The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 6

Across the lawn I lately walk'd Alone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd, Gentle and G.o.ddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair.

I chose a path unblest by these; When one of the two G.o.ddesses, With my Wife's voice, but softer, said, 'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?'

She moves, indeed, the modest peer Of all the proudest ladies here.

Unawed she talks with men who stand Among the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England's greatness in their eyes.

To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hit By quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Jane, Mistakes the points and laughs amain; And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there!

With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life!

The joy I might have had of yore I have not; for 'tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth.

Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd, In my chance choice let be confess'd The tenderer Providence that rules The fates of children and of fools!

I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp'd, To bathe my brain from drowsy night In the sharp air and golden light.

The dew, like frost, was on the pane.

The year begins, though fair, to wane.

There is a fragrance in its breath Which is not of the flowers, but death; And green above the ground appear The lilies of another year.

I wander'd forth, and took my path Among the bloomless aftermath; And heard the steadfast robin sing As if his own warm heart were Spring.

And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew; And then return'd, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan Was there, none with her. I confess I love her than of yore no less!

But she alone was loved of old; Now love is twain, nay, manifold; For, somehow, he whose daily life Adjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degree With all that's fair and womanly.

Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret; The wedded yoke that each had donn'd Seeming a sanction, not a bond.

V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.

Your love lacks joy, your letter says.

Yes; love requires the focal s.p.a.ce Of recollection or of hope, E'er it can measure its own scope.

Too soon, too soon comes Death to show We love more deeply than we know!

The rain, that fell upon the height Too gently to be call'd delight, Within the dark vale reappears As a wild cataract of tears; And love in life should strive to see Sometimes what love in death would be!

Easier to love, we so should find.

It is than to be just and kind.

She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid: What distance for another did That death has done for her! The good Once gazed upon with heedless mood, Now fills with tears the famish'd eye, And turns all else to vanity.

'Tis sad to see, with death between, The good we have pa.s.s'd and have not seen!

How strange appear the words of all!

The looks of those that live appal.

They are the ghosts, and check the breath: There's no reality but death, And hunger for some signal given That we shall have our own in heaven.

But this the G.o.d of love lets be A horrible uncertainty.

How great her smallest virtue seems, How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams Were those that foil'd with loftier grace The homely kindness of her face.

'Twas here she sat and work'd, and there She comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair; Or, with one baby at her breast, Another taught, or hush'd to rest.

Praise does the heart no more refuse To the chief loveliness of use.

Her humblest good is hence most high In the heavens of fond memory; And Love says Amen to the word, A prudent wife is from the Lord.

Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best, As that in which she oftenest dress'd,) For memory's sake more precious grown Than she herself was for her own.

Poor child! Foolish it seem'd to fly To sobs instead of dignity, When she was hurt. Now, none than all, Heart-rending and angelical That ignorance of what to do, Bewilder'd still by wrong from you: For what man ever yet had grace Ne'er to abuse his power and place?

No magic of her voice or smile Suddenly raised a fairy isle, But fondness for her underwent An unregarded increment, Like that which lifts, through centuries, The coral-reef within the seas, Till, lo! the land where was the wave.

Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave.

VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

Dear Mother, I can surely tell, Now, that I never shall get well Besides the warning in my mind, All suddenly are grown so kind.

Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday, Downstairs, and, when he went away, Came smiling back, and sat with me, Pale, and conversing cheerfully About the Spring, and how my cough, In finer weather, would leave off.

I saw it all, and told him plain I felt no hope of Spring again.

Then he, after a word of jest, Burst into tears upon my breast, And own'd, when he could speak, he knew There was a little danger, too.

This made me very weak and ill, And while, last night, I lay quite still, And, as he fancied, in the deep, Exhausted rest of my short sleep, I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray: 'Oh, Father, take her not away!

Let not life's dear a.s.surance lapse Into death's agonised "Perhaps,"

A hope without Thy promise, where Less than a.s.surance is despair!

Give me some sign, if go she must, That death's not worse than dust to dust, Not heaven, on whose oblivious sh.o.r.e Joy I may have, but her no more!

The bitterest cross, it seems to me, Of all is infidelity; And so, if I may choose, I'll miss The kind of heaven which comes to this.

If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased, To die out wholly, like a beast, Forgetting all life's ill success In dark and peaceful nothingness, I could but say, Thy will be done; For, dying thus, I were but one Of seed innumerable which ne'er In all the worlds shall bloom or bear.

