Angel in the House | Page 7

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 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