The Victories Of Love. Book II

written by


« Reload image

I
From Jane To Her Mother

  Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
  Are not half known till they depart!
  Although I long'd, for many a year,
  To love with love that casts out fear,
  My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
  And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
  And in my fancy I would trace
  A lady with an angel's face,
  That made devotion simply debt,
  Till sick with envy and regret,
  And wicked grief that God should e'er
  Make women, and not make them fair.
  That he might love me more because
  Another in his memory was,
  And that my indigence might be
  To him what Baby's was to me,
  The chief of charms, who could have thought?
  But God's wise way is to give nought
  Till we with asking it are tired;
  And when, indeed, the change desired
  Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
  It comes by Providence, not Grace;
  And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
  Are groans at unexpected cares. 
  First Baby went to heaven, you know,
  And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
  Then he became more talkative,
  And, stooping to my heart, would give
  Signs of his love, which pleased me more
  Than all the proofs he gave before;
  And, in that time of our great grief,
  We talk'd religion for relief;
  For, though we very seldom name
  Religion, we now think the same!
  Oh, what a bar is thus removed
  To loving and to being loved!
  For no agreement really is
  In anything when none's in this.
  Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
  His wife against his hearty breast,
  The interior difference seem'd to tear
  My own, until I could not bear
  The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
  And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
  He never felt this. If he did,
  I'm sure it could not have been hid;
  For wives, I need not say to you,
  Can feel just what their husbands do,
  Without a word or look; but then
  It is not so, you know, with men.

  From that time many a Scripture text
  Help'd me, which had, before, perplex'd.
  Oh, what a wond'rous word seem'd this:
  He is my head, as Christ is his!
  None ever could have dared to see
  In marriage such a dignity
  For man, and for his wife, still less,
  Such happy, happy lowliness,
  Had God Himself not made it plain!
  This revelation lays the rein—

  If I may speak so—on the neck
  Of a wife's love, takes thence the check
  Of conscience, and forbids to doubt
  Its measure is to be without
  All measure, and a fond excess
  Is here her rule of godliness.

  I took him not for love but fright;
  He did but ask a dreadful right.
  In this was love, that he loved me
  The first, who was mere poverty.
  All that I know of love he taught;
  And love is all I know of aught.
  My merit is so small by his,
  That my demerit is my bliss.
  My life is hid with him in Christ,
  Never thencefrom to be enticed;
  And in his strength have I such rest
  As when the baby on my breast
  Finds what it knows not how to seek,
  And, very happy, very weak,
  Lies, only knowing all is well,
  Pillow'd on kindness palpable.


II
From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill

  Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park.
  The house is fill'd with folks of mark.
  Honoria suits a good estate
  Much better than I hoped. How fate
  Loads her with happiness and pride!
  And such a loving lord, beside! 
  But between us, Sweet, everything
  Has limits, and to build a wing
  To this old house, when Courtholm stands
  Empty upon his Berkshire lands,
  And all that Honor might be near
  Papa, was buying love too dear.

  With twenty others, there are two
  Guests here, whose names will startle you:
  Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham!
  I thought he stay'd away for shame.
  He and his wife were ask'd, you know,
  And would not come, four years ago.
  You recollect Miss Smythe found out
  Who she had been, and all about
  Her people at the Powder-mill;
  And how the fine Aunt tried to instil
  Haut ton, and how, at last poor Jane
  Had got so shy and gauche that, when
  The Dockyard gentry came to sup,
  She always had to be lock'd up;
  And some one wrote to us and said
  Her mother was a kitchen-maid.
  Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know
  It must be all a fib. But, oh,
  She is the oddest little Pet
  On which my eyes were ever set!
  She's so outrée and natural
  That, when she first arrived, we all
  Wonder'd, as when a robin comes
  In through the window to eat crumbs
  At breakfast with us. She has sense,
  Humility, and confidence;
  And, save in dressing just a thought
  Gayer in colours than she ought,
  (To-day she looks a cross between
  Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) 
  She always happens to do well.
  And yet one never quite can tell
  What she might do or utter next.
  Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd.
  Her husband, every now and then,
  Looks nervous; all the other men
  Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace,
  Nor one good feature in her face.
  Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head,
  Like very altar-fires to Fred,
  Whose steps she follows everywhere
  Like a tame duck, to the despair
  Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part
  To break her funny little heart.
  Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view
  That people, if they're good and true,
  And treated well, and let alone,
  Will kindly take to what's their own,
  And always be original,
  Like children. Honor's just like all
  The rest of us! But, thinking so,
  'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe,
  Who hates originality,
  Though he puts up with it in me.

  Poor Mrs. Graham has never been
  To the Opera! You should have seen
  The innocent way she told the Earl
  She thought Plays sinful when a girl,
  And now she never had a chance!
  Frederick's complacent smile and glance
  Towards her, show'd me, past a doubt,
  Honoria had been quite cut out.
  'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham,
  Though Frederick's fancy none can blame,
  Seems the last woman you'd have thought
  Her lover would have ever sought. 
  She never reads, I find, nor goes
  Anywhere; so that I suppose
  She got at all she ever knew
  By growing up, as kittens do.

