Victories of Love | Page 7

you do!'
And I should have replied, 'I'll pray

'For you and him three times a-day,
And, all day, morning, noon, and
night,
My life shall be so high and right
That never Saint yet scaled
the stairs
Of heaven with more availing prayers!'
But this (and, as

good God shall bless
Somehow my end, I'll do no less,)
I had no
right to speak. Oh, shame,
So rich a love, so poor a claim!
My Mother, now my only friend,
Farewell. The school-books which
you send
I shall not want, and so return.
Give them away, or sell, or
burn.
I'll write from Malta. Would I might
But be your little Child
to-night,
And feel your arms about me fold,
Against this loneliness
and cold!
VI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.
The folly of young girls! They doff
Their pride to smooth success,
and scoff
At far more noble fire and might
That woo them from the
dust of fight
But, Frederick, now the storm is past,
Your sky should not remain
o'ercast.
A sea-life's dull, and, oh, beware
Of nourishing, for zest,
despair.
My Child, remember, you have twice
Heartily loved; then
why not thrice,
Or ten times? But a wise man shuns
To cry 'All's
over,' more than once.
I'll not say that a young man's soul
Is
scarcely measure of the whole
Earthly and Heavenly universe,
To
which he inveterately prefers
The one beloved woman. Best
Speak
to the senses' interest,
Which brooks no mystery nor delay:
Frankly
reflect, my Son, and say,
Was there no secret hour, of those
Pass'd
at her side in Sarum Close,
When, to your spirit's sick alarm,
It
seem'd that all her marvellous charm
Was marvellously fled? Her
grace
Of voice, adornment, movement, face
Was what already heart
and eye
Had ponder'd to satiety;
Amid so the good of life was o'er,

Until some laugh not heard before,

Some novel fashion in her hair,

Or style of putting back her chair,
Restored the heavens. Gather
thence
The loss-consoling inference.
Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles,
With lovely motions and
sweet smiles,
Which while they please us pass away,
The spirit to

lofty thoughts that stay
And lift the whole of after-life,
Unless you
take the vision to wife,
Which then seems lost, or serves to slake

Desire, as when a lovely lake
Far off scarce fills the exulting eye
Of
one athirst, who comes thereby,
And inappreciably sips
The deep,
with disappointed lips.
To fail is sorrow, yet confess
That love pays
dearly for success!
No blame to beauty! Let's complain
Of the heart,
which can so ill sustain
Delight. Our griefs declare our fall,
But
how much more our joys! They pall
With plucking, and celestial
mirth
Can find no footing on the earth,
More than the bird of
paradise,
Which only lives the while it flies.
Think, also, how 'twould suit your pride
To have this woman for a
bride.
Whate'er her faults, she's one of those
To whom the world's
last polish owes
A novel grace, which all who aspire
To courtliest
custom must acquire.
The world's the sphere she's made to charm,

Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm.
Oh, law perverse, that
loneliness
Breeds love, society success!
Though young, 'twere now
o'er late in life
To train yourself for such a wife;
So she would suit
herself to you,
As women, when they marry, do.
For, since 'tis for
our dignity
Our lords should sit like lords on high,
We willingly
deteriorate
To a step below our rulers' state;
And 'tis the commonest
of things
To see an angel, gay with wings,
Lean weakly on a
mortal's arm!
Honoria would put off the charm
Of lofty grace that
caught your love,

For fear you should not seem above
Herself in
fashion and degree,
As in true merit. Thus, you see,
'Twere little
kindness, wisdom none,
To light your cot with such a sun.
VII. FROM FREDERICK.
Write not, my Mother, her dear name
With the least word or hint of
blame.
Who else shall discommend her choice,
I giving it my
hearty voice?
Wed me? Ah, never near her come
The knowledge of
the narrow home!
Far fly from her dear face, that shows
The
sunshine lovelier than the rose,
The sordid gravity they wear
Who

poverty's base burthen bear!
(And all are poor who come to miss

Their custom, though a crown be this.)
My hope was, that the wheels
of fate,
For my exceeding need, might wait,
And she, unseen amidst
all eyes,
Move sightless, till I sought the prize,
With honour, in an
equal field.
But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield
With grace as
much as any man,
In such cause, to another can.
Had she been mine,
it seems to me
That I had that integrity
And only joy in her delight -

But each is his own favourite
In love! The thought to bring me rest

Is that of us she takes the best.
'Twas but to see him to be sure
That choice for her remain'd no more!

His brow, so gaily clear of craft;
His wit, the timely truth that
laugh'd
To find itself so well express'd;
His words, abundant yet the
best;
His spirit, of such handsome show
You mark'd not that his
looks were so;
His bearing, prospects, birth, all these
Might well,
with small suit, greatly please;
How greatly, when she saw arise

The reflex sweetness of her eyes
In his, and every breath defer

Humbly its bated life to her;
Whilst power and kindness of command.

Which women can no more withstand
Than we