The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 4

So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, There came, minute, remote, the cry, Piercing, of original pain.

I put the wonder back to Jane, And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I, Of strangers still by nature shy, Was not familiar quite so soon With her small friend of many a moon.

But, when the new-made Mother smiled, She seem'd herself a little child, Dwelling at large beyond the law By which, till then, I judged and saw; And that fond glow which she felt stir For it, suffused my heart for her; To whom, from the weak babe, and thence To me, an influent innocence, Happy, reparative of life, Came, and she was indeed my wife, As there, lovely with love she lay, Brightly contented all the day To hug her sleepy little boy, In the reciprocated joy Of touch, the childish sense of love, Ever inquisitive to prove Its strange possession, and to know If the eye's report be really so.

XVI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Dear Mother,--such if you'll allow, In _love_, not _law_, I'll call you now,-- I hope you're well. I write to say Frederick has got, besides his pay, A good appointment in the Docks; Also to thank you for the frocks And shoes for Baby. I, (D.V.,) Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to sea No more. I _am_ so glad; because, Though kinder husband never was, He seems still kinder to become The more he stays with me at home.

When we are parted, I see plain He's dull till he gets used again To marriage. Do not tell him, though; I would not have him know I know, For all the world.

I try to mind All your advice; but sometimes find I do not well see how. I thought To take it about dress; so bought A gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl; But Frederick was not pleased at all; For, though he smiled, and said, 'How smart!'

I feel, you know, what's in his heart.

But I shall learn! I fancied long That care in dress was very wrong, Till Frederick, in his startling way, When I began to blame, one day, The Admiral's Wife, because we hear She spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and said How all things deck themselves that wed; How birds and plants grow fine to please Each other in their marriages; And how (which certainly is true-- It never struck me--did it you?) Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, And has much Scripture countenance.

For Eliezer, we are told, Adorn'd with jewels and with gold Rebecca. In the Psalms, again, How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then, The Good Wife in the Proverbs, she Made herself clothes of tapestry, Purple and silk: and there's much more I had not thought about before!

But Fred's so clever! Do you know, Since Baby came, he loves me so!

I'm really useful, now, to Fred; And none could do so well instead.

It's nice to fancy, if I died, He'd miss me from the Darling's side!

Also, there's something now, you see, On which we talk, and quite agree; On which, without pride too, I can Hope I'm as wise as any man.

I should be happy now, if quite Sure that in _one_ thing Fred was right.

But, though I trust his prayers are said, Because he goes so late to bed, I doubt his Calling. Glad to find A text adapted to his mind,-- That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife, Allows a little worldly life,-- He smiled, and said that he knew all Such things as that without St. Paul!

And once he said, when I with pain Had got him just to read Romaine, 'Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn.

Who wait for heaven to come to them Are little like to go to heaven, If logic's not the devil's leaven!'

I cried at such a wicked joke, And he, surprised, went out to smoke.

But to judge him is not for me, Who myself sin so dreadfully As half to doubt if I should care To go to heaven, and he not there.

He _must_ be right; and I dare say I shall soon understand his way.

To other things, once strange, I've grown Accustom'd, nay, to like. I own 'Twas long before I got well used To sit, while Frederick read or mused For hours, and scarcely spoke. When he, For all that, held the door to me, Pick'd up my handkerchief, and rose To set my chair, with other shows Of honour, such as men, 'tis true, To sweethearts and fine ladies do, It almost seem'd an unkind jest; But now I like these ways the best.

They somehow make me gentle and good; And I don't mind his quiet mood.

If Frederick _does_ seem dull awhile, There's Baby. You should see him smile!

I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, And he will learn no better yet: Indeed, now little Johnny makes A busier time of it, and takes Our thoughts off one another more, In happy as need be, I'm sure!

XVII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA.

Let me, Beloved, while grat.i.tude Is garrulous with coming good, Or ere the tongue of happiness Be silenced by your soft caress, Relate how, musing here of you, The clouds, the intermediate blue, The air that rings with larks, the grave And distant rumour of the wave, The solitary sailing skiff, The gusty corn-field on the cliff, The corn-flower by the crumbling ledge, Or, far-down at the s.h.i.+ngle's edge, The sighing sea's recurrent crest Breaking, resign'd to its unrest, All whisper, to my home-sick thought, Of charms in you till now uncaught, Or only caught as dreams, to die Ere they were own'd by memory.

