CASSELL'S NATIONAL LIBRARY. 

THEVICTORIES OF LOVE, AND OTHER POEMS. 

BYCOVENTRY PATMORE. 

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. 1888. 

CONTENTS:

The Victories Of LoveAmeliaThe Day After To-MorrowThe AzaleaDepartureThe ToysIf I Were DeadA FarewellSponsa DeiThe Rosy Bosom'd HoursEros

INTRODUCTION

After the very cordial reception given to the poems of "The Angel in theHouse, " which their author generously made accessible to the readers ofthese little books, it is evident that another volume from the same clearsinger of the purity of household love requires no Introduction. 

I have only, in the name of the readers, to thank Mr. Coventry Patmorefor his liberality, and wish him--say, rather, assure him of--the bestreturn he seeks in a wide influence for good. 

H. M. 

THE VICTORIES OF LOVE. 

BOOK I. 

I. FROM FREDERICK GRAHAM. 

Mother, I smile at your alarms!I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant daysAt Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight;And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so sheThe bloom of life provoked in meAnd, hard till then and selfish, IWas thenceforth nought but sanctityAnd service: life was mere delightIn being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur;Honouring myself no less than her;Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace, Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriekStartled the light-leaved wood; on highWander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grassThrough which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe;Day was her doing, and the larkHad reason for his song; the darkIn anagram innumerous speltHer name with stars that throbb'd and felt;'Twas the sad summit of delightTo wake and weep for her at night;She turn'd to triumph or to shameThe strife of every childish game;The heart would come into my throatAt rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'dIn her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bredAnxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic skyO'erarching childhood! Far and nighMystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun!What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scopeThe disconcerted heart, affectsThese ceremonies and respects?Why stratagems in everything?Why, why not kiss her in the ring?'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes beholdThe city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attackBy delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoffAt hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flush'd my thoughtThat, what in me such wonder wroughtWas call'd, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, 'I love her, ' toldMy secret to myself, beholdA crisis in my mystery!For, suddenly, I seem'd to beWhirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads, As when the furious spider shedsCaptivity upon the flyTo still his buzzing till he die;Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrill'd me through and throughWith bliss beyond aught heaven can have, And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilder'd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunder'd our home from hers. This dayGlad was I as I went her way. I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprangO'er the elastic sod, and sang'I love her, love her!' to an airWhich with the words came then and there;And even now, when I would knowAll was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strainLove taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more markThan when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the graceIneffable, their only traceA heart which, having felt no lessThan pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight;A patient, poignant appetiteFor pleasures that exceed so muchThe poor things which the world calls such. That, when these lure it, then you mayThe lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knewFrom Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, showsThat liking still by favour goes!This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election freeOf human merit; or let's say, A child by ladies call'd to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smilesLike any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not!None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies' brows. There's Mary; Heaven in her appearsLike sunshine through the shower's bright tears;Mildred's of Earth, yet happier farThan most men's thoughts of Heaven are;But, for Honoria, Heaven and EarthSeal'd amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talksShe knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest browRules o'er a cheek which seems to showThat love, as a mere vague suspenseOf apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aimOr object, like the sunlit flameThat in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pureShe sets off with no less allureOf culture, subtly skill'd to raiseThe power, the pride, and mutual praiseOf human personalityAbove the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mineMarvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dressShe makes the common mode expressNew knowledge of what's fit so well'Tis virtue gaily visible!Nay, but her silken sash to meWere more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous illLeft me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and pleaseTo send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hoursShall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lostThrough young sea-service. They all speakGerman with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew, )And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've ledWith these my friends; and sweet 'twill beTo abridge the space from them to me. 

II. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. 

My Child, Honoria Churchill swaysA double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love's memory pledgedThe second Cupid's born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the dayWhen you should see her beauty, gayAnd pure as apple-blooms, that showOutside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching eleganceOf order'd life as free as chance. Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride!But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child:He that but once too nearly hearsThe music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for allHis days like one who treads the WallOf China, and, on this hand, seesCities and their civilities, And on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell. )Good is the knowledge of what's fair, Though bought with temporal despair!Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that youShould pine for love, in love's embrace, Through having known a happier grace;And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she's not the best?You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will findYou cannot such a secret keep;'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep;A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide;And, while she accepts love's make-believe, You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu!Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me. 

III. FROM FREDERICK. 

The multitude of voices blitheOf early day, the hissing scytheAcross the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peacock on the lawn, These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam, This morning, chased the sweetest dreamThat e'er shed penitential graceOn life's forgetful commonplace;Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spellTo which I woke to say farewell. Noon finds me many a mile removedFrom her who must not be beloved;And us the waste sea soon shall part, Heaving for aye, without a heart!Mother, what need to warn me so?_I_ love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no. I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star. For, not to speak of colder fear, Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, Under her life's gay progress hurl'd. The wheels of the preponderant world, Set sharp with swords that fool to slayWho blunders from a poor byway, To covet beauty with a crownOf earthly blessing added on;And she's so much, it seems to me, Beyond all women womanly, I dread to think how he should fareWho came so near as to despair. 

IV. FROM FREDERICK. 

Yonder the sombre vessel ridesWhere my obscure condition hides. Waves scud to shore against the windThat flings the sprinkling surf behind;In port the bickering pennons showWhich way the ships would gladly go;Through Edgecumb Park the rooted treesAre tossing, reckless, in the breeze;On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower, As foils, not foibles, of its power, The light vanes do themselves adjustTo every veering of the gust:By me alone may nought be givenTo guidance of the airs of heaven?In battle or peace, in calm or storm, Should I my daily task perform, Better a thousand times for love, Who should my secret soul reprove? Beholding one like her, a manLongs to lay down his life! How canAught to itself seem thus enough, When I have so much need thereof?Blest in her place, blissful is she;And I, departing, seem to beLike the strange waif that comes to runA few days flaming near the sun, And carries back, through boundless night, Its lessening memory of light. Oh, my dear Mother, I confessTo a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis yearsSince such a shower of girlish tearsDisgraced me! But this wretched Inn, At Plymouth, is so full of din, Talkings and trampings to and fro. And then my ship, to which I goTo-night, is no more home. I dread, As strange, the life I long have led;And as, when first I went to school, And found the horror of a ruleWhich only ask'd to be obey'd, I lay and wept, of dawn afraid, And thought, with bursting heart, of oneWho, from her little, wayward son, Required obedience, but aboveObedience still regarded love, So change I that enchanting place, The abode of innocence and graceAnd gaiety without reproof, For the black gun-deck's louring roof. Blind and inevitable lawWhich makes light duties burdens, aweWhich is not reverence, laughters gain'dAt cost of purities profaned, And whatsoever most may stirRemorseful passion towards her, Whom to behold is to departFrom all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more!'Twere wild to hope for her, you say. I've torn and cast those words away. Surely there's hope! For life 'tis wellLove without hope's impossible;So, if I love, it is that hopeIs not outside the outer scopeOf fancy. You speak truth: this hourI must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o'er, Be not much other than before?Drop from the bright and virtuous sphereIn which I'm held but while she's dear?For daily life's dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitudeAnd sweet allegiance, which I oweWhether the debt be weal or woe?Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, preferTo want for all in wanting her. For all? Love's best is not bereftEver from him to whom is leftThe trust that God will not deceiveHis creature, fashion'd to believeThe prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell;Nor do I press the oracleFor explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. 

V. FROM FREDERICK

Fashion'd by Heaven and by artSo is she, that she makes the heartAche and o'erflow with tears, that graceSo lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while, )The unworthy earth! To see her smileAmid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stirPassion to be her minister:Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, 'Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake, Give not this darling child of ThineTo care less reverent than mine!'And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee;And, so, my life was sunlit sprayAnd tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw nearMy Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was noneGleam'd like the lightning in the sun;Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though loveLives orphan'd on, when hope is dead, )And, out of my immediate dreadAnd crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err:I've lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you thinkWhat cup of life I sought to drink!The bold, said I, have climb'd to blissAbsurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so greatA heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will beThat she will wait, when she shall see. This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yetQuite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hopeA superstitious horoscope!And still, though something in her facePortended 'No!' with such a graceIt burthen'd me with thankfulness, Nothing was credible but 'Yes. 'Therefore, through time's close pressure bold, I praised myself, and boastful toldMy deeds at Acre; strain'd the chanceI had of honour and advanceIn war to come; and would not seeSad silence meant, 'What's this to me?' When half my precious hour was gone, She rose to meet a Mr. Vaughan;And, as the image of the moonBreaks up, within some still lagoonThat feels the soft wind suddenly, Or tide fresh flowing from the sea, And turns to giddy flames that goOver the water to and fro, Thus, when he took her hand to-night, Her lovely gravity of lightWas scatter'd into many smilesAnd flatting weakness. Hope beguilesNo more my heart, dear Mother. He, By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me. With nought to do, and fondly fainTo hear her singing once again, I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er;Then came she with me to the door. 'Dearest Honoria, ' I said, (By my despair familiar made, )'Heaven bless you!' Oh, to have back then stepp'dAnd fallen upon her neck, and wept, And said, 'My friend, I owe you allI am, and have, and hope for. CallFor some poor service; let me proveTo you, or him here whom you love, My duty. Any solemn task, For life's whole course, is all I ask!'Then she must surely have wept too, And said, 'My friend, what can you do!'And I should have replied, 'I'll pray'For you and him three times a-day, And, all day, morning, noon, and night, My life shall be so high and rightThat never Saint yet scaled the stairsOf heaven with more availing prayers!'But this (and, as good God shall blessSomehow my end, I'll do no less, )I had no right to speak. Oh, shame, So rich a love, so poor a claim! My Mother, now my only friend, Farewell. The school-books which you sendI shall not want, and so return. Give them away, or sell, or burn. I'll write from Malta. Would I mightBut be your little Child to-night, And feel your arms about me fold, Against this loneliness and cold!

VI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. 

The folly of young girls! They doffTheir pride to smooth success, and scoffAt far more noble fire and mightThat woo them from the dust of fight But, Frederick, now the storm is past, Your sky should not remain o'ercast. A sea-life's dull, and, oh, bewareOf nourishing, for zest, despair. My Child, remember, you have twiceHeartily loved; then why not thrice, Or ten times? But a wise man shunsTo cry 'All's over, ' more than once. I'll not say that a young man's soulIs scarcely measure of the wholeEarthly and Heavenly universe, To which he inveterately prefersThe one beloved woman. BestSpeak to the senses' interest, Which brooks no mystery nor delay:Frankly reflect, my Son, and say, Was there no secret hour, of thosePass'd at her side in Sarum Close, When, to your spirit's sick alarm, It seem'd that all her marvellous charmWas marvellously fled? Her graceOf voice, adornment, movement, faceWas what already heart and eyeHad ponder'd to satiety;Amid so the good of life was o'er, Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair, Or style of putting back her chair, Restored the heavens. Gather thenceThe loss-consoling inference. Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles, With lovely motions and sweet smiles, Which while they please us pass away, The spirit to lofty thoughts that stayAnd lift the whole of after-life, Unless you take the vision to wife, Which then seems lost, or serves to slakeDesire, as when a lovely lakeFar off scarce fills the exulting eyeOf one athirst, who comes thereby, And inappreciably sipsThe deep, with disappointed lips. To fail is sorrow, yet confessThat love pays dearly for success!No blame to beauty! Let's complainOf the heart, which can so ill sustainDelight. Our griefs declare our fall, But how much more our joys! They pallWith plucking, and celestial mirthCan find no footing on the earth, More than the bird of paradise, Which only lives the while it flies. Think, also, how 'twould suit your prideTo have this woman for a bride. Whate'er her faults, she's one of thoseTo whom the world's last polish owesA novel grace, which all who aspireTo courtliest custom must acquire. The world's the sphere she's made to charm, Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm. Oh, law perverse, that lonelinessBreeds love, society success!Though young, 'twere now o'er late in lifeTo train yourself for such a wife;So she would suit herself to you, As women, when they marry, do. For, since 'tis for our dignityOur lords should sit like lords on high, We willingly deteriorateTo a step below our rulers' state;And 'tis the commonest of thingsTo see an angel, gay with wings, Lean weakly on a mortal's arm!Honoria would put off the charmOf lofty grace that caught your love, For fear you should not seem aboveHerself in fashion and degree, As in true merit. Thus, you see, 'Twere little kindness, wisdom none, To light your cot with such a sun. 

VII. FROM FREDERICK. 

Write not, my Mother, her dear nameWith the least word or hint of blame. Who else shall discommend her choice, I giving it my hearty voice?Wed me? Ah, never near her comeThe knowledge of the narrow home!Far fly from her dear face, that showsThe sunshine lovelier than the rose, The sordid gravity they wearWho poverty's base burthen bear!(And all are poor who come to missTheir custom, though a crown be this. )My hope was, that the wheels of fate, For my exceeding need, might wait, And she, unseen amidst all eyes, Move sightless, till I sought the prize, With honour, in an equal field. But then came Vaughan, to whom I yieldWith grace as much as any man, In such cause, to another can. Had she been mine, it seems to meThat I had that integrityAnd only joy in her delight--But each is his own favouriteIn love! The thought to bring me restIs that of us she takes the best. 'Twas but to see him to be sureThat choice for her remain'd no more!His brow, so gaily clear of craft;His wit, the timely truth that laugh'dTo find itself so well express'd;His words, abundant yet the best;His spirit, of such handsome showYou mark'd not that his looks were so;His bearing, prospects, birth, all theseMight well, with small suit, greatly please;How greatly, when she saw ariseThe reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and every breath deferHumbly its bated life to her;Whilst power and kindness of command. Which women can no more withstandThan we their grace, were still unquell'd, And force and flattery both compell'dHer softness! Say I'm worthy. IGrew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel's mightIn raiment of reproachful light. Her gay looks told my sombre moodThat what's not happy is not good;And, just because 'twas life to please, Death to repel her, truth and easeDeserted me; I strove to talk, And stammer'd foolishness; my walkWas like a drunkard's; if she tookMy arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook:A likely wooer! Blame her not;Nor ever say, dear Mother, aughtAgainst that perfectness which isMy strength, as once it was my bliss. And do not chafe at social rules. Leave that to charlatans and fools. Clay grafts and clods conceive the rose, So base still fathers best. Life owesItself to bread; enough thereofAnd easy days condition love;And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive, No more pale, scentless petals five, Which moisten the considerate eyeTo see what haste they make to die, But heavens of colour and perfume, Which, month by month, renew the bloomOf art-born graces, when the yearIn all the natural grove is sere. Blame nought then! Bright let be the airAbout my lonely cloud of care. 

