Chapter IV

With what _adieux_ shall we now take leave of our little pearl of a story? And of him who gave us this exquisite creation of heart and brain what words remain to say?

Thou, Sylvie, art an unfading flower of virginal, soft Spring, and faint, elusive skies. For _thee_ Earth's old sweet nights have shed their tenderest dews, and in thy lovely Valois land thou canst not fade or die.

Thy lover, child, fared forth beneath an alien star. For _him_ there was no true country, here;--no return to thy happy-hearted love: the desert sands long since effaced the valley track. Only the far distant lying,--the abyss that calls and is never dumb, urged his onward steps. And these things, and this divine homesickness led him, pale nympholept, beyond Earth's human shores. Thither to thee, rapt Soul, shall all bright dreams of day, all lonely visions of the night, converge at last.

SYLVIE:

(SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.)

_AN OLD TUNE._

_GÉRARD DE NERVAL._

_There is an air for which I would disown_
_Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies,--_
_A sweet, sad air that languishes and sighs,_
_And keeps its secret charm for me alone._

_Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,_
_Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;_
_The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold_
_A green land golden in the dying day._

_An old red castle, strong with stony towers,_
_The windows gay with many coloured glass;_
_Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,_
_That bathe the castle basement as they pass._

_In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,_
_A lady looks forth from her window high;_
_It may be that I knew and found her fair,_
_In some forgotten life, long time gone by._

(ANDREW LANG.)

SYLVIE

(RECOLLECTIONS OF VALOIS.)