Victories of Love | Page 6

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 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