Strong passions mean weak will, and he Who truly knows the strength and bliss Which are in love, will own with me No passion but a virtue ’tis. Few hear my word; it soars above The subtlest senses of the swarm Of wretched things which know not love, Their Psyche still a wingless worm. Ice-cold seems heaven’s noble glow To spirits whose vital heat is hell; And to corrupt hearts even so The songs I sing, the tale I tell. These cannot see the robes of white In which I sing of love. Alack, But darkness shows in heavenly light, Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!

III

The Attainment

You love? That’s high as you shall go; For ’tis as true as Gospel text, Not noble then is never so, Either in this world or the next.

HONORIA

1

Grown weary with a week’s exile From those fair friends, I rode to see The church-restorings; lounged awhile, And met the Dean; was ask’d to tea, And found their cousin, Frederick Graham At Honor’s side. Was I concern’d, If, when she sang, his colour came, That mine, as with a buffet, burn’d? A man to please a girl! thought I, Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds Of wrath, so hid as she was by, Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!

2

Whether this Cousin was the cause I know not, but I seem’d to see, The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three. Each stopp’d to let the other go; But, time-bound, he arose the first. Stay’d he in Sarum long? If so I hoped to see him at the Hurst. No: he had call’d here, on his way To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant, His ship, was; he should leave next day, For two years’ cruise in the Levant.

3

Had love in her yet struck its germs? I watch’d. Her farewell show’d me plain She loved, on the majestic terms That she should not be loved again; And so her cousin, parting, felt. Hope in his voice and eye was dead. Compassion did my malice melt; Then went I home to a restless bed. I, who admired her too, could see His infinite remorse at this Great mystery, that she should be So beautiful, yet not be his, And, pitying, long’d to plead his part; But scarce could tell, so strange my whim, Whether the weight upon my heart Was sorrow for myself or him.

4

She was all mildness; yet ’twas writ In all her grace, most legibly, ‘He that’s for heaven itself unfit, Let him not hope to merit me.’ And such a challenge, quite apart From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus To sweet repentance moved my heart, And made me more magnanimous, And led me to review my life, Inquiring where in aught the least, If question were of her for wife, Ill might be mended, hope increas’d. Not that I soar’d so far above Myself, as this great hope to dare; And yet I well foresaw that love Might hope where reason must despair; And, half-resenting the sweet pride Which would not ask me to admire, ‘Oh,’ to my secret heart I sigh’d, ‘That I were worthy to desire!’

5

As drowsiness my brain reliev’d, A shrill defiance of all to arms, Shriek’d by the stable-cock, receiv’d An angry answer from three farms. And, then, I dream’d that I, her knight, A clarion’s haughty pathos heard, And rode securely to the fight, Cased in the scarf she had conferr’d; And there, the bristling lists behind, Saw many, and vanquish’d all I saw Of her unnumber’d cousin-kind, In Navy, Army, Church, and Law; Smitten, the warriors somehow turn’d To Sarum choristers, whose song, Mix’d with celestial sorrow, yearn’d With joy no memory can prolong; And phantasms as absurd and sweet Merged each in each in endless chace, And everywhere I seem’d to meet The haunting fairness of her face.

CANTO IV The Morning Call

PRELUDES

I

The Rose of the World

Lo, when the Lord made North and South And sun and moon ordained, He, Forthbringing each by word of mouth In order of its dignity, Did man from the crude clay express By sequence, and, all else decreed, He form’d the woman; nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed. And still with favour singled out, Marr’d less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical; The best things that the best believe Are in her face so kindly writ The faithless, seeing her, conceive Not only heaven, but hope of it; No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds On noonday’s azure permanence; Pure dignity, composure, ease Declare affections nobly fix’d, And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus’ side, How potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride! Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose. In mind and manners how discreet; How artless in her very art; How candid in discourse; how sweet The concord of her lips and heart; How simple and how circumspect; How subtle and how fancy-free; Though sacred to her love, how deck’d With unexclusive courtesy; How quick in talk to see from far The way to vanquish or evade; How able her persuasions are To prove, her reasons to persuade; How (not to call true instinct’s bent And woman’s very nature, harm), How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract, Though crown’d with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires.

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