High and ingenious Decree Of joy-devising Deity!

You whose ambition only is The a.s.surance that you make my bliss, (Hence my first debt of love to show, That you, past showing indeed do so!) Trust me the world, the firmament, With diverse-natured worlds besprent, Were rear'd in no mere undivine Boast of omnipotent design, The lion differing from the snake But for the trick of difference sake, And comets darting to and fro Because in circles planets go; But rather that sole love might be Refresh'd throughout eternity In one sweet faith, for ever strange, Mirror'd by circ.u.mstantial change.

For, more and more, do I perceive That everything is relative To you, and that there's not a star, Nor nothing in't, so strange or far, But, if 'twere scanned, 'twould chiefly mean Somewhat, till then, in you unseen, Something to make the bondage strait Of you and me more intimate, Some unguess'd opportunity Of nuptials in a new degree.

But, oh, with what a novel force Your best-conn'd beauties, by remorse Of absence, touch; and, in my heart, How bleeds afresh the youthful smart Of pa.s.sion fond, despairing still To utter infinite goodwill By worthy service! Yet I know That love is all that love can owe, And this to offer is no less Of worth, in kind speech or caress, Than if my life-blood I should give.

For good is G.o.d's prerogative, And Love's deed is but to prepare The flatter'd, dear Belov'd to dare Acceptance of His gifts. When first On me your happy beauty burst, Honoria, verily it seem'd That naught beyond you could be dream'd Of beauty and of heaven's delight.

Zeal of an unknown infinite Yet bade me ever wish you more Beatified than e'er before.

Angelical, were your replies To my prophetic flatteries; And sweet was the compulsion strong That drew me in the course along Of heaven's increasing bright allure, With provocations fresh of your Victorious capacity.

Whither may love, so fledged, not fly?

Did not mere Earth hold fast the string Of this celestial soaring thing, So measure and make sensitive, And still, to the nerves, nice notice give Of each minutest increment Of such interminable ascent, The heart would lose all count, and beat Unconscious of a height so sweet, And the spirit-pursuing senses strain Their steps on the starry track in vain!

But, reading now the note just come, With news of you, the babes, and home, I think, and say, 'To-morrow eve With kisses me will she receive;'

And, thinking, for extreme delight Of love's extremes, I laugh outright.

XVIII. FROM FREDERICK.

Eight wedding-days gone by, and none Yet kept, to keep them all in one, Jane and myself, with John and Grace On donkeys, visited the place I first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood.

Bearing the basket, stuff'd with food.

Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, I halted where the wandering glade Divides the thicket. There I knew, It seem'd, the very drops of dew Below the unalter'd eglantine.

Nothing had changed since I was nine!

In the green desert, down to eat We sat, our rustic grace at meat Good appet.i.te, through that long climb Hungry two hours before the time.

And there Jane took her st.i.tching out, And John for birds'-nests pry'd about, And Grace and Baby, in between The warm blades of the breathing green, Dodged gra.s.shoppers; and I no less, In conscientious idleness, Enjoy'd myself, under the noon Stretch'd, and the sounds and sights of June Receiving, with a drowsy charm, Through m.u.f.fled ear and folded arm.

And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, I half-remember'd how it seem'd When I, too, was a little child About the wild wood roving wild.

Pure breezes from the far-off height Melted the blindness from my sight, Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, I saw again as then I saw.

As then I saw, I saw again The harvest-waggon in the lane, With high-hung tokens of its pride Left in the elms on either side; The daisies coming out at dawn In constellations on the lawn; The glory of the daffodil; The three black windmills on the hill, Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, Sent magic shadows o'er the rye.

Within the leafy coppice, lo, More wealth than miser's dreams could show, The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, Five golden beaks agape for food; The Gipsies, all the summer seen Native as poppies to the Green; The winter, with its frosts and thaws And opulence of hips and haws: The lovely marvel of the snow; The Tamar, with its altering show Of gay s.h.i.+ps sailing up and down, Among the fields and by the Town; And, dearer far than anything, Came back the songs you used to sing.

(Ah, might you sing such songs again, And I, your child, but hear as then, With conscious profit of the gulf Flown over from my present self!) And, as to men's retreating eyes, Beyond high mountains higher rise, Still farther back there shone to me The dazzling dusk of infancy.