  Talking of kittens, by-the-bye,
  You have more influence than I
  With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear,
  To be a little more severe
  With those sweet Children. They've the run
  Of all the place. When school was done,
  Maud burst in, while the Earl was there,
  With ‘Oh, Mama, do be a bear!’

  Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of Fred
  Adores his old Love in his stead!
  She is so nice, yet, I should say,
  Not quite the thing for every day.
  Wonders are wearying! Felix goes
  Next Sunday with her to the Close,
  And you will judge.

  Honoria asks
  All Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basks
  Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room
  Is thus aflame with female bloom.
  But then she smiles when most would pout;
  And so his lawless loves go out
  With the last brocade. 'Tis not the same,
  I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham.
  Honoria should not have her here,—
  And this you might just hint, my Dear,—
  For Felix says he never saw
  Such proof of what he holds for law,
  That ‘beauty is love which can be seen.’
  Whatever he by this may mean,
  Were it not dreadful if he fell
  In love with her on principle!


III
From Jane To Mrs. Graham

  Mother, I told you how, at first,
  I fear'd this visit to the Hurst.
  Fred must, I felt, be so distress'd
  By aught in me unlike the rest
  Who come here. But I find the place
  Delightful; there's such ease, and grace,
  And kindness, and all seem to be
  On such a high equality.
  They have not got to think, you know,
  How far to make the money go.
  But Frederick says it's less the expense
  Of money, than of sound good-sense,
  Quickness to care what others feel,
  And thoughts with nothing to conceal;
  Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan
  Was waiting for us on the Lawn,
  And kiss'd and call'd me ‘Cousin.’ Fred
  Neglected his old friends, she said.
  He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this.
  She was, you know, a flame of his;
  But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done,
  I left him, who had just begun
  To talk about the Russian War
  With an old Lady, Lady Carr,—
  A Countess, but I'm more afraid,
  A great deal, of the Lady's Maid,—
  And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see
  The pictures, which appear'd to be 
  Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows
  Call'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows.
  And then she took me up, to show
  Her bedroom, where, long years ago,
  A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestries
  Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses,
  And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door
  Leads thence into her soft Boudoir,
  Where even her husband may but come
  By favour. He, too, has his room,
  Kept sacred to his solitude.
  Did I not think the plan was good?
  She ask'd me; but I said how small
  Our house was, and that, after all,
  Though Frederick would not say his prayers
  At night till I was safe upstairs,
  I thought it wrong to be so shy
  Of being good when I was by.
  ‘Oh, you should humour him!’ she said,
  With her sweet voice and smile; and led
  The way to where the children ate
  Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate.
  She's only Nursery-Governess,
  Yet they consider her no less
  Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me.
  Just think how happy she must be!
  The Ball-Room, with its painted sky
  Where heavy angels seem to fly,
  Is a dull place; its size and gloom
  Make them prefer, for drawing-room,
  The Library, all done up new
  And comfortable, with a view
  Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs.

  When she had shown me through the house,
  (I wish I could have let her know
  That she herself was half the show; 
  She is so handsome, and so kind!)
  She fetch'd the children, who had dined;
  And, taking one in either hand,
  Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd.
  The lovely garden gently slopes
  To where a curious bridge of ropes
  Crosses the Avon to the Park.
  We rested by the stream, to mark
  The brown backs of the hovering trout.
  Frank tickled one, and took it out
  From under a stone. We saw his owls,
  And awkward Cochin-China fowls,
  And shaggy pony in the croft;
  And then he dragg'd us to a loft,
  Where pigeons, as he push'd the door,
  Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor,
  And set us coughing. I confess
  I trembled for my nice silk dress.
  I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan
  Ventured with that which she had on,—
  A mere white wrapper, with a few
  Plain trimmings of a quiet blue,
  But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell
  For dinner rang. I look'd quite well
  (‘Quite charming,’ were the words Fred said,)
  With the new gown that I've had made.

  I am so proud of Frederick.
  He's so high-bred and lordly-like
  With Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite so
  At home with me; but that, you know,
  I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt,
  And seem to mock at my desert.
  Not but that I'm a duteous wife
  To Fred; but, in another life,
  Where all are fair that have been true
  I hope I shall be graceful too, 
  Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye!
  That happy thought has made me cry,
  And feel half sorry that my cough,
  In this fine air, is leaving off.


IV
From Frederick To Mrs. Graham

  Honoria, trebly fair and mild
  With added loves of lord and child,
  Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrong
  The rest, touch not her beauty, young
  With youth which rather seems her clime,
  Than aught that's relative to time.
  How beyond hope was heard the prayer
  I offer'd in my love's despair!
  Could any, whilst there's any woe,
  Be wholly blest, then she were so.
  She is, and is aware of it,
  Her husband's endless benefit;
  But, though their daily ways reveal
  The depth of private joy they feel,
  'Tis not their bearing each to each
  That does abroad their secret preach,
  But such a lovely good-intent
  To all within their government
  And friendship as, 'tis well discern'd,
  Each of the other must have learn'd;
  For no mere dues of neighbourhood
  Ever begot so blest a mood. 

  And fair, indeed, should be the few
  God dowers with nothing else to do,
  And liberal of their light, and free
  To show themselves, that all may see!
  For alms let poor men poorly give
  The meat whereby men's bodies live;
  But they of wealth are stewards wise
  Whose graces are their charities.

