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  A season after Julia had withdrawn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.