The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 11

There, where the sun s.h.i.+nes first Against our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume She, 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 G.o.d, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, G.o.d, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed.

Till 'gan to stir A 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 breast A chance-found letter press'd In 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, repent Of 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 tell What 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 ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To 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 days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pa.s.s'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

THE TOYS.

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With 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 yet From 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 gla.s.s abraded by the beach And six or seven sh.e.l.ls, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd To G.o.d, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay Thou'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 brake From 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 be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O G.o.d, 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 feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West.

We will not say There'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 eyes To 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 sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

SPONSA DEI.

What is this Maiden fair, The laughing of whose eye Is in man's heart renew'd virginity: Who yet sick longing breeds For marriage which exceeds The inventive guess of Love to satisfy With hope of utter binding, and of loosing endless dear despair?

What gleams about her s.h.i.+ne, More transient than delight and more divine!

If she does something but a little sweet, As gaze towards the gla.s.s 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 confer As opes the heaven of heavens to more than her, And makes a rival of her wors.h.i.+pper.

To die unknown for her were little cost!

So is she without guile, Her mere refused smile Makes up the sum of that which may be lost!

Who is this Fair Whom each hath seen, The darkest once in this bewailed dell, Be he not destin'd for the glooms of h.e.l.l?

Whom each hath seen And known, with sharp remorse and sweet, as Queen And 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 despair Of 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 lowlihead And the Heaven high Ineffably lock'd in dateless bridal-bed?

Are all, then, mad, or is it prophecy?

'Sons now we are of G.o.d,' 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 He Who claims to enjoy her sacred beauty be, Not thou, but G.o.d; and thy sick fire A female vanity, Such as a Bride, viewing her mirror'd charms, Feels when she sighs, 'All these are for his arms!'

A reflex heat Flash'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 bra.s.ses and the tombs.