the room in tears. On returning, she said, gently: "Pardon me, my generous friend; I would fain make myself agreeable; it will not be: bear with me as I am." What most distressed him, was the shock her constitution had received: no immediate danger threatened her, yet it was impossible that she could live long, unless she regained some vigor. If she endeavored to speak on aught that concerned the soul, her wan tremor was painful to behold; and he strove to divert her from this strain. He ventured to talk of Oswald, and found that she took a perverse pleasure in the subject; but it left her so shaken, that he was obliged to interdict it. Castel Forte was a susceptible being: but not even the most magnanimous of men knows how to console the woman he has loved under the pangs thus inflicted by another. Some little self-love on his side, must aid her timidity, in preventing perfect confidence. Besides, what would it avail? It can only be of service to those wounds which would cure themselves without it.