The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 8

I grieve for my infirmity, And ignorance of how to be Faithful, at once to the heavenly life, And the fond duties of a wife.

Narrow am I and want the art To love two things with all my heart.

Occupied singly in His search, Who, in the Mysteries of the Church, Returns, and calls them Clouds of Heaven, I tread a road, straight, hard, and even; But fear to wander all confused, By two-fold fealty abused.

Either should I the one forget, Or scantly pay the other's debt.

You bid me, Father, count the cost.

I have; and all that must be lost I feel as only woman can.

To make the heart's wealth of some man, And through the untender world to move, Wrapt safe in his superior love, How sweet! How sweet the household round Of duties, and their narrow bound, So plain, that to transgress were hard, Yet full of manifest reward!

The charities not marr'd, like mine, With chance of thwarting laws divine; The world's regards and just delight In one that's clearly, kindly right, How sweet! Dear Father, I endure, Not without sharp regret, be sure, To give up such glad certainty, For what, perhaps, may never be.

For nothing of my state I know, But that t'ward heaven I seem to go, As one who fondly landward hies Along a deck that seaward flies.

With every year, meantime, some grace Of earthly happiness gives place To humbling ills, the very charms Of youth being counted, henceforth, harms: To blush already seems absurd; Nor know I whether I should herd With girls or wives, or sadlier balk Maids' merriment or matrons' talk.

But strait's the gate of life! O'er late, Besides, 'twere now to change my fate: For flowers and fruit of love to form, It must he Spring as well as warm.

The world's delight my soul dejects.

Revenging all my disrespects Of old, with incapacity To chime with even its harmless glee, Which sounds, from fields beyond my range, Like fairies' music, thin and strange.

With something like remorse, I grant The world has beauty which I want; And if, instead of judging it, I at its Council chance to sit, Or at its gay and order'd Feast, My place seems lower than the least The conscience of the life to be Smiles me with inefficiency, And makes me all unfit to bless With comfortable earthliness The rest-desiring brain of man.

Finally, them, I fix my plan To dwell with Him that dwells apart In the highest heaven and lowliest heart; Nor will I, to my utter loss, Look to pluck roses from the Cross.

As for the good of human love, 'Twere countercheck almost enough To think that one must die before The other; and perhaps 'tis more In love's last interest to do Nought the least contrary thereto, Than to be blest, and be unjust, Or suffer injustice; as they must, Without a miracle, whose pact Compels to mutual life and act, Whether love s.h.i.+nes, or darkness sleeps Cold on the spirit's changeful deeps.

Enough if, to my earthly share, Fall gleams that keep me from despair.

Happy the things we here discern; More happy those for which we yearn; But measurelessly happy above All else are those we guess not of!

XII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA.

Dearest, my Love and Wife, 'tis long Ago I closed the unfinish'd song Which never could be finish'd; nor Will ever Poet utter more Of Love than I did, watching well To lure to speech the unspeakable!

'_Why_, _having won her_, _do I woo_?'

That final strain to the last height flew Of written joy, which wants the smile And voice that are, indeed, the while They last, the very things you speak, Honoria, who mak'st music weak With ways that say, 'Shall I not be As kind to all as Heaven to me?'

And yet, ah, twenty-fold my Bride!

Rising, this twentieth festal-tide, You still soft sleeping, on this day Of days, some words I long to say, Some words superfluously sweet Of fresh a.s.surance, thus to greet Your waking eyes, which never grow Weary of telling what I know So well, yet only well enough To wish for further news thereof.

Here, in this early autumn dawn, By windows opening on the lawn.

Where suns.h.i.+ne seems asleep, though bright, And shadows yet are sharp with night, And, further on, the wealthy wheat Bends in a golden drowse, how sweet To sit and cast my careless looks Around my walls of well-read books, Wherein is all that stands redeem'd From time's huge wreck, all men have dream'd Of truth, and all by poets known Of feeling, and in weak sort shown, And, turning to my heart again, To find I have what makes them vain, The thanksgiving mind, which wisdom sums, And you, whereby it freshly comes As on that morning, (can there be Twenty-two years 'twixt it and me?) When, thrill'd with hopeful love, I rose And came in haste to Sarum Close, Past many a homestead slumbering white In lonely and pathetic light, Merely to fancy which drawn blind Of thirteen had my Love behind, And in her sacred neighbourhood To feel that sweet scorn of all good But her, which let the wise forfend When wisdom learns to comprehend!

Dearest, as each returning May I see the season new and gay With new joy and astonishment, And Nature's infinite ostent Of lovely flowers in wood and mead.

