The sweet hour lapsed, and left my breast
A load of joy and tender care;
And this delight, which life oppress’d,
To fix’d aims grew, that ask’d for
pray’r.
I rode
home slowly; whip-in-hand
And soil’d bank-notes all ready, stood
The Farmer who farm’d all my land,
Except the little Park and Wood;
And with the accustom’d compliment
Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer,
I, my own steward, took my rent,
Three hundred pounds for half the year;
Our witnesses the Cook and Groom,
We sign’d the lease for seven years more,
And bade Good-day; then to my room
I went, and closed and lock’d the door,
And cast myself down on my bed,
And there, with many a blissful tear,
I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed
The maiden who had grown so dear;
Thank’d God who had set her in my path;
And promised, as I hoped to win,
That I would never dim my faith
By the least selfishness or sin;
Whatever in her sight I’d seem
I’d truly be; I’d never blend
With my delight in her a dream
’Twould change her cheek to comprehend;
And, if she wish’d it, I’d prefer
Another’s to my own success;
And always seek the best for her
With unofficious tenderness.
4
Rising, I breathed a brighter clime,
And found myself all self above,
And, with a charity sublime,
Contemn’d not those who did not love:
And I could not but feel that then
I shone with something of her grace,
And went forth to my fellow men
My commendation in my face.
CANTO
V.
The Violets.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Comparison.
Where she succeeds
with cloudless brow,
In common and in holy course,
He fails, in spite of prayer and vow
And agonies of faith and force;
Or, if his suit with Heaven prevails
To righteous life, his virtuous deeds
Lack beauty, virtue’s badge; she fails
More graciously than he succeeds.
Her spirit, compact of gentleness,
If Heaven postpones or grants her pray’r,
Conceives no pride in its success,
And in its failure no despair;
But his, enamour’d of its hurt,
Baffled, blasphemes, or, not denied,
Crows from the dunghill of desert,
And wags its ugly wings for pride.
He’s
never young nor ripe; she grows
More infantine, auroral, mild,
And still the more she lives and knows
The lovelier she’s express’d a child.
Say that she wants the will of man
To conquer fame, not check’d by cross,
Nor moved when others bless or ban;
She wants but what to have were loss.
Or say she wants the patient brain
To track shy truth; her facile wit
At that which he hunts down with pain
Flies straight, and does exactly hit.
Were she but half of what she is,
He twice himself, mere love alone,
Her special crown, as truth is his,
Gives title to the worthier throne;
For love is substance, truth the form;
Truth without love were less than nought;
But blindest love is sweet and warm,
And full of truth not shaped by thought,
And therefore in herself she stands
Adorn’d with undeficient grace,
Her happy virtues taking hands,
Each smiling in another’s face.
So, dancing round the Tree of Life,
They make an Eden in her breast,
While his, disjointed and at strife,
Proud-thoughted, do not bring him rest.
II.
Love in Tears.
If fate Love’s dear ambition mar,
And load his breast with hopeless pain,
And seem to blot out sun and star,
Love, won or lost, is countless gain;
His sorrow boasts a secret bliss
Which sorrow of itself beguiles,
And Love in tears too noble is
For pity, save of Love in smiles.
But, looking backward through his tears,
With vision of maturer scope,
How often one dead joy appears
The platform of some better hope!
And, let us own, the sharpest smart
Which human patience may endure
Pays light for that which leaves the heart
More generous, dignified, and pure.
III.
Prospective Faith.
They safely walk in darkest ways
Whose youth is lighted from above,
Where, through the senses’ silvery haze,
Dawns the veil’d moon of nuptial love.
Who is the
happy husband? He
Who, scanning his unwedded life,
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,
’Twas faithful to his future wife.
IV.
Venus Victrix.
Fatal in force, yet gentle in will,
Defeats, from her, are tender pacts,
For, like the kindly lodestone, still
She’s drawn herself by what she attracts.
THE VIOLETS.
1
I went not to the Dean’s unbid:
I would not have my mystery,
From her so delicately hid,
The guess of gossips at their tea.
A long, long week, and not once there,
Had made my spirit sick and faint,
And lack-love, foul as love is fair,
Perverted all things to complaint.
How vain
the world had grown to be!
How mean all people and their ways,
How ignorant their sympathy,
And how impertinent their praise;
What they for virtuousness esteem’d,
How far removed from heavenly right;
What pettiness their trouble seem’d,
How undelightful their delight;
To my necessity how strange
The sunshine and the song of birds;
How dull the clouds’ continual change,
How foolishly content the herds;
How unaccountable the law
Which bade me sit in blindness here,
While she, the sun by which I saw,
Shed splendour in an idle sphere!
And then I kiss’d her stolen glove,
And sigh’d to reckon and define
The modes of martyrdom in love,
And how far each one might be mine.
I thought how love, whose vast estate
Is earth and air and sun and sea,
Encounters oft the beggar’s fate,
Despised on score of poverty;
How Heaven, inscrutable in this,
Lets the gross general make or mar
The destiny of love, which is
So tender and particular;
How
nature, as unnatural
And contradicting nature’s source,
Which is but love, seems most of all
Well-pleased to harry true love’s course;
How, many times, it comes to pass
That trifling shades of temperament,
Affecting only one, alas,
Not love, but love’s success prevent;
How manners often falsely paint
The man; how passionate respect,
Hid by itself, may bear the taint
Of coldness and a dull neglect;
And how a little outward dust
Can a clear merit quite o’ercloud,
And make her fatally unjust,
And him desire a darker shroud;
How senseless opportunity
Gives baser men the better chance;
How powers, adverse else, agree
To cheat her in her ignorance;
How Heaven its very self conspires
With man and nature against love,
As pleased to couple cross desires,
And cross where they themselves approve.
Wretched were life, if the end were now!
But this gives tears to dry despair,
Faith shall be blest, we know not how,
And love fulfill’d, we know not where.
2
While thus I grieved, and kiss’d her
glove,
My man brought in her note to say,
Papa had hid her send his love,
And would I dine with them next day?
They had learn’d and practised Purcell’s glee,
To sing it by to-morrow night.
The Postscript was: Her sisters and she
Inclosed some violets, blue and white;
She and her sisters found them where
I wager’d once no violets grew;
So they had won the gloves. And there
The violets lay, two white, one blue.
