Victories of Love | Page 9

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 darts abroad on frantic wing,?Tasting the honey and the sting;?And, moaning where all round me sleep?Amidst the moaning of the deep,?I start at midnight from my bed -?And have no right to strike him dead.
What world is this that I am in,?Where chance turns sanctity to sin!?'Tis crime henceforward to desire?The only good; the sacred fire?That sunn'd the universe is hell!?I hear a Voice which argues well:?'The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry;?Fall down and worship me, and I?Will give you peace; go and profane?This pangful love, so pure, so vain.?And thereby win forgetfulness?And pardon of the spirit's excess,?Which soar'd too nigh that jealous Heaven?Ever, save thus, to be forgiven.?No Gospel has come down that cures?With better gain a