That weet not whether any heed, So see I, daily wondering, you, And wors.h.i.+p with a pa.s.sion new The Heaven that visibly allows Its grace to go about my house, The partial Heaven, that, though I err And mortal am, gave all to her Who gave herself to me. Yet I Boldly thank Heaven, (and so defy The beggarly soul'd humbleness Which fears G.o.d's bounty to confess,) That I was fas.h.i.+on'd with a mind Seeming for this great gift design'd, So naturally it moved above All sordid contraries of love, Strengthen'd in youth with discipline Of light, to follow the divine Vision, (which ever to the dark Is such a plague as was the ark In Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron,) still Discerning with the docile will Which comes of full persuaded thought, That intimacy in love is nought Without pure reverence, whereas this, In tearfullest banishment, is bliss.

And so, dearest Honoria, I Have never learn'd the weary sigh Of those that to their love-feasts went, Fed, and forgot the Sacrament; And not a trifle now occurs But sweet initiation stirs Of new-discover'd joy, and lends To feeling change that never ends; And duties which the many irk, Are made all wages and no work.

How sing of such things save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter?

How the supreme rewards confess Which crown the austere voluptuousness Of heart, that earns, in midst of wealth, The appet.i.te of want and health, Relinquishes the pomp of life And beauty to the pleasant Wife At home, and does all joy despise As out of place but in her eyes?

How praise the years and gravity That make each favour seem to be A lovelier weakness for her lord?

And, ah, how find the tender word To tell aright of love that glows The fairer for the fading rose?

Of frailty which can weight the arm To lean with thrice its girlish charm?

Of grace which, like this autumn day, Is not the sad one of decay, Yet one whose pale brow pondereth The far-off majesty of death?

How tell the crowd, whom a pa.s.sion rends, That love grows mild as it ascends?

That joy's most high and distant mood Is lost, not found in dancing blood; Albeit kind acts and smiling eyes, And all those fond realities Which are love's words, in us mean more Delight than twenty years before?

How, Dearest, finish without wrong To the speechless heart, the unfinish'd song, Its high, eventful pa.s.sages Consisting, say, of things like these:-- One morning, contrary to law, Which, for the most, we held in awe, Commanding either not to intrude On the other's place of solitude Or solitary mind, for fear Of coming there when G.o.d was near, And finding so what should be known To Him who is merciful alone, And views the working ferment base Of waking flesh and sleeping grace, Not as we view, our kindness check'd By likeness of our own defect, I, venturing to her room, because (Mark the excuse!) my Birthday 'twas, Saw, here across a careless chair, A ball-dress flung, as light as air, And, here, beside a silken couch, Pillows which did the pressure vouch Of pious knees, (sweet piety Of goodness made and charity, If gay looks told the heart's glad sense, Much rather than of penitence,) And, on the couch, an open book, And written list--I did not look, Yet just in her clear writing caught:-- 'Habitual faults of life and thought Which most I need deliverance from.'

I turn'd aside, and saw her come Adown the filbert-shaded way, Beautified with her usual gay Hypocrisy of perfectness, Which made her heart, and mine no less, So happy! And she cried to me, 'You lose by breaking rules, you see!

Your Birthday treat is now half-gone Of seeing my new ball-dress on.'

And, meeting so my lovely Wife, A pa.s.sing pang, to think that life Was mortal, when I saw her laugh, Shaped in my mind this epitaph: 'Faults had she, child of Adam's stem.

But only Heaven knew of them.'

Or thus: For many a dreadful day, In sea-side lodgings sick she lay, Noteless of love, nor seem'd to hear The sea, on one side, thundering near, Nor, on the other, the loud Ball Held nightly in the public hall; Nor vex'd they my short slumbers, though I woke up if she breathed too low.

Thus, for three months, with terrors rife, The pending of her precious life I watched o'er; and the danger, at last, The kind Physician said, was past.

Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks the East Breathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased, And so she only did not die; Until the bright and blighting sky Changed into cloud, and the sick flowers Remember'd their perfumes, and showers Of warm, small rain refres.h.i.+ng flew Before the South, and the Park grew, In three nights, thick with green. Then she Revived, no less than flower and tree, In the mild air, and, the fourth day, Looked supernaturally gay With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone, The while I tied her bonnet on, So that I led her to the gla.s.s, And bade her see how fair she was, And how love visibly could s.h.i.+ne.

Profuse of hers, desiring mine, And mindful I had loved her most When beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast, She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me, Nothing but soft humility; Nor e'er enhanced she with such charms Her acquiescence in my arms.

And, by her sweet love-weakness made Courageous, powerful, and glad.

In a clear ill.u.s.tration high Of heavenly affection, I Perceived that utter love is all The same as to be rational, And that the mind and heart of love, Which think they cannot do enough, Are truly the everlasting doors Wherethrough, all unpet.i.tion'd, pours The eternal pleasance. Wherefore we Had innermost tranquillity, And breathed one life with such a sense Of friends.h.i.+p and of confidence, That, recollecting the sure word: 'If two of you are in accord On earth, as touching any boon Which ye shall ask, it shall be done In heaven,' we ask'd that heaven's bliss Might ne'er be any less than this; And, for that hour, we seem'd to have The secret of the joy we gave.