CANTO
VI.
The Dean.
PRELUDES.
I.
Perfect Love rare.
Most rare is still
most noble found,
Most noble still most incomplete;
Sad law, which leaves King Love uncrown’d
In this obscure, terrestrial seat!
With bale more sweet than others’ bliss,
And bliss more wise than others’ bale,
The secrets of the world are his.
And freedom without let or pale.
O, zealous good, O, virtuous glee,
Religious, and without alloy,
O, privilege high, which none but he
Who highly merits can enjoy;
O, Love, who art that fabled sun
Which all the world with bounty loads,
Without respect of realms, save one,
And gilds with double lustre Rhodes;
A day of
whose delicious life,
Though full of terrors, full of tears,
Is better than of other life
A hundred thousand million years;
Thy heavenly splendour magnifies
The least commixture of earth’s mould,
Cheapens thyself in thine own eyes,
And makes the foolish mocker bold.
II.
Love Justified.
What if my pole-star of respect
Be dim to others? Shall their
‘Nay,’
Presumably their own defect,
Invalidate my heart’s strong
‘Yea’?
And can they rightly me condemn,
If I, with partial love, prefer?
I am not more unjust to them,
But only not unjust to her.
Leave us alone! After awhile,
This pool of private charity
Shall make its continent an isle,
And roll, a world-embracing sea;
This foolish zeal of lip for lip,
This fond, self-sanction’d, wilful zest,
Is that elect relationship
Which forms and sanctions all the rest;
This
little germ of nuptial love,
Which springs so simply from the sod,
The root is, as my song shall prove,
Of all our love to man and God.
III.
Love Serviceable.
What measure Fate to him shall mete
Is not the noble Lover’s care;
He’s heart-sick with a longing sweet
To make her happy as she’s fair.
Oh, misery, should she him refuse,
And so her dearest good mistake!
His own success he thus pursues
With frantic zeal for her sole sake.
To lose her were his life to blight,
Being loss to hers; to make her his,
Except as helping her delight,
He calls but incidental bliss;
And holding life as so much pelf
To buy her posies, learns this lore:
He does not rightly love himself
Who does not love another more.
IV.
A Riddle Solved.
Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,
When you, you wonder why, love none.
We love, Fool, for the good we do,
Not that which unto us is done!
THE DEAN.
1
The Ladies rose. I held the door,
And sigh’d, as her departing grace
Assured me that she always wore
A heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
I dreaded, o’er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
To hurt the hope that she’d be mine.
2
Towards my mark the Dean’s talk set:
He praised my ‘Notes on Abury,’
Read when the Association met
At Sarum; he was pleased to see
I had not
stopp’d, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hoped the business was not bad
I came about: then the wine pass’d.
3
A full glass prefaced my reply:
I loved his daughter, Honor; I told
My estate and prospects; might I try
To win her? At my words so bold
My sick heart sank. Then he: He gave
His glad consent, if I could get
Her love. A dear, good Girl! she’d have
Only three thousand pounds as yet;
More bye and bye. Yes, his good will
Should go with me; he would not stir;
He and my father in old time still
Wish’d I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take
Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make
Or alter others’ destinies,
That, though his blessing and his pray’r
Had help’d, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
Consent and opportunity.
My chance,
he hoped, was good: I’d won
Some name already; friends and place
Appear’d within my reach, but none
Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom
They invest their vanities admired;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desired.
’Twas so with one now pass’d away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say
Mine was a choice I could not rue.
4
He ceased, and gave his hand. He had
won
(And all my heart was in my word),
From me the affection of a son,
Whichever fortune Heaven conferr’d!
Well, well, would I take more wine? Then go
To her; she makes tea on the lawn
These fine warm afternoons. And so
We went whither my soul was drawn;
And her light-hearted ignorance
Of interest in our discourse
Fill’d me with love, and seem’d to enhance
Her beauty with pathetic force,
As,
through the flowery mazes sweet,
Fronting the wind that flutter’d blythe,
And loved her shape, and kiss’d her feet,
Shown to their insteps proud and lithe,
She approach’d, all mildness and young trust,
And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love’s feast its choicest gust,
A vague, faint augury of despair.
CANTO
VII.
Ætna and the Moon.
PRELUDES.
I.
Love’s Immortality.
How vilely ’twere to misdeserve
The poet’s gift of perfect speech,
In song to try, with trembling nerve,
The limit of its utmost reach,
Only to sound the wretched praise
Of what to-morrow shall not be;
So mocking with immortal bays
The cross-bones of mortality!
I do not thus. My faith is fast
That all the loveliness I sing
Is made to bear the mortal blast,
And blossom in a better Spring.
Doubts of eternity ne’er cross
The Lover’s mind, divinely clear;
For ever is the gain or loss
Which maddens him with hope or fear:
So trifles
serve for his relief,
And trifles make him sick and pale;
And yet his pleasure and his grief
Are both on a majestic scale.
The chance, indefinitely small,
Of issue infinitely great,
Eclipses finite interests all,
And has the dignity of fate.
II.
Heaven and Earth.
How long shall men deny the flower
Because its roots are in the earth,
And crave with tears from God the dower
They have, and have despised as dearth,
And scorn as low their human lot,
With frantic pride, too blind to see
That standing on the head makes not
Either for ease or dignity!
But fools shall feel like fools to find
(Too late inform’d) that angels’
mirth
Is one in cause, and mode, and kind
With that which they profaned on earth.
ÆTNA AND THE MOON.
1
To soothe my heart I, feigning, seized
A pen, and, showering tears, declared
My unfeign’d passion; sadly pleased
Only to dream that so I dared.
Thus was the fervid truth confess’d,
But wild with paradox ran the plea.
As wilfully in hope depress’d,
Yet bold beyond hope’s warranty:
2
‘O, more than dear, be more than just,
And do not deafly shut the door!
I claim no right to speak; I trust
Mercy, not right; yet who has more?
For, if more love makes not more fit,
Of claimants here none’s more nor less,
Since your great worth does not permit
Degrees in our unworthiness.
Yet, if there’s aught that can be done
With arduous labour of long years,
By which you’ll say that you’ll be won,
O tell me, and I’ll dry my tears.
