The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 7

And you may say, 'Of this new awe Of heart which makes her fancies law, These watchful duties of despair, She does not dream, she cannot care!'

Frederick, you see how false that is, Or how could I have written this?

And, should it ever cross your mind That, now and then, you were unkind.

You never, never, were at all!

Remember that! It's natural For one like Mr. Vaughan to come, From a morning's useful pastime, home, And greet, with such a courteous zest His handsome wife, still newly dress'd, As if the Bird of Paradise Should daily change her plumage thrice.

He's always well, she's always gay.

Of course! But he who toils all day, And comes home hungry, tired, or cold, And feels 'twould do him good to scold His wife a little, let him trust Her love, and say the things he must, Till sooth'd in mind by meat and rest.

If, after that, she's well caress'd, And told how good she is, to bear His humour, fortune makes it fair.

Women like men to be like men; That is, at least, just now and then.

Thus, I have nothing to forgive, But those first years, (how could I live!) When, though I really did behave So stupidly, you never gave One unkind word or look at all: As if I was some animal You pitied! Now in later life, You used me like a proper Wife.

You feel, Dear, in your present mood, Your Jane, since she was kind and good, A child of G.o.d, a living soul, Was not so different, on the whole, From Her who had a little more Of G.o.d's best gifts: but, oh, be sure, My dear, dear Love, to take no blame Because you could not feel the same Towards me, living, as when dead.

A hungry man must needs think bread So sweet! and, only at their rise And setting, blessings, to thine eyes, Like the sun's course, grow visible.

If you are sad, remember well, Against delusions of despair, That memory sees things as they were, And not as they were misenjoy'd, And would be still, if aught destroy'd The glory of their hopelessness: So that, in truth, you had me less In days when necessary zeal For my perfection made you feel My faults the most, than now your love Forgets but where it can approve.

You gain by loss, if that seem'd small Possess'd, which, being gone, turns all Surviving good to vanity.

Oh, Fred, this makes it sweet to die!

Say to yourself: ''Tis comfort yet I made her that which I regret; And parting might have come to pa.s.s In a worse season; as it was, Love an eternal temper took, Dipp'd, glowing, in Death's icy brook!'

Or say, 'On her poor feeble head This might have fallen: 'tis mine instead!

And so great evil sets me free Henceforward from calamity.

And, in her little children, too, How much for her I yet can do!'

And grieve not for these orphans even; For central to the love of Heaven Is each child as each star to s.p.a.ce.

This truth my dying love has grace To trust with a so sure content, I fear I seem indifferent.

You must not think a child's small heart Cold, because it and grief soon part.

f.a.n.n.y will keep them all away, Lest you should hear them laugh and play.

Before the funeral's over. Then I hope you'll be yourself again, And glad, with all your soul, to find How G.o.d thus to the sharpest wind Suits the shorn lambs. Instruct them, Dear, For my sake, in His love and fear.

And show now, till their journey's done, Not to be weary they must run.

Strive not to dissipate your grief By any lightness. True relief Of sorrow is by sorrow brought.

And yet for sorrow's sake, you ought To grieve with measure. Do not spend So good a power to no good end!

Would you, indeed, have memory stay In the heart, lock up and put away Relies and likenesses and all Musings, which waste what they recall.

True comfort, and the only thing To soothe without diminis.h.i.+ng A prized regret, is to match here, By a strict life, G.o.d's love severe.

Yet, after all, by nature's course, Feeling must lose its edge and force.

Again you'll reach the desert tracts Where only sin or duty acts.

But, if love always lit our path, Where were the trial of our faith?

Oh, should the mournful honeymoon Of death be over strangely soon, And life-long resolutions, made In grievous haste, as quickly fade, Seeming the truth of grief to mock, Think, Dearest, 'tis not by the clock That sorrow goes! A month of tears Is more than many, many years Of common time. Shun, if you can, However, any pa.s.sionate plan.

Grieve with the heart; let not the head Grieve on, when grief of heart is dead: For all the powers of life defy A superst.i.tions constancy.

The only bond I hold you to Is that which nothing can undo.

A man is not a young man twice; And if, of his young years, he lies A faithful score in one wife's breast, She need not mind who has the rest.

In this do what you will, dear Love, And feel quite sure that I approve.

And, should it chance as it may be, Give her my wedding-ring from me; And never dream that you can err T'wards me by being good to her; Nor let remorseful thoughts destroy In you the kindly flowering joy And pleasure of the natural life.

But don't forget your fond, dead Wife.

And, Frederick, should you ever be Tempted to think your love of me All fancy, since it drew its breath So much more sweetly after death, Remember that I never did A single thing you once forbid; All poor folks liked me; and, at the end, Your Cousin call'd me 'Dearest Friend!'

And, new, 'twill calm your grief to know,-- You, who once loved Honoria so,-- There's kindness, that's look'd kindly on, Between her Emily and John.

Thus, in your children, you will wed!

And John seems _so_ much comforted, (Like Isaac when _his_ mother died And fair Rebekah was his bride), By his new hope, for losing me!

So _all_ is happiness, you see.

And that reminds me how, last night, I dreamt of heaven, with great delight.

A strange, kind Lady watch'd my face, Kiss'd me, and cried, 'His hope found grace!'

