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Coventry Patmore - The Victories Of Love. Book ICoventry Patmore - The Victories Of Love. Book I
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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 days               At 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 she               The bloom of life provoked in me;               And, hard till then and selfish, I               Was thenceforth nought but sanctity                  And service: life was mere delight               In 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 shriek               Startled the light-leaved wood; on high               Wander`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 grass               Through which the unfenced footways pass,               Was law, and that which keeps the law,               Cherubic gaiety and awe;               Day was her doing, and the lark               Had reason for his song; the dark               In anagram innumerous spelt               Her name with stars that throbb`d and felt;               `Twas the sad summit of delight               To wake and weep for her at night;               She turn`d to triumph or to shame               The strife of every childish game;               The heart would come into my throat               At 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`d               In her a centre of unrest,                  Yea, stocks and stones within me bred               Anxieties of joy and dread.               O, bright apocalyptic sky               O`erarching childhood! Far and nigh               Mystery and obscuration none,               Yet nowhere any moon or sun!               What reason for these sighs? What hope,               Daunting with its audacious scope               The disconcerted heart, affects               These 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 behold               The city they desire to sack,               Humbly begin their proud attack               By delving ditches two miles off,               Aware how the fair place would scoff               At hasty wooing; but, O child,               Why thus approach thy playmate mild?               One morning, when it flush`d my thought               That, what in me such wonder wrought               Was call`d, in men and women, love,               And, sick with vanity thereof,               I, saying loud, ‘I love her,’ told               My secret to myself, behold               A crisis in my mystery!               For, suddenly, I seem`d to be               Whirl`d round, and bound with showers of threads               As when the furious spider sheds               Captivity upon the fly               To still his buzzing till he die;               Only, with me, the bonds that flew,               Enfolding, thrill`d me through and through               With 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 day               Glad was I as I went her way.               I stretch`d my arms to the sky, and sprang                 O`er the elastic sod, and sang                 ‘I love her, love her!’ to an air                 Which with the words came then and there;                 And even now, when I would know                 All was not always dull and low,                 I mind me awhile of the sweet strain                 Love taught me in that lonely lane.                 Such glories fade, with no more mark                 Than when the sunset dies to dark.                 They pass, the rapture and the grace                 Ineffable, their only trace                 A heart which, having felt no less                 Than pure and perfect happiness,                 Is duly dainty of delight;                 A patient, poignant appetite                 For pleasures that exceed so much                 The poor things which the world calls such,                 That, when these lure it, then you may                 The lion with a wisp of hay.                 That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew                 From Anne but by her ribbons blue,                 Was loved, Anne less than look`d at, shows                 That liking still by favour goes!                 This Love is a Divinity,                 And holds his high election free                 Of 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 smiles                 Like 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 appears                 Like sunshine through the shower`s bright tears;                 Mildred`s of Earth, yet happier far                 Than most men`s thoughts of Heaven are;                 But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth                 Seal`d amity in her sweet birth.                 The noble Girl! With whom she talks                 She knights first with her smile; she walks,                 Stands, dances, to such sweet effect,                 Alone she seems to move erect.                 The brightest and the chastest brow                 Rules o`er a cheek which seems to show                 That love, as a mere vague suspense                 Of apprehensive innocence,                 Perturbs her heart; love without aim                 Or object, like the sunlit flame                 That in the Vestals` Temple glow`d,                 Without the image of a god.                 And this simplicity most pure                 She sets off with no less allure                 Of culture, subtly skill`d to raise                 The power, the pride, and mutual praise                 Of human personality                 Above the common sort so high,                 It makes such homely souls as mine                 Marvel how brightly life may shine.                 How you would love her! Even in dress                 She makes the common mode express                 New knowledge of what`s fit so well                 `Tis virtue gaily visible!                 Nay, but her silken sash to me                 Were more than all morality,                    Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill                 Left me the master of my will!                 So, Mother, feel at rest, and please                 To send my books on board. With these,                 When I go hence, all idle hours                 Shall help my pleasures and my powers.                 