Ah, no; if loving cannot move,
How foolishly must labour fail!
The use of deeds is to show love;
If signs suffice let these avail:
Your name
pronounced brings to my heart
A feeling like the violet’s breath,
Which does so much of heaven impart
It makes me amorous of death;
The winds that in the garden toss
The Guelder-roses give me pain,
Alarm me with the dread of loss,
Exhaust me with the dream of gain;
I’m troubled by the clouds that move;
Tired by the breath which I respire;
And ever, like a torch, my love,
Thus agitated, flames the higher;
All’s hard that has not you for goal;
I scarce can move my hand to write,
For love engages all my soul,
And leaves the body void of might;
The wings of will spread idly, as do
The bird’s that in a vacuum lies;
My breast, asleep with dreams of you,
Forgets to breathe, and bursts in sighs;
I see no rest this side the grave,
No rest nor hope, from you apart;
Your life is in the rose you gave,
Its perfume suffocates my heart;
There’s no refreshment in the breeze;
The heaven o’erwhelms me with its blue;
I faint beside the dancing seas;
Winds, skies, and waves are only you;
The
thought or act which not intends
You service seems a sin and shame;
In that one only object ends
Conscience, religion, honour, fame.
Ah, could I put off love! Could we
Never have met! What calm, what ease!
Nay, but, alas, this remedy
Were ten times worse than the disease!
For when, indifferent, I pursue
The world’s best pleasures for relief,
My heart, still sickening back to you,
Finds none like memory of its grief;
And, though ’twere very hell to hear
You felt such misery as I,
All good, save you, were far less dear!
Than is that ill with which I die
Where’er I go, wandering forlorn,
You are the world’s love, life, and glee:
Oh, wretchedness not to be borne
If she that’s Love should not love
me!’
3
I could not write another word,
Through pity for my own distress;
And forth I went, untimely stirr’d
To make my misery more or less.
I went,
beneath the heated noon,
To where, in her simplicity,
She sate at work; and, as the Moon
On Ætna smiles, she smiled on me.
But, now and then, in cheek and eyes,
I saw, or fancied, such a glow
As when, in summer-evening skies,
Some say, ‘It lightens,’ some say,
‘No.’
‘Honoria,’ I began—No more.
The Dean, by ill or happy hap,
Came home; and Wolf burst in before,
And put his nose upon her lap.
CANTO
VIII.
Sarum Plain.
PRELUDES.
I.
Life of Life.
What’s that,
which, ere I spake, was gone?
So joyful and intense a spark
That, whilst o’erhead the wonder shone,
The day, before but dull, grew dark.
I do not know; but this I know,
That, had the splendour lived a year,
The truth that I some heavenly show
Did see, could not be now more clear.
This know I too: might mortal breath
Express the passion then inspired,
Evil would die a natural death,
And nothing transient be desired;
And error from the soul would pass,
And leave the senses pure and strong
As sunbeams. But the best, alas,
Has neither memory nor tongue!
II.
The Revelation.
An idle poet, here and there,
Looks round him; but, for all the rest,
The world, unfathomably fair,
Is duller than a witling’s jest.
Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,
They read with joy, then shut the book.
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,
And most forget; but, either way,
That and the Child’s unheeded dream
Is all the light of all their day.
III.
The Spirit’s Epochs.
Not in the crises of events,
Of compass’d hopes, or fears
fulfill’d,
Or acts of gravest consequence,
Are life’s delight and depth
reveal’d.
The day of days was not the day;
That went before, or was postponed;
The night Death took our lamp away
Was not the night on which we groan’d.
I drew my
bride, beneath the moon,
Across my threshold; happy hour!
But, ah, the walk that afternoon
We saw the water-flags in flower!
IV.
The Prototype.
Lo, there, whence love, life, light are
pour’d,
Veil’d with impenetrable rays,
Amidst the presence of the Lord
Co-equal Wisdom laughs and plays.
Female and male God made the man;
His image is the whole, not half;
And in our love we dimly scan
The love which is between Himself.
V.
The Praise of Love.
Spirit of Knowledge, grant me this:
A simple heart and subtle wit
To praise the thing whose praise it is
That all which can be praised is it.
SARUM PLAIN.
1
Breakfast enjoy’d, ’mid hush of
boughs
And perfumes thro’ the windows blown;
Brief worship done, which still endows
The day with beauty not its own;
With intervening pause, that paints
Each act with honour, life with calm
(As old processions of the Saints
At every step have wands of palm),
We rose; the ladies went to dress,
And soon return’d with smiles; and then,
Plans fix’d, to which the Dean said ‘Yes,’
Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain.
We past my house (observed with praise
By Mildred, Mary acquiesced),
And left the old and lazy greys
Below the hill, and walk’d the rest.
2
The moods of love are like the wind,
And none knows whence or why they rise:
I ne’er before felt heart and mind
So much affected through mine eyes.
How
cognate with the flatter’d air,
How form’d for earth’s familiar zone,
She moved; how feeling and how fair
For others’ pleasure and her own!
And, ah, the heaven of her face!
How, when she laugh’d, I seem’d to
see
The gladness of the primal grace,
And how, when grave, its dignity!
Of all she was, the least not less
Delighted the devoted eye;
No fold or fashion of her dress
Her fairness did not sanctify.
I could not else than grieve. What cause?
Was I not blest? Was she not there?
Likely my own? Ah, that it was:
How like seem’d ‘likely’ to
despair!
3
And yet to see her so benign,
So honourable and womanly,
In every maiden kindness mine,
And full of gayest courtesy,
Was pleasure so without alloy,
Such unreproved, sufficient bliss,
I almost wish’d, the while, that joy
Might never further go than this.
So much it
was as now to walk,
And humbly by her gentle side
Observe her smile and hear her talk,
Could it be more to call her Bride?
I feign’d her won: the mind finite,
Puzzled and fagg’d by stress and strain
To comprehend the whole delight,
Made bliss more hard to bear than pain.
All good, save heart to hold, so summ’d
And grasp’d, the thought smote, like a
knife,
How laps’d mortality had numb’d
The feelings to the feast of life;
How passing good breathes sweetest breath;
And love itself at highest reveals
More black than bright, commending death
By teaching how much life conceals.