She bade me then, in the crystal floor, Look at myself, myself no more; And bright within the mirror shone Honoria's smile, and yet my own!

'And, when you talk, I hear,' she sigh'd, 'How much he loved her! Many a bride In heaven such countersemblance wears Through what Love deem'd rejected prayers.'

She would have spoken still; but, lo, One of a glorious troop, aglow From some great work, towards her came, And she so laugh'd, 'twas such a flame, Aaron's twelve jewels seem'd to mix With the lights of the Seven Candlesticks.

IX. FROM LADY c.l.i.tHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

My dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day, But for Jane's loss, and you away, Was all a Bride from heaven could beg Skies bluer than the sparrow's egg.

And clearer than the cuckoo's call; And such a sun! the flowers all With double ardour seem'd to blow!

The very daisies were a show, Expanded with uncommon pride, Like little pictures of the Bride.

Your Great-Niece and your Grandson were Perfection of a pretty pair.

How well Honoria's girls turn out, Although they never go about!

Dear me, what trouble and expense It took to teach mine confidence!

_Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard say That wild things do, where beasts of prey Were never known, nor any men Have met their fearless eyes till then.

Their grave, inquiring trust to find All creatures of their simple kind Quite disconcerts bold c.o.xcombry, And makes less perfect candour shy.

Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff, But how your home-kept girls go off!

How Hymen hastens to unband The waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand!

At last I see my Sister's right, And I've told Maud this very night, (But, oh, my daughters have such wills!) To knit, and only dance quadrilles.

You say Fred never writes to you Frankly, as once he used to do, About himself; and you complain He shared with none his grief for Jane.

It all comes of the foolish fright Men feel at the word, hypocrite.

Although, when first in love, sometimes They rave in letters, talk, and rhymes, When once they find, as find they must, How hard 'tis to be hourly just To those they love, they are dumb for shame, Where we, you see, talk on the same.

Honoria, to whose heart alone He seems to open all his own At times, has tears in her kind eyes, After their private colloquies.

He's her most favour'd guest, and moves My spleen by his impartial loves.

His pleasure has some inner spring Depending not on anything.

Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled More fondly on his favourite child; Yet, playing with his own, it is Somehow as if it were not his.

He means to go again to sea, Now that the wedding's over. He Will leave to Emily and John The little ones to practise on; And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse, A dear old soul from Wilton House, Will scold the housemaids and the cook, Till Emily has learn'd to look A little braver than a lamb Surprised by dogs without its dam!

Do, dear Aunt, use your influence, And try to teach some plain good sense To Mary. 'Tis not yet too late To make her change her chosen state Of single silliness. In truth, I fancy that, with fading youth, Her will now wavers. Yesterday, Though, till the Bride was gone away, Joy shone from Mary's loving heart, I found her afterwards apart, Hysterically sobbing. I Knew much too well to ask her why.

This marrying of Nieces daunts The bravest souls of maiden Aunts.

Though Sisters' children often blend Sweetly the bonds of child and friend, They are but reeds to rest upon.

When Emily comes back with John, Her right to go downstairs before Aunt Mary will but be the more Observed if kindly waived, and how Shall these be as they were, when now Niece has her John, and Aunt the sense Of her superior innocence?

Somehow, all loves, however fond, Prove lieges of the nuptial bond; And she who dares at this to scoff, Finds all the rest in time drop off; While marriage, like a mushroom-ring, Spreads its sure circle every Spring.

She twice refused George Vane, you know; Yet, when be died three years ago In the Indian war, she put on gray, And wears no colours to this day.

And she it is who charges _me_, Dear Aunt, with 'inconsistency!'

X. FROM FREDERICK TO HONORIA.

Cousin, my thoughts no longer try To cast the fas.h.i.+on of the sky.

Imagination can extend Scarcely in part to comprehend The sweetness of our common food Ambrosial, which ingrat.i.tude And impious inadvertence waste, Studious to eat but not to taste.

And who can tell what's yet in store There, but that earthly things have more Of all that makes their inmost bliss, And life's an image still of this, But haply such a glorious one As is the rainbow of the sun?

Sweet are your words, but, after all Their mere reversal may befall The partners of His glories who Daily is crucified anew: Splendid privations, martyrdoms To which no weak remission comes Perpetual pa.s.sion for the good Of them that feel no grat.i.tude, Far circlings, as of planets' fires, Round never-to-be-reach'd desires, Whatever rapturously sighs That life is love, love sacrifice.

All I am sure of heaven is this: Howe'er the mode, I shall not miss One true delight which I have known.

Not on the changeful earth alone Shall loyalty remain unmoved T'wards everything I ever loved.

So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voice To Jacob in the field, 'Rejoice!'

Serve on some seven more sordid years, Too short for weariness or tears; Serve on; then, oh, Beloved, well-tried, Take me for ever as thy Bride!'

XI. FROM MARY CHURCHILL TO THE DEAN.

Charles does me honour, but 'twere vain To reconsider now again, And so to doubt the clear-shown truth I sought for, and received, when youth, Being fair, and woo'd by one whose love Was lovely, fail'd my mind to move.

G.o.d bids them by their own will go, Who ask again the things they know!