| |
| TO these dark groves a royal footstep came, | |
| And all the woods awoke. Huge stems were felled | |
| To let in vistas of the winding Seine, | |
| While midway on the hill the walls arose | |
| Of the king’s house, and round about his own | 5 |
| Were twelve pavilions set, zodiacal | |
| Unto the king’s, which was the central sun! | |
| ’T was Mansard built them, and Lebrun who wrought | |
| Devices for the walls, while every grove, | |
| And every alley double-lined with limes, | 10 |
| Had its own white-limbed god; and in the sun | |
| A hundred fountains played, whose waters leapt | |
| Rejoicing down the slope. A hundred years | |
| The sister arts held sway. Here Louis reigned | |
| With that strong hand of his; strong in despite | 15 |
| Of much mistake and failure. The grave wife, | |
| Who ruled the ruler in his older years, | |
| Kept solemn state amidst the whispering court; | |
| And when the pageant vanished, and the times | |
| Changed with the men, here the gay Regent played; | 20 |
| And here the child, the little lovely child, | |
| Who was the heir to France and ruined her, | |
| Played with his mates, Desired and Well-beloved, | |
| Through all those early years. St. Simon paced | |
| Those double alleys, with a prudent tongue, | 25 |
| And still more prudent ear; and the sweet bride, | |
| Marie Leczinska, mother of a son | |
| Too early lost, for whom that mother prayed,— | |
| “Take him, O God, and spare his father’s fate, | |
| The shameful license of a shameless age,”— | 30 |
| Mourned through long years of worse than widowhood. | |
| And here the blue-eyed woman with the brow | |
| Which never blenched before the angriest mob, | |
| Held “mon gros Normandie” upon her knees,— | |
| Poor pretty infant! ne’er to be a man,— | 35 |
And pressed him to her heart.
Marly-le-Roi | |
| Is utterly desolate now; and not a trace | |
| Of the Pavilion of the Central Sun, | |
| Nor of the other twelve,—zodiacal,— | |
| Exists above the soil, save the hard lines | 40 |
| Of strong foundations bedded in the grass. | |
| There are no fountains shining in the light, | |
| Nor any waters leaping down the hill. | |
| The marble gods are gone; but still the woods | |
| Sweep with a certain curve majestical | 45 |
| About the empty space, as if they held | |
| A viewless memory in their wide embrace, | |
| And were too loath to lose it and encroach | |
| Upon the ancient sites. On either hand | |
| The double alleys put forth patient leaves, | 50 |
| Season by season, though no courtiers come | |
| To plot and gossip there; the hand of man | |
| Has ruined what he raised; but Nature, hard | |
| To fashion at his will, retains his mark, | |
| And witnesses with her persistent forms | 55 |
| The changes of his purpose. | |
| |