4
But happier passions these subdued,
When from the close and sultry lane,
With eyes made bright by what they view’d,
We emerged upon the mounded Plain.
As to the breeze a flag unfurls,
My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced
By those same gusts that shook her curls
And vex’d the ribbon at her waist.
To the
future cast I future cares;
Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free,
And laugh’d at the presumptuous airs
That with her muslins folded me;
Till, one vague rack along my sky,
The thought that she might ne’er be mine
Lay half forgotten by the eye
So feasted with the sun’s warm shine.
5
By the great stones we chose our ground
For shade; and there, in converse sweet,
Took luncheon. On a little mound
Sat the three ladies; at their feet
I sat; and smelt the heathy smell,
Pluck’d harebells, turn’d the
telescope
To the country round. My life went well,
For once, without the wheels of hope;
And I despised the Druid rocks
That scowl’d their chill gloom from above,
Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks
The lightness of immortal love.
And, as we talk’d, my spirit quaff’d
The sparkling winds; the candid skies
At our untruthful strangeness laugh’d;
I kiss’d with mine her smiling eyes;
And sweet
familiarness and awe
Prevail’d that hour on either part,
And in the eternal light I saw
That she was mine; though yet my heart
Could not conceive, nor would confess
Such contentation; and there grew
More form and more fair stateliness
Than heretofore between us two.
CANTO
IX.
Sahara.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Wife’s Tragedy.
Man must be pleased;
but him to please
Is woman’s pleasure; down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
She casts her best, she flings herself.
How often flings for nought, and yokes
Her heart to an icicle or whim,
Whose each impatient word provokes
Another, not from her, but him;
While she, too gentle even to force
His penitence by kind replies,
Waits by, expecting his remorse,
With pardon in her pitying eyes;
And if he once, by shame oppress’d,
A comfortable word confers,
She leans and weeps against his breast,
And seems to think the sin was hers;
And whilst
his love has any life,
Or any eye to see her charms,
At any time, she’s still his wife,
Dearly devoted to his arms;
She loves with love that cannot tire;
And when, ah woe, she loves alone,
Through passionate duty love springs higher,
As grass grows taller round a stone.
II.
Common Graces.
Is nature in thee too spiritless,
Ignoble, impotent, and dead,
To prize her love and loveliness
The more for being thy daily bread?
And art thou one of that vile crew
Which see no splendour in the sun,
Praising alone the good that’s new,
Or over, or not yet begun?
And has it dawn’d on thy dull wits
That love warms many as soft a nest,
That, though swathed round with benefits,
Thou art not singularly blest?
And fail thy thanks for gifts divine,
The common food of many a heart,
Because they are not only thine?
Beware lest in the end thou art
Cast for
thy pride forth from the fold,
Too good to feel the common grace
Of blissful myriads who behold
For evermore the Father’s face.
III.
The Zest of Life.
Give thanks. It is not time misspent;
Worst fare this betters, and the best,
Wanting this natural condiment,
Breeds crudeness, and will not digest.
The grateful love the Giver’s law;
But those who eat, and look no higher,
From sin or doubtful sanction draw
The biting sauce their feasts require.
Give thanks for nought, if you’ve no more,
And, having all things, do not doubt
That nought, with thanks, is blest before
Whate’er the world can give, without.
IV.
Fool and Wise.
Endow the fool with sun and moon,
Being his, he holds them mean and low,
But to the wise a little boon
Is great, because the giver’s so.
SAHARA.
1
I stood by Honor and the Dean,
They seated in the London train.
A month from her! yet this had been,
Ere now, without such bitter pain.
But neighbourhood makes parting light,
And distance remedy has none;
Alone, she near, I felt as might
A blind man sitting in the sun;
She near, all for the time was well;
Hope’s self, when we were far apart,
With lonely feeling, like the smell
Of heath on mountains, fill’d my heart.
To see her seem’d delight’s full scope,
And her kind smile, so clear of care,
Ev’n then, though darkening all my hope,
Gilded the cloud of my despair.
2
She had forgot to bring a book.
I lent one; blamed the print for old;
And did not tell her that she took
A Petrarch worth its weight in gold.
I hoped
she’d lose it; for my love
Was grown so dainty, high, and nice,
It prized no luxury above
The sense of fruitless sacrifice.
3
The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death,
Link catching link, the long array,
With ponderous pulse and fiery breath,
Proud of its burthen, swept away;
And through the lingering crowd I broke,
Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick,
Beheld, far off, the little smoke
Along the landscape kindling quick.
4
What should I do, where should I go,
Now she was gone, my love! for mine
She was, whatever here below
Cross’d or usurp’d my right divine.
Life, without her, was vain and gross,
The glory from the world was gone,
And on the gardens of the Close
As on Sahara shone the sun.
Oppress’d with her departed grace,
My thoughts on ill surmises fed;
The harmful influence of the place
She went to fill’d my soul with dread.
She,
mixing with the people there,
Might come back alter’d, having caught
The foolish, fashionable air
Of knowing all, and feeling nought.
Or, giddy with her beauty’s praise,
She’d scorn our simple country life,
Its wholesome nights and tranquil days.
And would not deign to be my Wife.
‘My Wife,’ ‘my Wife,’ ah, tenderest
word!
How oft, as fearful she might hear,
Whispering that name of ‘Wife,’ I heard
The chiming of the inmost sphere.
5
I pass’d the home of my regret.
The clock was striking in the hall,
And one sad window open yet,
Although the dews began to fall.
Ah, distance show’d her beauty’s scope!
How light of heart and innocent
That loveliness which sicken’d hope
And wore the world for ornament!
How perfectly her life was framed;
And, thought of in that passionate mood,
How her affecting graces shamed
The vulgar life that was but good!
6
I wonder’d, would her bird be fed,
Her rose-plots water’d, she not by;
Loading my breast with angry dread
Of light, unlikely injury.
So, fill’d with love and fond remorse,
I paced the Close, its every part
Endow’d with reliquary force
To heal and raise from death my heart.
How tranquil and unsecular
The precinct! Once, through yonder gate,
I saw her go, and knew from far
Her love-lit form and gentle state.
Her dress had brush’d this wicket; here
She turn’d her face, and laugh’d, with
light
Like moonbeams on a wavering mere.