Thither I look'd, as, sick of night, The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, And does not see the day, 'tis true, But sees the rosy tops that do.

Meantime Jane st.i.tch'd, and fann'd the flies From my repose, with hush'd replies To Grace, and smiles when Baby fell.

Her countenance love visible Appear'd, love audible her voice.

Why in the past alone rejoice, Whilst here was wealth before me cast Which, I could feel, if 'twere but past Were then most precious? Question vain, When ask'd again and yet again, Year after year; yet now, for no Cause, but that heaven's bright winds will blow Not at our pray'r but as they list, It brought that distant, golden mist To grace the hour, firing the deep Of spirit and the drowsy keep Of joy, till, spreading uncontain'd, The holy power of seeing gained The outward eye, this owning even That where there's love and truth there's heaven.

Debtor to few, forgotten hours Am I, that truths for me are powers.

Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yet Not to forget that I forget!

And now a cloud, bright, huge and calm, Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm; O'ertoppling towers and bulwarks bright Appear'd, at beck of viewless might.

Along a rifted mountain range.

Untraceable and swift in change, Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread To solemn bulks, seen overhead; The suns.h.i.+ne quench'd, from one dark form Fumed the appalling light of storm.

Straight to the zenith, black with bale, The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale; And one wide night of hopeless hue Hid from the heart the recent blue.

And soon, with thunder crackling loud, A flash reveal'd the formless cloud: Lone sailing rack, far wavering rim, And billowy tracts of stormland dim.

We stood, safe group'd beneath a shed.

Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, Who told her, fondling with her hair, 'The naughty noise! but G.o.d took care Of all good girls.' John seem'd to me Too much for Jane's theology, Who bade him watch the tempest. Now A blast made all the woodland bow; Against the whirl of leaves and dust Kine dropp'd their heads; the tortured gust Jagg'd and convuls'd the ascending smoke To mockery of the lightning's stroke.

The blood p.r.i.c.k'd, and a blinding flash And close coinstantaneous crash Humbled the soul, and the rain all round Resilient dimm'd the whistling ground, Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past, Leaving a trouble in the copse Of brawling birds and tinkling drops.

Change beyond hope! Far thunder faint Mutter'd its vast and vain complaint, And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons bright Of cloudlets, glittering calm and fair Through gulfs of calm and glittering air.

With this adventure, we return'd.

The roads the feet no longer burn'd.

A wholesome smell of rainy earth Refresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth.

The donkey-boy drew friendly near My Wife, and, touch'd by the kind cheer Her countenance show'd, or sooth'd perchance By the soft evening's sad advance, As we were, stroked the flanks and head Of the a.s.s, and, somewhat thick-voiced, said, 'To 'ave to wop the donkeys so 'Ardens the 'art, but they won't go Without!' My wife, by this impress'd, As men judge poets by their best, When now we reach'd the welcome door, Gave him his hire, and sixpence more.

XIX. FROM JANE.

Dear Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, And Fred is well. I, in my last, Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, One of his Salisbury Cousins, came.

Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name?

'Twas that Honoria, no doubt, Whom he would sometimes talk about And speak to, when his nights were bad, And so I told her that I had.

She look'd so beautiful and kind!

And just the sort of wife my mind Pictured for Fred, with many tears, In those sad early married years.

Visiting, yesterday, she said, The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that Fred Was very ill; she begg'd to be, If possible, of use to me.

What could she do? Last year, his Aunt Died, leaving her, who had no want, Her fortune. Half was his, she thought; But he, she knew, would not be brought To take his rights at second hand.

Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd.

What did I think of putting John To school and college? Mr. Vaughan, When John was old enough, could give Preferment to her relative; And she should be _so_ pleased.--I said I felt quite sure that dearest Fred Would be most thankful. Would we come, And make ourselves, she ask'd, at home, Next month, at High-Hurst? Change of air Both he and I should need, and there At leisure we could talk, and then Fix plans, as John was nearly ten.

It seemed so rude to think and doubt, So I said, Yes. In going out, She said, 'How strange of Frederick, Dear,'

(I wish he had been there to hear,) 'To send no cards, or tell me what A nice new Cousin I had got!'

Was not that kind?

When Fred grew strong, I had, I found, done very wrong.

Anger was in his voice and eye.