Whene’er I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before, Though like a ship frost-bound and far Withheld in ice from the ocean’s roar, Third-winter’d in that dreadful dock, With stiffen’d cordage, sails decay’d, And crew that care for calm and shock Alike, too dull to be dismay’d, Yet, if I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before, Then is my sadness banish’d far, And I am like that ship no more; Or like that ship if the ice-field splits, Burst by the sudden polar Spring, And all thank God with their warming wits, And kiss each other and dance and sing, And hoist fresh sails, that make the breeze Blow them along the liquid sea, Out of the North, where life did freeze, Into the haven where they would be.

III

Love and Duty

Anne lived so truly from above, She was so gentle and so good, That duty bade me fall in love, And ‘but for that,’ thought I, ‘I should!’ I worshipp’d Kate with all my will, In idle moods you seem to see A noble spirit in a hill, A human touch about a tree.

IV

A Distinction

The lack of lovely pride, in her Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs, And still the maid I most prefer Whose care to please with pleasing comes.

MARY AND MILDRED

1

One morning, after Church, I walk’d Alone with Mary on the lawn, And felt myself, howe’er we talk’d, To grave themes delicately drawn. When she, delighted, found I knew More of her peace than she supposed, Our confidences heavenwards grew, Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed. Our former faults did we confess, Our ancient feud was more than heal’d, And, with the woman’s eagerness For amity full-sign’d and seal’d, She, offering up for sacrifice Her heart’s reserve, brought out to show Some verses, made when she was ice To all but Heaven, six years ago; Since happier grown! I took and read The neat-writ lines. She, void of guile, Too late repenting, blush’d, and said, I must not think about the style.

2

‘Day after day, until to-day, Imaged the others gone before, The same dull task, the weary way, The weakness pardon’d o’er and o’er, ‘The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt, For joy’s well-nigh forgotten life, The restless heart, which, when I knelt, Made of my worship barren strife. ‘Ah, whence to-day’s so sweet release, This clearance light of all my care, This conscience free, this fertile peace, These softly folded wings of prayer, ‘This calm and more than conquering love, With which nought evil dares to cope, This joy that lifts no glance above, For faith too sure, too sweet for hope? ‘O, happy time, too happy change, It will not live, though fondly nurst! Full soon the sun will seem as strange As now the cloud which seems dispersed.’

3

She from a rose-tree shook the blight; And well she knew that I knew well Her grace with silence to requite; And, answering now the luncheon bell, I laugh’d at Mildred’s laugh, which made All melancholy wrong, its mood Such sweet self-confidence display’d, So glad a sense of present good.

4

I laugh’d and sigh’d: for I confess I never went to Ball, or Fête, Or Show, but in pursuit express Of my predestinated mate; And thus to me, who had in sight The happy chance upon the cards, Each beauty blossom’d in the light Of tender personal regards; And, in the records of my breast, Red-letter’d, eminently fair, Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest, By turns till then had been my care: At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud, At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one, At Ely four, in London two, Two at Bowness, in Paris none, And, last and best, in Sarum three; But dearest of the whole fair troop, In judgment of the moment, she Whose daisy eyes had learn’d to droop. Her very faults my fancy fired; My loving will, so thwarted, grew; And, bent on worship, I admired Whate’er she was, with partial view. And yet when, as to-day, her smile Was prettiest, I could not but note Honoria, less admired the while, Was lovelier, though from love remote.

CANTO III Honoria

PRELUDES

I

The Lover

He meets, by heavenly chance express, The destined maid; some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand. His merits in her presence grow, To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. For joy of her he cannot sleep; Her beauty haunts him all the night; It melts his heart, it makes him weep For wonder, worship, and delight. O, paradox of love, he longs, Most humble when he most aspires, To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs From her he honours and desires. Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial style Affronts him; he disdains to bask, The pensioner of her priceless smile. He prays for some hard thing to do, Some work of fame and labour immense, To stretch the languid bulk and thew Of love’s fresh-born magnipotence. No smallest boon were bought too dear, Though barter’d for his love-sick life; Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer, To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife He notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate; How, self-consign’d with lavish will, They ask but love proportionate; How swift pursuit by small degrees, Love’s tactic, works like miracle; How valour, clothed in courtesies, Brings down the haughtiest citadel; And therefore, though he merits not To kiss the braid upon her skirt, His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot, Out-soars all possible desert.

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