VIII. FROM FREDERICK. 

Religion, duty, books, work, friends, --'Tis good advice, but there it ends. I'm sick for what these have not got. Send no more books: they help me not;I do my work: the void's there stillWhich carefullest duty cannot fill. What though the inaugural hour of rightComes ever with a keen delight?Little relieves the labour's heat;Disgust oft crowns it when complete;And life, in fact, is not less dullFor being very dutiful. 'The stately homes of England, ' lo, 'How beautiful they stand!' They oweHow much to nameless things like meTheir beauty of security!But who can long a low toil mendBy looking to a lofty end?And let me, since 'tis truth, confessThe void's not fill'd by godliness. God is a tower without a stair, And His perfection, love's despair. 'Tis He shall judge me when I die;He suckles with the hissing flyThe spider; gazes calmly down. Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. His vast love holds all this and more. In consternation I adore. Nor can I ease this aching gulfWith friends, the pictures of myself. Then marvel not that I recurFrom each and all of these to her. For more of heaven than her have INo sensitive capacity. Had I but her, ah, what the gainOf owning aught but that domain!Nay, heaven's extent, however much, Cannot be more than many such;And, she being mine, should God to meSay 'Lo! my Child, I give to thee'All heaven besides, ' what could I then, But, as a child, to Him complainThat whereas my dear Father gaveA little space for me to haveIn His great garden, now, o'erblest, I've that, indeed, but all the rest, Which, somehow, makes it seem I've gotAll but my only cared-for plot. Enough was that for my weak handTo tend, my heart to understand. Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and meThere's naught, and half a world of sea. 

IX. FROM FREDERICK. 

In two, in less than two hours moreI set my foot on English shore, Two years untrod, and, strange to tell, Nigh miss'd through last night's storm! There fellA man from the shrouds, that roar'd to quenchEven the billows' blast and drench. Besides me none was near to markHis loud cry in the louder dark, Dark, save when lightning show'd the deepsStanding about in stony heaps. No time for choice! A rope; a flashThat flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash;A strange, inopportune delightOf mounting with the billowy might, And falling, with a thrill againOf pleasure shot from feet to brain;And both paced deck, ere any knewOur peril. Round us press'd the crew, With wonder in the eyes of most. As if the man who had loved and lostHonoria dared no more than that! My days have else been stale and flat. This life's at best, if justly scann'd, A tedious walk by the other's strand, With, here and there cast up, a pieceOf coral or of ambergris, Which, boasted of abroad, we ignoreThe burden of the barren shore. I seldom write, for 'twould be stillOf how the nerves refuse to thrill;How, throughout doubly-darken'd days, I cannot recollect her face;How to my heart her name to tellIs beating on a broken bell;And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, Scarce loving her, I hate myself. Yet, latterly, with strange delight, Rich tides have risen in the night, And sweet dreams chased the fancies denseOf waking life's dull somnolence. I see her as I knew her, graceAlready glory in her face;I move about, I cannot rest, For the proud brain and joyful breastI have of her. Or else I float, The pilot of an idle boat, Alone, alone with sky and sea, And her, the third simplicity. Or Mildred, to some question, cries, (Her merry meaning in her eyes, )'The Ball, oh, Frederick will go;Honoria will be there! and, lo, As moisture sweet my seeing blursTo hear my name so link'd with hers, A mirror joins, by guilty chance, Either's averted, watchful glance!Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze, Her brilliant mildness threads the maze;Our thoughts are lovely, and each wordIs music in the music heard, And all things seem but parts to beOf one persistent harmony, By which I'm made divinely bold;The secret, which she knows, is told;And, laughing with a lofty blissOf innocent accord, we kiss:About her neck my pleasure weeps;Against my lip the silk vein leaps;Then says an Angel, 'Day or night, If yours you seek, not her delight, Although by some strange witcheryIt seems you kiss her, 'tis not she;But, whilst you languish at the sideOf a fair-foul phantasmal bride, Surely a dragon and strong towerGuard the true lady in her bower. 'And I say, 'Dear my Lord. Amen!'And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful maladyDevours her shape and dims her eye;No charms are left, where all were rife, Except her voice, which is her life, Wherewith she, for her foolish fear, Says trembling, 'Do you love me. Dear?'And I reply, 'Sweetest, I vowI never loved but half till now. 'She turns her face to the wall at this, And says, 'Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss. 'And then a sudden pulse is sentAbout the sounding firmamentIn smitings as of silver bars;The bright disorder of the starsIs solved by music; far and near, Through infinite distinctions clear, Their twofold voices' deeper toneUtters the Name which all things own, And each ecstatic treble dwellsOn one whereof none other tells;And we, sublimed to song and fire, Take order in the wheeling quire, Till from the throbbing sphere I start, Waked by the heaving of my heart. Such dreams as these come night by night, Disturbing day with their delight. Portend they nothing? Who can tell!'God yet may do some miracle. 'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed, Or you would know! He may be dead, Or mad, and loving some one else, And she, much moved that nothing quellsMy constancy, or, simply wrothWith such a wretch, accept my trothTo spite him; or her beauty's gone, (And that's my dream!) and this man VaughanTakes her release: or tongues malign, Confusing every ear but mine, Have smirch'd her: ah, 'twould move her, sure, To find I loved her all the more!Nay, now I think, haply amissI read her words and looks, and his, That night! Did not his jealousyShow--Good my God, and can it beThat I, a modest fool, all blest, Nothing of such a heaven guess'd?Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet, To-morrow sees me at her feet! Yonder, at last, the glad sea roarsAlong the sacred English shores!There lies the lovely land I know, Where men and women lordliest grow;There peep the roofs where more than kingsPostpone state cares to country things, And many a gay queen simply tendsThe babes on whom the world depends;There curls the wanton cottage smokeOf him that drives but bears no yoke;There laughs the realm where low and highAre lieges to society, And life has all too wide a scope, Too free a prospect for its hope, For any private good or ill, Except dishonour, quite to fill! {1} --Mother, since this was penn'd, I've readThat 'Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wedThe beautiful Miss Churchill. ' SoThat's over; and to-morrow I goTo take up my new post on boardThe Wolf, my peace at last restored;My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak, Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloakI clasp about me to preventThe deadly chill of a contentWith any near or distant good, Except the exact beatitudeWhich love has shown to my desire. Talk not of 'other joys and higher, 'I hate and disavow all blissAs none for me which is not this. Think not I blasphemously copeWith God's decrees, and cast off hope. How, when, and where can mine succeed?

I'll trust He knows who made my need. Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er, Doubtless her Husband feels no moreThe heaven of heavens of such a Bride, But, lounging, lets her please his prideWith fondness, guerdons her caressWith little names, and turns a tressRound idle fingers. If 'tis so, Why then I'm happier of the two!Better, for lofty loss, high pain, Than low content with lofty gain. Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from meHer happiness and dignity!

X. FROM FREDERICK. 

I thought the worst had brought me balm:'Twas but the tempest's central calm. Vague sinkings of the heart averThat dreadful wrong is come to her, And o'er this dream I brood and dote, And learn its agonies by rote. As if I loved it, early and lateI make familiar with my fate, And feed, with fascinated will, On very dregs of finish'd ill. I think, she's near him now, alone, With wardship and protection none;Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stressOf airs that clasp him with her dress, They wander whispering by the wave;And haply now, in some sea-cave, Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod, They laugh, they kiss, Oh, God! oh, God!There comes a smile acutely sweetOut of the picturing dark; I meetThe ancient frankness of her gaze, That soft and heart-surprising blazeOf great goodwill and innocence. And perfect joy proceeding thence!Ah! made for earth's delight, yet suchThe mid-sea air's too gross to touch. At thought of which, the soul in meIs as the bird that bites a bee, And darts abroad on frantic wing, Tasting the honey and the sting;And, moaning where all round me sleepAmidst the moaning of the deep, I start at midnight from my bed--And have no right to strike him dead. What world is this that I am in, Where chance turns sanctity to sin!'Tis crime henceforward to desireThe only good; the sacred fireThat sunn'd the universe is hell!I hear a Voice which argues well:'The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry;Fall down and worship me, and IWill give you peace; go and profaneThis pangful love, so pure, so vain. And thereby win forgetfulnessAnd pardon of the spirit's excess, Which soar'd too nigh that jealous HeavenEver, save thus, to be forgiven. No Gospel has come down that curesWith better gain a loss like yours. Be pious! Give the beggar pelf, And love your neighbour as yourself!You, who yet love, though all is o'er, And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more, With soul which can in pity smileThat aught with such a measure vileAs self should be at all named "love!"Your sanctity the priests reprove;Your case of grief they wholly miss;The Man of Sorrows names not this. The years, they say, graft love divineOn the lopp'd stock of love like thine;The wild tree dies not, but converts. So be it; but the lopping hurts, The graft takes tardily! Men stanchMeantime with earth the bleeding branch. There's nothing heals one woman's loss, And lightens life's eternal crossWith intermission of sound rest, Like lying in another's breast. The cure is, to your thinking, low!Is not life all, henceforward, so?' Ill Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood:I'll sleep! But, as I thus conclude, The intrusions of her grace dispelThe comfortable glooms of hell. A wonder! Ere these lines were dried, Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride, Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo, In beauty soft as is the snowAnd powerful as the avalanche, She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance!She smiled, surprised. They came to seeThe ship, not thinking to meet me. At infinite distance she's my day:What then to him? Howbeit they say'Tis not so sunny in the sunBut men might live cool lives thereon! All's well; for I have seen ariseThat reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and watch'd his breath deferHumbly its bated life to her, His _wife_. My Love, she's safe in hisDevotion! What ask'd I but this? They bade adieu; I saw them goAcross the sea; and now I knowThe ultimate hope I rested on, The hope beyond the grave, is gone, The hope that, in the heavens high, At last it should appear that ILoved most, and so, by claim divine, Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sortAs may subsist in the holy court, Where, if there are all kinds of joysTo exhaust the multitude of choiceIn many mansions, then there areLoves personal and particular, Conspicuous in the glorious skyOf universal charity, As Phosphor in the sunrise. NowI've seen them, I believe their vowImmortal; and the dreadful thought, That he less honour'd than he oughtHer sanctity, is laid to rest, And blessing them I too am blest. My goodwill, as a springing air, Unclouds a beauty in despair;I stand beneath the sky's pure copeUnburthen'd even by a hope;And peace unspeakable, a joyWhich hope would deaden and destroy, Like sunshine fills the airy gulfLeft by the vanishing of self. That I have known her; that she movesSomewhere all-graceful; that she loves, And is belov'd, and that she's soMost happy, and to heaven will go, Where I may meet with her, (yet thisI count but accidental bliss, )And that the full, celestial wealOf all shall sensitively feelThe partnership and work of each, And thus my love and labour reachHer region, there the more to blessHer last, consummate happiness, Is guerdon up to the degreeOf that alone true loyaltyWhich, sacrificing, is not niceAbout the terms of sacrifice, But offers all, with smiles that say, 'Tis little, but it is for aye!

XI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. 

You wanted her, my Son, for wife, With the fierce need of life in life. That nobler passion of an hourWas rather prophecy than power;And nature, from such stress unbent, Recurs to deep discouragement. Trust not such peace yet; easy breath, In hot diseases, argues death;And tastelessness within the mouthWorse fever shows than heat or drouth. Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fearAgainst a different danger near:Wed not one woman, oh, my Child, Because another has not smiled!Oft, with a disappointed man, The first who cares to win him can;For, after love's heroic strain, Which tired the heart and brought no gain. He feels consoled, relieved, and easedTo meet with her who can be pleasedTo proffer kindness, amid computeHis acquiescence for pursuit;Who troubles not his lonely mood;And asks for love mere gratitude. Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know, Who wed through love wed mostly so. At least, my Son, when wed you do, See that the woman equals you, Nor rush, from having loved too high, Into a worse humility. A poor estate's a foolish pleaFor marrying to a base degree. A woman grown cannot be train'd, Or, if she could, no love were gain'd;For, never was a man's heart caughtBy graces he himself had taught. And fancy not 'tis in the mightOf man to do without delight;For, should you in her nothing findTo exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul would deaden useless wingsWith wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroyEven the memory of joy. So let no man, in desperate mood, Wed a dull girl because she's good. All virtues in his wife soon dim, Except the power of pleasing him, Which may small virtue be, or none! I know my just and tender Son, To whom the dangerous grace is givenThat scorns a good which is not heaven;My Child, who used to sit and sighUnder the bright, ideal sky, And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat, The poppy and the meadow-sweet!He would not let his wife's heart acheFor what was mainly his mistake;But, having err'd so, all his forceWould fix upon the hard, right course. She's graceless, say, yet good and true, And therefore inly fair, and, throughThe veils which inward beauty fold, Faith can her loveliness behold. Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls awayWithout the ceremonial stayOf outward loveliness and awe. The weightier matters of the lawShe pays: mere mint and cumin not;And, in the road that she was taught, She treads, and takes for granted stillNature's immedicable ill;So never wears within her eyesA false report of paradise, Nor ever modulates her mirthWith vain compassion of the earth, Which made a certain happier faceAffecting, and a gayer graceWith pathos delicately edged!Yet, though she be not privilegedTo unlock for you your heart's delight, (Her keys being gold, but not the right, )On lower levels she may do!Her joy is more in loving youThan being loved, and she commandsAll tenderness she understands. It is but when you proffer moreThe yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. It's weary work enforcing loveOn one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowliheadOf ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyesOf Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas! Then wait the moodIn which a woman may be woo'dWhose thoughts and habits are too highFor honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allowThe suit that you could proffer now. Her equal yoke would sit with ease;It might, with wearing, even please, (Not with a better word to moveThe loyal wrath of present love);She would not mope when you were gay, For want of knowing aught to say;Nor vex you with unhandsome wasteOf thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed;Nor reckon small things duties small, And your fine sense fantastical;Nor would she bring you up a broodOf strangers bound to you by blood, Boys of a meaner moral race, Girls with their mother's evil grace. But not her chance to sometimes findHer critic past his judgment kind;Nor, unaccustom'd to respect, Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect, Confirm you selfish and morose, And slowly, by contagion, gross;But, glad and able to receiveThe honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justifyExpectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incurCompulsion to keep up with her. 