  The sunny charm about this home
  Makes all to shine who thither come.
  My own dear Jane has caught its grace,
  And, honour'd, honours too the place.
  Across the lawn I lately walk'd
  Alone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd,
  Gentle and goddess-like of air,
  Honoria and some Stranger fair.
  I chose a path unblest by these;
  When one of the two Goddesses,
  With my Wife's voice, but softer, said,
  ‘Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?’

  She moves, indeed, the modest peer
  Of all the proudest ladies here.
  Unawed she talks with men who stand
  Among the leaders of the land,
  And women beautiful and wise,
  With England's greatness in their eyes.
  To high, traditional good-sense,
  And knowledge ripe without pretence,
  And human truth exactly hit
  By quiet and conclusive wit,
  Listens my little, homely Dove,
  Mistakes the points and laughs for love;
  And, after, stands and combs her hair,
  And calls me much the wittiest there!

  With reckless loyalty, dear Wife,
  She lays herself about my life! 
  The joy I might have had of yore
  I have not; for 'tis now no more,
  With me, the lyric time of youth,
  And sweet sensation of the truth.
  Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd,
  In my chance choice let be confess'd
  The tenderer Providence that rules
  The fates of children and of fools!

  I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept,
  And from her side this morning stepp'd,
  To bathe my brain from drowsy night
  In the sharp air and golden light.
  The dew, like frost, was on the pane.
  The year begins, though fair, to wane.
  There is a fragrance in its breath
  Which is not of the flowers, but death;
  And green above the ground appear
  The lilies of another year.
  I wander'd forth, and took my path
  Among the bloomless aftermath;
  And heard the steadfast robin sing
  As if his own warm heart were Spring,
  And watch'd him feed where, on the yew,
  Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew;
  And then return'd, by walls of peach,
  And pear-trees bending to my reach,
  And rose-beds with the roses gone,
  To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan
  Was there, none with her. I confess
  I love her than of yore no less!
  But she alone was loved of old;
  Now love is twain, nay, manifold;
  For, somehow, he whose daily life
  Adjusts itself to one true wife,
  Grows to a nuptial, near degree
  With all that's fair and womanly. 
  Therefore, as more than friends, we met,
  Without constraint, without regret;
  The wedded yoke that each had donn'd
  Seeming a sanction, not a bond.


V
From Mrs. Graham

  Your love lacks joy, your letter says.
  Yes; love requires the focal space
  Of recollection or of hope,
  Ere it can measure its own scope.
  Too soon, too soon comes Death to show
  We love more deeply than we know!
  The rain, that fell upon the height
  Too gently to be call'd delight,
  Within the dark vale reappears
  As a wild cataract of tears;
  And love in life should strive to see
  Sometimes what love in death would be!
  Easier to love, we so should find,
  It is than to be just and kind.

  She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid:
  What distance for another did
  That death has done for her! The good,
  Once gazed upon with heedless mood,
  Now fills with tears the famish'd eye,
  And turns all else to vanity.
  'Tis sad to see, with death between,
  The good we have pass'd and have not seen!
  How strange appear the words of all!
  The looks of those that live appal. 
  They are the ghosts, and check the breath:
  There's no reality but death,
  And hunger for some signal given
  That we shall have our own in heaven.
  But this the God of love lets be
  A horrible uncertainty.

  How great her smallest virtue seems,
  How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams
  Were those that foil'd with loftier grace
  The homely kindness of her face.
  'Twas here she sat and work'd, and there
  She comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair;
  Or, with one baby at her breast,
  Another taught, or hush'd to rest.
  Praise does the heart no more refuse
  To the chief loveliness of use.
  Her humblest good is hence most high
  In the heavens of fond memory;
  And Love says Amen to the word,
  A prudent wife is from the Lord.
  Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best,
  As that in which she oftenest dress'd,)
  For memory's sake more precious grown
  Than she herself was for her own.
  Poor child! foolish it seem'd to fly
  To sobs instead of dignity,
  When she was hurt. Now, more than all,
  Heart-rending and angelical
  That ignorance of what to do,
  Bewilder'd still by wrong from you:
  For what man ever yet had grace
  Ne'er to abuse his power and place?

  No magic of her voice or smile
  Suddenly raised a fairy isle,
  But fondness for her underwent
  An unregarded increment, 
  Like that which lifts, through centuries,
  The coral-reef within the seas,
  Till, lo! the land where was the wave,
  Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave.


