The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 1

The Victories of Love.

by Coventry Patmore.

Edited by Henry Morley.

INTRODUCTION

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

I have only, in the name of the readers, to thank Mr. Coventry Patmore for his liberality, and wish him--say, rather, a.s.sure him of--the best return 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 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 sanct.i.ty 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, a.s.sured 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 b.u.t.terfly, 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 gra.s.s Through which the unfenced footways pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.s, 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 appet.i.te 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d.

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 s.h.i.+ne.

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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me.

III. FROM FREDERICK.

The mult.i.tude of voices blithe Of early day, the hissing scythe Across the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peac.o.c.k 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 sh.o.r.e against the wind That flings the sprinkling surf behind; In port the bickering pennons show Which way the s.h.i.+ps would gladly go; Through Edgec.u.mb Park the rooted trees Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze; On top of Edgec.u.mb'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 s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sion towards her, Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart.

But, Mother, I shall go on sh.o.r.e, 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 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?