XII. FROM FREDERICK. 

Your letter, Mother, bears the dateOf six months back, and comes too late. My Love, past all conceiving lost, A change seem'd good, at any cost, From lonely, stupid, silent grief, Vain, objectless, beyond relief, And, like a sea-fog, settled denseOn fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. I grew so idle, so despisedMyself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on shore, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'dFor such slight came, --if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the lightOf English headlands in the sun, --That soon I deem'd 'twere better doneTo lay this poor, complaining wraithOf unreciprocated faith:And so, with heart still bleeding quick. But strengthen'd by the comfort sickOf knowing that _She_ could not care, I turn'd away from my despair, And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane, --A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And look'd as if she pitied me, --How glad and thankful I should beIf some kind woman, not aboveMyself in rank, would give her loveTo one that knew not how to woo. Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closedWith what I meant to have proposed. And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gainIs very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing notMy faith towards--I know not what!As to the ether is the air, Is her good to Honoria's fair;One place is full of both, yet eachLies quite beyond the other's reachAnd recognition. If you say, Am I contented? Yea and nay!For what's base but content to growWith less good than the best we know?But think me not from life withdrawn. By passion for a hope that's gone, So far as to forget how muchA woman is, as merely such, To man's affection. What is best, In each, belongs to all the rest;And though, in marriage, quite to kissAnd half to love the custom is, 'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare, The soul's interior despair, And life between two troubles toss'd, To me, who think not with the most;Whatever 'twould have been, beforeMy Cousin's time, 'tis now so soreA treason to the abiding throneOf that sweet love which I have known, I cannot live so, and I bendMy mind perforce to comprehendThat He who gives command to loveDoes not require a thing aboveThe strength He gives. The highest degreeOf the hardest grace, humility;The step t'ward heaven the latest trod, And that which makes us most like God, And us much more than God behoves, Is, to be humble in our loves. Henceforth for ever therefore IRenounce all partialityOf passion. Subject to controlOf that perspective of the soulWhich God Himself pronounces good. Confirming claims of neighbourhood. And giving man, for earthly life, The closest neighbour in a wife, I'll serve all. Jane be munch more dearThan all as she is much more near!I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comesEver from self-love's martyrdoms! Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis trueThat 'twas another joy I knewWhen freighted was my heart with fireOf fond, irrational desireFor fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms. Nor wrong I any, if I professThat care for heaven with me were lessBut that I'm utterly imbuedWith faith of all Earth's hope renew'dIn realms where no short-coming painsExpectance, and dear love disdainsTime's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the glossOf newness. All the bright past seems, Now, but a splendour in my dreams, Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes, The standard of right life. Life achesTo be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low!That and the mortal elementForbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn butterfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky. But perilous is the lofty moodWhich cannot yoke with lowly good. Right life, for me, is life that wendsBy lowly ways to lofty ends. I will perceive, at length, that hasteT'ward heaven itself is only waste;And thus I dread the impatient spurOf aught that speaks too plain of Her. There's little here that story tells;But music talks of nothing else. Therefore, when music breathes, I say, (And urge my task, ) Away, away!Thou art the voice of one I knew, But what thou say'st is not yet true;Thou art the voice of her I loved, And I would not be vainly moved. So that which did from death set freeAll things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with tunings that areBut little noted. Do not marFor me your peace! My health is high. The proud possession of mine eyeDeparted, I am much like oneWho had by haughty custom grownTo think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds. Fine linen, and an eider bedAs much his need as daily bread, And honour of men as much or more. Till, strange misfortune smiting sore, His pride all goes to pay his debts, A lodging anywhere he gets, And takes his family theretoWeeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself. Yet the sun shines; the country greenHas many riches, poorly seenFrom blazon'd coaches; grace at meatGoes well with thrift in what they eat;And there's amends for much bereftIn better thanks for much that's left! Jane is not fair, yet pleases wellThe eye in which no others dwell;And features somewhat plainly set, And homely manners leave her yetThe crowning boon and most expressOf Heaven's inventive tenderness, A woman. But I do her wrong, Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue!She has a handsomeness that paysNo homage to the hourly gaze, And dwells not on the arch'd brow's heightAnd lids which softly lodge the light, Nor in the pure field of the cheekFlow'rs, though the soul be still to seek;But shows as fits that solemn placeWhereof the window is the face:Blankness and leaden outlines markWhat time the Church within is dark:Yet view it on a Festal night, Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seenA special character to meanOf Saint or Prophet, and the wholeBlank window is a living scroll. For hours, the clock upon the shelf, Has all the talking to itself;But to and fro her needle runsTwice, while the clock is ticking once;And, when a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech;And I, contented, read, or smoke, And idly think, or idly strokeThe winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire;Until, at easeful end of day, She moves, and puts her work away, And, saying 'How cold 'tis, ' or 'How warm, 'Or something else as little harm, Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, A woman's welcome to my breast, With all the great advantage clearOf none else having been so near. But sometimes, (how shall I deny!)There falls, with her thus fondly by, Dejection, and a chilling shade. Remember'd pleasures, as they fade, Salute me, and colossal grow, Like foot-prints in the thawing snow. I feel oppress'd beyond my forceWith foolish envy and remorse. I love this woman, but I mightHave loved some else with more delight;And strange it seems of God that HeShould make a vain capacity. Such times of ignorant relapse, 'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. The dream, the discontent, the doubt, To some injustice flaming out, Were't else, might leave us both to moanA kind tradition overthrown, And dawning promise once more deadIn the pernicious lowliheadOf not aspiring to be fair. And what am I, that I should dareDispute with God, who moulds one clayTo honour and shame, and wills to payWith equal wages them that delveAbout His vines one hour or twelve!

XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL. 

I've dreadful news, my Sister dear!Frederick has married, as we hear, Oh, _such_ a girl! This fact we getFrom Mr. Barton, whom we metAt Abury once. He used to know, At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe, And writes that he 'has seen Fred Graham, Commander of the Wolf, --the sameThe Mess call'd Joseph, --with his WifeUnder his arm. ' He 'lays his life, The fellow married her for love, For there was nothing else to move. H is her Shibboleth. 'Tis saidHer Mother was a Kitchen-Maid. ' Poor Fred! What _will_ Honoria say?She thought so highly of him. PrayTell it her gently. I've no right, I know you hold, to trust my sight;But Frederick's state could not be hid!Awl Felix, coming when he did, Was lucky; for Honoria, too, Was half in love. How warm she grewOn 'worldliness, ' when once I saidI fancied that, in ladies, FredHad tastes much better than his means!His hand was worthy of a Queen's, Said she, and actually shed tearsThe night he left us for two years, And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell, That 'Frederick look'd so miserable. 'He _did_ look very dull, no doubt, But such things girls don't cry about. What weathercocks men always prove!You're quite right not to fall in love. _I_ never did, and, truth to tell, I don't think it respectable. The man can't understand it, too. He likes to be in love with you, But scarce knows how, if you love him, Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whimTo serve her husband night and day, The kind soul lets her have her way!So, if you wed, as soon you should, Be selfish for your husband's good. Happy the men who relegateTheir pleasures, vanities, and stateTo _us_. Their nature seems to beTo enjoy themselves by deputy, For, seeking their own benefit, Dear, what a mess they make of it!A man will work his bones away, If but his wife will only play;He does not mind how much he's teased, So that his plague looks always pleased;And never thanks her, while he lives, For anything, but what he gives!'Tis hard to manage men, we hear!Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear. The most important step by farIs finding what their colours are. The next is, not to let them knowThe reason why they love us so. The indolent droop of a blue shawl, Or gray silk's fluctuating fall, Covers the multitude of sinsIn me. _Your_ husband, Love, might winceAt azure, and be wild at slate, And yet do well with chocolate. Of course you'd let him fancy heAdored you for your piety. 

XIV. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER. 

Dear Mother, as you write, I seeHow glad and thankful I should beFor such a husband. Yet to tellThe truth, I am so miserable!How could he--I remember, though, He never said me loved me! No, He is so right that all seems wrongI've done and thought my whole life long!I'm grown so dull and dead with fearThat Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quiteUnlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him comeTo tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room, He made me feel so common! Oh, How dreadful if he thinks me so!It's no use trying to behaveTo him. His eye, so kind and grave, Sees through and through me! Could not you, Without his knowing that I knew, Ask him to scold me now and then?Mother, it's such a weary strainThe way he has of treating meAs if 'twas something fine to beA woman; and appearing notTo notice any faults I've got!I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid and ignorant, and allAwkward and mean; and, by degrees, I see a beauty which he sees, When often he looks strange awhile, Then recollects me with a smile. I wish he had that fancied Wife, With me for Maid, now! all my lifeTo dress her out for him, and makeHer looks the lovelier for his sake;To have her rate me till I cried;Then see her seated by his side, And driven off proudly to the Ball;Then to stay up for her, whilst allThe servants were asleep; and hearAt dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was halfSo beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seenAnd noticed her, and ask'd who wasThat lady in the golden gauze?And then to go to bed, and lieIn a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'dShe slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. Pray burn this letter. I would notComplain, but for the fear I've gotOf going wild, as we hear tellOf people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. HeMust never know he is loved by meThe most; he'd think himself to blame;And I should almost die for shame. If being good would serve insteadOf being graceful, ah, then, Fred--But I, myself, I never couldSee what's in women's being good;For all their goodness is to doJust what their nature tells them to. Now, when a man would do what's right, He has to try with all his might. Though true and kind in deed and word, Fred's not a vessel of the Lord. But I have hopes of him; for, oh, How can we ever surely knowBut that the very darkest placeMay be the scene of saving grace!

XV. FROM FREDERICK. 

'How did I feel?' The little wightFill'd me, unfatherly, with fright!So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, There came, minute, remote, the cry, Piercing, of original pain. I put the wonder back to Jane, And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I, Of strangers still by nature shy, Was not familiar quite so soonWith her small friend of many a moon. But, when the new-made Mother smiled, She seem'd herself a little child, Dwelling at large beyond the lawBy which, till then, I judged and saw;And that fond glow which she felt stirFor it, suffused my heart for her;To whom, from the weak babe, and thenceTo me, an influent innocence, Happy, reparative of life, Came, and she was indeed my wife, As there, lovely with love she lay, Brightly contented all the dayTo hug her sleepy little boy, In the reciprocated joyOf touch, the childish sense of love, Ever inquisitive to proveIts strange possession, and to knowIf the eye's report be really so. 

XVI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Dear Mother, --such if you'll allow, In _love_, not _law_, I'll call you now, --I hope you're well. I write to sayFrederick has got, besides his pay, A good appointment in the Docks;Also to thank you for the frocksAnd shoes for Baby. I, (D. V. , )Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to seaNo more. I _am_ so glad; because, Though kinder husband never was, He seems still kinder to becomeThe more he stays with me at home. When we are parted, I see plainHe's dull till he gets used againTo marriage. Do not tell him, though;I would not have him know I know, For all the world. I try to mindAll your advice; but sometimes findI do not well see how. I thoughtTo take it about dress; so boughtA gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl;But Frederick was not pleased at all;For, though he smiled, and said, 'How smart!'I feel, you know, what's in his heart. But I shall learn! I fancied longThat care in dress was very wrong, Till Frederick, in his startling way, When I began to blame, one day, The Admiral's Wife, because we hearShe spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and saidHow all things deck themselves that wed;How birds and plants grow fine to pleaseEach other in their marriages;And how (which certainly is true--It never struck me--did it you?)Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, And has much Scripture countenance. For Eliezer, we are told, Adorn'd with jewels and with goldRebecca. In the Psalms, again, How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then, The Good Wife in the Proverbs, sheMade herself clothes of tapestry, Purple and silk: and there's much moreI had not thought about before!But Fred's so clever! Do you know, Since Baby came, he loves me so!I'm really useful, now, to Fred;And none could do so well instead. It's nice to fancy, if I died, He'd miss me from the Darling's side!Also, there's something now, you see, On which we talk, and quite agree;On which, without pride too, I canHope I'm as wise as any man. I should be happy now, if quiteSure that in _one_ thing Fred was right. But, though I trust his prayers are said, Because he goes so late to bed, I doubt his Calling. Glad to findA text adapted to his mind, --That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife, Allows a little worldly life, --He smiled, and said that he knew allSuch things as that without St. Paul!And once he said, when I with painHad got him just to read Romaine, 'Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn. Who wait for heaven to come to themAre little like to go to heaven, If logic's not the devil's leaven!'I cried at such a wicked joke, And he, surprised, went out to smoke. But to judge him is not for me, Who myself sin so dreadfullyAs half to doubt if I should careTo go to heaven, and he not there. He _must_ be right; and I dare sayI shall soon understand his way. To other things, once strange, I've grownAccustom'd, nay, to like. I own'Twas long before I got well usedTo sit, while Frederick read or musedFor hours, and scarcely spoke. When he, For all that, held the door to me, Pick'd up my handkerchief, and roseTo set my chair, with other showsOf honour, such as men, 'tis true, To sweethearts and fine ladies do, It almost seem'd an unkind jest;But now I like these ways the best. They somehow make me gentle and good;And I don't mind his quiet mood. If Frederick _does_ seem dull awhile, There's Baby. You should see him smile!I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, And he will learn no better yet:Indeed, now little Johnny makesA busier time of it, and takesOur thoughts off one another more, In happy as need be, I'm sure!

XVII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA. 

Let me, Beloved, while gratitudeIs garrulous with coming good, Or ere the tongue of happinessBe silenced by your soft caress, Relate how, musing here of you, The clouds, the intermediate blue, The air that rings with larks, the graveAnd distant rumour of the wave, The solitary sailing skiff, The gusty corn-field on the cliff, The corn-flower by the crumbling ledge, Or, far-down at the shingle's edge, The sighing sea's recurrent crestBreaking, resign'd to its unrest, All whisper, to my home-sick thought, Of charms in you till now uncaught, Or only caught as dreams, to dieEre they were own'd by memory. High and ingenious DecreeOf joy-devising Deity!You whose ambition only isThe assurance that you make my bliss, (Hence my first debt of love to show, That you, past showing indeed do so!)Trust me the world, the firmament, With diverse-natured worlds besprent, Were rear'd in no mere undivineBoast of omnipotent design, The lion differing from the snakeBut for the trick of difference sake, And comets darting to and froBecause in circles planets go;But rather that sole love might beRefresh'd throughout eternityIn one sweet faith, for ever strange, Mirror'd by circumstantial change. For, more and more, do I perceiveThat everything is relativeTo you, and that there's not a star, Nor nothing in't, so strange or far, But, if 'twere scanned, 'twould chiefly meanSomewhat, till then, in you unseen, Something to make the bondage straitOf you and me more intimate, Some unguess'd opportunityOf nuptials in a new degree. But, oh, with what a novel forceYour best-conn'd beauties, by remorseOf absence, touch; and, in my heart, How bleeds afresh the youthful smartOf passion fond, despairing stillTo utter infinite goodwillBy worthy service! Yet I knowThat love is all that love can owe, And this to offer is no lessOf worth, in kind speech or caress, Than if my life-blood I should give. For good is God's prerogative, And Love's deed is but to prepareThe flatter'd, dear Belov'd to dareAcceptance of His gifts. When firstOn me your happy beauty burst, Honoria, verily it seem'dThat naught beyond you could be dream'dOf beauty and of heaven's delight. Zeal of an unknown infiniteYet bade me ever wish you moreBeatified than e'er before. Angelical, were your repliesTo my prophetic flatteries;And sweet was the compulsion strongThat drew me in the course alongOf heaven's increasing bright allure, With provocations fresh of yourVictorious capacity. Whither may love, so fledged, not fly? Did not mere Earth hold fast the stringOf this celestial soaring thing, So measure and make sensitive, And still, to the nerves, nice notice giveOf each minutest incrementOf such interminable ascent, The heart would lose all count, and beatUnconscious of a height so sweet, And the spirit-pursuing senses strainTheir steps on the starry track in vain!But, reading now the note just come, With news of you, the babes, and home, I think, and say, 'To-morrow eveWith kisses me will she receive;'And, thinking, for extreme delightOf love's extremes, I laugh outright. 