VI
From Jane To Mrs. Graham

  Dear Mother, I can surely tell,
  Now, that I never shall get well.
  Besides the warning in my mind,
  All suddenly are grown so kind.
  Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday,
  Downstairs, and, when he went away,
  Came smiling back, and sat with me,
  Pale, and conversing cheerfully
  About the Spring, and how my cough,
  In finer weather, would leave off.
  I saw it all, and told him plain
  I felt no hope of Spring again.
  Then he, after a word of jest,
  Burst into tears upon my breast,
  And own'd, when he could speak, he knew
  There was a little danger, too.
  This made me very weak and ill,
  And while, last night, I lay quite still,
  And, as he fancied, in the deep,
  Exhausted rest of my short sleep,
  I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray:
  ‘Oh, Father, take her not away!
  ‘Let not life's dear assurance lapse
  ‘Into death's agonised "Perhaps,"

  ‘A hope without Thy promise, where
  ‘Less than assurance is despair!
  ‘Give me some sign, if go she must,
  ‘That death's not worse than dust to dust,
  ‘Not heaven, on whose oblivious shore
  ‘Joy I may have, but her no more!
  ‘The bitterest cross, it seems to me,
  ‘Of all is infidelity;
  ‘And so, if I may choose, I'll miss
  ‘The kind of heaven which comes to this.
  ‘If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased,
  ‘To die out wholly, like a beast,
  ‘Forgetting all life's ill success
  ‘In dark and peaceful nothingness,
  ‘I could but say, Thy will be done;
  ‘For, dying thus, I were but one
  ‘Of seed innumerable which ne'er
  ‘In all the worlds shall bloom or bear.
  ‘I've put life past to so poor use
  ‘Well may'st Thou life to come refuse;
  ‘And justice, which the spirit contents,
  ‘Shall still in me all vain laments;
  ‘Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live,
  ‘Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st give
  ‘To some fresh life, else unelect,
  ‘And heaven not feel my poor defect!
  ‘Only let not Thy method be
  ‘To make that life, and call it me;
  ‘Still less to sever mine in twain,
  ‘And tell each half to live again,
  ‘And count itself the whole! To die,
  ‘Is it love's disintegrity?
  ‘Answer me, "No," and I, with grace,
  ‘Will life's brief desolation face,
  ‘My ways, as native to the clime,
  ‘Adjusting to the wintry time, 
  ‘Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof—’

  He started up, hearing me cough.
  Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone!
  He likes me more than Mrs. Vaughan;
  And death, which takes me from his side,
  Shows me, in very deed, his bride!


VII
From Jane To Frederick

  I leave this, Dear, for you to read,
  For strength and hope, when I am dead.
  When Grace died, I was so perplex'd,
  I could not find one helpful text;
  And when, a little while before,
  I saw her sobbing on the floor,
  Because I told her that in heaven
  She would be as the angels even,
  And would not want her doll, 'tis true
  A horrible fear within me grew,
  That, since the preciousness of love
  Went thus for nothing, mine might prove
  To be no more, and heaven's bliss
  Some dreadful good which is not this.

  But being about to die makes clear
  Many dark things. I have no fear,
  Now, that my love, my grief, my joy
  Is but a passion for a toy.
  I cannot speak at all, I find,
  The shining something in my mind,
  That shows so much that, if I took
  My thoughts all down, 'twould make a book. 
  God's Word, which lately seem'd above
  The simpleness of human love,
  To my death-sharpen'd hearing tells
  Of little or of nothing else;
  And many things I hoped were true,
  When first they came, like songs, from you,
  Now rise with witness past the reach
  Of doubt, and I to you can teach,
  As if with felt authority
  And as things seen, what you taught me.

  Yet how? I have no words but those
  Which every one already knows:
  As, ‘No man hath at any time
  ‘Seen God, but 'tis the love of Him
  ‘Made perfect, and He dwells in us,
  ‘If we each other love.’ Or thus,
  ‘My goodness misseth in extent
  ‘Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent
  ‘I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth
  ‘Make all my love and holy mirth.’
  And further, ‘Inasmuch as ye
  ‘Did it to one of these, to Me
  ‘Ye did it, though ye nothing thought
  ‘Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.’

  What shall I dread? Will God undo
  Our bond, which is all others too?
  And when I meet you will you say
  To my reclaiming looks, ‘Away!
  ‘A dearer love my bosom warms
  ‘With higher rights and holier charms.
  ‘The children, whom thou here may'st see,
  ‘Neighbours that mingle thee and me,
  ‘And gaily on impartial lyres
  ‘Renounce the foolish filial fires
  ‘They felt, with "Praise to God on high,
  ‘"Goodwill to all else equally;"

  ‘The trials, duties, service, tears;
  ‘The many fond, confiding years
  ‘Of nearness sweet with thee apart;
  ‘The joy of body, mind, and heart;
  ‘The love that grew a reckless growth,
  ‘Unmindful that the marriage-oath
  ‘To love in an eternal style
  ‘Meant—only for a little while:
  ‘Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought:
  ‘All love, not new, stands here for nought!’

  Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear,
  Even to utter such a fear!
  Are we not ‘heirs,’ as man and wife,
  ‘Together of eternal life?’
  Was Paradise e'er meant to fade,
  To make which marriage first was made?
  Neither beneath him nor above
  Could man in Eden find his Love;
  Yet with him in the garden walk'd
  His God, and with Him mildly talk'd!
  Shall the humble preference offend
  In heaven, which God did there commend?
  Are ‘honourable and undefiled’
  The names of aught from heaven exiled?
  And are we not forbid to grieve
  As without hope? Does God deceive,
  And call that hope which is despair,
  Namely, the heaven we should not share?
  Image and glory of the man,
  As he of God, is woman. Can
  This holy, sweet proportion die
  Into a dull equality?
  Are we not one flesh, yea, so far
  More than the babe and mother are,
  That sons are bid mothers to leave
  And to their wives alone to cleave, 
  ‘For they two are one flesh?’ But 'tis
  In the flesh we rise. Our union is,
  You know 'tis said, ‘great mystery.’
  Great mockery, it appears to me;
  Poor image of the spousal bond
  Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond
  This life!—'Gainst which, and much more yet,
  There's not a single word to set.
  The speech to the scoffing Sadducee
  Is not in point to you and me;
  For how could Christ have taught such clods
  That Cæsar's things are also God's?
  The sort of Wife the Law could make
  Might well be ‘hated’ for Love's sake,
  And left, like money, land, or house;
  For out of Christ is no true spouse.

