For constant truth my aching spirit yearns,
And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat;
On the firm rock I wish to set my feet,
And look upon the star that changeless burns;
Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow,
With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet,
Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet;
With parting light how dull their splendors grow.
I cannot worship vapors, and the hue
That on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers,
Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blue
Of the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears,
And but to think on that unshadowed white,
The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright.
THE FUTURE.
Eternal sunshine withers; constant light
Would make the beauty of the world look wan;
The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on,
Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight;
Most dreary is the land where comes no night,
For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawn
Round the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn,
No promise of a day more warm and bright.
Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we can
Discern with awe through them what angel faces
Watch and direct, and from their holy places
Smile with sublime benignity on man;
And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow,
As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow.
V.
THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[3]
TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE. ST. GEORGES.
VIII.—THE GARRET.
Half demented, Monte-Leone left the Duke's Hotel. His existence had become a terrible dream, a hideous nightmare, every hour producing a new terror and surprise. D'Harcourt was gone. He went to find Von Apsberg. "He at least will speak. He will say something about this atrocious accusation. He will explain the meaning of the perfidious reply of the chief of police. If he repeated this atrocious calumny, if he persisted in thinking him guilty, his heart would be open to Monte-Leone's blows. He would at least crush and bury one of his enemies."
A new misfortune awaited him. The doctor was not to be found. The police had occupied the house at the time that the Vicomte was being arrested. The doctor had beyond a doubt been previously informed of their coming and escaped, but his papers were seized. All the archives and documents of Carbonarism fell into the hands of M. H——. One might have said some evil genius guided the police and led them in their various examinations into the invisible mines of their prey. Furniture, drawers, and all were examined. Count Monte-Leone, when he heard of the disappearance of the Doctor and of the seizure of his papers, felt an increase of rage. The discovery of the archives ruined for a long time, if not for ever, the prospects of the work to which Monte-Leone had consecrated his life. The flight of Matheus also deprived him of any means of extricating himself from the cloud of mystery which surrounded him, and made futile any hope of vengeance. Taddeo alone remained, and he was protected by the oath he had taken to the Marquise. One other deception yet awaited him. A devoted member of the Carbonari, on the next day, came to Monte-Leone's house and informed the Count that on the day after the Vicomte's arrest and the escape of Matheus, a similar course had been adopted against Rovero, who was indebted for his liberty only to information from Signor Pignana on the night before the coming of the police. A note from Aminta told Monte-Leone of the disappearance of Rovero. The Count was then completely at sea, and he was abandoned by all to a horrible imputation which he could neither avenge nor dispute. He could, therefore, only suffer and bide his time. Resignation, doubt, and delay, were terrible punishments to his energetic and imperative character. One hope remained, which, if realized, would enable him to contradict all the imputations on his honor. This was, that he would be able to share the fate of his comrades, not of Von Apsberg and Taddeo, who had escaped, but of those who languished in the cells of la Force and the Conciergerie. The Count knew that the police, from the perusal of the archives, must be aware of his position, and awaited hourly and daily his arrest. This did not take place, though he perpetually received anonymous letters of the most perplexing and embarrassing character, charging him, in the grossest terms of the language, with being a spy and a traitor to the association to which he had pledged his life and his honor. He resolved at last to play a desperate game—to exhibit an unheard of energy and power. He repudiated the disdainful impunity which apparently was inflicted on him intentionally. He surrendered himself to the police....