XVIII. FROM FREDERICK. 

Eight wedding-days gone by, and noneYet kept, to keep them all in one, Jane and myself, with John and GraceOn donkeys, visited the placeI first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood. Bearing the basket, stuff'd with food. Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, I halted where the wandering gladeDivides the thicket. There I knew, It seem'd, the very drops of dewBelow the unalter'd eglantine. Nothing had changed since I was nine! In the green desert, down to eatWe sat, our rustic grace at meatGood appetite, through that long climbHungry two hours before the time. And there Jane took her stitching out, And John for birds'-nests pry'd about, And Grace and Baby, in betweenThe warm blades of the breathing green, Dodged grasshoppers; and I no less, In conscientious idleness, Enjoy'd myself, under the noonStretch'd, and the sounds and sights of JuneReceiving, with a drowsy charm, Through muffled ear and folded arm. And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, I half-remember'd how it seem'dWhen I, too, was a little childAbout the wild wood roving wild. Pure breezes from the far-off heightMelted the blindness from my sight, Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, I saw again as then I saw. As then I saw, I saw againThe harvest-waggon in the lane, With high-hung tokens of its prideLeft in the elms on either side;The daisies coming out at dawnIn constellations on the lawn;The glory of the daffodil;The three black windmills on the hill, Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, Sent magic shadows o'er the rye. Within the leafy coppice, lo, More wealth than miser's dreams could show, The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, Five golden beaks agape for food;The Gipsies, all the summer seenNative as poppies to the Green;The winter, with its frosts and thawsAnd opulence of hips and haws:The lovely marvel of the snow;The Tamar, with its altering showOf gay ships sailing up and down, Among the fields and by the Town;And, dearer far than anything, Came back the songs you used to sing. (Ah, might you sing such songs again, And I, your child, but hear as then, With conscious profit of the gulfFlown over from my present self!)And, as to men's retreating eyes, Beyond high mountains higher rise, Still farther back there shone to meThe dazzling dusk of infancy. Thither I look'd, as, sick of night, The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, And does not see the day, 'tis true, But sees the rosy tops that do. Meantime Jane stitch'd, and fann'd the fliesFrom my repose, with hush'd repliesTo Grace, and smiles when Baby fell. Her countenance love visibleAppear'd, love audible her voice. Why in the past alone rejoice, Whilst here was wealth before me castWhich, I could feel, if 'twere but pastWere then most precious? Question vain, When ask'd again and yet again, Year after year; yet now, for noCause, but that heaven's bright winds will blowNot at our pray'r but as they list, It brought that distant, golden mistTo grace the hour, firing the deepOf spirit and the drowsy keepOf joy, till, spreading uncontain'd, The holy power of seeing gainedThe outward eye, this owning evenThat where there's love and truth there's heaven. Debtor to few, forgotten hoursAm I, that truths for me are powers. Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yetNot to forget that I forget! And now a cloud, bright, huge and calm, Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm;O'ertoppling towers and bulwarks brightAppear'd, at beck of viewless might. Along a rifted mountain range. Untraceable and swift in change, Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spreadTo solemn bulks, seen overhead;The sunshine quench'd, from one dark formFumed the appalling light of storm. Straight to the zenith, black with bale, The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale;And one wide night of hopeless hueHid from the heart the recent blue. And soon, with thunder crackling loud, A flash reveal'd the formless cloud:Lone sailing rack, far wavering rim, And billowy tracts of stormland dim. We stood, safe group'd beneath a shed. Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, Who told her, fondling with her hair, 'The naughty noise! but God took careOf all good girls. ' John seem'd to meToo much for Jane's theology, Who bade him watch the tempest. NowA blast made all the woodland bow;Against the whirl of leaves and dustKine dropp'd their heads; the tortured gustJagg'd and convuls'd the ascending smokeTo mockery of the lightning's stroke. The blood prick'd, and a blinding flashAnd close coinstantaneous crashHumbled the soul, and the rain all roundResilient dimm'd the whistling ground, Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past, Leaving a trouble in the copseOf brawling birds and tinkling drops. Change beyond hope! Far thunder faintMutter'd its vast and vain complaint, And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons brightOf cloudlets, glittering calm and fairThrough gulfs of calm and glittering air. With this adventure, we return'd. The roads the feet no longer burn'd. A wholesome smell of rainy earthRefresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth. The donkey-boy drew friendly nearMy Wife, and, touch'd by the kind cheerHer countenance show'd, or sooth'd perchanceBy the soft evening's sad advance, As we were, stroked the flanks and headOf the ass, and, somewhat thick-voiced, said, 'To 'ave to wop the donkeys so'Ardens the 'art, but they won't goWithout!' My wife, by this impress'd, As men judge poets by their best, When now we reach'd the welcome door, Gave him his hire, and sixpence more. 

XIX. FROM JANE. 

Dear Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, And Fred is well. I, in my last, Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, One of his Salisbury Cousins, came. Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name?'Twas that Honoria, no doubt, Whom he would sometimes talk aboutAnd speak to, when his nights were bad, And so I told her that I had. She look'd so beautiful and kind!And just the sort of wife my mindPictured for Fred, with many tears, In those sad early married years. Visiting, yesterday, she said, The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that FredWas very ill; she begg'd to be, If possible, of use to me. What could she do? Last year, his AuntDied, leaving her, who had no want, Her fortune. Half was his, she thought;But he, she knew, would not be broughtTo take his rights at second hand. Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd. What did I think of putting JohnTo school and college? Mr. Vaughan, When John was old enough, could givePreferment to her relative;And she should be _so_ pleased. --I saidI felt quite sure that dearest FredWould be most thankful. Would we come, And make ourselves, she ask'd, at home, Next month, at High-Hurst? Change of airBoth he and I should need, and thereAt leisure we could talk, and thenFix plans, as John was nearly ten. It seemed so rude to think and doubt, So I said, Yes. In going out, She said, 'How strange of Frederick, Dear, '(I wish he had been there to hear, )'To send no cards, or tell me whatA nice new Cousin I had got!'Was not that kind? When Fred grew strong, I had, I found, done very wrong. Anger was in his voice and eye. With people born and bred so highAs Fred and Mrs. Vaughan and you, It's hard to guess what's right to do;And he won't teach me! Dear Fred wrote, Directly, such a lovely note, Which, though it undid all I had done, Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, So kind! His words. I can't say why, Like soldiers' music, made me cry. 

BOOK II. 

I. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER. 

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heartAre not half known till they depart!Although I long'd, for many a year, To love with love that casts out fear, My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me, And heaven seem'd less far off than he;And in my fancy I would traceA lady with an angel's face, That made devotion simply debt, Till sick with envy and regret, And wicked grief that God should e'erMake women, and not make them fair. That me might love me more becauseAnother in his memory was, And that my indigence might beTo him what Baby's was to me, The chief of charms, who could have thought?But God's wise way is to give noughtTill we with asking it are tired;And when, indeed, the change desiredComes, lest we give ourselves the praise, It comes by Providence, not Grace;And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rsAre groans at unexpected cares, First Baby went to heaven, you know, And, five weeks after, Grace went, too, Then he became more talkative, And, stooping to my heart, would giveSigns of his love, which pleased me moreThan all the proofs he gave before;And, in that time of our great grief, We talk'd religion for relief;For, though we very seldom nameReligion, we now think the same!Oh, what a bar is thus removedTo loving and to being loved!For no agreement really isIn anything when none's in this. Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'dHis wife against his hearty breast, The interior difference seem'd to tearMy own, until I could not bearThe trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife, And show'd, indeed, that faith is life. He never felt this. If he did, I'm sure it could not have been hid;For wives, I need not say to you, Can feel just what their husbands do, Without a word or look; but thenIt is not so, you know, with men. From that time many a Scripture textHelp'd me, which had, before, perplex'd. Oh, what a wond'rous word seem'd thisHe is my head, as Christ is his!None ever could have dared to seeIn marriage such a dignityFor man, and for his wife, still less, Such happy, happy lowliness, Had God himself not made it plain!This revelation lays the rein--If I may speak so--on the neckOf a wife's love, takes thence the checkOf conscience, and forbids to doubtIts measure is to be withoutAll measure, and a fond excessIs here her rule of godliness. I took him not for love but fright;He did but ask a dreadful right. In this was love, that he loved meThe first, who was mere poverty. All that I know of love he taught;And love is all I know of aught. My merit is so small by his, That my demerit is my bliss. My life is hid with him in Christ, Never therefrom to be enticed;And in his strength have I such restAs when the baby on my breastFinds what it knows not how to seek, And, very happy, very weak, Lies, only knowing all is well, Pillow'd on kindness palpable. 

II. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL. 

Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park. The house is fill'd with folks of mark. Honoria suits a good estateMuch better than I hoped. How fateLoads her with happiness and pride!And such a loving lord, beside!But between us, Sweet, everythingHas limits, and to build a wingTo this old house, when Courtholm standsEmpty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be nearPapa, was buying love too dear. With twenty others, there are twoGuests here, whose names will startle you:Mr. And Mrs. Frederick Graham!I thought he stay'd away for shame. He and his wife were ask'd, you know, And would not come, four years ago. You recollect Miss Smythe found outWho she had been, and all aboutHer people at the Powder-mill;And how the fine Aunt tried to instil_Haut ton_, and how, at last poor JaneHad got so shy and _gauche_ that, whenThe Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock'd up;And some one wrote to us and saidHer mother was a kitchen-maid. Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to knowIt _must_ be all a fib. But, oh, She _is_ the oddest little PetOn which my eyes were ever set!She's so _outree_ and naturalThat, when she first arrived, we allWonder'd, as when a robin comesIn through the window to eat crumbsAt breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence;And, save in dressing just a thoughtGayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross betweenGipsy and Fairy, red and green, )She always happens to do well. And yet one never quite can tellWhat she _might_ do or utter next. Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd. Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other menAre charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face. Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhereLike a tame duck, to the despairOf Colonel Holmes, who does his partTo break her funny little heart. Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her viewThat people, if they're good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what's their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor's just like allThe rest of us! But, thinking so, 'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me. Poor Mrs. Graham has never beenTo the Opera! You should have seenThe innocent way she told the EarlShe thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance!Frederick's complacent smile and glanceTowards her, show'd me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out. 'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you'd have thought_Her_ lover would have ever sought. She never reads, I find, nor goesAnywhere; so that I supposeShe got at all she ever knewBy growing up, as kittens do. Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than IWith dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severeWith those sweet Children. They've the runOf all the place. When school was done, Maud burst in, while the Earl was there, With 'Oh, Mama, do be a bear!' Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of FredAdores his old Love in his stead!She _is_ so nice, yet, I should say, Not quite the thing for every day. Wonders are wearying! Felix goesNext Sunday with her to the Close, And you will judge. Honoria asksAll Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basksLike Puss in fire-shine, when the roomIs thus aflame with female bloom. But then she smiles when most would pout;And so his lawless loves go outWith the last brocade. 'Tis not the same, I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham. Honoria should not have her here, --And this you might just hint, my Dear, --For Felix says he never sawSuch proof of what he holds for law, That 'beauty is love which can be seen. 'Whatever he by this may mean, Were it not dreadful if he fellIn love with her on principle!

III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Mother, I told you how, at first, I fear'd this visit to the Hurst. Fred must, I felt, be so distress'dBy aught in me unlike the restWho come here. But I find the placeDelightful; there's such ease, and grace, And kindness, and all seem to beOn such a high equality. They have not got to think, you know, How far to make the money go. But Frederick says it's less the expenseOf money, than of sound good-sense, Quickness to care what others feelAnd thoughts with nothing to conceal;Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. VaughanWas waiting for us on the Lawn, And kiss'd and call'd me 'Cousin. ' FredNeglected his old friends, she said. He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this. She was, you know, a flame of his;But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done, I left him, who had just begunTo talk about the Russian WarWith an old Lady, Lady Carr, --A Countess, but I'm more afraid, A great deal, of the Lady's Maid, --And went with Mrs. Vaughan to seeThe pictures, which appear'd to beOf sorts of horses, clowns, and cowsCall'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows. And then she took me up, to showHer bedroom, where, long years ago, A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestriesOf Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses, And black, carved oak. A curtain'd doorLeads thence into her soft Boudoir, Where even her husband may but comeBy favour. He, too, has his room, Kept sacred to his solitude. Did I not think the plan was good?She ask'd me; but I said how smallOur house was, and that, after all, Though Frederick would not say his prayersAt night till I was safe upstairs, I thought it wrong to be so shyOf being good when I was by. 'Oh, you should humour him!' she said, With her sweet voice and smile; and ledThe way to where the children ateTheir dinner, and Miss Williams sate. She's only Nursery-Governess, Yet they consider her no lessThan Lord or Lady Carr, or me. Just think how happy she must be!The Ball-Room, with its painted skyWhere heavy angels seem to fly, Is a dull place; its size and gloomMake them prefer, for drawing-room, The Library, all done up newAnd comfortable, with a viewOf Salisbury Spire between the boughs. When she had shown me through the house, (I wish I could have let her knowThat she herself was half the show;She _is_ so handsome, and so kind!)She fetch'd the children, who had dined;And, taking one in either hand, Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd. The lovely garden gently slopesTo where a curious bridge of ropesCrosses the Avon to the Park. We rested by the stream, to markThe brown backs of the hovering trout. Frank tickled one, and took it outFrom under a stone. We saw his owls, And awkward Cochin-China fowls, And shaggy pony in the croft;And then he dragg'd us to a loft, Where pigeons, as he push'd the door, Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor, And set us coughing. I confessI trembled for my nice silk dress. I cannot think how Mrs. VaughanVentured with that which she had on, --A mere white wrapper, with a fewPlain trimmings of a quiet blue, But, oh, so pretty! Then the bellFor dinner rang. I look'd quite well('Quite charming, ' were the words Fred said, )With the new gown that I've had made I _am_ so proud of Frederick. He's so high-bred and lordly-likeWith Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite soAt home with me; but that, you know, I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt, And seem to mock at my desert. Not but that I'm a duteous wifeTo Fred; but, in another life, Where all are fair that have been true, I hope I shall be graceful too, Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye!That happy thought has made me cry, And feel half sorry that my cough, In this fine air, is leaving off. 

IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM. 

Honoria, trebly fair and mildWith added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrongThe rest, touch not her beauty, youngWithin youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that's relative to time. How beyond hope was heard the prayerI offer'd in my love's despair!Could any, whilst there's any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so. She is, and is aware of it, Her husband's endless benefit;But, though their daily ways revealThe depth of private joy they feel, 'Tis not their bearing each to eachThat does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intentTo all within their governmentAnd friendship as, 'tis well discern'd, Each of the other must have learn'd;For no mere dues of neighbourhoodEver begot so blest a mood. And fair, indeed, should be the fewGod dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and freeTo show themselves, that all may see!For alms let poor men poorly giveThe meat whereby men's bodies live;But they of wealth are stewards wiseWhose graces are their charities. The sunny charm about this homeMakes all to shine who thither come. My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour'd, honours too the place. Across the lawn I lately walk'dAlone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd, Gentle and goddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair. I chose a path unblest by these;When one of the two Goddesses, With my Wife's voice, but softer, said, 'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?' She moves, indeed, the modest peerOf all the proudest ladies here. Unawed she talks with men who standAmong the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England's greatness in their eyes. To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hitBy quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Jane, Mistakes the points and laughs amain;And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there! With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life!The joy I might have had of yoreI have not; for 'tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth. Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd, In my chance choice let be confess'dThe tenderer Providence that rulesThe fates of children and of fools! I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp'd, To bathe my brain from drowsy nightIn the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, was on the pane. The year begins, though fair, to wane. There is a fragrance in its breathWhich is not of the flowers, but death;And green above the ground appearThe lilies of another year. I wander'd forth, and took my pathAmong the bloomless aftermath;And heard the steadfast robin singAs if his own warm heart were Spring. And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew;And then return'd, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. VaughanWas there, none with her. I confessI love her than of yore no less!But she alone was loved of old;Now love is twain, nay, manifold;For, somehow, he whose daily lifeAdjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degreeWith all that's fair and womanly. Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret;The wedded yoke that each had donn'dSeeming a sanction, not a bond. 

