# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839/Louise, Duchess of La Valliere

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* LOUISE, DUCHESS OF LA VALLIERE.
* Afterwards Sister Louisa of the Miséricordia in the Convent of the Carmelites
* Artist: E. T. Parris - Engraved by: H. Robinson
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 Superseded in the affections of Louis by Madame de Montespan, she retired, at the age of twenty-eight years, into a Carmelite convent hear Paris, where she assumed the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!
In the pale Carmelite would be no trace  Of guilty beauty or of guilty splendour; There might long years with many tears efface  Love still too passionate and still too tender.
Perhaps this grief is merciful, and sent  To win me from a cold and changed affection, In vain—though hope its sunny wealth hath spent,  Love needs it not—it lives on recollection.
I know that I deserve what I endure;  But harsh it is when such a blow is given By him for whom I’d die, could that secure  One joy on earth, or win one hope from heaven.
Too utterly beloved! too much adored,  Since first beneath thy eagle glance I trembled! What griefs have swelled my sorrow’s silent hoard!  How many secret tears have I dissembled!
Ah! never yet the heart of woman knew  Love more intense—life had but one emotion. My God! to thee had this scorned heart been true,  Not so had been repaid its deep devotion.
I never could have left him, had I left  Within his soul the agony of parting; But I shall be the only one bereft—  Only within my eyes the tears are starting.
How have I hung upon a single look!  How has a single word disturbed my sleeping! Each hour its colour from thy greeting took—  What days for thee have passed away in weeping!
And thou art changed to me—thou for whose sake  My soul has perilled all it should have cherished. Ah! dare I to the quiet convent take  The human love, that should long since have perished?
God will forgive what man may well despise:  The moral step may turn aside and falter; But there is pity in the azure skies,  And there is hope on that eternal altar.
I will take with me prayers and tears—if love  Yet lingers in the heart I cannot harden; It will but raise a suppliant look above,  That looks beyond the grave to ask for pardon.
Long penitence may set the worn one free—  Oh, my lost spirit! make this last endeavour; Thanks for thy coldness, Louis, but for thee  I had not borne to say, Farewell for ever!