Victories of Love | Page 6

I dread,
As strange, the life I
long have led;
And as, when first I went to school,
And found the
horror of a rule
Which only ask'd to be obey'd,
I lay and wept, of
dawn afraid,
And thought, with bursting heart, of one
Who, from
her little, wayward son,
Required obedience, but above
Obedience
still regarded love,
So change I that enchanting place,
The abode of
innocence and grace
And gaiety without reproof,
For the black
gun-deck's louring roof.
Blind and inevitable law
Which makes
light duties burdens, awe
Which is not reverence, laughters gain'd

At cost of purities profaned,
And whatsoever most may stir

Remorseful passion towards her,
Whom to behold is to depart
From
all defect of life and heart.
But, Mother, I shall go on shore,
And see my Cousin yet once more!

'Twere wild to hope for her, you say.
I've torn and cast those words
away.
Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well
Love without hope's
impossible;
So, if I love, it is that hope

Is not outside the outer
scope
Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour
I must resist, or lose the
power.
What! and, when some short months are o'er,
Be not much
other than before?
Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere
In
which I'm held but while she's dear?
For daily life's dull, senseless
mood,
Slay the fine nerves of gratitude
And sweet allegiance,
which I owe
Whether the debt be weal or woe?
Nay, Mother, I,
forewarn'd, prefer
To want for all in wanting her.

For all? Love's best is not bereft
Ever from him to whom is left
The
trust that God will not deceive
His creature, fashion'd to believe

The prophecies of pure desire.
Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.

A mystery does my heart foretell;
Nor do I press the oracle
For
explanations. Leave me alone,
And let in me love's will be done.
V. FROM FREDERICK
Fashion'd by Heaven and by art
So is she, that she makes the heart

Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace
So lovely fair should have
for place,
(Deeming itself at home the while,)
The unworthy earth!
To see her smile
Amid this waste of pain and sin,
As only knowing
the heaven within,
Is sweet, and does for pity stir
Passion to be her
minister:
Wherefore last night I lay awake,
And said, 'Ah, Lord, for
Thy love's sake,
Give not this darling child of Thine
To care less
reverent than mine!'
And, as true faith was in my word,
I trust, I
trust that I was heard.
The waves, this morning, sped to land,
And shouted hoarse to touch
the strand,
Where Spring, that goes not out to sea,
Lay laughing in
her lovely glee;
And, so, my life was sunlit spray
And tumult, as,
once more to-day,
For long farewell did I draw near
My Cousin,
desperately dear.
Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none
Gleam'd
like the lightning in the sun;
Yet hope I had, and joy thereof.
The
father of love is hope, (though love
Lives orphan'd on, when hope is
dead,)
And, out of my immediate dread
And crisis of the coming
hour,
Did hope itself draw sudden power.

So the still brooding
storm, in Spring,
Makes all the birds begin to sing.
Mother, your foresight did not err:
I've lost the world, and not won
her.
And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think
What cup of life I
sought to drink!
The bold, said I, have climb'd to bliss
Absurd,
impossible, as this,
With nought to help them but so great
A heart it
fascinates their fate.
If ever Heaven heard man's desire,
Mine, being

made of altar-fire,
Must come to pass, and it will be
That she will
wait, when she shall see.
This evening, how I go to get,
By means
unknown, I know not yet
Quite what, but ground whereon to stand,

And plead more plainly for her hand!
And so I raved, and cast in hope
A superstitious horoscope!
And
still, though something in her face
Portended 'No!' with such a grace

It burthen'd me with thankfulness,
Nothing was credible but 'Yes.'

Therefore, through time's close pressure bold,
I praised myself, and
boastful told
My deeds at Acre; strain'd the chance
I had of honour
and advance
In war to come; and would not see
Sad silence meant,
'What's this to me?'
When half my precious hour was gone,
She rose to meet a Mr.
Vaughan;
And, as the image of the moon
Breaks up, within some
still lagoon
That feels the soft wind suddenly,
Or tide fresh flowing
from the sea,
And turns to giddy flames that go
Over the water to
and fro,
Thus, when he took her hand to-night,
Her lovely gravity
of light
Was scatter'd into many smiles
And flatting weakness.
Hope beguiles
No more my heart, dear Mother. He,
By jealous
looks, o'erhonour'd me.
With nought to do, and fondly fain
To hear her singing once again,

I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er;
Then came she with me to the door.

'Dearest Honoria,' I said,
(By my despair familiar made,)
'Heaven
bless you!' Oh, to have back then stepp'd
And fallen upon her neck,
and wept,
And said, 'My friend, I owe you all
I am, and have, and
hope for. Call
For some poor service; let me prove

To you, or him
here whom you love,
My duty. Any solemn task,
For life's whole
course, is all I ask!'
Then she must surely have wept too,
And said,
'My friend, what can