Victories of Love | Page 5

suspense
Of
apprehensive innocence,
Perturbs her heart; love without aim
Or
object, like the sunlit flame
That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd,

Without the image of a god.
And this simplicity most pure
She sets
off with no less allure
Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise
The power,
the pride, and mutual praise
Of human personality
Above the
common sort so high,
It makes such homely souls as mine

Marvel
how brightly life may shine.
How you would love her! Even in dress

She makes the common mode express
New knowledge of what's fit
so well
'Tis virtue gaily visible!
Nay, but her silken sash to me

Were more than all morality,
Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill

Left me the master of my will!
So, Mother, feel at rest, and please
To send my books on board. With
these,
When I go hence, all idle hours
Shall help my pleasures and
my powers.
I've time, you know, to fill my post,
And yet make up
for schooling lost
Through young sea-service. They all speak

German with ease; and this, with Greek,
(Which Dr. Churchill

thought I knew,)
And history, which I fail'd in too,
Will stop a gap I
somewhat dread,
After the happy life I've led
With these my friends;
and sweet 'twill be
To abridge the space from them to me.
II. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.
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.