  I used to think it strange of Him
  To make love's after-life so dim,
  Or only clear by inference:
  But God trusts much to common sense,
  And only tells us what, without
  His Word, we could not have found out.
  On fleshly tables of the heart
  He penn'd truth's feeling counterpart
  In hopes that come to all: so, Dear,
  Trust these, and be of happy cheer,
  Nor think that he who has loved well
  Is of all men most miserable.

  There's much more yet I want to say,
  But cannot now. You know my way
  Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two
  After my wine. I'll write to you
  Daily some words, which you shall have
  To break the silence of the grave.


VIII
From Jane To Frederick

  You think, perhaps, ‘Ah, could she know
  How much I loved her!’ Dear, I do!
  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 God, a living soul,
  Was not so different, on the whole,
  From Her who had a little more
  Of God'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 the 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 ought 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 pass
  ‘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 space.
  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.
  Fanny 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 God thus to the sharpest wind
  Suits the shorn lambs. Instruct them, Dear,
  For my sake, in His love and fear.
  And show how, 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
  Relics and likenesses and all
  Musings, which waste what they recall.
  True comfort, and the only thing
  To soothe without diminishing
  A prized regret, is to match here,
  By a strict life, God'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 passionate 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 superstitious 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 folk liked me; and, at the end,
  Your Cousin call'd me ‘Dearest Friend!’

  And, now, '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 Clitheroe 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 coxcombry,
  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 deal 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 he 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 fashion of the sky.
  Imagination can extend
  Scarcely in part to comprehend
  The sweetness of our common food
  Ambrosial, which ingratitude
  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 passion for the good
  Of them that feel no gratitude,
  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.
  God bids them by their own will go,
  Who ask again the things they know! 
  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 be 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
  Smites me with inefficiency,
  And makes me all unfit to bless
  With comfortable earthliness
  The rest-desiring brain of man.
  Finally, then, 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 shines, 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 assurance, 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 sunshine 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 worship with a passion 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 God's bounty to confess,)
  That I was fashion'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 appetite 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 passion 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 passages
  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 God 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 passing 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 watch'd 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 refreshing 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, 
  Look'd supernaturally gay
  With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone,
  The while I tied her bonnet on,
  So that I led her to the glass,
  And bade her see how fair she was,
  And how love visibly could shine.
  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 illustration 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 unpetition'd, pours
  The eternal pleasance. Wherefore we
  Had innermost tranquillity,
  And breathed one life with such a sense
  Of friendship 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 Clitheroe 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 mystère,’ 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
  Surpass 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 pass! 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

I
  The truths of Love are like the sea
  For clearness and for mystery.
  Of that sweet love which, startling, wakes
  Maiden and Youth, and mostly breaks
  The word of promise to the ear,
  But keeps it, after many a year,
  To the full spirit, how shall I speak?
  My memory with age is weak,
  And I for hopes do oft suspect
  The things I seem to recollect.
  Yet who but must remember well
  'Twas this made heaven intelligible
  As motive, though 'twas small the power
  The heart might have, for even an hour,
  To hold possession of the height
  Of nameless pathos and delight!


II
  In Godhead rise, thither flow back
  All loves, which, as they keep or lack,
  In their return, the course assign'd,
  Are virtue or sin. Love's every kind,
  Lofty or low, of spirit or sense,
  Desire is, or benevolence.
  He who is fairer, better, higher
  Than all His works, claims all desire,
  And in His Poor, His Proxies, asks
  Our whole benevolence: He tasks,
  Howbeit, His People by their powers;
  And if, my Children, you, for hours,
  Daily, untortur'd in the heart,
  Can worship, and time's other part
  Give, without rough recoils of sense,
  To the claims ingrate of indigence,
  Happy are you, and fit to be
  Wrought to rare heights of sanctity,
  For the humble to grow humbler at.
  But if the flying spirit falls flat,
  After the modest spell of prayer
  That saves the day from sin and care,
  And the upward eye a void descries,
  And praises are hypocrisies,
  And, in the soul, o'erstrain'd for grace,
  A godless anguish grows apace;
  Or, if impartial charity
  Seems, in the act, a sordid lie,
  Do not infer you cannot please
  God, or that He His promises
  Postpones, but be content to love
  No more than He accounts enough.
  Account them poor enough who want
  Any good thing which you can grant; 
  And fathom well the depths of life
  In loves of Husband and of Wife,
  Child, Mother, Father; simple keys
  To what cold faith calls mysteries.

