Write not, my Mother, her dear name With the least word or hint of blame. Who else shall discommend her choice, I giving it my hearty voice? Wed me? Ah, never near her come The knowledge of the narrow home! Far fly from her dear face, that shows The sunshine lovelier than the rose, The sordid gravity they wear Who poverty’s base burthen bear! (And all are poor who come to miss Their custom, though a crown be this.) My hope was, that the wheels of fate, For my exceeding need, might wait, And she, unseen amidst all eyes, Move sightless, till I sought the prize, With honour, in an equal field. But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield With grace as much as any man, In such cause, to another can. Had she been mine, it seems to me That I had that integrity And only joy in her delight— But each is his own favourite In love! The thought to bring me rest Is that of us she takes the best. ’Twas but to see him to be sure That choice for her remain’d no more! His brow, so gaily clear of craft; His wit, the timely truth that laugh’d To find itself so well express’d; His words, abundant yet the best; His spirit, of such handsome show You mark’d not that his looks were so; His bearing, prospects, birth, all these Might well, with small suit, greatly please; How greatly, when she saw arise The reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and every breath defer Humbly its bated life to her; Whilst power and kindness of command. Which women can no more withstand Than we their grace, were still unquell’d, And force and flattery both compell’d Her softness! Say I’m worthy. I Grew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel’s might In raiment of reproachful light. Her gay looks told my sombre mood That what’s not happy is not good; And, just because ’twas life to please, Death to repel her, truth and ease Deserted me; I strove to talk, And stammer’d foolishness; my walk Was like a drunkard’s; if she took My arm, it stiffen’d, ached, and shook: A likely wooer! Blame her not; Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught Against that perfectness which is My strength, as once it was my bliss. And do not chafe at social rules. Leave that to charlatans and fools. Clay grafts and clods conceive the rose, So base still fathers best. Life owes Itself to bread; enough thereof And easy days condition love; And, kindly train’d, love’s roses thrive, No more pale, scentless petals five, Which moisten the considerate eye To see what haste they make to die, But heavens of colour and perfume, Which, month by month, renew the bloom Of art-born graces, when the year In all the natural grove is sere. Blame nought then! Bright let be the air About my lonely cloud of care.

VIII. FROM FREDERICK

Religion, duty, books, work, friends,— ’Tis good advice, but there it ends. I’m sick for what these have not got. Send no more books: they help me not; I do my work: the void’s there still Which carefullest duty cannot fill. What though the inaugural hour of right Comes ever with a keen delight? Little relieves the labour’s heat; Disgust oft crowns it when complete; And life, in fact, is not less dull For being very dutiful. ‘The stately homes of England,’ lo, ‘How beautiful they stand!’ They owe How much to nameless things like me Their beauty of security! But who can long a low toil mend By looking to a lofty end? And let me, since ’tis truth, confess The void’s not fill’d by godliness. God is a tower without a stair, And His perfection, love’s despair. ’Tis He shall judge me when I die; He suckles with the hissing fly The spider; gazes calmly down. Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. His vast love holds all this and more. In consternation I adore. Nor can I ease this aching gulf With friends, the pictures of myself. Then marvel not that I recur From each and all of these to her. For more of heaven than her have I No sensitive capacity. Had I but her, ah, what the gain Of owning aught but that domain! Nay, heaven’s extent, however much, Cannot be more than many such; And, she being mine, should God to me Say ‘Lo! my Child, I give to thee ‘All heaven besides,’ what could I then, But, as a child, to Him complain That whereas my dear Father gave A little space for me to have In His great garden, now, o’erblest, I’ve that, indeed, but all the rest, Which, somehow, makes it seem I’ve got All but my only cared-for plot. Enough was that for my weak hand To tend, my heart to understand. Oh, the sick fact, ’twixt her and me There’s naught, and half a world of sea.