V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. 

Your love lacks joy, your letter says. Yes; love requires the focal spaceOf recollection or of hope, E'er it can measure its own scope. Too soon, too soon comes Death to showWe love more deeply than we know!The rain, that fell upon the heightToo gently to be call'd delight, Within the dark vale reappearsAs a wild cataract of tears;And love in life should strive to seeSometimes what love in death would be!Easier to love, we so should find. It is than to be just and kind. She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid:What distance for another didThat death has done for her! The goodOnce gazed upon with heedless mood, Now fills with tears the famish'd eye, And turns all else to vanity. 'Tis sad to see, with death between, The good we have pass'd and have not seen!How strange appear the words of all!The looks of those that live appal. They are the ghosts, and check the breath:There's no reality but death, And hunger for some signal givenThat we shall have our own in heaven. But this the God of love lets beA horrible uncertainty. How great her smallest virtue seems, How small her greatest fault! Ill dreamsWere those that foil'd with loftier graceThe homely kindness of her face. 'Twas here she sat and work'd, and thereShe comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair;Or, with one baby at her breast, Another taught, or hush'd to rest. Praise does the heart no more refuseTo the chief loveliness of use. Her humblest good is hence most highIn the heavens of fond memory;And Love says Amen to the word, A prudent wife is from the Lord. Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best, As that in which she oftenest dress'd, )For memory's sake more precious grownThan she herself was for her own. Poor child! Foolish it seem'd to flyTo sobs instead of dignity, When she was hurt. Now, none than all, Heart-rending and angelicalThat ignorance of what to do, Bewilder'd still by wrong from you:For what man ever yet had graceNe'er to abuse his power and place? No magic of her voice or smileSuddenly raised a fairy isle, But fondness for her underwentAn unregarded increment, Like that which lifts, through centuries, The coral-reef within the seas, Till, lo! the land where was the wave. Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave. 

VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM. 

Dear Mother, I can surely tell, Now, that I never shall get wellBesides the warning in my mind, All suddenly are grown so kind. Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday, Downstairs, and, when he went away, Came smiling back, and sat with me, Pale, and conversing cheerfullyAbout the Spring, and how my cough, In finer weather, would leave off. I saw it all, and told him plainI felt no hope of Spring again. Then he, after a word of jest, Burst into tears upon my breast, And own'd, when he could speak, he knewThere was a little danger, too. This made me very weak and ill, And while, last night, I lay quite still, And, as he fancied, in the deep, Exhausted rest of my short sleep, I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray:'Oh, Father, take her not away!Let not life's dear assurance lapseInto death's agonised "Perhaps, "A hope without Thy promise, whereLess than assurance is despair!Give me some sign, if go she must, That death's not worse than dust to dust, Not heaven, on whose oblivious shoreJoy I may have, but her no more!The bitterest cross, it seems to me, Of all is infidelity;And so, if I may choose, I'll missThe kind of heaven which comes to this. If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased, To die out wholly, like a beast, Forgetting all life's ill successIn dark and peaceful nothingness, I could but say, Thy will be done;For, dying thus, I were but oneOf seed innumerable which ne'erIn all the worlds shall bloom or bear. I've put life past to so poor useWell may'st Thou life to come refuse;And justice, which the spirit contents, Shall still in me all vain laments;Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live, Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st giveTo some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect!Only let not Thy method beTo make that life, and call it me;Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love's disintegrity?Answer me, "No, " and I, with grace, Will life's brief desolation face, My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof--' He started up, hearing me cough. Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone!He likes me _more_ than Mrs. Vaughan;And death, which takes me from his side, Shows me, in very deed, his bride!

VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK. 

I leave this, Dear, for you to read, For strength and hope, when I am dead. When Grace died, I was so perplex'd, I could not find one helpful text;And when, a little while before, I saw her sobbing on the floor, Because I told her that in heavenShe would be as the angels even, And would not want her doll, 'tis trueA horrible fear within me grew, That, since the preciousness of loveWent thus for nothing, mine might proveTo be no more, and heaven's blissSome dreadful good which is not this. But being about to die makes clearMany dark things. I have no fear, Now that my love, my grief, my joyIs but a passion for a toy. I cannot speak at all, I find, The shining something in my mindThat shows so much that, if I tookMy thoughts all down, 'twould make a book. God's Word, which lately seem'd aboveThe simpleness of human love, To my death-sharpen'd hearing tellsOf little or of nothing else;And many things I hoped were true, When first they came, like songs, from you, Now rise with witness past the reachOf doubt, and I to you can teach, As if with felt authorityAnd as things seen, what you taught me. Yet how? I have no words but thoseWhich every one already knows:As, 'No man hath at any timeSeen God, but 'tis the love of HimMade perfect, and He dwells in us, If we each other love. ' Or thus, 'My goodness misseth in extentOf Thee, Lord! In the excellentI know Thee; and the Saints on EarthMake all my love and holy mirth. 'And further, 'Inasmuch as yeDid it to one of these, to MeYe did it, though ye nothing thoughtNor knew of Me, in that ye wrought. ' What shall I dread? Will God undoOur bond, which is all others too?And when I meet you will you sayTo my reclaiming looks, 'Away!A dearer love my bosom warmsWith higher rights and holier charms. The children, whom thou here may'st see, Neighbours that mingle thee and me, And gaily on impartial lyresRenounce the foolish filial firesThey felt, with "Praise to God on high, Goodwill to all else equally;"The trials, duties, service, tears;The many fond, confiding yearsOf nearness sweet with thee apart;The joy of body, mind, and heart;The love that grew a reckless growth, Unmindful that the marriage-oathTo love in an eternal styleMeant--only for a little while:Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought;All love, not new, stands here for nought!' Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear, Even to utter such a fear!Are we not 'heirs, ' as man and wife, 'Together of eternal life?'Was Paradise e'er meant to fade, To make which marriage first was made?Neither beneath him nor aboveCould man in Eden find his Love;Yet with him in the garden walk'dHis God, and with Him mildly talk'd!Shall the humble preference offendIn Heaven, which God did there commend?Are 'Honourable and undefiled'The names of aught from heaven exiled?And are we not forbid to grieveAs without hope? Does God deceive, And call that hope which is despair, Namely, the heaven we should not share!Image and glory of the man, As he of God, is woman. CanThis holy, sweet proportion dieInto a dull equality?Are we not one flesh, yea, so farMore than the babe and mother are, That sons are bid mothers to leaveAnd to their wives alone to cleave, 'For _they_ two are one flesh!' But 'tisIn the flesh we rise. Our union is, You know 'tis said, 'great mystery. 'Great mockery, it appears to me;Poor image of the spousal bondOf Christ and Church, if loosed beyondThis life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet, There's not a single word to set. The speech to the scoffing SadduceeIs not in point to you and me;For how could Christ have taught such clodsThat Caesar's things are also God's?The sort of Wife the Law could makeMight well be 'hated' for Love's sake, And left, like money, land, or house;For out of Christ is no true spouse. I used to think it strange of HimTo make love's after-life so dim, Or only clear by inference:But God trusts much to common sense, And only tells us what, withoutHis Word, we could not have found outOn fleshly tables of the heartHe penn'd truth's feeling counterpartIn hopes that come to all: so, Dear, Trust these, and be of happy cheer, Nor think that he who has loved wellIs of all men most miserable. There's much more yet I want to say, But cannot now. You know my wayOf feeling strong from Twelve till TwoAfter my wine. I'll write to youDaily some words, which you shall haveTo break the silence of the grave. 

VIII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK. 

You think, perhaps, 'Ah, could she knowHow much I loved her!' Dear, I do!And you may say, 'Of this new aweOf heart which makes her fancies law, These watchful duties of despair, She does not dream, she cannot care!'Frederick, you see how false that is, Or how could I have written this?And, should it ever cross your mindThat, now and then, you were unkind. You never, never, were at all!Remember that! It's naturalFor one like Mr. Vaughan to come, From a morning's useful pastime, home, And greet, with such a courteous zestHis handsome wife, still newly dress'd, As if the Bird of ParadiseShould daily change her plumage thrice. He's always well, she's always gay. Of course! But he who toils all day, And comes home hungry, tired, or cold, And feels 'twould do him good to scoldHis wife a little, let him trustHer love, and say the things he must, Till sooth'd in mind by meat and rest. If, after that, she's well caress'd, And told how good she is, to bearHis humour, fortune makes it fair. Women like men to be like men;That is, at least, just now and then. Thus, I have nothing to forgive, But those first years, (how could I live!)When, though I really did behaveSo stupidly, you never gaveOne unkind word or look at all:As if I was some animalYou pitied! Now in later life, You used me like a proper Wife. You feel, Dear, in your present mood, Your Jane, since she was kind and good, A child of God, a living soul, Was not so different, on the whole, From Her who had a little moreOf God's best gifts: but, oh, be sure, My dear, dear Love, to take no blameBecause you could not feel the sameTowards me, living, as when dead. A hungry man must needs think breadSo sweet! and, only at their riseAnd setting, blessings, to thine eyes, Like the sun's course, grow visible. If you are sad, remember well, Against delusions of despair, That memory sees things as they were, And not as they were misenjoy'd, And would be still, if aught destroy'dThe glory of their hopelessness:So that, in truth, you had me lessIn days when necessary zealFor my perfection made you feelMy faults the most, than now your loveForgets but where it can approve. You gain by loss, if that seem'd smallPossess'd, which, being gone, turns allSurviving good to vanity. Oh, Fred, this makes it sweet to die! Say to yourself: ''Tis comfort yetI made her that which I regret;And parting might have come to passIn a worse season; as it was, Love an eternal temper took, Dipp'd, glowing, in Death's icy brook!'Or say, 'On her poor feeble headThis might have fallen: 'tis mine instead!And so great evil sets me freeHenceforward from calamity. And, in her little children, too, How much for her I yet can do!'And grieve not for these orphans even;For central to the love of HeavenIs each child as each star to space. This truth my dying love has graceTo trust with a so sure content, I fear I seem indifferent. You must not think a child's small heartCold, because it and grief soon part. Fanny will keep them all away, Lest you should hear them laugh and play. Before the funeral's over. ThenI hope you'll be yourself again, And glad, with all your soul, to findHow God thus to the sharpest windSuits the shorn lambs. Instruct them, Dear, For my sake, in His love and fear. And show now, till their journey's done, Not to be weary they must run. Strive not to dissipate your griefBy any lightness. True reliefOf sorrow is by sorrow brought. And yet for sorrow's sake, you oughtTo grieve with measure. Do not spendSo good a power to no good end!Would you, indeed, have memory stayIn the heart, lock up and put awayRelies and likenesses and allMusings, which waste what they recall. True comfort, and the only thingTo soothe without diminishingA prized regret, is to match here, By a strict life, God's love severe. Yet, after all, by nature's course, Feeling must lose its edge and force. Again you'll reach the desert tractsWhere only sin or duty acts. But, if love always lit our path, Where were the trial of our faith? Oh, should the mournful honeymoonOf death be over strangely soon, And life-long resolutions, madeIn grievous haste, as quickly fade, Seeming the truth of grief to mock, Think, Dearest, 'tis not by the clockThat sorrow goes! A month of tearsIs more than many, many yearsOf common time. Shun, if you can, However, any passionate plan. Grieve with the heart; let not the headGrieve on, when grief of heart is dead:For all the powers of life defyA superstitions constancy. The only bond I hold you toIs that which nothing can undo. A man is not a young man twice;And if, of his young years, he liesA faithful score in one wife's breast, She need not mind who has the rest. In this do what you will, dear Love, And feel quite sure that I approve. And, should it chance as it may be, Give her my wedding-ring from me;And never dream that you can errT'wards me by being good to her;Nor let remorseful thoughts destroyIn you the kindly flowering joyAnd pleasure of the natural life. But don't forget your fond, dead Wife. And, Frederick, should you ever beTempted to think your love of meAll fancy, since it drew its breathSo much more sweetly after death, Remember that I never didA single thing you once forbid;All poor folks liked me; and, at the end, Your Cousin call'd me 'Dearest Friend!' And, new, 'twill calm your grief to know, --You, who once loved Honoria so, --There's kindness, that's look'd kindly on, Between her Emily and John. Thus, in your children, you will wed!And John seems _so_ much comforted, (Like Isaac when _his_ mother diedAnd fair Rebekah was his bride), By his new hope, for losing me!So _all_ is happiness, you see. And that reminds me how, last night, I dreamt of heaven, with great delight. A strange, kind Lady watch'd my face, Kiss'd me, and cried, 'His hope found grace!'She bade me then, in the crystal floor, Look at myself, myself no more;And bright within the mirror shoneHonoria's smile, and yet my own!'And, when you talk, I hear, ' she sigh'd, 'How much he loved her! Many a brideIn heaven such countersemblance wearsThrough what Love deem'd rejected prayers. 'She would have spoken still; but, lo, One of a glorious troop, aglowFrom some great work, towards her came, And she so laugh'd, 'twas such a flame, Aaron's twelve jewels seem'd to mixWith the lights of the Seven Candlesticks. 

IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM. 

My dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day, But for Jane's loss, and you away, Was all a Bride from heaven could begSkies bluer than the sparrow's egg. And clearer than the cuckoo's call;And such a sun! the flowers allWith double ardour seem'd to blow!The very daisies were a show, Expanded with uncommon pride, Like little pictures of the Bride. Your Great-Niece and your Grandson werePerfection of a pretty pair. How well Honoria's girls turn out, Although they never go about!Dear me, what trouble and expenseIt took to teach mine confidence!_Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard sayThat wild things do, where beasts of preyWere never known, nor any menHave met their fearless eyes till then. Their grave, inquiring trust to findAll creatures of their simple kindQuite disconcerts bold coxcombry, And makes less perfect candour shy. Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff, But how your home-kept girls go off!How Hymen hastens to unbandThe waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand!At last I see my Sister's right, And I've told Maud this very night, (But, oh, my daughters have such wills!)To knit, and only dance quadrilles. You say Fred never writes to youFrankly, as once he used to do, About himself; and you complainHe shared with none his grief for Jane. It all comes of the foolish frightMen feel at the word, hypocrite. Although, when first in love, sometimesThey rave in letters, talk, and rhymes, When once they find, as find they must, How hard 'tis to be hourly justTo those they love, they are dumb for shame, Where we, you see, talk on the same. Honoria, to whose heart aloneHe seems to open all his ownAt times, has tears in her kind eyes, After their private colloquies. He's her most favour'd guest, and movesMy spleen by his impartial loves. His pleasure has some inner springDepending not on anything. Petting our Polly, none e'er smiledMore fondly on his favourite child;Yet, playing with his own, it isSomehow as if it were not his. He means to go again to sea, Now that the wedding's over. HeWill leave to Emily and JohnThe little ones to practise on;And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse, A dear old soul from Wilton House, Will scold the housemaids and the cook, Till Emily has learn'd to lookA little braver than a lambSurprised by dogs without its dam! Do, dear Aunt, use your influence, And try to teach some plain good senseTo Mary. 'Tis not yet too lateTo make her change her chosen stateOf single silliness. In truth, I fancy that, with fading youth, Her will now wavers. Yesterday, Though, till the Bride was gone away, Joy shone from Mary's loving heart, I found her afterwards apart, Hysterically sobbing. IKnew much too well to ask her why. This marrying of Nieces dauntsThe bravest souls of maiden Aunts. Though Sisters' children often blendSweetly the bonds of child and friend, They are but reeds to rest upon. When Emily comes back with John, Her right to go downstairs beforeAunt Mary will but be the moreObserved if kindly waived, and howShall these be as they were, when nowNiece has her John, and Aunt the senseOf her superior innocence?Somehow, all loves, however fond, Prove lieges of the nuptial bond;And she who dares at this to scoff, Finds all the rest in time drop off;While marriage, like a mushroom-ring, Spreads its sure circle every Spring. She twice refused George Vane, you know;Yet, when be died three years agoIn the Indian war, she put on gray, And wears no colours to this day. And she it is who charges _me_, Dear Aunt, with 'inconsistency!'