Weary beforehand of the night,
I went; the blackbird, in the wood
Talk’d by himself, and eastward grew
In heaven the symbol of my mood,
Where one bright star engross’d the blue.
CANTO
X.
Church to Church.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Joyful Wisdom.
Would Wisdom for
herself be woo’d,
And wake the foolish from his dream,
She must be glad as well as good,
And must not only be, but seem.
Beauty and joy are hers by right;
And, knowing this, I wonder less
That she’s so scorn’d, when falsely dight
In misery and ugliness.
What’s that which Heaven to man endears,
And that which eyes no sooner see
Than the heart says, with floods of tears,
‘Ah, that’s the thing which I would
be!’
Not childhood, full of frown and fret;
Not youth, impatient to disown
Those visions high, which to forget
Were worse than never to have known;
Not
worldlings, in whose fair outside
Nor courtesy nor justice fails,
Thanks to cross-pulling vices tied,
Like Samson’s foxes, by the tails;
Not poets; real things are dreams,
When dreams are as realities,
And boasters of celestial gleams
Go stumbling aye for want of eyes;
Not patriots or people’s men,
In whom two worse-match’d evils meet
Than ever sought Adullam’s den,
Base conscience and a high conceit;
Not new-made saints, their feelings iced,
Their joy in man and nature gone,
Who sing ‘O easy yoke of Christ!’
But find ’tis hard to get it on;
Not great men, even when they’re good;
The good man whom the time makes great,
By some disgrace of chance or blood,
God fails not to humiliate;
Not these: but souls, found here and there,
Oases in our waste of sin,
Where everything is well and fair,
And Heav’n remits its discipline;
Whose sweet subdual of the world
The worldling scarce can recognise,
And ridicule, against it hurl’d,
Drops with a broken sting and dies;
Who nobly,
if they cannot know
Whether a ’scutcheon’s dubious field
Carries a falcon or a crow,
Fancy a falcon on the shield;
Yet, ever careful not to hurt
God’s honour, who creates success,
Their praise of even the best desert
Is but to have presumed no less;
Who, should their own life plaudits bring,
Are simply vex’d at heart that such
An easy, yea, delightful thing
Should move the minds of men so much.
They live by law, not like the fool,
But like the bard, who freely sings
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,
And finds in them, not bonds, but wings.
Postponing still their private ease
To courtly custom, appetite,
Subjected to observances,
To banquet goes with full delight;
Nay, continence and gratitude
So cleanse their lives from earth’s alloy,
They taste, in Nature’s common food,
Nothing but spiritual joy.
They shine like Moses in the face,
And teach our hearts, without the rod,
That God’s grace is the only grace,
And all grace is the grace of God.
II.
The Devices.
Love, kiss’d by Wisdom, wakes twice
Love,
And Wisdom is, thro’ loving, wise.
Let Dove and Snake, and Snake and Dove,
This Wisdom’s be, that Love’s
device.
GOING TO CHURCH.
1
I woke at three; for I was bid
To breakfast with the Dean at nine,
And thence to Church. My curtain slid,
I found the dawning Sunday fine,
And could not rest, so rose. The air
Was dark and sharp; the roosted birds
Cheep’d, ‘Here am I, Sweet; are you there?’
On Avon’s misty flats the herds
Expected, comfortless, the day,
Which slowly fired the clouds above;
The cock scream’d, somewhere far away;
In sleep the matrimonial dove
Was crooning; no wind waked the wood,
Nor moved the midnight river-damps,
Nor thrill’d the poplar; quiet stood
The chestnut with its thousand lamps;
The moon
shone yet, but weak and drear,
And seem’d to watch, with bated breath,
The landscape, all made sharp and clear
By stillness, as a face by death.
2
My pray’rs for her being done, I took
Occasion by the quiet hour
To find and know, by Rule and Book,
The rights of love’s beloved power.
3
Fronting the question without ruth,
Nor ignorant that, evermore,
If men will stoop to kiss the Truth,
She lifts them higher than before,
I, from above, such light required
As now should once for all destroy
The folly which at times desired
A sanction for so great a joy.
4
Thenceforth, and through that pray’r, I
trod
A path with no suspicions dim.
I loved her in the name of God,
And for the ray she was of Him;
I ought to
admire much more, not less
Her beauty was a godly grace;
The mystery of loveliness,
Which made an altar of her face,
Was not of the flesh, though that was fair,
But a most pure and living light
Without a name, by which the rare
And virtuous spirit flamed to sight.
If oft, in love, effect lack’d cause
And cause effect, ’twere vain to soar
Reasons to seek for that which was
Reason itself, or something more.
My joy was no idolatry
Upon the ends of the vile earth bent,
For when I loved her most then I
Most yearn’d for more divine content.
That other doubt, which, like a ghost,
In the brain’s darkness haunted me,
Was thus resolved: Him loved I most,
But her I loved most sensibly.
Lastly, my giddiest hope allow’d
No selfish thought, or earthly smirch;
And forth I went, in peace, and proud
To take my passion into Church;
Grateful and glad to think that all
Such doubts would seem entirely vain
To her whose nature’s lighter fall
Made no divorce of heart from brain.
5
I found them, with exactest grace
And fresh as Spring, for Spring attired;
And by the radiance in her face
I saw she felt she was admired;
And, through the common luck of love,
A moment’s fortunate delay,
To fit the little lilac glove,
Gave me her arm; and I and they
(They true to this and every hour,
As if attended on by Time),
Enter’d the Church while yet the tower
Was noisy with the finish’d chime.
6
Her soft voice, singularly heard
Beside me, in her chant, withstood
The roar of voices, like a bird
Sole warbling in a windy wood;
And, when we knelt, she seem’d to be
An angel teaching me to pray;
And all through the high Liturgy
My spirit rejoiced without allay,
Being, for once, borne clearly above
All banks and bars of ignorance,
By this bright spring-tide of pure love,
And floated in a free expanse,
Whence it
could see from side to side,
The obscurity from every part
Winnow’d away and purified
By the vibrations of my heart.
CANTO
XI.
The Dance.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Daughter of Eve.
The woman’s
gentle mood o’erstept
Withers my love, that lightly scans
The rest, and does in her accept
All her own faults, but none of man’s.