IX. FROM FREDERICK

In two, in less than two hours more I set my foot on English shore, Two years untrod, and, strange to tell, Nigh miss’d through last night’s storm! There fell A man from the shrouds, that roar’d to quench Even the billows’ blast and drench. Besides me none was near to mark His loud cry in the louder dark, Dark, save when lightning show’d the deeps Standing about in stony heaps. No time for choice! A rope; a flash That flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash; A strange, inopportune delight Of mounting with the billowy might, And falling, with a thrill again Of pleasure shot from feet to brain; And both paced deck, ere any knew Our peril. Round us press’d the crew, With wonder in the eyes of most. As if the man who had loved and lost Honoria dared no more than that! My days have else been stale and flat. This life’s at best, if justly scann’d, A tedious walk by the other’s strand, With, here and there cast up, a piece Of coral or of ambergris, Which, boasted of abroad, we ignore The burden of the barren shore. I seldom write, for ’twould be still Of how the nerves refuse to thrill; How, throughout doubly-darken’d days, I cannot recollect her face; How to my heart her name to tell Is beating on a broken bell; And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, Scarce loving her, I hate myself. Yet, latterly, with strange delight, Rich tides have risen in the night, And sweet dreams chased the fancies dense Of waking life’s dull somnolence. I see her as I knew her, grace Already glory in her face; I move about, I cannot rest, For the proud brain and joyful breast I have of her. Or else I float, The pilot of an idle boat, Alone, alone with sky and sea, And her, the third simplicity. Or Mildred, to some question, cries, (Her merry meaning in her eyes,) ‘The Ball, oh, Frederick will go; Honoria will be there! and, lo, As moisture sweet my seeing blurs To hear my name so link’d with hers, A mirror joins, by guilty chance, Either’s averted, watchful glance! Or with me, in the Ball-Room’s blaze, Her brilliant mildness threads the maze; Our thoughts are lovely, and each word Is music in the music heard, And all things seem but parts to be Of one persistent harmony, By which I’m made divinely bold; The secret, which she knows, is told; And, laughing with a lofty bliss Of innocent accord, we kiss: About her neck my pleasure weeps; Against my lip the silk vein leaps; Then says an Angel, ‘Day or night, If yours you seek, not her delight, Although by some strange witchery It seems you kiss her, ’tis not she; But, whilst you languish at the side Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride, Surely a dragon and strong tower Guard the true lady in her bower.’ And I say, ‘Dear my Lord. Amen!’ And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful malady Devours her shape and dims her eye; No charms are left, where all were rife, Except her voice, which is her life, Wherewith she, for her foolish fear, Says trembling, ‘Do you love me. Dear?’ And I reply, ‘Sweetest, I vow I never loved but half till now.’ She turns her face to the wall at this, And says, ‘Go, Love, ’tis too much bliss.’ And then a sudden pulse is sent About the sounding firmament In smitings as of silver bars; The bright disorder of the stars Is solved by music; far and near, Through infinite distinctions clear, Their twofold voices’ deeper tone Utters the Name which all things own, And each ecstatic treble dwells On one whereof none other tells; And we, sublimed to song and fire, Take order in the wheeling quire, Till from the throbbing sphere I start, Waked by the heaving of my heart. Such dreams as these come night by night, Disturbing day with their delight. Portend they nothing? Who can tell!’ God yet may do some miracle. ’Tis nigh two years, and she’s not wed, Or you would know! He may be dead, Or mad, and loving some one else, And she, much moved that nothing quells My constancy, or, simply wroth With such a wretch, accept my troth To spite him; or her beauty’s gone, (And that’s my dream!) and this man Vaughan Takes her release: or tongues malign, Confusing every ear but mine, Have smirch’d her: ah, ’twould move her, sure, To find I loved her all the more! Nay, now I think, haply amiss I read her words and looks, and his, That night! Did not his jealousy Show—Good my God, and can it be That I, a modest fool, all blest, Nothing of such a heaven guess’d? Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet, To-morrow sees me at her feet! Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars Along the sacred English shores! There lies the lovely land I know, Where men and women lordliest grow; There peep the roofs where more than kings Postpone state cares to country things, And many a gay queen simply tends The babes on whom the world depends; There curls the wanton cottage smoke Of him that drives but bears no yoke; There laughs the realm where low and high Are lieges to society, And life has all too wide a scope, Too free a prospect for its hope, For any private good or ill, Except dishonour, quite to fill! 1 —Mother, since this was penn’d, I’ve read That ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed The beautiful Miss Churchill.’ So That’s over; and to-morrow I go To take up my new post on board The Wolf, my peace at last restored; My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak, Shock-season’d. Grief is now the cloak I clasp about me to prevent The deadly chill of a content With any near or distant good, Except the exact beatitude Which love has shown to my desire. Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’ I hate and disavow all bliss As none for me which is not this. Think not I blasphemously cope With God’s decrees, and cast off hope. How, when, and where can mine succeed? I’ll trust He knows who made my need. Baseness of men! Pursuit being o’er, Doubtless her Husband feels no more The heaven of heavens of such a Bride, But, lounging, lets her please his pride With fondness, guerdons her caress With little names, and turns a tress Round idle fingers. If ’tis so, Why then I’m happier of the two! Better, for lofty loss, high pain, Than low content with lofty gain. Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me Her happiness and dignity!

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