'm^im^m:'^mr.-}^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 E^rv
 
 ' ,• (.' c^ 

 
 FAITHFUL FOR EVER. 
 
 BY 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 4 ^. ~. J 7 
 
 ^i .) J i i 
 
 Of loye that never found his earthly close. 
 What sequel ? 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 JOHN W. PARKER AND SON, WEST STRAND. 
 
 1860.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SaVILL and KDWAUDS, PKINTKRS, 
 
 CHAWDOS-STUKET. 
 
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 BOOK I. 
 
 HONORIA.
 
 iukxuli d^riiliani to ps 'fiotijcr.
 
 FREDERICK GRAHAM TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ~l/r OTHER, I smile at your alarms ! 
 
 Against my Wiltshire Cousins' charms 
 I'm shielded by a prior spell. 
 The fever, love, as I've heard tell, 
 Like other nursery maladies, 
 Is never badly taken twice. 
 Have you foi'gotteu Charlotte Hayes, 
 My playmate in the pleasant days 
 At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne; 
 The twins, so made on the same plan, 
 
 B 2
 
 Tliat one wore blue, the other white, 
 To mark them to their father's sight ; 
 And how, at Knatchley harvesting, 
 You bade me kiss her in the ring, 
 Like Anne and all the others 1 You, 
 That never of my sickness knew, 
 Will laugh, yet had I the disease, 
 And gravely, if the signs ai-e these : 
 As, ere the Spring has any power, 
 The almond branch all turns to flower, 
 Though not a leaf is out, so she 
 The bloom of life provoked in me, 
 And, hard till then and selfish, I 
 Was thenceforth nought but sanctity 
 And service ; life was mere delight 
 In being wholly good and right. 
 As she was ; just, without a slur ; 
 Honouring myself no less than her ; 
 Obeying, in the loneliest place, 
 Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace,
 
 Assured that one so fail", so true, 
 Somehow he served that was so too. 
 For me, hence weak towards the weak, 
 No more the unnested blackbird's shriek 
 Startled the light-leaved wood ; on high 
 Wander'd the gadding butterfly, 
 Unscared by my flung cap ; the bee. 
 Rifling the hollyhock in glee, 
 Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, 
 And for his honey slain. Her power, 
 From great things even to the grass 
 Through which the unfenced footways pass, 
 Was law, and that whicli keeps the law. 
 Cherubic gaiety and awe ; 
 Day was her doing, so the lark 
 Had reason for his song ; the dark 
 In anagram innumerous spelt 
 Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt ; 
 'Twas the sad summit of delight 
 To wake and weep for her at night ;
 
 She tui'u'tl to tiiiinijili or to shame 
 The issue of each childish game ; 
 The heart would come into my throat 
 At rosebuds ; howsoe'er remote, 
 In opposition or consent, 
 Each thing, or person, or event, 
 Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, 
 All, in the live, electric air. 
 Awoke, took aspect, and confess'd 
 In her a centre of unrest. 
 Yea, stocks and stones within me bred 
 Anxieties of joy and dread. 
 O, bright, apocalyptic sky 
 O'erarchino; childhood ! Far and nicrh 
 Mystery and obscuration none. 
 Yet nowliere any moon or sun ! 
 What reason for these sighs ? What hope, 
 Daunting with its audacious scope 
 The disconcerted heart, afi'ects 
 These ceremonies and respects ?
 
 Why stratagems in everything 1 
 Why, why not kiss her in the ring ? 
 'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, 
 Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold 
 The city they desire to sack, 
 Humbly begin their proud attack 
 By delving ditches two miles off, 
 Awax'e how the fair place would scoff 
 At hasty wooing ; but, O child, 
 Why thus approach thy playmate mild ! 
 
 One morning, when it flush'd my thought 
 That, what in me such wonder wrought, 
 Was call'd, in men and women, love. 
 And, sick with vanity thereof, 
 I, saying loud, " I love her," told 
 My secret to myself, behold 
 A crisis in my mystery ! 
 For, suddenly, I seem'd to be 
 Whirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads. 
 As when the- furious spider sheds
 
 Captivity wpon the fly, 
 
 To still liis buzzing till he die ; 
 
 Only, with me, the bonds that flew, 
 
 Enfolding, thrill'd me through and through 
 
 With bliss beyond aught heaven can have. 
 
 And pride to call myself her slave. 
 
 A long, green slip of wilder'd land, 
 With Knatchley Wood on either hand, 
 Sunder'd our home from hers. This day 
 Joy was mine as T went that way. 
 I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprang 
 O'er the elastic sod, and sang 
 " I love her, love her !" to an air 
 Which with the words came, then and 
 
 there ; 
 And even now, when I would know 
 All was not always dull and low, 
 I whistle a turn of the sweet strain 
 Love taught me in that lonely lane.
 
 Such gloi'ies fiide, witli no moi'e mark 
 Than when the sunset turns to dark. 
 They die, the raptui'e and the grace 
 Ineffable, nor leave a trace, 
 Except sometimes, (since joy is joy. 
 In sick or sane, in man or boy,) 
 A heart which, having felt no less 
 Than pure aud perfect happiness, 
 Is duly dainty of delight ; 
 A patient, poignant appetite 
 For pleasures that exceed so much 
 The poor things whicli the world calls 
 
 such, 
 That, when these tempt it, then you may 
 The lion with a wisp of hay. 
 
