Crozat's Daughter

But the morning brought requital; it was whispered in the palaceThat Duke Gascon had been slighted by the Countess Delaimorn;And though some refused it credence, saying 'twas a tale of malice,One, who kept the secret, knew full well the meaning of her scorn.Oh! he blessed the power of gold, that buys the miser's late relenting;Oh! he praised the good king Mammon that he had such worthy slaves;Oh! he thanked the Countess Delaimorn for her so firm dissenting—And he prayed, "Heaven send the rival duke the triumph that he craves."

And his prayer was answered, truly! for a week had but departedEre the lily-handed Delaimorn took other rank and name;And the young Duke Louis Gascon hardly seemed the less light-heartedThat he had been made the loser in this sort of high-bred game.And the Crozat's drooping flower—oh, she tried to smile so brightly,And to speak so gay, while secretly her heart was slowly breaking;But the father's eye was faithful, and he guessed her trouble rightly—And he swore again the solemn vow which there was no forsaking!

Crozat stood before the duchess—his confession said and ended—All the wrong which he had done her in the well-contrived frustrationOf the marriage of Duke Louis, with his daughter's story blended,And he waited for her answer in unwonted trepidation;

For his heart could not but quail to think the answer that might follow,And his father's love could not but hope she would accept his offer—For who that longs with all his soul believes his hopes are hollow?Or who that thought to be refused, his daughter's hand would proffer?

Listen, Crozat! for she speaketh, and her voice is the completenessOf all softness and smooth accent, all delightful modulation;And your doom, though she should doom you, being spoken in such sweetness,Would be soothed of half its sorrow by this honeyed intonation.Oh, the bitterness of scorn concealed! it stingeth like an adder;Oh! the canker of a wound that's hid beneath the balm of flowers!Why, the very choice she took of words but made his soul the madder,And the agony of her mild speech taxed all his manliest powers.

"I forgive you," spoke the duchess; "I forgive you, noble Crozat,Knowing the feelings which a parent entertaineth for his child,And commend them; and doubt not but your motives have been those thatIn a court of the affections would be legal;" here she smiled."And as I have bred Lorenzia up, and loved her as a daughter,So I still do think the child my own to cherish and to love;And for beauty and for sweetness have I truly ever thought herIncomparable, though less like earth than like saints above.

"But, friend Crozat, with our race is blent no blood except the highest;Every branch, for age on age, has been nobly sprung and grafted,Never losing aught of royalty, but ever keeping nighestTo the throne, and to the scepter, which indeed our uncles wafted.

In the histories of nations will you find our names recorded,Going back in kingly pedigree, a proud, distinguished race;To whose faithful aristocracy this honor was awarded,To be first in glory, first in fame, and first in wealth and place.

"Not that I would say our blood in aught is different from your own,Or that a peasant's son may not be nobler that a king's;

For virtue makes the serf a king, and vice degrades a throne;Yet there is a certain pride of power a use of power brings;Nor that we are happy—for such cares on our position wait,We have no choice where hearts are played, and only play our hands;We are not born to happiness, but only to be great,And on our greatness' highest point our altar of hope stands.

"If I chose to have my son forsake his birthright and his duty(For it is his duty now to keep our princely fame unspotted),And give his soul, like other men, to worship of mere beauty,Your daughter surely were the one of all the world allotted.But he must wed with one whose name will live like ours in story,Who can confer, as he confers, a world-wide reputation;Whose family mark history's page with deeds of fadeless glory,And who control, as we have done, the interests of a nation.

"Yet, if"—and here she smiled again, as if her fancy neededExcuse for being so wild a one—"yet if, like the Medici,You had so risen, by giant strides, that princes had concededYour right to rule among their powers, truly I might say this, INo longer, seeing your daughter's love, could hold your suit as idle;Yet think that now 'twere far more wise to check this bud of feeling,And by all gentle arts and means its froward strength to bridle—Believing that these now fresh wounds will soon be safely healing."

Then rising up with stately grace, she friendlily extendedHer jeweled hand, which Crozat kissed, and silently departed.But oh! the war of thoughts that in his wounded soul contended,And oh, the wild, wild hopes that then into existence started!Did she not say, if he had won a kingly place and power?And could he not, and would he not? Ah, in that western world,So boundless and so glorious, should be his daughter's dower:And kingdoms, crowns, and scepters through his princely visions whirled.

A name on the historic page! oh, would not nations tell it,That he, a peasant, had arisen to rule with highborn kings?And will not France take up the theme, and be most proud to swell it,When he, her regent, to her arms such fair possessions brings?"It shall be done!" he swore the oath deep in his inmost heart:"A prince I'll be, o'er such a wide and beautiful domain,That France shall be but as a speck, a small deciduous part,Which I, a monarch, can shake off, whene'er I choose to reign."

And then the tears—the slow, great tears which manhood seldom sheds,Swelled upward from his bursting heart into his burning eyes,Till all his soul gave way; and as a fire enkindled spreads,Darted the arrows through his frame of nameless agonies.This for his daughter—how should he teach her to bear this scorning—How hide her from its blighting breath, or save her from despair?How keep that flower, as frail and fair as the wild-rose of morning,From withering ere his noon of hope, in pity's stifling air?

Oh, how hope deferred destroyeth the eye's brightness! how it stealethFrom the lip its hue of coral, from the cheek its sea-shell pink;Oh, how hardly with the youthful heart the hand of sorrow dealeth,And how surely, like a stranded ship, the broken heart will sink!

On a couch, nor soft, nor silken, lies the merchant-noble's daughter;Hard and cold the bed they give her, hard and cold, and snowy white;And she chides not, and she weeps not, that to this her maids have brought her,But she lieth still and patient through the long and woful night.

There are many waxen tapers burning in the lady's chamber,And the censers smoke with incense that she ever loved the best;And a trembling hand upon her breast hath laid a cross of amber,To denote our sin and sorrow; still she showeth no unrest!She was ever sweet and patient, and this seemeth but the meeknessOf her crushed and broken spirit, bearing death without complaint;For she looks but as she ever looked in pain-embittered weakness—The same sweet ghost of wasted youth—the same half-earthly saint!

Ah, to see her thus, so fair and still, calls tears of easy shedding,And our eyes run o'er with gentle grief, that passeth soon to smiling;But oh! there is another grief we look upon with dreading,And which, once seen, from memory there is no more exiling:A noble man—a proud, high man, whose years are yet unfaded,Who standeth like a giant tree to guard a tender flower—To see him fade, as perisheth the fragile plant he shaded,And grow a gray and bent old man, down-stricken in an hour!

Oh, long had Crozat toiled and striven, with fate his toil opposing;Long had he pampered his wild hopes boldly against despairing,But day by day, and month by month, his failures were disclosing,And time, which wore so fast with him, his last of hopes was wearing.

"O God!" he said, "forget my vow, my vow of sinful wrath,When mad with pain and stinging pride I swore to be a king;Oh! save my child—my angel child—the starlight of my path,And take for sacrifice all else to which my passions cling.

"O Heaven!" he cried, "take not again my heart's most sacred treasure;Thou hast my youth's dear idol now among thy angel throng;Forgive me, Heaven, if in her child I've had too proud a pleasure,And leave me yet a little while this love than death more strong."But ah! the reed was broken, and the soul that leaned upon itFell and rose not, but lay stricken by an infinite despair;And the tomb of Crozat's daughter bears the simple story on itOf two hearts—both by love broken—child's and parent's, mouldering there!