I`ve time, you know, to fill my post,                 And yet make up for schooling lost                 Through young sea-service. They all speak                 German 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 led                 With these my friends; and sweet `twill be                 To abridge the space from them to me. II From Mrs. Graham                 My Child, Honoria Churchill sways                 A double power through Charlotte Hayes.                 In minds to first-love`s memory pledged                 The second Cupid`s born full-fledged.                 I saw, and trembled for the day                 When you should see her beauty, gay                 And pure as apple-blooms, that show                 Outside a blush and inside snow,                 Her high and touching elegance                 Of 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 hears                 The music of forefended spheres,                 Is thenceforth lonely, and for all                 His days like one who treads the Wall                 Of China, and, on this hand, sees                 Cities 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 you                 Should 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 find                 You 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 blythe                 Of early day, the hissing scythe                 Across the dew drawn and withdrawn,                 The noisy peacock on the lawn,                 These, and the sun`s eye-gladding gleam,                 This morning, chased the sweetest dream                 That e`er shed penitential grace                 On life`s forgetful commonplace;                 Yet `twas no sweeter than the spell                 To which I woke to say farewell.                 Noon finds me many a mile removed                 From 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 slay                 Who blunders from a poor byway,                 To covet beauty with a crown                 Of earthly blessing added on;                 And she`s so much, it seems to me,                 Beyond all women womanly,                 I dread to think how he should fare                 Who came so near as to despair. IV From Frederick                 Yonder the sombre vessel rides                 Where my obscure condition hides.                 Waves scud to shore against the wind                 That flings the sprinkling surf behind;                 In port the bickering pennons show                 Which way the ships would gladly go;                 Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees                 Are 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 adjust                 To every veering of the gust:                 By me alone may nought be given                 To 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 man                 Longs to lay down his life! How can                 Aught to itself seem thus enough,                 When I have so much need thereof?                 Blest in her place, blissful is she;                 And I, departing, seem to be                 Like the strange waif that comes to run                 A few days flaming near the sun,                 And carries back, through boundless night,                 Its lessening memory of light.                 Oh, my dear Mother, I confess                 To a deep grief of homelessness,                    Unfelt, save once, before. `Tis years                 Since such a shower of girlish tears                 Disgraced 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 go                 To-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 rule                 Which only ask`d to be obey`d,                 I lay and wept, of dawn afraid,                 And thought, with bursting heart, of one                 Who, from her little, wayward son,                 Required obedience, but above                 Obedience still regarded love,                 So change I that enchanting place,                 The abode of innocence and grace                 And gaiety without reproof,                 For the black gun-deck`s louring roof,                 Blind and inevitable law                 Which makes light duties burdens, awe                 Which is not reverence, laughters gain`d                 At cost of purities profaned,                 And whatsoever most may stir                 Remorseful passion towards her,                 Whom to behold is to depart                 From 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.                 l`ve torn and cast those words away.                 Surely there`s hope! For life `tis well                 Love without hope`s impossible;                 So, if I love, it is that hope                 Is not outside the outer scope                    Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour                 I 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 sphere                 In which I`m held but while she`s dear?                 For daily life`s dull, senseless mood,                 Slay the fine nerves of gratitude                 And sweet allegiance, which I owe                 Whether the debt be weal or woe?                 Nay, Mother, I, forewarn`d, prefer                 To want for all in wanting her.                 For all? Love`s best is not bereft                 Ever from him to whom is left                 The trust that God will not deceive                 His creature, fashion`d to believe                 The prophecies of pure desire.                 Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.                 A mystery does my heart foretell;                 Nor do I press the oracle                 For explanations. Leave me alone,                 And let in me love`s will be done. V From Frederick                 Fashion`d by Heaven and by art                 So is she, that she makes the heart                 Ache and o`erflow with tears, that grace                 So lovely fair should have for place,                 (Deeming itself at home the while,)                 The unworthy earth! To see her smile                    Amid this waste of pain and sin,                 As only knowing the heaven within,                 Is sweet, and does for pity stir                 Passion 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 Thine                 To 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 spray                 And tumult, as, once more to-day,                 For long farewell did I draw near                 My Cousin, desperately dear.                 Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none                 Gleam`d like the lightning in the sun;                 Yet hope I had, and joy thereof.                 