III
  The love of marriage claims, above
  All other kinds, the name of love,
  As perfectest, though not so high
  As love which Heaven with single eye
  Considers. Equal and entire,
  Therein benevolence, desire,
  Elsewhere ill-join'd or found apart,
  Become the pulses of one heart,
  Which now contracts, and now dilates,
  And, both to the height exalting, mates
  Self-seeking to self-sacrifice.
  Nay, in its subtle paradise
  (When purest) this one love unites
  All modes of these two opposites,
  All balanced in accord so rich
  Who may determine which is which?
  Chiefly God's Love does in it live,
  And nowhere else so sensitive;
  For each is all that the other's eye,
  In the vague vast of Deity,
  Can comprehend and so contain
  As still to touch and ne'er to strain
  The fragile nerves of joy. And then
  'Tis such a wise goodwill to men
  And politic economy
  As in a prosperous State we see,
  Where every plot of common land
  Is yielded to some private hand
  To fence about and cultivate.
  Does narrowness its praise abate? 
  Nay, the infinite of man is found
  But in the beating of its bound,
  And, if a brook its banks o'erpass,
  'Tis not a sea, but a morass.

IV
  No giddiest hope, no wildest guess
  Of Love's most innocent loftiness
  Had dared to dream of its own worth,
  Till Heaven's bold sun-gleam lit the earth.
  Christ's marriage with the Church is more,
  My Children, than a metaphor.
  The heaven of heavens is symbol'd where
  The torch of Psyche flash'd despair.

  But here I speak of heights, and heights
  Are hardly scaled. The best delights
  Of even this homeliest passion, are
  In the most perfect souls so rare,
  That they who feel them are as men
  Sailing the Southern ocean, when,
  At midnight, they look up, and eye
  The starry Cross, and a strange sky
  Of brighter stars; and sad thoughts come
  To each how far he is from home.

V
  Love's inmost nuptial sweetness see
  In the doctrine of virginity!
  Could lovers, at their dear wish, blend,
  'Twould kill the bliss which they intend;
  For joy is love's obedience
  Against the law of natural sense;
  And those perpetual yearnings sweet
  Of lives which dream that they can meet
  Are given that lovers never may
  Be without sacrifice to lay 
  On the high altar of true love,
  With tears of vestal joy. To move
  Frantic, like comets to our bliss,
  Forgetting that we always miss,
  And so to seek and fly the sun,
  By turns, around which love should run,
  Perverts the ineffable delight
  Of service guerdon'd with full sight
  And pathos of a hopeless want,
  To an unreal victory's vaunt,
  And plaint of an unreal defeat.
  Yet no less dangerous misconceit
  May also be of the virgin will,
  Whose goal is nuptial blessing still,
  And whose true being doth subsist,
  There where the outward forms are miss'd,
  In those who learn and keep the sense
  Divine of ‘due benevolence,’
  Seeking for aye, without alloy
  Of selfish thought, another's joy,
  And finding in degrees unknown
  That which in act they shunn'd, their own.
  For all delights of earthly love
  Are shadows of the heavens, and move
  As other shadows do; they flee
  From him that follows them; and he
  Who flies, for ever finds his feet
  Embraced by their pursuings sweet.

VI
  Then, even in love humane, do I
  Not counsel aspirations high,
  So much as sweet and regular
  Use of the good in which we are.
  As when a man along the ways
  Walks, and a sudden music plays, 
  His step unchanged, he steps in time,
  So let your Grace with Nature chime.
  Her primal forces burst, like straws,
  The bonds of uncongenial laws.
  Right life is glad as well as just,
  And, rooted strong in ‘This I must,’
  It bears aloft the blossom gay
  And zephyr-toss'd, of ‘This I may;’
  Whereby the complex heavens rejoice
  In fruits of uncommanded choice.
  Be this your rule: seeking delight,
  Esteem success the test of right;
  For 'gainst God's will much may be done,
  But nought enjoy'd, and pleasures none
  Exist, but, like to springs of steel,
  Active no longer than they feel
  The checks that make them serve the soul,
  They take their vigour from control.
  A man need only keep but well
  The Church's indispensable
  First precepts, and she then allows,
  Nay, more, she bids him, for his spouse,
  Leave even his heavenly Father's awe,
  At times, and His immaculate law,
  Construed in its extremer sense.
  Jehovah's mild magnipotence
  Smiles to behold His children play
  In their own free and childish way,
  And can His fullest praise descry
  In the exuberant liberty
  Of those who, having understood
  The glory of the Central Good,
  And how souls ne'er may match or merge,
  But as they thitherward converge,
  Take in love's innocent gladness part
  With infantine, untroubled heart, 
  And faith that, straight t'wards heaven's far Spring,
  Sleeps, like the swallow, on the wing.

