Angel in the House | Page 6

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 Fete,?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; seine 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.
II.--Love a Virtue.
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