No More Learning

that mournful solace now must pass 220
Into the list of things that cannot be!
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced,
That dooms her to a convent. --Who shall tell,
Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 225
Of her affections? so they blindly asked
Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down:
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
Composed and silent, without visible sign 230
Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
When the impatient object of his love
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
No answer, only took the mother's hand
And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, 235
Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed
Was a dependant on [13] the obdurate heart
Of one who came to disunite their lives
For ever--sad alternative! preferred,
By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 240
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
--So be it!

In the city he remained
A season after Julia had withdrawn
To those religious walls. He, too, departs--245
Who with him? --even the senseless Little-one.
With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,
For the last time, attendant by the side
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, 250
That rose a brief league distant from the town,
The dwellers in that house where he had lodged
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
Impelled;--they parted from him there, and stood
Watching below till he had disappeared 255
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took,
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle
(Slow-moving ark of all his hopes! ) that veiled
The tender infant: and at every inn,
And under every hospitable tree 260
At which the bearers halted or reposed,
Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look,
Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.

This was the manner in which Vaudracour 265
Departed with his infant; and thus reached
His father's house, where to the innocent child
Admittance was denied.
The young man spake
No word [14] of indignation or reproof,
But of his father begged, a last request, 270
That a retreat might be assigned to him
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell,
With such allowance as his wants required;
For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age 275
Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew;
And thither took with him his motherless Babe, [15]
And one domestic for their common needs,
An aged woman. It consoled him here
To attend upon the orphan, and perform 280
Obsequious service to the precious child,
Which, after a short time, by some mistake
Or indiscretion of the Father, died. --
The Tale I follow to its last recess
Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: 285
Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

From this time forth he never shared a smile
With mortal creature. An Inhabitant
Of that same town, in which the pair had left
So lively a remembrance of their griefs, 290
By chance of business, coming within reach
Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
Repaired, but only found the matron there, [16]
Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
For that her Master never uttered word 295
To living thing--not even to her. --Behold!
While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;
But, seeing some one near, as on the latch
Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk--[17]
And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 300
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place
The visitor retired.

Thus lived the Youth
Cut off from all intelligence with man,
And shunning even the light of common day; 305
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
Full speedily resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind! 310



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VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

And strangers to content if long apart,
Or more divided . . . 1820. ]


[Variant 2:

1827.