I've put life past to so poor use Well may'st Thou life to come refuse; And justice, which the spirit contents, Shall still in me all vain laments; Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live, Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st give To some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect!

Only let not Thy method be To make that life, and call it me; Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love's disintegrity?

Answer me, "No," and I, with grace, Will life's brief desolation face, My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof--'

He started up, hearing me cough.

Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone!

He likes me _more_ than Mrs. Vaughan; And death, which takes me from his side, Shows me, in very deed, his bride!

VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK.

I leave this, Dear, for you to read, For strength and hope, when I am dead.

When Grace died, I was so perplex'd, I could not find one helpful text; And when, a little while before, I saw her sobbing on the floor, Because I told her that in heaven She would be as the angels even, And would not want her doll, 'tis true A horrible fear within me grew, That, since the preciousness of love Went thus for nothing, mine might prove To be no more, and heaven's bliss Some dreadful good which is not this.

But being about to die makes clear Many dark things. I have no fear, Now that my love, my grief, my joy Is but a pa.s.sion for a toy.

I cannot speak at all, I find, The s.h.i.+ning something in my mind That shows so much that, if I took My thoughts all down, 'twould make a book.

G.o.d's Word, which lately seem'd above The simpleness of human love, To my death-sharpen'd hearing tells Of little or of nothing else; And many things I hoped were true, When first they came, like songs, from you, Now rise with witness past the reach Of doubt, and I to you can teach, As if with felt authority And as things seen, what you taught me.

Yet how? I have no words but those Which every one already knows: As, 'No man hath at any time Seen G.o.d, but 'tis the love of Him Made perfect, and He dwells in us, If we each other love.' Or thus, 'My goodness misseth in extent Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth Make all my love and holy mirth.'

And further, 'Inasmuch as ye Did it to one of these, to Me Ye did it, though ye nothing thought Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.'

What shall I dread? Will G.o.d undo Our bond, which is all others too?

And when I meet you will you say To my reclaiming looks, 'Away!

A dearer love my bosom warms With higher rights and holier charms.

The children, whom thou here may'st see, Neighbours that mingle thee and me, And gaily on impartial lyres Renounce the foolish filial fires They felt, with "Praise to G.o.d on high, Goodwill to all else equally;"

The trials, duties, service, tears; The many fond, confiding years Of nearness sweet with thee apart; The joy of body, mind, and heart; The love that grew a reckless growth, Unmindful that the marriage-oath To love in an eternal style Meant--only for a little while: Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought; All love, not new, stands here for nought!'

Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear, Even to utter such a fear!

Are we not 'heirs,' as man and wife, 'Together of eternal life?'

Was Paradise e'er meant to fade, To make which marriage first was made?

Neither beneath him nor above Could man in Eden find his Love; Yet with him in the garden walk'd His G.o.d, and with Him mildly talk'd!

Shall the humble preference offend In Heaven, which G.o.d did there commend?

Are 'Honourable and undefiled'

The names of aught from heaven exiled?

And are we not forbid to grieve As without hope? Does G.o.d deceive, And call that hope which is despair, Namely, the heaven we should not share!

Image and glory of the man, As he of G.o.d, is woman. Can This holy, sweet proportion die Into a dull equality?

Are we not one flesh, yea, so far More than the babe and mother are, That sons are bid mothers to leave And to their wives alone to cleave, 'For _they_ two are one fles.h.!.+' But 'tis In the flesh we rise. Our union is, You know 'tis said, 'great mystery.'

Great mockery, it appears to me; Poor image of the spousal bond Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond This life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet, There's not a single word to set.

The speech to the scoffing Sadducee Is not in point to you and me; For how could Christ have taught such clods That Caesar's things are also G.o.d's?

The sort of Wife the Law could make Might well be 'hated' for Love's sake, And left, like money, land, or house; For out of Christ is no true spouse.

I used to think it strange of Him To make love's after-life so dim, Or only clear by inference: But G.o.d trusts much to common sense, And only tells us what, without His Word, we could not have found out On fleshly tables of the heart He penn'd truth's feeling counterpart In hopes that come to all: so, Dear, Trust these, and be of happy cheer, Nor think that he who has loved well Is of all men most miserable.

There's much more yet I want to say, But cannot now. You know my way Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two After my wine. I'll write to you Daily some words, which you shall have To break the silence of the grave.

VIII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK.

You think, perhaps, 'Ah, could she know How much I loved her!' Dear, I do!