VII
  Lovers, once married, deem their bond
  Then perfect, scanning nought beyond
  For love to do but to sustain
  The spousal hour's delighted gain.
  But time and a right life alone
  Fulfil the promise then foreshown.
  The Bridegroom and the Bride withal
  Are but unwrought material
  Of marriage; nay, so far is love,
  Thus crown'd, from being thereto enough,
  Without the long, compulsive awe
  Of duty, that the bond of law
  Does oftener marriage-love evoke,
  Than love, which does not wear the yoke
  Of legal vows, submits to be
  Self-rein'd from ruinous liberty.
  Lovely is love; but age well knows
  'Twas law which kept the lover's vows
  Inviolate through the year or years
  Of worship pieced with panic fears,
  When she who lay within his breast
  Seem'd of all women perhaps the best,
  But not the whole, of womankind,
  Or love, in his yet wayward mind,
  Had ghastly doubts its precious life
  Was pledged for aye to the wrong wife.

  Could it be else? A youth pursues
  A maid, whom chance, not he, did choose,
  Till to his strange arms hurries she
  In a despair of modesty.
  Then, simply and without pretence
  Of insight or experience, 
  They plight their vows. The parents say
  ‘We cannot speak them yea or nay;
  ‘The thing proceedeth from the Lord!’
  And wisdom still approves their word;
  For God created so these two
  They match as well as others do
  That take more pains, and trust Him less
  Who never fails, if ask'd, to bless
  His children's helpless ignorance
  And blind election of life's chance.
  Verily, choice not matters much,
  If but the woman's truly such,
  And the young man has led the life
  Without which how shall e'er the wife
  Be the one woman in the world?
  Love's sensitive tendrils sicken, curl'd
  Round folly's former stay; for 'tis
  The doom of all unsanction'd bliss
  To mock some good that, gain'd, keeps still
  The taint of the rejected ill.

VIII
  Howbeit, though both were perfect, she
  Of whom the maid was prophecy
  As yet lives not, and Love rebels
  Against the law of any else;
  And, as a steed takes blind alarm,
  Disowns the rein, and hunts his harm,
  So, misdespairing word and act
  May now perturb the happiest pact.

  The more, indeed, is love, the more
  Peril to love is now in store.
  Against it nothing can be done
  But only this: leave ill alone!
  Who tries to mend his wife succeeds
  As he who knows not what he needs. 
  He much affronts a worth as high
  As his, and that equality
  Of spirits in which abide the grace
  And joy of her subjected place;
  And does the still growth check and blurr
  Of contraries, confusing her
  Who better knows what he desires
  Than he, and to that mark aspires
  With perfect zeal, and a deep wit
  Which nothing helps but trusting it.

  So, loyally o'erlooking all
  In which love's promise short may fall
  Of full performance, honour that
  As won, which aye love worketh at!
  It is but as the pedigree
  Of perfectness which is to be
  That our best good can honour claim;
  Yet honour to deny were shame
  And robbery; for it is the mould
  Wherein to beauty runs the gold
  Of good intention, and the prop
  That lifts to the sun the earth-drawn crop
  Of human sensibilities.

  Such honour, with a conduct wise
  In common things, as, not to steep
  The lofty mind of love in sleep
  Of over much familiarness;
  Not to degrade its kind caress,
  As those do that can feel no more,
  So give themselves to pleasures o'er;
  Not to let morning-sloth destroy
  The evening-flower, domestic joy;
  Not by uxoriousness to chill
  The warm devotion of her will
  Who can but half her love confer
  On him that cares for nought but her;—

  These, and like obvious prudences
  Observed, he's safest that relies,
  For the hope she will not always seem,
  Caught, but a laurel or a stream,
  On time; on her unsearchable
  Love-wisdom; on their work done well,
  Discreet with mutual aid; on might
  Of shared affliction and delight;
  On pleasures that so childish be
  They're 'shamed to let the children see,
  By which life keeps the valleys low
  Where love does naturally grow;
  On much whereof hearts have account,
  Though heads forget; on babes, chief fount
  Of union, and for which babes are
  No less than this for them, nay far
  More, for the bond of man and wife
  To the very verge of future life
  Strengthens, and yearns for brighter day,
  While others, with their use, decay;
  And, though true marriage purpose keeps
  Of offspring, as the centre sleeps
  Within the wheel, transmitting thence
  Fury to the circumference,
  Love's self the noblest offspring is,
  And sanction of the nuptial kiss;
  Lastly, on either's primal curse,
  Which help and sympathy reverse
  To blessings.

IX
  God, who may be well
  Jealous of His chief miracle,
  Bids sleep the meddling soul of man,
  Through the long process of this plan, 
  Whereby, from his unweeting side,
  The Wife's created, and the Bride,
  That chance one of her strange, sweet sex
  He to his glad life did annex,
  Grows more and more, by day and night,
  The one in the whole world opposite
  Of him, and in her nature all
  So suited and reciprocal
  To his especial form of sense,
  Affection, and intelligence,
  That, whereas love at first had strange
  Relapses into lust of change,
  It now finds (wondrous this, but true!)
  The long-accustom'd only new,
  And the untried common; and, whereas
  An equal seeming danger was
  Of likeness lacking joy and force,
  Or difference reaching to divorce,
  Now can the finish'd lover see
  Marvel of me most far from me,
  Whom without pride he may admire,
  Without Narcissus' doom desire,
  Serve without selfishness, and love
  ‘Even as himself,’ in sense above
  Niggard ‘as much,’ yea, as she is
  The only part of him that's his.