The father of love is hope, (though love                 Lives orphan`d on, when hope is dead,)                 And, out of my immediate dread                 And 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 think                 What cup of life I sought to drink!                 The bold, said I, have climb`d to bliss                 Absurd, impossible, as this,                 With nought to help them but so great                 A 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 be                 That she will wait, when she shall see,                 This evening, how I go to get,                 By means unknown, I know not yet                 Quite what, but ground whereon to stand,                 And plead more plainly for her hand!                 And so I raved, and cast in hope                 A superstitious horoscope!                 And still, though something in her face                 Portended ‘No!’ with such a grace                 It burthen`d me with thankfulness,                 Nothing was credible but ‘Yes.’                 Therefore, through time`s close pressure bold,                 I praised myself, and boastful told                 My deeds at Acre; strain`d the chance                 I had of honour and advance                 In war to come; and would not see                 Sad silence meant, ‘What`s this to me.’                 When half my precious hour was gone,                 She rose to greet a Mr. Vaughan;                 And, as the image of the moon                 Breaks up, within some still lagoon                 That feels the soft wind suddenly,                 Or tide fresh flowing from the sea,                 And turns to giddy flames that go                 Over the water to and fro,                 Thus, when he took her hand to-night,                 Her lovely gravity of light                 Was scatter`d into many smiles                 And flattering weakness. Hope beguiles                 No more my heart, dear Mother. He,                 By jealous looks, o`erhonour`d me.                 With nought to do, and fondly fain                 To 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`d                 And fallen upon her neck, and wept,                 And said, ‘My friend, I owe you all                 ‘I am, and have, and hope for. Call                 ‘For some poor service; let me prove                 ‘To 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 right                 ‘That never Saint yet scaled the stairs                 ‘Of heaven with more availing prayers!’                 But this (and, as good God shall bless                 Somehow 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 send                 I shall not want, and so return.                 Give them away, or sell, or burn.                 I`ll write from Malta. Would I might                 But 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 doff                 Their pride to smooth success, and scoff                 At far more noble fire and might                 That 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, beware                 Of nourishing, for zest, despair.                 My Child, remember, you have twice                 Heartily loved; then why not thrice,                 Or ten times? But a wise man shuns                 To cry ‘All`s over,’ more than once.                 I`ll not say that a young man`s soul                 Is scarcely measure of the whole                 Earthly and heavenly universe,                 To which he inveterately prefers                 The one beloved woman. Best                 Speak to the senses` interest,                 Which brooks no mystery nor delay:                 Frankly reflect, my Son, and say,                 Was there no secret hour, of those                 Pass`d at her side in Sarum Close,                 When, to your spirit`s sick alarm,                 It seem`d that all her marvellous charm                 Was marvellously fled? Her grace                 Of voice, adornment, movement, face                 Was what already heart and eye                 Had ponder`d to satiety;                 And 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 thence                 The 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 stay                 And lift the whole of after-life,                 Unless you take the vision to wife,                 Which then seems lost, or serves to slake                 Desire, as when a lovely lake                 Far off scarce fills the exulting eye                 Of one athirst, who comes thereby,                 And inappreciably sips                 The deep, with disappointed lips.                 To fail is sorrow, yet confess                 That love pays dearly for success!                 No blame to beauty! Let`s complain                 Of the heart, which can so ill sustain                 Delight. Our griefs declare our fall,                 But how much more our joys! They pall                 With plucking, and celestial mirth                 Can 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 pride                 To have this woman for a bride.                 Whate`er her faults, she`s one of those                 To whom the world`s last polish owes                 A novel grace, which all who aspire                 To 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 loneliness                 Breeds love, society success!                    Though young, `twere now o`er late in life                 To train yourself for such a wife;                 So she would suit herself to you,                 As women, when they marry, do.                 For, since `tis for our dignity                 Our lords should sit like lords on high,                 We willingly deteriorate                 To a step below our rulers` state;                 And `tis the commonest of things                 To see an angel, gay with wings,                 Lean weakly on a mortal`s arm!                 Honoria would put off the charm                 Of lofty grace that caught your love,                 For fear you should not seem above                 Herself 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 name                 With 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 come                 The knowledge of the narrow home!                 Far fly from her dear face, that shows                 The sunshine lovelier than the rose,                 The sordid gravity they wear                 Who poverty`s base burthen bear!                    (And all are poor who come to miss                 Their 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 yield                 With grace as much as any man,                 In such cause, to another can.                 Had she been mine, it seems to me                 That I had that integrity                 And only joy in her delight—                 But each is his own favourite                 In love! The thought to bring me rest                 Is that of us she takes the best.                 `Twas but to see him to be sure                 That choice for her remain`d no more!                 His brow, so gaily clear of craft;                 His wit, the timely truth that laugh`d                 To find itself so well express`d;                 His words, abundant yet the best;                 His spirit, of such handsome show                 You mark`d not that his looks were so;                 His bearing, prospects, birth, all these                 Might well, with small suit, greatly please;                 How greatly, when she saw arise                 The reflex sweetness of her eyes                 In his, and every breath defer                 Humbly its bated life to her;                 Whilst power and kindness of command,                 Which women can no more withstand                 Than we their grace, were still unquell`d,                 And force and flattery both compell`d                 Her softness! Say I`m worthy. I                 Grew, in her presence, cold and shy.                    It awed me, as an angel`s might                 In raiment of reproachful light.                 Her gay looks told my sombre mood                 That what`s not happy is not good;                 And, just because `twas life to please,                 Death to repel her, truth and ease                 Deserted me; I strove to talk,                 And stammer`d foolishness; my walk                 Was like a drunkard`s; if she took                 My arm, it stiffen`d, ached, and shook:                 A likely wooer! Blame her not;                 Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught                 Against that perfectness which is                 My strength, as once it was my bliss.                 And do not chafe at social rules.                 Leave that to charlatans and fools.                 Clay graffs and clods conceive the rose,                 So base still fathers best. Life owes                 Itself to bread; enough thereof                 And easy days condition love;                 And, kindly train`d, love`s roses thrive,                 No more pale, scentless petals five,                 Which moisten the considerate eye                 To see what haste they make to die,                 But heavens of colour and perfume,                 Which, month by month, renew the bloom                 Of art-born graces, when the year                 In all the natural grove is sere.                 Blame nought then! Bright let be the air                 About 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 still                 Which carefullest duty cannot fill.                 What though the inaugural hour of right                 Comes ever with a keen delight?                 Little relieves the labour`s heat;                 Disgust oft crowns it when complete;                 And life, in fact, is not less dull                 For being very dutiful.                 ‘The stately homes of England,’ lo,                 ‘How beautiful they stand!’ They owe                 How much to nameless things like me                 Their beauty of security!                 But who can long a low toil mend                 By looking to a lofty end?                 And let me, since `tis truth, confess                 The 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 fly                 The 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 gulf                 With friends, the pictures of myself.                    Then marvel not that I recur                 From each and all of these to her.                 For more of heaven than her have I                 No sensitive capacity.                 Had I but her, ah, what the gain                 Of owning aught but that domain!                 Nay, heaven`s extent, however much,                 Cannot be more than many such;                 And, she being mine, should God to me                 Say ‘Lo! my Child, I give to thee                 All heaven besides,’ what could I then,                 But, as a child, to Him complain                 That whereas my dear Father gave                 A little space for me to have                 In His great garden, now, o`erblest,                 I`ve that, indeed, but all the rest,                 Which, somehow, makes it seem I`ve got                 All but my only cared-for plot.                 Enough was that for my weak hand                 To tend, my heart to understand.                 Oh, the sick fact, `twixt her and me                 There`s naught, and half a world of sea. IX From Frederick                 In two, in less than two hours more                 I set my foot on English shore,                 Two years untrod, and, strange to tell,                 Nigh miss`d through last night`s storm! There fell                 A man from the shrouds, that roar`d to quench                 Even the billows` blast and drench.                    Besides me none was near to mark                 His loud cry in the louder dark,                 Dark, save when lightning show`d the deeps                 Standing about in stony heaps.                 No time for choice! A rope; a flash                 That flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash;                 A strange, inopportune delight                 Of mounting with the billowy might,                 And falling, with a thrill again                 Of pleasure shot from feet to brain;                 And both paced deck, ere any knew                 Our peril. Round us press`d the crew,                 With wonder in the eyes of most.                 As if the man who had loved and lost                 Honoria 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 piece                 Of coral or of ambergris,                 Which, boasted of abroad, we ignore                 The burden of the barren shore.                 