My Child, Honoria Churchill sways A double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love’s memory pledged The second Cupid’s born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the day When you should see her beauty, gay And pure as apple-blooms, that show Outside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching elegance Of order’d life as free as chance. Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child: He that but once too nearly hears The music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for all His days like one who treads the Wall Of China, and, on this hand, sees Cities and their civilities, And on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell.) Good is the knowledge of what’s fair, Though bought with temporal despair! Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that you Should pine for love, in love’s embrace, Through having known a happier grace; And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she’s not the best? You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will find You cannot such a secret keep; ’Twill out, like murder, in your sleep; A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide; And, while she accepts love’s make-believe, You’ll twice despise what you’d deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu! Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate’er it be, ’Twill need no veil ’twixt you and me.

III. FROM FREDERICK

The multitude of voices blithe Of early day, the hissing scythe Across the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peacock on the lawn, These, and the sun’s eye-gladding gleam, This morning, chased the sweetest dream That e’er shed penitential grace On life’s forgetful commonplace; Yet ’twas no sweeter than the spell To which I woke to say farewell. Noon finds me many a mile removed From her who must not be beloved; And us the waste sea soon shall part, Heaving for aye, without a heart! Mother, what need to warn me so? I love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no. I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star. For, not to speak of colder fear, Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, Under her life’s gay progress hurl’d. The wheels of the preponderant world, Set sharp with swords that fool to slay Who blunders from a poor byway, To covet beauty with a crown Of earthly blessing added on; And she’s so much, it seems to me, Beyond all women womanly, I dread to think how he should fare Who came so near as to despair.

IV. FROM FREDERICK

Yonder the sombre vessel rides Where my obscure condition hides. Waves scud to shore against the wind That flings the sprinkling surf behind; In port the bickering pennons show Which way the ships would gladly go; Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze; On top of Edgecumb’s firm-set tower, As foils, not foibles, of its power, The light vanes do themselves adjust To every veering of the gust: By me alone may nought be given To guidance of the airs of heaven? In battle or peace, in calm or storm, Should I my daily task perform, Better a thousand times for love, Who should my secret soul reprove? Beholding one like her, a man Longs to lay down his life! How can Aught to itself seem thus enough, When I have so much need thereof? Blest in her place, blissful is she; And I, departing, seem to be Like the strange waif that comes to run A few days flaming near the sun, And carries back, through boundless night, Its lessening memory of light. Oh, my dear Mother, I confess To a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. ’Tis years Since such a shower of girlish tears Disgraced me! But this wretched Inn, At Plymouth, is so full of din, Talkings and trampings to and fro. And then my ship, to which I go To-night, is no more home. I dread, As strange, the life I long have led; And as, when first I went to school, And found the horror of a rule Which only ask’d to be obey’d, I lay and wept, of dawn afraid, And thought, with bursting heart, of one Who, from her little, wayward son, Required obedience, but above Obedience still regarded love, So change I that enchanting place, The abode of innocence and grace And gaiety without reproof, For the black gun-deck’s louring roof. Blind and inevitable law Which makes light duties burdens, awe Which is not reverence, laughters gain’d At cost of purities profaned, And whatsoever most may stir Remorseful passion towards her, Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more! ’Twere wild to hope for her, you say. I’ve torn and cast those words away. Surely there’s hope! For life ’tis well Love without hope’s impossible; So, if I love, it is that hope Is not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour I must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o’er, Be not much other than before? Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere In which I’m held but while she’s dear? For daily life’s dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitude And sweet allegiance, which I owe Whether the debt be weal or woe? Nay, Mother, I, forewarn’d, prefer To want for all in wanting her. For all? Love’s best is not bereft Ever from him to whom is left The trust that God will not deceive His creature, fashion’d to believe The prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell; Nor do I press the oracle For explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love’s will be done.

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