'That's a rather Remarkable,' quoth Sam, as he wound up.
('How well you read!' exclaimed four voices at once.)
'It's a great pity!' said Amelia, 'that he broke that beautiful statue. How well it would have looked, Mace, on that pedestal in the corner of the library. I do wish you d buy something to put on it. It looks so empty. I saw a lovely bronze Psyche at Haughwout's the other----'
'Well,' said I, 'I 'spose I must hoe out my row and finish the furnishing: so send her up!'
'Lo! the gods are just,' replied Nella, repeating the last line. Ah! I hope so. I hope that _no_ form of beauty which man ever looked at with love, ever did die, or ever will. I should think that something were wrong if I really believed that that statue which Crispin broke will never be seen again in all eternity by me. No; every lovely face and flower and breath of music lives somewhere, as a grain lies in the earth waiting for the spring. Nature has the germ and the secret: all _will_ rise again more beautiful than ever.'
SILENT he sat in the forest shade, Silent, but not alone-- He and his hound and the unseen form Of one then dead and gone. Not dead, while she lives in his throbbing heart: Not gone, while her dark eyes make him start: Living alone!
Heartless the trees, soulless the rocks, Nothing but wood and stones? No sympathy here for sorrowful hearts, No voices with gentle tones? Not heartless the forest while joy it yields! Not soulless the rock that a sad heart shields! Living alone!
Silent he walked in the cloudless night, Her eyes the stars above; Her voice in the thrilling wind from the south; His world--her world of love!-- Love, that will live and the loved one gone; Love, that will live and forever live on-- Living alone!
Heart of the forest, and soul of the rock, Star eyes in heaven that gleam, Voice of the wind that thrilled his heart, And are ye all a dream? Dream! then let him through life dream on. Dream! yes, DREAM till life is gone! Living alone!
----'DIE, if dying I may give Life to one who asks to live, And more nearly, Dying thus, resemble thee!'
'CIEL! Zat is ze true heroique! Zat is ze very far finest ting in all ze literature anglaise! Zere have not been made vun more sublime poesie by your immortel Villiams Shakyspeare! Glorieux! Vat a grandeur moral of ze woman who vill vonce die for her love!'