I seldom write, for `twould be still                 Of how the nerves refuse to thrill;                 How, throughout doubly-darken`d days,                 I cannot recollect her face;                 How to my heart her name to tell                 Is 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 dense                 Of waking life`s dull somnolence.                 I see her as I knew her, grace                 Already glory in her face;                    I move about, I cannot rest,                 For the proud brain and joyful breast                 I 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 blurs                 To 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 thrids the maze;                 Our thoughts are lovely, and each word                 Is music in the music heard,                 And all things seem but parts to be                 Of one persistent harmony.                 By which I`m made divinely bold;                 The secret, which she knows, is told;                 And, laughing with a lofty bliss                 Of 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 witchery                 ‘It seems you kiss her, `tis not she;                 ‘But, whilst you languish at the side                 ‘Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride,                 ‘Surely a dragon and strong tower                 ‘Guard the true lady in her bower.’                 And I say, ‘Dear my Lord, Amen!’                 And the true lady kiss again.                    Or else some wasteful malady                 Devours 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 vow                 ‘I 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 sent                 About the sounding firmament                 In smitings as of silver bars;                 The bright disorder of the stars                 Is solved by music; far and near,                 Through infinite distinctions clear,                 Their twofold voices` deeper tone                 Utters the Name which all things own,                 And each ecstatic treble dwells                 On 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 quells                 My constancy, or, simply wroth                 With such a wretch, accept my troth                 To spite him; or her beauty`s gone,                 (And that`s my dream!) and this man Vaughan                    Takes 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 amiss                 I read her words and looks, and his,                 That night! Did not his jealousy                 Show—Good my God, and can it be                 That 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 roars                 Along the sacred English shores!                 There lies the lovely land I know,                 Where men and women lordliest grow;                 There peep the roofs where more than kings                 Postpone state cares to country things,                 And many a gay queen simply tends                 The babes on whom the world depends;                 There curls the wanton cottage smoke                 Of him that drives but bears no yoke;                 There laughs the realm where low and high                 Are 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!                 —Mother, since this was penn`d, I`ve read                 That ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed                 ‘The beautiful Miss Churchill.’ So                 That`s over; and to-morrow I go                 To take up my new post on board                 The ‘Wolf,’ my peace at last restored;                    My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak,                 Shock-season`d. Grief is now the cloak                 I clasp about me to prevent                 The deadly chill of a content                 With any near or distant good,                 Except the exact beatitude                 Which love has shown to my desire.                 Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’                 I hate and disavow all bliss                 As none for me which is not this.                 Think not I blasphemously cope                 With 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 more                 The heaven of heavens of such a Bride,                 But, lounging, lets her please his pride                 With fondness, guerdons her caress                 With little names, and turns a tress                 Round 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 me                 Her 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 aver                 That 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 late                 I 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 stress                 Of 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 sweet                 Out of the picturing dark; I meet                 The ancient frankness of her gaze,                 That soft and heart-surprising blaze                 Of great goodwill and innocence,                 And perfect joy proceeding thence!                 Ah! made for earth`s delight, yet such                 The mid-sea air`s too gross to touch.                 At thought of which, the soul in me                 Is 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 sleep                 Amidst 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 desire                 The only good; the sacred fire                 That 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 I                 ‘Will give you peace; go and profane                 ‘This pangful love, so pure, so vain,                 ‘And thereby win forgetfulness                 ‘And pardon of the spirit`s excess,                 ‘Which soar`d too nigh that jealous Heaven                 ‘Ever, save thus, to be forgiven.                 ‘No Gospel has come down that cures                 ‘With 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 smile                 ‘That aught with such a measure vile                 ‘As 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, graff love divine                 ‘On the lopp`d stock of love like thine;                 ‘The wild tree dies not, but converts.                 ‘So be it; but the lopping hurts,                 ‘The graff takes tardily! Men stanch                 ‘Meantime with earth the bleeding branch,                    ‘There`s nothing heals one woman`s loss,                 ‘And lighten`s life`s eternal cross                 ‘With 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 dispel                 The 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,
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