Victories of Love | Page 9

mildness threads the maze;

Our thoughts are lovely, and each word
Is music in the music heard,

And all things seem but parts to be
Of one persistent harmony,

By which I'm made divinely bold;
The secret, which she knows, is
told;
And, laughing with a lofty bliss
Of innocent accord, we kiss:

About her neck my pleasure weeps;
Against my lip the silk vein
leaps;
Then says an Angel, 'Day or night,
If yours you seek, not her
delight,
Although by some strange witchery
It seems you kiss her,
'tis not she;
But, whilst you languish at the side
Of a fair-foul
phantasmal bride,
Surely a dragon and strong tower
Guard the true
lady in her bower.'
And I say, 'Dear my Lord. Amen!'
And the true
lady kiss again.
Or else some wasteful malady
Devours her shape
and dims her eye;
No charms are left, where all were rife,

Except
her voice, which is her life,
Wherewith she, for her foolish fear,

Says trembling, 'Do you love me. Dear?'
And I reply, 'Sweetest, I
vow
I never loved but half till now.'
She turns her face to the wall at
this,
And says, 'Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss.'
And then a sudden
pulse is sent
About the sounding firmament
In smitings as of silver
bars;
The bright disorder of the stars
Is solved by music; far and
near,
Through infinite distinctions clear,
Their twofold voices'
deeper tone
Utters the Name which all things own,
And each
ecstatic treble dwells
On one whereof none other tells;
And we,
sublimed to song and fire,
Take order in the wheeling quire,
Till
from the throbbing sphere I start,
Waked by the heaving of my heart.

Such dreams as these come night by night,
Disturbing day with their
delight.
Portend they nothing? Who can tell!'
God yet may do some
miracle.
'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed,
Or you would know!
He may be dead,
Or mad, and loving some one else,
And she, much
moved that nothing quells
My constancy, or, simply wroth
With
such a wretch, accept my troth
To spite him; or her beauty's gone,

(And that's my dream!) and this man Vaughan
Takes her release: or
tongues malign,
Confusing every ear but mine,
Have smirch'd her:
ah, 'twould move her, sure,
To find I loved her all the more!
Nay,
now I think, haply amiss
I read her words and looks, and his,
That
night! Did not his jealousy
Show--Good my God, and can it be
That
I, a modest fool, all blest,
Nothing of such a heaven guess'd?
Oh,
chance too frail, yet frantic sweet,
To-morrow sees me at her feet!
Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars
Along the sacred English shores!

There lies the lovely land I know,
Where men and women lordliest
grow;
There peep the roofs where more than kings
Postpone state
cares to country things,
And many a gay queen simply tends
The
babes on whom the world depends;
There curls the wanton cottage
smoke
Of him that drives but bears no yoke;
There laughs the realm
where low and high
Are lieges to society,
And life has all too wide
a scope,
Too free a prospect for its hope,
For any private good or ill,

Except dishonour, quite to fill! {1}
--Mother, since this was penn'd,
I've read
That 'Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed

The beautiful Miss
Churchill.' So
That's over; and to-morrow I go
To take up my new
post on board
The Wolf, my peace at last restored;
My lonely faith,
like heart-of-oak,
Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloak
I clasp
about me to prevent
The deadly chill of a content
With any near or
distant good,
Except the exact beatitude
Which love has shown to
my desire.
Talk not of 'other joys and higher,'
I hate and disavow all
bliss
As none for me which is not this.
Think not I blasphemously
cope
With God's decrees, and cast off hope.
How, when, and where
can mine succeed?

I'll trust He knows who made my need.
Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er,
Doubtless her Husband feels no
more
The heaven of heavens of such a Bride,
But, lounging, lets her
please his pride
With fondness, guerdons her caress
With little
names, and turns a tress
Round idle fingers. If 'tis so,
Why then I'm
happier of the two!
Better, for lofty loss, high pain,
Than low
content with lofty gain.
Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me
Her
happiness and dignity!
X. FROM FREDERICK.
I thought the worst had brought me balm:
'Twas but the tempest's
central calm.
Vague sinkings of the heart aver
That dreadful wrong
is come to her,
And o'er this dream I brood and dote,
And learn its
agonies by rote.
As if I loved it, early and late
I make familiar with
my fate,
And feed, with fascinated will,
On very dregs of finish'd ill.

I think, she's near him now, alone,
With wardship and protection
none;
Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stress
Of airs that clasp him
with her dress,
They wander whispering by the wave;
And haply
now, in some sea-cave,
Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod,
They
laugh, they kiss, Oh, God! oh, God!
There comes a smile acutely
sweet
Out of the picturing dark; I meet
The ancient frankness of her
gaze,
That soft and heart-surprising blaze
Of great goodwill and
innocence.
And perfect joy proceeding thence!
Ah! made for earth's
delight, yet such
The mid-sea air's too gross to touch.
At thought of
which, the soul in me
Is as the bird that bites a bee,

And