How sing of such things, save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter?

How read from such a homely page In the ear of this unhomely age?

'Tis now as when the Prophet cried: 'The nation hast Thou multiplied, But Thou hast not increased the joy!'

And yet, ere wrath or rot destroy Of England's state the ruin fair, Oh, might I so its charm declare, That, in new Lands, in far-off years, Delighted he should cry that hears: 'Great is the Land that somewhat best Works, to the wonder of the rest!

We, in our day, have better done This thing or that than any one; And who but, still admiring, sees How excellent for images Was Greece, for laws how wise was Rome; But read this Poet, and say if home And private love did e'er so smile As in that ancient English isle!'

XIII. FROM LADY c.l.i.tHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM.

My dearest Niece, I'm charm'd to hear The scenery's fine at Windermere, And glad a six-weeks' wife defers In the least to wisdom not yet hers.

But, Child, I've no advice to give!

Rules only make it hard to live.

And where's the good of having been Well taught from seven to seventeen, If, married, you may not leave off, And say, at last, 'I'm good enough!'

Weeding out folly, still leave some.

It gives both lightness and _aplomb_.

We know, however wise by rule, Woman is still by nature fool; And men have sense to like her all The more when she is natural.

'Tis true, that if we choose, we can Mock to a miracle the man; But iron in the fire red hot, Though 'tis the heat, the fire 'tis not: And who, for such a feint, would pledge The babe's and woman's privilege, No duties and a thousand rights?

Besides, defect love's flow incites, As water in a well will run Only the while 'tis drawn upon.

'Point de culte sans mystere,' you say, 'And what if that should die away?'

Child, never fear that either could Pull from Saint Cupid's face the hood.

The follies natural to each Surpa.s.s the other's moral reach.

Just think how men, with sword and gun, Will really fight, and never run; And all in sport: they would have died, For sixpence more, on the other side!

A woman's heart must ever warm At such odd ways: and so we charm By strangeness which, the more they mark, The more men get into the dark.

The marvel, by familiar life, Grows, and attaches to the wife By whom it grows. Thus, silly Girl, To John you'll always be the pearl In the oyster of the universe; And, though in time he'll treat you worse, He'll love you more, you need not doubt, And never, never find you out!

My Dear, I know that dreadful thought That you've been kinder than you ought.

It almost makes you hate him! Yet 'Tis wonderful how men forget, And how a merciful Providence Deprives our husbands of all sense Of kindness past, and makes them deem We always were what now we seem.

For their own good we must, you know However plain the way we go, Still make it strange with stratagem; And instinct tells us that, to them, 'Tis always right to bate their price.

Yet I must say they're rather nice, And, oh, so easily taken in To cheat them almost seems a sin!

And, Dearest, 'twould be most unfair To John your feelings to compare With his, or any man's; for she Who loves at all loves always; he, Who loves far more, loves yet by fits, And, when the wayward wind remits To blow, his feelings faint and drop Like forge-flames when the bellows stop.

Such things don't trouble you at all When once you know they're natural.

My love to John; and, pray, my Dear, Don't let me see you for a year; Unless, indeed, ere then you've learn'd That Beauties wed are blossoms turn'd To unripe codlings, meant to dwell In modest shadow hidden well, Till this green stage again permute To glow of flowers with good of fruit.

I will not have my patience tried By your absurd new-married pride, That scorns the world's slow-gather'd sense Ties up the hands of Providence, Rules babes, before there's hope of one, Better than mothers e'er have done, And, for your poor particular, Neglects delights and graces far Beyond your crude and thin conceit.

Age has romance almost as sweet And much more generous than this Of yours and John's. With all the bliss Of the evenings when you coo'd with him And upset home for your sole whim, You might have envied, were you wise, The tears within your Mother's eyes, Which, I dare say, you did not see.

But let that pa.s.s! Yours yet will be, I hope, as happy, kind, and true As lives which now seem void to you.

Have you not seen shop-painters paste Their gold in sheets, then rub to waste Full half, and, lo, you read the name?

Well, Time, my Dear, does much the same With this unmeaning glare of love.

But, though you yet may much improve, In marriage, be it still confess'd, There's little merit at the best.

Some half-a-dozen lives, indeed, Which else would not have had the need, Get food and nurture as the price Of antedated Paradise; But what's that to the varied want Succour'd by Mary, your dear Aunt, Who put the bridal crown thrice by, For that of which virginity, So used, has hope? She sends her love, As usual with a proof thereof-- Papa's discourse, which you, no doubt, Heard none of, neatly copied out Whilst we were dancing. All are well, Adieu, for there's the Luncheon Bell.

THE WEDDING SERMON.

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