  X
  I do not say love's youth returns;
  That joy which so divinely yearns!
  But just esteem of present good
  Shows all regret such gratitude
  As if the sparrow in her nest,
  Her woolly young beneath her breast,
  Should these despise, and sorrow for
  Her five blue eggs that are no more. 
  Nor say I the fruit has quite the scope
  Of the flower's spiritual hope.
  Love's best is service, and of this,
  Howe'er devout, use dulls the bliss.
  Though love is all of earth that's dear,
  Its home, my Children, is not here:
  The pathos of eternity
  Does in its fullest pleasure sigh.

  Be grateful and most glad thereof.
  Parting, as 'tis, is pain enough.
  If love, by joy, has learn'd to give
  Praise with the nature sensitive,
  At last, to God, we then possess
  The end of mortal happiness,
  And henceforth very well may wait
  The unbarring of the golden gate,
  Wherethrough, already, faith can see
  That apter to each wish than we
  Is God, and curious to bless
  Better than we devise or guess;
  Not without condescending craft
  To disappoint with bliss, and waft
  Our vessels frail, when worst He mocks
  The heart with breakers and with rocks,
  To happiest havens. You have heard
  Your bond death-sentenced by His Word.
  What, if, in heaven, the name be o'er,
  Because the thing is so much more?
  All are, 'tis writ, as angels there,
  Nor male nor female. Each a stair
  In the hierarchical ascent
  Of active and recipient
  Affections, what if all are both
  By turn, as they themselves betroth
  To adoring what is next above,
  Or serving what's below their love? 

  Of this we are certified, that we
  Are shaped here for eternity,
  So that a careless word will make
  Its dint upon the form we take
  For ever. If, then, years have wrought
  Two strangers to become, in thought,
  Will, and affection, but one man
  For likeness, as none others can,
  Without like process, shall this tree
  The king of all the forest, be,
  Alas, the only one of all
  That shall not lie where it doth fall?
  Shall this unflagging flame, here nurs'd
  By everything, yea, when reversed,
  Blazing, in fury, brighter, wink,
  Flicker, and into darkness shrink,
  When all else glows, baleful or brave,
  In the keen air beyond the grave?

  Beware; for fiends in triumph laugh
  O'er him who learns the truth by half!
  Beware; for God will not endure
  For men to make their hope more pure
  Than His good promise, or require
  Another than the five-string'd lyre
  Which He has vow'd again to the hands
  Devout of him who understands
  To tune it justly here! Beware
  The Powers of Darkness and the Air,
  Which lure to empty heights man's hope,
  Bepraising heaven's ethereal cope,
  But covering with their cloudy cant
  Its ground of solid adamant,
  That strengthens ether for the flight
  Of angels, makes and measures height,
  And in materiality
  Exceeds our Earth's in such degree 
  As all else Earth exceeds! Do I
  Here utter aught too dark or high?
  Have you not seen a bird's beak slay
  Proud Psyche, on a summer's day?
  Down fluttering drop the frail wings four,
  Missing the weight which made them soar.
  Spirit is heavy nature's wing,
  And is not rightly anything
  Without its burthen, whereas this,
  Wingless, at least a maggot is,
  And, wing'd, is honour and delight
  Increasing endlessly with height.

  XI
  If unto any here that chance
  Fell not, which makes a month's romance,
  Remember, few wed whom they would.
  And this, like all God's laws, is good;
  For nought's so sad, the whole world o'er,
  As much love which has once been more.
  Glorious for light is the earliest love;
  But worldly things, in the rays thereof,
  Extend their shadows, every one
  False as the image which the sun
  At noon or eve dwarfs or protracts.
  A perilous lamp to light men's acts!
  By Heaven's kind, impartial plan,
  Well-wived is he that's truly man
  If but the woman's womanly,
  As such a man's is sure to be.
  Joy of all eyes and pride of life
  Perhaps she is not; the likelier wife!
  If it be thus; if you have known,
  (As who has not?) some heavenly one,
  Whom the dull background of despair
  Help'd to show forth supremely fair; 
  If memory, still remorseful, shapes
  Young Passion bringing Eshcol grapes
  To travellers in the Wilderness,
  This truth will make regret the less:
  Mighty in love as graces are,
  God's ordinance is mightier far;
  And he who is but just and kind
  And patient, shall for guerdon find,
  Before long, that the body's bond
  Is all else utterly beyond
  In power of love to actualise
  The soul's bond which it signifies,
  And even to deck a wife with grace
  External in the form and face.
  A five years' wife, and not yet fair?
  Blame let the man, not Nature, bear!
  For, as the sun, warming a bank
  Where last year's grass droops gray and dank,
  Evokes the violet, bids disclose
  In yellow crowds the fresh primrose,
  And foxglove hang her flushing head,
  So vernal love, where all seems dead,
  Makes beauty abound.

  Then was that nought,
  That trance of joy beyond all thought,
  The vision, in one, of womanhood?
  Nay, for all women holding good,
  Should marriage such a prologue want,
  'Twere sordid and most ignorant
  Profanity; but, having this,
  'Tis honour now, and future bliss;
  For where is he that, knowing the height
  And depth of ascertain'd delight,
  Inhumanly henceforward lies
  Content with mediocrities!

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore