LOUISE, DUCHESS OF LA VALLIERE.
Louisa Frances de la Baume le Blanc, Duchess de la Vallière, favourite of Louis XIV. descended from the ancient noble family of De la Baume, was lady of honour to Henrietta of England, wife of the Duke of Orleans. For two years she cherished a secret affection for the King, who finally placed her in the possession of power, which she only exercised for benevolent objects, her conduct never contradicting her gentle disposition. Superseded in the affections of Louis by Madame de Montespan, she retired, at the age of twenty-eight years, into a Carmelite convent hear Paris, where she assumed the name of "Sister Louisa de la Miséricorde," and died there in 1710. She is the author of "Reflexions sur la Miséricorde de Dieu.—The Abbé Choisi applies to her figure this verse of Fontaine, “Grace that charm’d still more than 'beauty:'"—Madame de Sevignè bestowed on her the appellation of "the humble violet:"—Madame de Genlis has founded a romance on the events of her life; and Lebrun executed a penitent Magdalen, the face of which is from her portrait.
Alone—again alone—ah! let me kneel
In prayer, or rather, penitence, to heaven.
Yet dare I pray for love that still I feel
Sin, and yet ask that sin to be forgiven?
I kneel to pray–I only pray for him,
His coldness more than my own fault bewailing;
Night after night my weary eyes are dim
With vain fond tears o’er passion unprevailing.
My love no longer makes his happiness,
That happiness of which my love thought only;
Back on my heart let its emotions press,
Not their withdrawal that will leave him lonely.
I could not bear his wretchedness–my own
Is but the bitter penalty of loving
As I have loved–flung at an idol’s throne,
With the deep voice within the soul reproving.
The shadow darkens round me of my fate,
I hear the choir upon the midnight swelling;
There closes on me the eternal grate,
Where banished and where broken hearts are dwelling.
Ah! but for him, how glad I were to seek
The peace the holy convent cell possesses!
To draw the veil above my cold, pale cheek,
To shred from this bowed head the golden tresses!
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