X. FROM FREDERICK TO HONORIA. 

Cousin, my thoughts no longer tryTo cast the fashion of the sky. Imagination can extendScarcely in part to comprehendThe sweetness of our common foodAmbrosial, which ingratitudeAnd impious inadvertence waste, Studious to eat but not to taste. And who can tell what's yet in storeThere, but that earthly things have moreOf all that makes their inmost bliss, And life's an image still of this, But haply such a glorious oneAs is the rainbow of the sun?Sweet are your words, but, after allTheir mere reversal may befallThe partners of His glories whoDaily is crucified anew:Splendid privations, martyrdomsTo which no weak remission comesPerpetual passion for the goodOf them that feel no gratitude, Far circlings, as of planets' fires, Round never-to-be-reach'd desires, Whatever rapturously sighsThat life is love, love sacrifice. All I am sure of heaven is this:Howe'er the mode, I shall not missOne true delight which I have known. Not on the changeful earth aloneShall loyalty remain unmovedT'wards everything I ever loved. So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voiceTo Jacob in the field, 'Rejoice!'Serve on some seven more sordid years, Too short for weariness or tears;Serve on; then, oh, Beloved, well-tried, Take me for ever as thy Bride!'

XI. FROM MARY CHURCHILL TO THE DEAN. 

Charles does me honour, but 'twere vainTo reconsider now again, And so to doubt the clear-shown truthI sought for, and received, when youth, Being fair, and woo'd by one whose loveWas lovely, fail'd my mind to move. God bids them by their own will go, Who ask again the things they know!I grieve for my infirmity, And ignorance of how to beFaithful, at once to the heavenly life, And the fond duties of a wife. Narrow am I and want the artTo love two things with all my heart. Occupied singly in His search, Who, in the Mysteries of the Church, Returns, and calls them Clouds of Heaven, I tread a road, straight, hard, and even;But fear to wander all confused, By two-fold fealty abused. Either should I the one forget, Or scantly pay the other's debt. You bid me, Father, count the cost. I have; and all that must be lostI feel as only woman can. To make the heart's wealth of some man, And through the untender world to move, Wrapt safe in his superior love, How sweet! How sweet the household roundOf duties, and their narrow bound, So plain, that to transgress were hard, Yet full of manifest reward!The charities not marr'd, like mine, With chance of thwarting laws divine;The world's regards and just delightIn one that's clearly, kindly right, How sweet! Dear Father, I endure, Not without sharp regret, be sure, To give up such glad certainty, For what, perhaps, may never be. For nothing of my state I know, But that t'ward heaven I seem to go, As one who fondly landward hiesAlong a deck that seaward flies. With every year, meantime, some graceOf earthly happiness gives placeTo humbling ills, the very charmsOf youth being counted, henceforth, harms:To blush already seems absurd;Nor know I whether I should herdWith girls or wives, or sadlier balkMaids' merriment or matrons' talk. But strait's the gate of life! O'er late, Besides, 'twere now to change my fate:For flowers and fruit of love to form, It must he Spring as well as warm. The world's delight my soul dejects. Revenging all my disrespectsOf old, with incapacityTo chime with even its harmless glee, Which sounds, from fields beyond my range, Like fairies' music, thin and strange. With something like remorse, I grantThe world has beauty which I want;And if, instead of judging it, I at its Council chance to sit, Or at its gay and order'd Feast, My place seems lower than the leastThe conscience of the life to beSmiles me with inefficiency, And makes me all unfit to blessWith comfortable earthlinessThe rest-desiring brain of man. Finally, them, I fix my planTo dwell with Him that dwells apartIn the highest heaven and lowliest heart;Nor will I, to my utter loss, Look to pluck roses from the Cross. As for the good of human love, 'Twere countercheck almost enoughTo think that one must die beforeThe other; and perhaps 'tis moreIn love's last interest to doNought the least contrary thereto, Than to be blest, and be unjust, Or suffer injustice; as they must, Without a miracle, whose pactCompels to mutual life and act, Whether love shines, or darkness sleepsCold on the spirit's changeful deeps. Enough if, to my earthly share, Fall gleams that keep me from despair. Happy the things we here discern;More happy those for which we yearn;But measurelessly happy aboveAll else are those we guess not of!

XII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA. 

Dearest, my Love and Wife, 'tis longAgo I closed the unfinish'd songWhich never could be finish'd; norWill ever Poet utter moreOf Love than I did, watching wellTo lure to speech the unspeakable!'_Why_, _having won her_, _do I woo_?'That final strain to the last height flewOf written joy, which wants the smileAnd voice that are, indeed, the whileThey last, the very things you speak, Honoria, who mak'st music weakWith ways that say, 'Shall I not beAs kind to all as Heaven to me?'And yet, ah, twenty-fold my Bride!Rising, this twentieth festal-tide, You still soft sleeping, on this dayOf days, some words I long to say, Some words superfluously sweetOf fresh assurance, thus to greetYour waking eyes, which never growWeary of telling what I knowSo well, yet only well enoughTo wish for further news thereof. Here, in this early autumn dawn, By windows opening on the lawn. Where sunshine seems asleep, though bright, And shadows yet are sharp with night, And, further on, the wealthy wheatBends in a golden drowse, how sweetTo sit and cast my careless looksAround my walls of well-read books, Wherein is all that stands redeem'dFrom time's huge wreck, all men have dream'dOf truth, and all by poets knownOf feeling, and in weak sort shown, And, turning to my heart again, To find I have what makes them vain, The thanksgiving mind, which wisdom sums, And you, whereby it freshly comesAs on that morning, (can there beTwenty-two years 'twixt it and me?)When, thrill'd with hopeful love, I roseAnd came in haste to Sarum Close, Past many a homestead slumbering whiteIn lonely and pathetic light, Merely to fancy which drawn blindOf thirteen had my Love behind, And in her sacred neighbourhoodTo feel that sweet scorn of all goodBut her, which let the wise forfendWhen wisdom learns to comprehend! Dearest, as each returning MayI see the season new and gayWith new joy and astonishment, And Nature's infinite ostentOf lovely flowers in wood and mead. That weet not whether any heed, So see I, daily wondering, you, And worship with a passion newThe Heaven that visibly allowsIts grace to go about my house, The partial Heaven, that, though I errAnd mortal am, gave all to herWho gave herself to me. Yet IBoldly thank Heaven, (and so defyThe beggarly soul'd humblenessWhich fears God's bounty to confess, )That I was fashion'd with a mindSeeming for this great gift design'd, So naturally it moved aboveAll sordid contraries of love, Strengthen'd in youth with disciplineOf light, to follow the divineVision, (which ever to the darkIs such a plague as was the arkIn Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron, ) stillDiscerning with the docile willWhich comes of full persuaded thought, That intimacy in love is noughtWithout pure reverence, whereas this, In tearfullest banishment, is bliss. And so, dearest Honoria, IHave never learn'd the weary sighOf those that to their love-feasts went, Fed, and forgot the Sacrament;And not a trifle now occursBut sweet initiation stirsOf new-discover'd joy, and lendsTo feeling change that never ends;And duties which the many irk, Are made all wages and no work. How sing of such things save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter?How the supreme rewards confessWhich crown the austere voluptuousnessOf heart, that earns, in midst of wealth, The appetite of want and health, Relinquishes the pomp of lifeAnd beauty to the pleasant WifeAt home, and does all joy despiseAs out of place but in her eyes?How praise the years and gravityThat make each favour seem to beA lovelier weakness for her lord?And, ah, how find the tender wordTo tell aright of love that glowsThe fairer for the fading rose?Of frailty which can weight the armTo lean with thrice its girlish charm?Of grace which, like this autumn day, Is not the sad one of decay, Yet one whose pale brow ponderethThe far-off majesty of death?How tell the crowd, whom a passion rends, That love grows mild as it ascends?That joy's most high and distant moodIs lost, not found in dancing blood;Albeit kind acts and smiling eyes, And all those fond realitiesWhich are love's words, in us mean moreDelight than twenty years before? How, Dearest, finish without wrongTo the speechless heart, the unfinish'd song, Its high, eventful passagesConsisting, say, of things like these:-- One morning, contrary to law, Which, for the most, we held in awe, Commanding either not to intrudeOn the other's place of solitudeOr solitary mind, for fearOf coming there when God was near, And finding so what should be knownTo Him who is merciful alone, And views the working ferment baseOf waking flesh and sleeping grace, Not as we view, our kindness check'dBy likeness of our own defect, I, venturing to her room, because(Mark the excuse!) my Birthday 'twas, Saw, here across a careless chair, A ball-dress flung, as light as air, And, here, beside a silken couch, Pillows which did the pressure vouchOf pious knees, (sweet pietyOf goodness made and charity, If gay looks told the heart's glad sense, Much rather than of penitence, )And, on the couch, an open book, And written list--I did not look, Yet just in her clear writing caught:--'Habitual faults of life and thoughtWhich most I need deliverance from. 'I turn'd aside, and saw her comeAdown the filbert-shaded way, Beautified with her usual gayHypocrisy of perfectness, Which made her heart, and mine no less, So happy! And she cried to me, 'You lose by breaking rules, you see!Your Birthday treat is now half-goneOf seeing my new ball-dress on. 'And, meeting so my lovely Wife, A passing pang, to think that lifeWas mortal, when I saw her laugh, Shaped in my mind this epitaph:'Faults had she, child of Adam's stem. But only Heaven knew of them. ' Or thus: For many a dreadful day, In sea-side lodgings sick she lay, Noteless of love, nor seem'd to hearThe sea, on one side, thundering near, Nor, on the other, the loud BallHeld nightly in the public hall;Nor vex'd they my short slumbers, thoughI woke up if she breathed too low. Thus, for three months, with terrors rife, The pending of her precious lifeI watched o'er; and the danger, at last, The kind Physician said, was past. Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks the EastBreathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased, And so she only did not die;Until the bright and blighting skyChanged into cloud, and the sick flowersRemember'd their perfumes, and showersOf warm, small rain refreshing flewBefore the South, and the Park grew, In three nights, thick with green. Then sheRevived, no less than flower and tree, In the mild air, and, the fourth day, Looked supernaturally gayWith large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone, The while I tied her bonnet on, So that I led her to the glass, And bade her see how fair she was, And how love visibly could shine. Profuse of hers, desiring mine, And mindful I had loved her mostWhen beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast, She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me, Nothing but soft humility;Nor e'er enhanced she with such charmsHer acquiescence in my arms. And, by her sweet love-weakness madeCourageous, powerful, and glad. In a clear illustration highOf heavenly affection, IPerceived that utter love is allThe same as to be rational, And that the mind and heart of love, Which think they cannot do enough, Are truly the everlasting doorsWherethrough, all unpetition'd, poursThe eternal pleasance. Wherefore weHad innermost tranquillity, And breathed one life with such a senseOf friendship and of confidence, That, recollecting the sure word:'If two of you are in accordOn earth, as touching any boonWhich ye shall ask, it shall be doneIn heaven, ' we ask'd that heaven's blissMight ne'er be any less than this;And, for that hour, we seem'd to haveThe secret of the joy we gave. How sing of such things, save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter?How read from such a homely pageIn the ear of this unhomely age?'Tis now as when the Prophet cried:'The nation hast Thou multiplied, But Thou hast not increased the joy!'And yet, ere wrath or rot destroyOf England's state the ruin fair, Oh, might I so its charm declare, That, in new Lands, in far-off years, Delighted he should cry that hears:'Great is the Land that somewhat bestWorks, to the wonder of the rest!We, in our day, have better doneThis thing or that than any one;And who but, still admiring, seesHow excellent for imagesWas Greece, for laws how wise was Rome;But read this Poet, and say if homeAnd private love did e'er so smileAs in that ancient English isle!'

XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM. 

My dearest Niece, I'm charm'd to hearThe scenery's fine at Windermere, And glad a six-weeks' wife defersIn the least to wisdom not yet hers. But, Child, I've no advice to give!Rules only make it hard to live. And where's the good of having beenWell taught from seven to seventeen, If, married, you may not leave off, And say, at last, 'I'm good enough!'Weeding out folly, still leave some. It gives both lightness and _aplomb_. We know, however wise by rule, Woman is still by nature fool;And men have sense to like her allThe more when she is natural. 'Tis true, that if we choose, we canMock to a miracle the man;But iron in the fire red hot, Though 'tis the heat, the fire 'tis not:And who, for such a feint, would pledgeThe babe's and woman's privilege, No duties and a thousand rights?Besides, defect love's flow incites, As water in a well will runOnly the while 'tis drawn upon. 'Point de culte sans mystere, ' you say, 'And what if that should die away?'Child, never fear that either couldPull from Saint Cupid's face the hood. The follies natural to eachSurpass the other's moral reach. Just think how men, with sword and gun, Will really fight, and never run;And all in sport: they would have died, For sixpence more, on the other side!A woman's heart must ever warmAt such odd ways: and so we charmBy strangeness which, the more they mark, The more men get into the dark. The marvel, by familiar life, Grows, and attaches to the wifeBy whom it grows. Thus, silly Girl, To John you'll always be the pearlIn the oyster of the universe;And, though in time he'll treat you worse, He'll love you more, you need not doubt, And never, never find you out! My Dear, I know that dreadful thoughtThat you've been kinder than you ought. It almost makes you hate him! Yet'Tis wonderful how men forget, And how a merciful ProvidenceDeprives our husbands of all senseOf kindness past, and makes them deemWe always were what now we seem. For their own good we must, you knowHowever plain the way we go, Still make it strange with stratagem;And instinct tells us that, to them, 'Tis always right to bate their price. Yet I must say they're rather nice, And, oh, so easily taken inTo cheat them almost seems a sin!And, Dearest, 'twould be most unfairTo John your feelings to compareWith his, or any man's; for sheWho loves at all loves always; he, Who loves far more, loves yet by fits, And, when the wayward wind remitsTo blow, his feelings faint and dropLike forge-flames when the bellows stop. Such things don't trouble you at allWhen once you know they're natural. My love to John; and, pray, my Dear, Don't let me see you for a year;Unless, indeed, ere then you've learn'dThat Beauties wed are blossoms turn'dTo unripe codlings, meant to dwellIn modest shadow hidden well, Till this green stage again permuteTo glow of flowers with good of fruit. I will not have my patience triedBy your absurd new-married pride, That scorns the world's slow-gather'd senseTies up the hands of Providence, Rules babes, before there's hope of one, Better than mothers e'er have done, And, for your poor particular, Neglects delights and graces farBeyond your crude and thin conceit. Age has romance almost as sweetAnd much more generous than thisOf yours and John's. With all the blissOf the evenings when you coo'd with himAnd upset home for your sole whim, You might have envied, were you wise, The tears within your Mother's eyes, Which, I dare say, you did not see. But let that pass! Yours yet will be, I hope, as happy, kind, and trueAs lives which now seem void to you. Have you not seen shop-painters pasteTheir gold in sheets, then rub to wasteFull half, and, lo, you read the name?Well, Time, my Dear, does much the sameWith this unmeaning glare of love. But, though you yet may much improve, In marriage, be it still confess'd, There's little merit at the best. Some half-a-dozen lives, indeed, Which else would not have had the need, Get food and nurture as the priceOf antedated Paradise;But what's that to the varied wantSuccour'd by Mary, your dear Aunt, Who put the bridal crown thrice by, For that of which virginity, So used, has hope? She sends her love, As usual with a proof thereof--Papa's discourse, which you, no doubt, Heard none of, neatly copied outWhilst we were dancing. All are well, Adieu, for there's the Luncheon Bell. 

THE WEDDING SERMON. 

1

 The truths of Love are like the seaFor clearness and for mystery. Of that sweet love which, startling, wakesMaiden and Youth, and mostly breaksThe word of promise to the ear, But keeps it, after many a year, To the full spirit, how shall I speak?My memory with age is weak, And I for hopes do oft suspectThe things I seem to recollect. Yet who but must remember well'Twas this made heaven intelligibleAs motive, though 'twas small the powerThe heart might have, for even an hour. To hold possession of the heightOf nameless pathos and delight!

2

 In Godhead rise, thither flow backAll loves, which, as they keep or lack. In their return, the course assign'd, Are virtue or sin. Love's every kind. Lofty or low, of spirit or sense, Desire is, or benevolence. He who is fairer, better, higherThan all His works, claims all desire, And in His Poor, His Proxies, asksOur whole benevolence: He tasks, Howbeit, His People by their powers;And if, my Children, you, for hours, Daily, untortur'd in the heart, Can worship, and time's other partGive, without rough recoils of sense, To the claims ingrate of indigence, Happy are you, and fit to beWrought to rare heights of sanctity, For the humble to grow humbler at. But if the flying spirit falls flat, After the modest spell of prayerThat saves the day from sin and care, And the upward eye a void descries, And praises are hypocrisies, And, in the soul, o'erstrain'd for grace, A godless anguish grows apace;Or, if impartial charitySeems, in the act, a sordid lie, Do not infer you cannot pleaseGod, or that He His promisesPostpones, but be content to loveNo more than He accounts enough. Account them poor enough who wantAny good thing which you can grant;And fathom well the depths of lifeIn loves of Husband and of Wife, Child, Mother, Father; simple keysTo what cold faith calls mysteries. 

3

 The love of marriage claims, aboveAll other kinds, the name of love, As perfectest, though not so highAs love which Heaven with single eyeConsiders. Equal and entire, Therein benevolence, desire, Elsewhere ill-join'd or found apart, Become the pulses of one heart, Which now contracts, and now dilates, And, both to the height exalting, matesSelf-seeking to self-sacrifice. Nay, in its subtle paradise(When purest) this one love unitesAll modes of these two opposites, All balanced in accord so richWho may determine which is which?Chiefly God's Love does in it live, And nowhere else so sensitive;For each is all that the other's eye, In the vague vast of Deity, Can comprehend and so containAs still to touch and ne'er to strainThe fragile nerves of joy. And then'Tis such a wise goodwill to menAnd politic economyAs in a prosperous State we see, Where every plot of common landIs yielded to some private handTo fence about and cultivate. Does narrowness its praise abate?Nay, the infinite of man is foundBut in the beating of its bound, And, if a brook its banks o'erpass, 'Tis not a sea, but a morass. 

4

 No giddiest hope, no wildest guessOf Love's most innocent loftinessHad dared to dream of its own worth, Till Heaven's bold sun-gleam lit the earth. Christ's marriage with the Church is more, My Children, than a metaphor. The heaven of heavens is symbol'd whereThe torch of Psyche flash'd despair. But here I speak of heights, and heightsAre hardly scaled. The best delightsOf even this homeliest passion, areIn the most perfect souls so rare, That they who feel them are as menSailing the Southern ocean, when, At midnight, they look up, and eyeThe starry Cross, and a strange skyOf brighter stars; and sad thoughts comeTo each how far he is from home. 

5

 Love's inmost nuptial sweetness seeIn the doctrine of virginity!Could lovers, at their dear wish, blend, 'Twould kill the bliss which they intend;For joy is love's obedienceAgainst the law of natural sense;And those perpetual yearnings sweetOf lives which dream that they can meetAre given that lovers never mayBe without sacrifice to layOn the high altar of true love, With tears of vestal joy. To moveFrantic, like comets to our bliss, Forgetting that we always miss, And so to seek and fly the sun, By turns, around which love should run, Perverts the ineffable delightOf service guerdon'd with full sightAnd pathos of a hopeless want, To an unreal victory's vaunt, And plaint of an unreal defeat. Yet no less dangerous misconceitMay also be of the virgin will, Whose goal is nuptial blessing still, And whose true being doth subsist, There where the outward forms are miss'd, In those who learn and keep the senseDivine of 'due benevolence, 'Seeking for aye, without alloyOf selfish thought, another's joy, And finding in degrees unknownThat which in act they shunn'd, their own. For all delights of earthly loveAre shadows of the heavens, and moveAs other shadows do; they fleeFrom him that follows them; and heWho flies, for ever finds his feetEmbraced by their pursuings sweet. 

6

 Then, even in love humane, do INot counsel aspirations high, So much as sweet and regularUse of the good in which we are. As when a man along the waysWalks, and a sudden music plays, His step unchanged, he steps in time, So let your Grace with Nature chime. Her primal forces burst, like straws, The bonds of uncongenial laws. Right life is glad as well as just, And, rooted strong in 'This I must, 'It bears aloft the blossom gayAnd zephyr-toss'd, of 'This I may;'Whereby the complex heavens rejoiceIn fruits of uncommanded choice. Be this your rule: seeking delightEsteem success the test of right;For 'gainst God's will much may be done, But nought enjoy'd, and pleasures noneExist, but, like to springs of steel, Active no longer than they feelThe checks that make them serve the soul, They take their vigour from control. A man need only keep but wellThe Church's indispensableFirst precepts, and she then allows, Nay, more, she bids him, for his spouse, Leave even his heavenly Father's awe, At times, and His immaculate law, Construed in its extremer sense. Jehovah's mild magnipotenceSmiles to behold His children playIn their own free and childish way, And can His fullest praise descryIn the exuberant libertyOf those who, having understoodThe glory of the Central Good, And how souls ne'er may match or merge, But as they thitherward converge, Take in love's innocent gladness partWith infantine, untroubled heart, And faith that, straight t'wards heaven's far Spring, Sleeps, like the swallow, on the wing. 

7

 Lovers, once married, deem their bondThen perfect, scanning nought beyondFor love to do but to sustainThe spousal hour's delighted gain. But time and a right life aloneFulfil the promise then foreshown. The Bridegroom and the Bride withalAre but unwrought materialOf marriage; nay, so far is love, Thus crown'd, from being thereto enough, Without the long, compulsive aweOf duty, that the bond of lawDoes oftener marriage-love evoke, Than love, which does not wear the yokeOf legal vows, submits to beSelf-rein'd from ruinous liberty. Lovely is love; but age well knows'Twas law which kept the lover's vowsInviolate through the year or yearsOf worship pieced with panic fears, When she who lay within his breastSeem'd of all women perhaps the best, But not the whole, of womankind, Or love, in his yet wayward mind, Had ghastly doubts its precious lifeWas pledged for aye to the wrong wife. Could it be else? A youth pursuesA maid, whom chance, not he, did choose, Till to his strange arms hurries sheIn a despair of modesty. Then, simply and without pretenceOf insight or experience, They plight their vows. The parents say'We cannot speak them yea or nay;The thing proceedeth from the Lord!'And wisdom still approves their word;For God created so these twoThey match as well as others doThat take more pains, and trust Him lessWho never fails, if ask'd, to blessHis children's helpless ignoranceAnd blind election of life's chance. Verily, choice not matters much, If but the woman's truly such, And the young man has led the lifeWithout which how shall e'er the wifeBe the one woman in the world?Love's sensitive tendrils sicken, curl'dRound folly's former stay; for 'tisThe doom of all unsanction'd blissTo mock some good that, gain'd, keeps stillThe taint of the rejected ill. 

8

 Howbeit, though both were perfect, sheOf whom the maid was prophecyAs yet lives not, and Love rebelsAgainst the law of any else;And, as a steed takes blind alarm, Disowns the rein, and hunts his harm, So, misdespairing word and actMay now perturb the happiest pact. The more, indeed, is love, the morePeril to love is now in store. Against it nothing can be doneBut only this: leave ill alone!Who tries to mend his wife succeedsAs he who knows not what he needs. He much affronts a worth as highAs his, and that equalityOf spirits in which abide the graceAnd joy of her subjected place;And does the still growth check and blurOf contraries, confusing herWho better knows what he desiresThan he, and to that mark aspiresWith perfect zeal, and a deep witWhich nothing helps but trusting it. So, loyally o'erlooking allIn which love's promise short may fallOf full performance, honour thatAs won, which aye love worketh at!It is but as the pedigreeOf perfectness which is to beThat our best good can honour claim;Yet honour to deny were shameAnd robbery: for it is the mouldWherein to beauty runs the goldOf good intention, and the propThat lifts to the sun the earth-drawn cropOf human sensibilities. Such honour, with a conduct wiseIn common things, as, not to steepThe lofty mind of love in sleepOf over much familiarness;Not to degrade its kind caress, As those do that can feel no more, So give themselves to pleasures o'er;Not to let morning-sloth destroyThe evening-flower, domestic joy;Not by uxoriousness to chillThe warm devotion of her willWho can but half her love conferOn him that cares for nought but her;--These, and like obvious prudenciesObserved, he's safest that relies, For the hope she will not always seem, Caught, but a laurel or a stream, On time; on her unsearchableLove-wisdom; on their work done well, Discreet with mutual aid; on mightOf shared affliction and delight;On pleasures that so childish beThey're 'shamed to let the children see, By which life keeps the valleys lowWhere love does naturally grow;On much whereof hearts have account, Though heads forget; on babes, chief fountOf union, and for which babes areNo less than this for them, nay farMore, for the bond of man and wifeTo the very verge of future lifeStrengthens, and yearns for brighter day, While others, with their use, decay;And, though true marriage purpose keepsOf offspring, as the centre sleepsWithin the wheel, transmitting thenceFury to the circumference, Love's self the noblest offspring is, And sanction of the nuptial kiss;Lastly, on either's primal curse, Which help and sympathy reverseTo blessings. 

9

 God, who may be wellJealous of His chief miracle, Bids sleep the meddling soul of man, Through the long process of this plan, Whereby, from his unweeting side, The Wife's created, and the Bride, That chance one of her strange, sweet sexHe to his glad life did annex, Grows more and more, by day and night, The one in the whole world oppositeOf him, and in her nature allSo suited and reciprocalTo his especial form of sense, Affection, and intelligence, That, whereas love at first had strangeRelapses into lust of change, It now finds (wondrous this, but true!)The long-accustom'd only new, And the untried common; and, whereasAn equal seeming danger wasOf likeness lacking joy and force, Or difference reaching to divorce, Now can the finish'd lover seeMarvel of me most far from me, Whom without pride he may admire, Without Narcissus' doom desire, Serve without selfishness, and love'Even as himself, ' in sense aboveNiggard 'as much, ' yea, as she isThe only part of him that's his. 

10

 I do not say love's youth returns;That joy which so divinely yearns!But just esteem of present goodShows all regret such gratitudeAs if the sparrow in her nest, Her woolly young beneath her breast, Should these despise, and sorrow forHer five blue eggs that are no more. Nor say I the fruit has quite the scopeOf the flower's spiritual hope. Love's best is service, and of this, Howe'er devout, use dulls the bliss. Though love is all of earth that's dear, Its home, my Children, is not here:The pathos of eternityDoes in its fullest pleasure sigh. Be grateful and most glad thereof. Parting, as 'tis, is pain enough. If love, by joy, has learn'd to givePraise with the nature sensitive, At last, to God, we then possessThe end of mortal happiness, And henceforth very well may waitThe unbarring of the golden gate, Wherethrough, already, faith can seeThat apter to each wish than weIs God, and curious to blessBetter than we devise or guess;Not without condescending craftTo disappoint with bliss, and waftOur vessels frail, when worst He mocksThe heart with breakers and with rocks, To happiest havens. You have heardYour bond death-sentenced by His Word. What, if, in heaven, the name be o'er, Because the thing is so much more?All are, 'tis writ, as angels there, Nor male nor female. Each a stairIn the hierarchical ascentOf active and recipientAffections, what if all are bothBy turn, as they themselves betrothTo adoring what is next above, Or serving what's below their love? Of this we are certified, that weAre shaped here for eternity, So that a careless word will makeIts dint upon the form we takeFor ever. If, then, years have wroughtTwo strangers to become, in thought. Will, and affection, but one manFor likeness, as none others can, Without like process, shall this treeThe king of all the forest, be, Alas, the only one of allThat shall not lie where it doth fall?Shall this unflagging flame, here nurs'dBy everything, yea, when reversed, Blazing, in fury, brighter, wink, Flicker, and into darkness shrink, When all else glows, baleful or brave, In the keen air beyond the grave? Beware; for fiends in triumph laughO'er him who learns the truth by half!Beware; for God will not endureFor men to make their hope more pureThan His good promise, or requireAnother than the five-string'd lyreWhich He has vow'd again to the handsDevout of him who understandsTo tune it justly here! BewareThe Powers of Darkness and the Air, Which lure to empty heights man's hope, Bepraising heaven's ethereal cope, But covering with their cloudy cantIts ground of solid adamant, That strengthens ether for the flightOf angels, makes and measures height, And in materialityExceeds our Earth's in such degreeAs all else Earth exceeds! Do IHere utter aught too dark or high?Have you not seen a bird's beak slayProud Psyche, on a summer's day?Down fluttering drop the frail wings four, Missing the weight which made them soar. Spirit is heavy nature's wing, And is not rightly anythingWithout its burthen, whereas this, Wingless, at least a maggot is, And, wing'd, is honour and delightIncreasing endlessly with height. 

