The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 2

IX. FROM FREDERICK.

In two, in less than two hours more I set my foot on English sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 threads 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!'

G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 sh.o.r.es!

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! {1} --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 beat.i.tude 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 G.o.d'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 wards.h.i.+p 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, G.o.d! oh, G.o.d!

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 sanct.i.ty to sin!

'Tis crime henceforward to desire The only good; the sacred fire That sunn'd the universe is h.e.l.l!

I hear a Voice which argues well: 'The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry; Fall down and wors.h.i.+p 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 sanct.i.ty the priests reprove; Your case of grief they wholly miss; The Man of Sorrows names not this.

The years, they say, graft 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 graft takes tardily! Men stanch Meantime with earth the bleeding branch.

There's nothing heals one woman's loss, And lightens 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 h.e.l.l.

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 snow And powerful as the avalanche, She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance!

She smiled, surprised. They came to see The s.h.i.+p, 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 sun But men might live cool lives thereon!

All's well; for I have seen arise That reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and watch'd his breath defer Humbly its bated life to her, His _wife_. My Love, she's safe in his Devotion! What ask'd I but this?

They bade adieu; I saw them go Across the sea; and now I know The 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 I Loved most, and so, by claim divine, Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sort As may subsist in the holy court, Where, if there are all kinds of joys To exhaust the mult.i.tude of choice In many mansions, then there are Loves personal and particular, Conspicuous in the glorious sky Of universal charity, As Phosphor in the sunrise. Now I've seen them, I believe their vow Immortal; and the dreadful thought, That he less honour'd than he ought Her sanct.i.ty, 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 cope Unburthen'd even by a hope; And peace unspeakable, a joy Which hope would deaden and destroy, Like suns.h.i.+ne fills the airy gulf Left by the vanis.h.i.+ng of self.

That I have known her; that she moves Somewhere all-graceful; that she loves, And is belov'd, and that she's so Most happy, and to heaven will go, Where I may meet with her, (yet this I count but accidental bliss,) And that the full, celestial weal Of all shall sensitively feel The partners.h.i.+p and work of each, And thus my love and labour reach Her region, there the more to bless Her last, consummate happiness, Is guerdon up to the degree Of that alone true loyalty Which, sacrificing, is not nice About 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 n.o.bler pa.s.sion of an hour Was 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 mouth Worse fever shows than heat or drouth.

Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fear Against 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 eased To meet with her who can be pleased To proffer kindness, amid compute His acquiescence for pursuit; Who troubles not his lonely mood; And asks for love mere grat.i.tude.

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 plea For 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 caught By graces he himself had taught.

And fancy not 'tis in the might Of man to do without delight; For, should you in her nothing find To exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul would deaden useless wings With wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroy Even 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 given That scorns a good which is not heaven; My Child, who used to sit and sigh Under the bright, ideal sky, And pa.s.s, to spare the farmer's wheat, The poppy and the meadow-sweet!

He would not let his wife's heart ache For what was mainly his mistake; But, having err'd so, all his force Would fix upon the hard, right course.

She's graceless, say, yet good and true, And therefore inly fair, and, through The veils which inward beauty fold, Faith can her loveliness behold.

Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls away Without the ceremonial stay Of outward loveliness and awe.

The weightier matters of the law She pays: mere mint and c.u.min not; And, in the road that she was taught, She treads, and takes for granted still Nature's immedicable ill; So never wears within her eyes A false report of paradise, Nor ever modulates her mirth With vain compa.s.sion of the earth, Which made a certain happier face Affecting, and a gayer grace With pathos delicately edged!

Yet, though she be not privileged To 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 you Than being loved, and she commands All tenderness she understands.

It is but when you proffer more The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore.

It's weary work enforcing love On one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowlihead Of ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes Of Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived.

Alas, alas!