The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 3

Then wait the mood In which a woman may be woo'd Whose thoughts and habits are too high For honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allow The 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 move The 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 waste Of 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 brood Of 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 find Her 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 receive The honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justify Expectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incur Compulsion to keep up with her.

XII. FROM FREDERICK.

Your letter, Mother, bears the date Of 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 dense On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense.

I grew so idle, so despised Myself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on sh.o.r.e, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'd For such slight came,--if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the light Of English headlands in the sun,-- That soon I deem'd 'twere better done To lay this poor, complaining wraith Of unreciprocated faith: And so, with heart still bleeding quick.

But strengthen'd by the comfort sick Of 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 be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo.

Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what I meant to have proposed.

And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gain Is very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing not My 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 each Lies quite beyond the other's reach And recognition.

If you say, Am I contented? Yea and nay!

For what's base but content to grow With less good than the best we know?

But think me not from life withdrawn.

By pa.s.sion for a hope that's gone, So far as to forget how much A 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 kiss And 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, before My Cousin's time, 'tis now so sore A treason to the abiding throne Of that sweet love which I have known, I cannot live so, and I bend My mind perforce to comprehend That He who gives command to love Does not require a thing above The strength He gives. The highest degree Of the hardest grace, humility; The step t'ward heaven the latest trod, And that which makes us most like G.o.d, And us much more than G.o.d behoves, Is, to be humble in our loves.

Henceforth for ever therefore I Renounce all partiality Of pa.s.sion. Subject to control Of that perspective of the soul Which G.o.d Himself p.r.o.nounces 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 dear Than all as she is much more near!

I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comes Ever from self-love's martyrdoms!

Yet, not to lie for G.o.d, 'tis true That 'twas another joy I knew When freighted was my heart with fire Of fond, irrational desire For fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms.

Nor wrong I any, if I profess That care for heaven with me were less But that I'm utterly imbued With faith of all Earth's hope renew'd In realms where no short-coming pains Expectance, and dear love disdains Time's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the gloss Of 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 aches To be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low!

That and the mortal element Forbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn b.u.t.terfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky.

But perilous is the lofty mood Which cannot yoke with lowly good.

Right life, for me, is life that wends By lowly ways to lofty ends.

I will perceive, at length, that haste T'ward heaven itself is only waste; And thus I dread the impatient spur Of 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 free All things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with tunings that are But little noted. Do not mar For me your peace! My health is high.

The proud possession of mine eye Departed, I am much like one Who had by haughty custom grown To think gilt rooms, and s.p.a.cious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds.

Fine linen, and an eider bed As 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 thereto Weeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself.

Yet the sun s.h.i.+nes; the country green Has many riches, poorly seen From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat Goes well with thrift in what they eat; And there's amends for much bereft In better thanks for much that's left!

Jane is not fair, yet pleases well The eye in which no others dwell; And features somewhat plainly set, And homely manners leave her yet The crowning boon and most express Of Heaven's inventive tenderness, A woman. But I do her wrong, Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue!

She has a handsomeness that pays No homage to the hourly gaze, And dwells not on the arch'd brow's height And lids which softly lodge the light, Nor in the pure field of the cheek Flow'rs, though the soul be still to seek; But shows as fits that solemn place Whereof the window is the face: Blankness and leaden outlines mark What time the Church within is dark: Yet view it on a Festal night, Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seen A special character to mean Of Saint or Prophet, and the whole Blank window is a living scroll.

For hours, the clock upon the shelf, Has all the talking to itself; But to and fro her needle runs Twice, 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 stroke The 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 clear Of 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 force With foolish envy and remorse.

I love this woman, but I might Have loved some else with more delight; And strange it seems of G.o.d that He Should 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 moan A kind tradition overthrown, And dawning promise once more dead In the pernicious lowlihead Of not aspiring to be fair.

And what am I, that I should dare Dispute with G.o.d, who moulds one clay To honour and shame, and wills to pay With equal wages them that delve About His vines one hour or twelve!

XIII. FROM LADY c.l.i.tHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.

I've dreadful news, my Sister dear!

Frederick has married, as we hear, Oh, _such_ a girl! This fact we get From Mr. Barton, whom we met At Abury once. He used to know, At Race and Hunt, Lord c.l.i.theroe, And writes that he 'has seen Fred Graham, Commander of the Wolf,--the same The Mess call'd Joseph,--with his Wife Under his arm.' He 'lays his life, The fellow married her for love, For there was nothing else to move.

H is her s.h.i.+bboleth. 'Tis said Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.'

Poor Fred! What _will_ Honoria say?

She thought so highly of him. Pray Tell 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 grew On 'worldliness,' when once I said I fancied that, in ladies, Fred Had tastes much better than his means!

His hand was worthy of a Queen's, Said she, and actually shed tears The 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 weatherc.o.c.ks 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 whim To 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 relegate Their pleasures, vanities, and state To _us_. Their nature seems to be To 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 far Is finding what their colours are.

The next is, not to let them know The reason why they love us so.

The indolent droop of a blue shawl, Or gray silk's fluctuating fall, Covers the mult.i.tude of sins In me. _Your_ husband, Love, might wince At azure, and be wild at slate, And yet do well with chocolate.

Of course you'd let him fancy he Adored you for your piety.

XIV. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER.

Dear Mother, as you write, I see How glad and thankful I should be For such a husband. Yet to tell The 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 wrong I've done and thought my whole life long!

I'm grown so dull and dead with fear That Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quite Unlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him come To 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 behave To 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 strain The way he has of treating me As if 'twas something fine to be A woman; and appearing not To notice any faults I've got!

I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid and ignorant, and all Awkward 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 life To dress her out for him, and make Her 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 all The servants were asleep; and hear At dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seen And noticed her, and ask'd who was That lady in the golden gauze?

And then to go to bed, and lie In a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd.

Pray burn this letter. I would not Complain, but for the fear I've got Of going wild, as we hear tell Of people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. He Must never know he is loved by me The most; he'd think himself to blame; And I should almost die for shame.

If being good would serve instead Of being graceful, ah, then, Fred-- But I, myself, I never could See what's in women's being good; For all their goodness is to do Just 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 know But that the very darkest place May be the scene of saving grace!

XV. FROM FREDERICK.

'How did I feel?' The little wight Fill'd me, unfatherly, with fright!