11

 If unto any here that chanceFell not, which makes a month's romance, Remember, few wed whom they would. And this, like all God's laws, is good;For nought's so sad, the whole world o'er, As much love which has once been more. Glorious for light is the earliest love;But worldly things, in the rays thereof, Extend their shadows, every oneFalse as the image which the sunAt noon or eve dwarfs or protracts. A perilous lamp to light men's acts!By Heaven's kind, impartial plan, Well-wived is he that's truly manIf but the woman's womanly, As such a man's is sure to be. Joy of all eyes and pride of lifePerhaps she is not; the likelier wife!If it be thus; if you have known, (As who has not?) some heavenly one. Whom the dull background of despairHelp'd to show forth supremely fair;If memory, still remorseful, shapesYoung Passion bringing Eshcol grapesTo travellers in the Wilderness, This truth will make regret the less:Mighty in love as graces are, God's ordinance is mightier far;And he who is but just and kindAnd patient, shall for guerdon find, Before long, that the body's bondIs all else utterly beyondIn power of love to actualiseThe soul's bond which it signifies, And even to deck a wife with graceExternal in the form and face. A five years' wife, and not yet fair?Blame let the man, not Nature, bear!For, as the sun, warming a bankWhere last year's grass droops gray and dank, Evokes the violet, bids discloseIn yellow crowds the fresh primrose, And foxglove hang her flushing head, So vernal love, where all seems dead, Makes beauty abound. Then was that nought, That trance of joy beyond all thought, The vision, in one, of womanhood?Nay, for all women holding good, Should marriage such a prologue want, 'Twere sordid and most ignorantProfanity; but, having this, 'Tis honour now, and future bliss;For where is he that, knowing the heightAnd depth of ascertain'd delight, Inhumanly henceforward liesContent with mediocrities!

AMELIA. 

Whene'er mine eyes do my Amelia greetIt is with such emotionAs when, in childhood, turning a dim street, I first beheld the ocean. There, where the little, bright, surf-breathing town, That shew'd me first her beauty and the sea, Gathers its skirts against the gorse-lit downAnd scatters gardens o'er the southern lea, Abides this MaidWithin a kind, yet sombre Mother's shade, Who of her daughter's graces seems almost afraid, Viewing them ofttimes with a scared forecast, Caught, haply, from obscure love-peril past. Howe'er that be, She scants me of my right, Is cunning careful evermore to balkSweet separate talk, And fevers my delightBy frets, if, on Amelia's cheek of peach, I touch the notes which music cannot reach, Bidding 'Good-night!'Wherefore it came that, till to-day's dear date, I curs'd the weary months which yet I have to waitEre I find heaven, one-nested with my mate. To-day, the Mother gave, To urgent pleas and promise to behaveAs she were there, her long-besought consentTo trust Amelia with me to the graveWhere lay my once-betrothed, Millicent:'For, ' said she, hiding ill a moistening eye, 'Though, Sir, the word sounds hard, God makes as if He least knew how to guardThe treasure He loves best, simplicity. ' And there Amelia stood, for fairness shewnLike a young apple-tree, in flush'd arrayOf white and ruddy flow'r, auroral, gay, With chilly blue the maiden branch between;And yet to look on her moved less the mindTo say 'How beauteous!' than 'How good and kind!' And so we went aloneBy walls o'er which the lilac's numerous plumeShook down perfume;Trim plots close blownWith daisies, in conspicuous myriads seen, Engross'd each oneWith single ardour for her spouse, the sun;Garths in their glad arrayOf white and ruddy branch, auroral, gay, With azure chill the maiden flow'r between;Meadows of fervid green, With sometime sudden prospect of untoldCowslips, like chance-found gold;And broadcast buttercups at joyful gaze, Rending the air with praise, Like the six-hundred-thousand-voiced shoutOf Jacob camp'd in Midian put to rout;Then through the Park, Where Spring to livelier gloomQuicken'd the cedars dark, And, 'gainst the clear sky cold, Which shone afarCrowded with sunny alps oracular, Great chestnuts raised themselves abroad like cliffs of bloom;And everywhere, Amid the ceaseless rapture of the lark, With wonder newWe caught the solemn voice of single air, 'Cuckoo!' And when Amelia, 'bolden'd, saw and heardHow bravely sang the bird, And all things in God's bounty did rejoice, She who, her Mother by, spake seldom word, Did her charm'd silence doff, And, to my happy marvel, her dear voiceWent as a clock does, when the pendulum's off. Ill Monarch of man's heart the Maiden whoDoes not aspire to be High-Pontiff too!So she repeated soft her Poet's line, 'By grace divine, Not otherwise, O Nature, are we thine!'And I, up the bright steep she led me, trod, And the like thought pursuedWith, 'What is gladness without gratitude, And where is gratitude without a God?'And of delight, the guerdon of His laws, She spake, in learned mood;And I, of Him loved reverently, as Cause, Her sweetly, as Occasion of all good. Nor were we shy, For souls in heaven that beMay talk of heaven without hypocrisy. And now, when we drew nearThe low, gray Church, in its sequester'd dell, A shade upon me fell. Dead Millicent indeed had been most sweet, But I how little meetTo call such graces in a Maiden mine!A boy's proud passion free affection blunts;His well-meant flatteries oft are blind affronts, And many a tearWas Millicent's before I, manlier, knewThat maidens shineAs diamonds do, Which, though most clear, Are not to be seen through;And, if she put her virgin self asideAnd sate her, crownless, at my conquering feet, It should have bred in me humility, not pride. Amelia had more luck than Millicent, Secure she smiled and warm from all mischanceOr from my knowledge or my ignorance, And glow'd contentWith my--some might have thought too much--superior age, Which seem'd the gageOf steady kindness all on her intent. Thus nought forbade us to be fully blent. While, therefore, nowHer pensive footstep stirr'dThe darnell'd garden of unheedful death, She ask'd what Millicent was like, and heardOf eyes like her's, and honeysuckle breath, And of a wiser than a woman's brow, Yet fill'd with only woman's love, and howAn incidental greatness character'dHer unconsider'd ways. But all my praiseAmelia thought too slight for MillicentAnd on my lovelier-freighted arm she leant, For more attent;And the tea-rose I gave, To deck her breast, she dropp'd upon the grave. 'And this was her's, ' said I, decoring with a bandOf mildest pearls Amelia's milder hand. 'Nay, I will wear it for _her_ sake, ' she said:For dear to maidens are their rivals dead. And so, She seated on the black yew's tortured root, I on the carpet of sere shreds below, And nigh the little mound where lay that other, I kiss'd her lips three times without dispute, And, with bold worship suddenly aglow, I lifted to my lips a sandall'd foot, And kiss'd it three times thrice without dispute. Upon my head her fingers fell like snow, Her lamb-like hands about my neck she wreathed. Her arms like slumber o'er my shoulders crept, And with her bosom, whence the azalea breathed, She did my face full favourably smother, To hide the heaving secret that she wept! Now would I keep my promise to her Mother;Now I arose, and raised her to her feet, My best Amelia, fresh-born from a kiss, Moth-like, full-blown in birthdew shuddering sweet, With great, kind eyes, in whose brown shadeBright Venus and her Baby play'd! At inmost heart well pleased with one another, What time the slant sun lowThrough the plough'd field does each clod sharply shew, And softly fillsWith shade the dimples of our homeward hills, With little said, We left the 'wilder'd garden of the dead, And gain'd the gorse-lit shoulder of the downThat keeps the north-wind from the nestling town, And caught, once more, the vision of the wave, Where, on the horizon's dip, A many-sailed shipPursued alone her distant purpose grave;And, by steep steps rock-hewn, to the dim streetI led her sacred feet;And so the Daughter gave, Soft, moth-like, sweet, Showy as damask-rose and shy as musk, Back to her Mother, anxious in the dusk. And now 'Good-night!'Me shall the phantom months no more affright. For heaven's gates to open well waits heWho keeps himself the key. 

THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW. 

Perchance she droops within the hollow gulfWhich the great wave of coming pleasure draws, Not guessing the glad cause!Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go, Ye Winds that westward flow, Thou heaving SeaThat heav'st 'twixt her and me, Tell her I come;Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb;For the sweet secret of our either selfWe know. Tell her I come, And let her heart be still'd. One day's controlled hope, and then one more, And on the third our lives shall be fulfill'd!Yet all has been before:Palm placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray. What other should we say?But shall I not, with ne'er a sign, perceive, Whilst her sweet hands I hold, The myriad threads and meshes manifoldWhich Love shall round her weave:The pulse in that vein making alien pauseAnd varying beats from this;Down each long finger felt, a differing strandOf silvery welcome bland;And in her breezy palmAnd silken wrist, Beneath the touch of my like numerous blissComplexly kiss'd, A diverse and distinguishable calm?What should we say!It all has been before;And yet our lives shall now be first fulfill'd. And into their summ'd sweetness fall distill'dOne sweet drop more;One sweet drop more, in absolute increaseOf unrelapsing peace. O, heaving Sea, That heav'st as if for bliss of her and me, And separatest not dear heart from heart, Though each 'gainst other beats too far apart, For yet awhileLet it not seem that I behold her smile. O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast, Love in each moment years and years of rest, Be calm, as being not. Ye oceans of intolerable delight, The blazing photosphere of central Night, Be ye forgot. Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy, Let me not see thee toy. O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intenseOf kisses close beyond conceit of sense;O, Life, too liberal, while to take her handIs more of hope than heart can understand;Perturb my golden patience not with joy, Nor, through a wish, profaneThe peace that should pertainTo him who does by her attraction move. Has all not been before?One day's controlled hope, and one again, And then the third, and ye shall have the rein, O Life, Death, Terror, Love!But soon let your unrestful rapture cease, Ye flaming Ethers thin, Condensing till the abiding sweetness winOne sweet drop more;One sweet drop more in the measureless increaseOf honied peace. 

THE AZALEA. 

There, where the sun shines firstAgainst our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfumeShe, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed. Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom, For that their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst, Were just at point to burst. At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphereBy which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stirA dizzy somewhat in my troubled head--It _was_ the azalea's breath, and she _was_ dead!The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breastA chance-found letter press'dIn which she said, 'So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu!Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!'

DEPARTURE. 

It was not like your great and gracious ways!Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repentOf how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tellWhat made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious waysTo turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lashTo let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all daysWith not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd:'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. 

THE TOYS. 

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'dWith hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beachAnd six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebellsAnd two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clayThou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness. '

'IF I WERE DEAD. '

'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brakeFrom eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child!I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child!And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make?Poor Child, poor Child!And now, unless it beThat sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou _no_ mercy upon me!Poor Child!

A FAREWELL

With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feetAnd many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not sayThere's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyesTo see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet;The bitter journey to the bourne so sweetSeasoning the termless feast of our contentWith tears of recognition never dry. 

SPONSA DEI. 

What is this Maiden fair, The laughing of whose eyeIs in man's heart renew'd virginity:Who yet sick longing breedsFor marriage which exceedsThe inventive guess of Love to satisfyWith hope of utter binding, and of loosing endless dear despair?What gleams about her shine, More transient than delight and more divine!If she does something but a little sweet, As gaze towards the glass to set her hair, See how his soul falls humbled at her feet!Her gentle step, to go or come, Gains her more merit than a martyrdom;And, if she dance, it doth such grace conferAs opes the heaven of heavens to more than her, And makes a rival of her worshipper. To die unknown for her were little cost!So is she without guile, Her mere refused smileMakes up the sum of that which may be lost!Who is this FairWhom each hath seen, The darkest once in this bewailed dell, Be he not destin'd for the glooms of hell?Whom each hath seenAnd known, with sharp remorse and sweet, as QueenAnd tear-glad Mistress of his hopes of bliss, Too fair for man to kiss?Who is this only happy She, Whom, by a frantic flight of courtesy, Born of despairOf better lodging for his Spirit fair, He adores as Margaret, Maude, or Cecily?And what this sigh, That each one heaves for Earth's last lowliheadAnd the Heaven highIneffably lock'd in dateless bridal-bed?Are all, then, mad, or is it prophecy?'Sons now we are of God, ' as we have heard, 'But what we shall be hath not yet appear'd. 'O, Heart, remember thee, That Man is none, Save One. What if this Lady be thy Soul, and HeWho claims to enjoy her sacred beauty be, Not thou, but God; and thy sick fireA female vanity, Such as a Bride, viewing her mirror'd charms, Feels when she sighs, 'All these are for his arms!'A reflex heatFlash'd on thy cheek from His immense desire, Which waits to crown, beyond thy brain's conceit, Thy nameless, secret, hopeless longing sweet, Not by-and-by, but now, Unless deny Him thou!

THE ROSY BOSOM'D HOURS. 

A florin to the willing Guard Secured, for half the way, (He lock'd us in, ah, lucky-starr'd, ) A curtain'd, front coupe. The sparkling sun of August shone; The wind was in the West;Your gown and all that you had on Was what became you best;And we were in that seldom mood When soul with soul agrees, Mingling, like flood with equal flood, In agitated ease. Far round, each blade of harvest bare Its little load of bread;Each furlong of that journey fair With separate sweetness sped. The calm of use was coming o'er The wonder of our wealth, And now, maybe, 'twas not much more Than Eden's common health. We paced the sunny platform, while The train at Havant changed:What made the people kindly smile, Or stare with looks estranged?Too radiant for a wife you seem'd, Serener than a bride;Me happiest born of men I deem'd, And show'd perchance my pride. I loved that girl, so gaunt and tall, Who whispered loud, 'Sweet Thing!'Scanning your figure, slight yet all Round as your own gold ring. At Salisbury you stray'd alone Within the shafted glooms, Whilst I was by the Verger shown The brasses and the tombs. At tea we talk'd of matters deep, Of joy that never dies;We laugh'd, till love was mix'd with sleep Within your great sweet eyes. The next day, sweet with luck no less And sense of sweetness past, The full tide of our happiness Rose higher than the last. At Dawlish, 'mid the pools of brine, You stept from rock to rock, One hand quick tightening upon mine, One holding up your frock. On starfish and on weeds alone You seem'd intent to be:Flash'd those great gleams of hope unknown From you, or from the sea?Ne'er came before, ah, when again Shall come two days like these:Such quick delight within the brain, Within the heart such peace?I thought, indeed, by magic chance, A third from Heaven to win, But as, at dusk, we reach'd Penzance, A drizzling rain set in. 

EROS. 

Bright thro' the valley gallops the brooklet; Over the welkin travels the cloud;Touch'd by the zephyr, dances the harebell; Cuckoo sits somewhere, singing so loud;Two little children, seeing and hearing, Hand in hand wander, shout, laugh, and sing:Lo, in their bosoms, wild with the marvel, Love, like the crocus, is come ere the Spring. Young men and women, noble and tender, Yearn for each other, faith truly plight, Promise to cherish, comfort and honour; Vow that makes duty one with delight. Oh, but the glory, found in no story, Radiance of Eden unquench'd by the Fall;Few may remember, none may reveal it, This the first first-love, the first love of all!

FOOTNOTES:

{1} Written in 1856.