As man I cannot judge her ill,
Or honour her fair station less,
Who, with a woman’s errors, still
Preserves a woman’s gentleness;
For thus I think, if one I see
Who disappoints my high desire,
‘How admirable would she be,
Could she but know how I admire!’
Or fail she, though from blemish clear,
To charm, I call it my defect;
And so my thought, with reverent fear
To err by doltish disrespect,
Imputes
love’s great regard, and says,
‘Though unapparent ’tis to me,
Be sure this Queen some other sways
With well-perceiv’d supremacy.’
Behold the worst! Light from above
On the blank ruin writes ‘Forbear!
Her first crime was unguarded love,
And all the rest, perhaps, despair.’
Discrown’d, dejected, but not lost,
O, sad one, with no more a name
Or place in all the honour’d host
Of maiden and of matron fame,
Grieve on; but, if thou grievest right,
’Tis not that these abhor thy state,
Nor would’st thou lower the least the height
Which makes thy casting down so great.
Good is thy lot in its degree;
For hearts that verily repent
Are burden’d with impunity
And comforted by chastisement.
Sweet patience sanctify thy woes!
And doubt not but our God is just,
Albeit unscathed thy traitor goes,
And thou art stricken to the dust.
That penalty’s the best to bear
Which follows soonest on the sin;
And guilt’s a game where losers fare
Better than those who seem to win.
II.
Aurea Dicta.
’Tis truth (although this truth’s a
star
Too deep-enskied for all to see),
As poets of grammar, lovers are
The fountains of morality.
Child, would you shun the vulgar doom,
In love disgust, in death despair?
Know, death must come and love must come,
And so for each your soul prepare.
Who pleasure follows pleasure slays;
God’s wrath upon himself he wreaks;
But all delights rejoice his days
Who takes with thanks, and never seeks.
The wrong is made and measured by
The right’s inverted dignity.
Change love to shame, as love is high
So low in hell your bed shall be.
How easy to keep free from sin!
How hard that freedom to recall!
For dreadful truth it is that men
Forget the heavens from which they fall.
Lest sacred love your soul ensnare,
With pious fancy still infer
‘How loving and how lovely fair
Must He be who has fashion’d her!’
Become whatever good you see,
Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view
The grace of which you may not be
The subject and spectator too.
Love’s perfect blossom only blows
Where noble manners veil defect
Angels maybe familiar; those
Who err each other must respect.
Love blabb’d of is a great decline;
A careless word unsanctions sense;
But he who casts Heaven’s truth to swine
Consummates all incontinence.
Not to unveil before the gaze
Of an imperfect sympathy
In aught we are, is the sweet praise
And the main sum of modesty.
THE DANCE.
1
‘My memory of Heaven awakes!
She’s not of the earth, although her light,
As lantern’d by her body, makes
A piece of it past bearing bright.
So innocently proud and fair
She is, that Wisdom sings for glee
And Folly dies, breathing one air
With such a bright-cheek’d chastity;
And though her charms are a strong law
Compelling all men to admire,
They go so clad with lovely awe
None but the noble dares desire.
He who would seek to make her his
Will comprehend that souls of grace
Own sweet repulsion, and that ’tis
The quality of their embrace
To be like the majestic reach
Of coupled suns, that, from afar,
Mingle their mutual spheres, while each
Circles the twin obsequious star;
And, in the warmth of hand to hand,
Of heart to heart, he’ll vow to note
And reverently understand
How the two spirits shine remote;
And
ne’er to numb fine honour’s nerve,
Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,
Nor fail by courtesies to observe
The space which makes attraction felt;
Nor cease to guard like life the sense
Which tells him that the embrace of love
Is o’er a gulf of difference
Love cannot sound, nor death remove.’
2
This learn’d I, watching where she
danced,
Native to melody and light,
And now and then toward me glanced,
Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight.
3
Ah, love to speak was impotent,
Till music did a tongue confer,
And I ne’er knew what music meant,
Until I danced to it with her.
Too proud of the sustaining power
Of my, till then, unblemish’d joy.
My passion, for reproof, that hour
Tasted mortality’s alloy,
And bore me down an eddying gulf;
I wish’d the world might run to wreck,
So I but once might fling myself
Obliviously about her neck.
I
press’d her hand, by will or chance
I know not, but I saw the rays
Withdrawn, which did till then enhance
Her fairness with its thanks for praise.
I knew my spirit’s vague offence
Was patent to the dreaming eye
And heavenly tact of innocence,
And did for fear my fear defy,
And ask’d her for the next dance.
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ had not fall’n with half the
force.
She was fulfill’d with gentleness,
And I with measureless remorse;
And, ere I slept, on bended knee
I own’d myself, with many a tear,
Unseasonable, disorderly,
And a deranger of love’s sphere;
Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,
We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;
And, rising, found its brightness all
The brighter through the tears of ruth.
4
Nor was my hope that night made less,
Though order’d, humbled, and reproved;
Her farewell did her heart express
As much, but not with anger, moved.
My trouble
had my soul betray’d;
And, in the night of my despair,
My love, a flower of noon afraid,
Divulged its fulness unaware.
I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,
Could my glad mind have credited
That influence had to me been given
To affect her so, I should have said
That, though she from herself conceal’d
Love’s felt delight and fancied harm,
They made her face the jousting field
Of joy and beautiful alarm.
CANTO
XII.
The Abdication.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Chace.
She wearies with an
ill unknown;
In sleep she sobs and seems to float,
A water-lily, all alone
Within a lonely castle-moat;
And as the full-moon, spectral, lies
Within the crescent’s gleaming arms,
The present shows her heedless eyes
A future dim with vague alarms.
She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,
For, life-in-life not yet begun,
Too many are its mysteries
For thought to fix on any one.
She’s told that maidens are by youths
Extremely honour’d and desired;
And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,
What bliss to be so much admired!’
The
suitors come; she sees them grieve;
Her coldness fills them with despair;
She’d pity if she could believe;
She’s sorry that she cannot care.
But who now meets her on her way?
Comes he as enemy or friend,
Or both? Her bosom seems to say,
He cannot pass, and there an end.
Whom does he love? Does he confer
His heart on worth that answers his?
Or is he come to worship her?
She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!
Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
As in the grass a serpent glides,
He fascinates her fluttering will,
Then terrifies with dreadful strides.
At first, there’s nothing to resist;
He fights with all the forms of peace;
He comes about her like a mist,
With subtle, swift, unseen increase;
And then, unlook’d for, strikes amain
Some stroke that frightens her to death,
And grows all harmlessness again,
Ere she can cry, or get her breath.
At times she stops, and stands at bay;
But he, in all more strong than she,
Subdues her with his pale dismay,
Or more admired audacity.
She plans
some final, fatal blow,
But when she means with frowns to kill,
He looks as if he loved her so,
She smiles to him against her will.
How sweetly he implies her praise!
His tender talk, his gentle tone,
The manly worship in his gaze,
They nearly make her heart his own.
With what an air he speaks her name;
His manner always recollects
Her sex, and still the woman’s claim
Is taught its scope by his respects.
Her charms, perceived to prosper first
In his beloved advertencies,
When in her glass they are rehearsed,
Prove his most powerful allies.
Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
When a bold youth so swift pursues,
And siege of tenderest courtesy,
With hope perseverant, still renews!
Why fly so fast? Her flatter’d breast
Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She loves her fears; veil’d joys arrest
The foolish terrors of her blood;
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,
Vanquish’d, takes warmth from his desire;
She makes it more, with hidden art,
And fuels love’s late dreaded fire.
The
generous credit he accords
To all the signs of good in her
Redeems itself; his praiseful words
The virtues they impute confer.
Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,
She’s three times gentler than before;
He gains a right to call her his,
Now she through him is so much more;
’Tis heaven where’er she turns her head;
’Tis music when she talks; ’tis air
On which, elate, she seems to tread,
The convert of a gladder sphere!
Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,
Behold his tokens next her breast,
At all his words and sighs perceived
Against its blythe upheaval press’d!
But still she flies. Should she be won,
It must not be believed or thought
She yields; she’s chased to death, undone,
Surprised, and violently caught.
II.
Denied.
The storm-cloud, whose portentous shade
Fumes from a core of smother’d fire,
His livery is whose worshipp’d maid
Denies herself to his desire.
Ah,
grief that almost crushes life,
To lie upon his lonely bed,
And fancy her another’s wife!
His brain is flame, his heart is lead.
Sinking at last, by nature’s course,
Cloak’d round with sleep from his despair,
He does but sleep to gather force
That goes to his exhausted care.
He wakes renew’d for all the smart.
His only Love, and she is wed!
His fondness comes about his heart,
As milk comes, when the babe is dead.
The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,
His own allegiant thoughts despise;
And far into the shining morn
Lazy with misery he lies.
III.
The Churl.
This marks the Churl: when spousals crown
His selfish hope, he finds the grace,
Which sweet love has for ev’n the clown,
Was not in the woman, but the chace.
THE ABDICATION.
1
From little signs, like little stars,
Whose faint impression on the sense
The very looking straight at mars,
Or only seen by confluence;
From instinct of a mutual thought,
Whence sanctity of manners flow’d;
From chance unconscious, and from what
Concealment, overconscious, show’d;
Her hand’s less weight upon my arm,
Her lowlier mien; that match’d with this;
I found, and felt with strange alarm
I stood committed to my bliss.
2
I grew assured, before I ask’d,
That she’d be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaim’d graces bask’d,
At leisure, till the time should serve,
With just enough of dread to thrill
The hope, and make it trebly dear;
Thus loth to speak the word to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.
3
Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagg’d behind;
And, ere we reach’d her father’s gate,
We paused with one presentient mind;
And, in the dim and perfumed mist,
Their coming stay’d, who, friends to me,
And very women, loved to assist
Love’s timid opportunity.
4
Twice rose, twice died my trembling word;
The faint and frail Cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard
The chafers rustling in the limes.
Her dress, that touch’d me where I stood,
The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom’s gentle neighbourhood,
Her pleasure in her power to charm;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch,
The least seem’d most by blissful turn,
Blissful but that it pleased too much,
And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires
Was traversed by the breath I drew;
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,
She, answering, own’d that she loved too.
5
Honoria was to be my bride!
The hopeless heights of hope were scaled
The summit won, I paused and sigh’d,
As if success itself had fail’d.
It seem’d as if my lips approach’d
To touch at Tantalus’ reward,
And rashly on Eden life encroach’d,
Half-blinded by the flaming sword.
The whole world’s wealthiest and its best,
So fiercely sought, appear’d when found,
Poor in its need to be possess’d,
Poor from its very want of bound.
My queen was crouching at my side,
By love unsceptred and brought low,
Her awful garb of maiden pride
All melted into tears like snow;
The mistress of my reverent thought,
Whose praise was all I ask’d of fame,
In my close-watch’d approval sought
Protection as from danger and blame;
Her soul, which late I loved to invest
With pity for my poor desert,
Buried its face within my breast,
Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.
Book II.
THE PROLOGUE.
1
Her sons pursue the
butterflies,
Her baby daughter mocks the doves
With throbbing coo; in his fond eyes
She’s Venus with her little Loves;
Her footfall dignifies the earth,
Her form’s the native-land of grace,
And, lo, his coming lights with mirth
Its court and capital her face!
Full proud her favour makes her lord,
And that her flatter’d bosom knows.
She takes his arm without a word,
In lanes of laurel and of rose.
Ten years to-day has she been his.
He but begins to understand,
He says, the dignity and bliss
She gave him when she gave her hand.
She,
answering, says, he disenchants
The past, though that was perfect; he
Rejoins, the present nothing wants
But briefness to be ecstasy.
He lands her charms; her beauty’s glow
Wins from the spoiler Time new rays;
Bright looks reply, approving so
Beauty’s elixir vitæ, praise.
Upon a beech he bids her mark
Where, ten years since, he carved her name;
It grows there with the growing bark,
And in his heart it grows the same.
For that her soft arm presses his
Close to her fond, maternal breast;
He tells her, each new kindness is
The effectual sum of all the rest!
And, whilst the cushat, mocking, coo’d,
They blest the days they had been wed,
At cost of those in which he woo’d,
Till everything was three times said;
And words were growing vain, when Briggs,
Factotum, Footman, Butler, Groom,
Who press’d the cyder, fed the pigs,
Preserv’d the rabbits, drove the brougham,
And help’d, at need, to mow the lawns,
And sweep the paths and thatch the hay,
Here brought the Post down, Mrs. Vaughan’s
Sole rival, but, for once, to-day,
Scarce
look’d at; for the ‘Second Book,’
Till this tenth festival kept close,
Was thus commenced, while o’er them shook
The laurel married with the rose.
2
‘The pulse of War, whose bloody heats
Sane purposes insanely work,
Now with fraternal frenzy beats,
And binds the Christian to the Turk,
And shrieking fifes’—
3
But, with a
roar,
In rush’d the Loves; the tallest
roll’d
A hedgehog from his pinafore,
Which saved his fingers; Baby, bold,
Touch’d it, and stared, and scream’d for life,
And stretch’d her hand for Vaughan to kiss,
Who hugg’d his Pet, and ask’d his wife,
‘Is this for love, or love for this?’
But she turn’d pale, for, lo, the beast,
Found stock-still in the rabbit-trap,
And feigning so to be deceased,
And laid by Frank upon her lap,
Unglobed
himself, and show’d his snout,
And fell, scatt’ring the Loves amain,
With shriek, with laughter, and with shout;
And, peace at last restored again,
The bard, who this untimely hitch
Bore with a calm magnanimous,
(The hedgehog rolled into a ditch,
And Venus sooth’d), proceeded thus:
CANTO I.
Accepted.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Song of Songs.
The pulse of War,
whose bloody heats
Sane purposes insanely work,
Now with fraternal frenzy beats,
And binds the Christian to the Turk,
And shrieking fifes and braggart flags,
Through quiet England, teach our breath
The courage corporate that drags
The coward to heroic death.
Too late for song! Who henceforth sings,
Must fledge his heavenly flight with more
Song-worthy and heroic things
Than hasty, home-destroying war.
While might and right are not agreed,
And battle thus is yet to wage,
So long let laurels be the meed
Of soldier as of poet sage;
But men
expect the Tale of Love,
And weary of the Tale of Hate;
Lift me, O Muse, myself above,
And let the world no longer wait!
II.
The Kites.
I saw three Cupids (so I dream’d),
Who made three kites, on which were drawn,
In letters that like roses gleam’d,
‘Plato,’ ‘Anacreon,’ and
‘Vaughan.’
The boy who held by Plato tried
His airy venture first; all sail,
It heav’nward rush’d till scarce descried,
Then pitch’d and dropp’d for want of
tail.
Anacreon’s Love, with shouts of mirth
That pride of spirit thus should fall,
To his kite link’d a lump of earth,
And, lo, it would not soar at all.
Last, my disciple freighted his
With a long streamer made of flowers,
The children of the sod, and this
Rose in the sun, and flew for hours.
III.
Orpheus.
The music of the Sirens found
Ulysses weak, though cords were strong;
But happier Orpheus stood unbound,
And shamed it with a sweeter song.
His mode be mine. Of Heav’n I ask,
May I, with heart-persuading might,
Pursue the Poet’s sacred task
Of superseding faith by sight,
Till ev’n the witless Gadarene,
Preferring Christ to swine, shall know
That life is sweetest when it’s clean.
To prouder folly let me show
Earth by divine light made divine;
And let the saints, who hear my word,
Say, ‘Lo, the clouds begin to shine
About the coming of the Lord!’
IV.
Nearest the Dearest.
Till Eve was brought to Adam, he
A solitary desert trod,
Though in the great society
Of nature, angels, and of God.
If one
slight column counterweighs
The ocean, ’tis the Maker’s law,
Who deems obedience better praise
Than sacrifice of erring awe.
V.
Perspective.
What seems to us for us is true.
The planet has no proper light,
And yet, when Venus is in view,
No primal star is half so bright.
ACCEPTED.
1
What fortune did my heart foretell?
What shook my spirit, as I woke,
Like the vibration of a bell
Of which I had not heard the stroke?
Was it some happy vision shut
From memory by the sun’s fresh ray?
Was it that linnet’s song; or but
A natural gratitude for day?
Or the mere joy the senses weave,
A wayward ecstasy of life?
Then I remember’d, yester-eve
I won Honoria for my Wife.
2
Forth riding, while as yet the day
Was dewy, watching Sarum Spire,
Still beckoning me along my way,
And growing every minute higher,
I reach’d the Dean’s. One blind was down,
Though nine then struck. My bride to be!
And had she rested ill, my own,
With thinking (oh, my heart!) of me?
I paced the streets; a pistol chose,
To guard my now important life
When riding late from Sarum Close;
At noon return’d. Good Mrs. Fife,
To my, ‘The Dean, is he at home?’
Said, ‘No, sir; but Miss Honor is;’
And straight, not asking if I’d come,
Announced me, ‘Mr. Felix, Miss,’
To Mildred, in the Study. There
We talk’d, she working. We agreed
The day was fine; the Fancy-Fair
Successful; ‘Did I ever read
De Genlis?’ ‘Never.’
‘Do! She heard
I was engaged.’ ‘To
whom?’ ‘Miss Fry
Was it the fact?’ ‘No!’ ‘On
my word?’
‘What scandal people
talk’d!’ ‘Would I
Hold out
this skein of silk.’ So pass’d
I knew not how much time away.
‘How were her sisters?’
‘Well.’ At last
I summon’d heart enough to say,
‘I hoped to have seen Miss Churchill too.’
‘Miss Churchill, Felix! What is this?
I said, and now I find ’tis true,
Last night you quarrell’d! Here she
is.’
3
She came, and seem’d a morning rose
When ruffling rain has paled its blush;
Her crown once more was on her brows;
And, with a faint, indignant flush,
And fainter smile, she gave her hand,
But not her eyes, then sate apart,
As if to make me understand
The honour of her vanquish’d heart.
But I drew humbly to her side;
And she, well pleased, perceiving me
Liege ever to the noble pride
Of her unconquer’d majesty,
Once and for all put it away;
The faint flush pass’d; and, thereupon,
Her loveliness, which rather lay
In light than colour, smiled and shone,
Till
sick was all my soul with bliss;
Or was it with remorse and ire
Of such a sanctity as this
Subdued by love to my desire?