 That Charlotte, whom I scarcely knew 
 From Anne but by her ribbons blue, 
 Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, shows 
 That liking still by favour goes !
 
 10 
 
 « 
 
 This Love is a diviuity, 
 
 And holds liis high election free 
 
 Of human merit ; or, let's say, 
 
 A child by ladies call'd to play, 
 
 But careless of their becks and wiles, 
 
 Till, seeing one who sits and smiles 
 
 Like any else, yet only charms, 
 
 He cries to come into her arms. 
 
 Then, for my Cousins, fear me not 1 
 
 None ever loved because he ought. 
 
 Fatal were else this graceful house, 
 
 So full of light from ladies' brows. 
 
 There's Mary ; Heaven in her appears 
 
 Like sunshine through the shower's tears; 
 
 Mildred's of Earth, but gayer far 
 
 Than most men's thoughts of Heaven are ; 
 
 But, for Houoria, Heaven and Earth 
 
 Seal'd amity in her sweet birth. 
 
 The noble Girl ! With whom she talks 
 
 She knights first with her smile: she walks,
 
 11 
 
 Stands, dances, to sncli sweet effect 
 
 Alone she seems to go erect. 
 
 The brightest and the chastest brow 
 
 Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show 
 
 That love, as a mere vague suspense 
 
 Of apprehensive innocence, 
 
 Perturbs her heart ; love without aim 
 
 Or object, like the holy flame 
 
 That in the Yestals' Temjile glow'd, 
 
 Without the image of a god. 
 
 And this simplicity most pure 
 
 She sets off with no less a lure 
 
 Of culture, nobly ski! I'd to raise 
 
 The power, the pride, and mutual praise 
 
 Of human personality 
 
 Above the common sort so high 
 
 It makes such homely souls as mine 
 
 Wonder how brightly life may shine. 
 
 Ah, how you'd love her ! Even in dress 
 
 She makes the common mode express
 
 12 
 
 New knowledge of what's fit so well 
 'Tis virtue gaily visible ! 
 Nay, but lier silken sash to me 
 Wei'e more than all morality, 
 But that the old, sweet, feverous ill 
 Has left me master of my will.
 
 IL 
 
 irs. (ilraljam (0 ^^xtWitli
 
 MES. GEAHAM TO FEEDEEICK. 
 
 MY dearest Child, Honoria sways 
 A double power, througli Charlotte Hayes! 
 In minds to first-love's memory pledged 
 The second Cupid's born full-fledged. 
 The Churchills came, last Spring, to Spa, 
 And stay'd with me a week. I saw 
 And own I trembled for the day 
 When you should see that beauty, gay 
 And pure as apple-blooms, that show 
 Outside a blush and inside snow ;
 
 16 
 
 That liigli and touching elegance 
 Which even your raptures scarce enhance. 
 Ah, liaste from her enchanting side ! 
 No friend for you, far less a bride. 
 But, warning from a hope so wild, 
 I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child ; 
 He that but lends his heart to hear 
 The music of a foreign sphere. 
 Is thenceforth lonely, and for all 
 His days like one who treads the Wall 
 Of China, and on this hand sees 
 Cities and their civilities. 
 And on the other lions. Well, 
 (Your rash reply I thus foretell,) 
 Good is the knowledge of what's fair, 
 Though bought with temporal despair ! 
 Yes, good for one, but not for two. 
 Will it content your wife that yon 
 Should pine for love, in love's embrace, 
 Because you've known a prouder grace ;
 
 17 
 
 Disturb with inward sighs your rest, 
 
 Because, though good, she's not the best ; 
 
 Her acts of fondness ahnost shun, 
 
 Because they are handsomer meant than done ? 
 
 You would, you think, be just and kind, 
 
 And keep your counsel ! You will find 
 
 You cannot such a secret keep. 
 
 'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep ; 
 
 A touch will tell it, though, for pride, 
 
 She may her bitter knowledge hide ; 
 
 And, whilst she accepts love's make-believe, 
 
 You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. 
 
 For your sake I am glad to hear 
 You sail so soon. I send you, Dear, 
 A trifling present ; 'twill supply 
 Your Salisbury costs. You have to buy 
 Almost an outfit for this cruise ! 
 But many are good enough to use 
 Again, among the things you send 
 To give away. My Maid shall mend 
 c
 
 18 
 
 And let yoii have them back. Adieu ! 
 Tell me of all yoii are and do. 
 1 know, thank God, whate'er it be, 
 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me.
 
 III. 
 
 fimth to tis fMt^r,
 
 FREDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 rXlHE multitude of voices blythe 
 
 Of early day, the hissing scythe 
 Athwai't the dew drawn and withdrawn, 
 The noisy peacock on the lawn, 
 These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam. 
 This moi'ning, chased the sweetest dream 
 That e'er shed penitential grace 
 On life's forgetful commonplace ; 
 Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spell 
 To which I woke to say farewell.
 
 22 
 
 Noon finds me ninety miles removed 
 Prom her who must not be beloved ; 
 And us the whole sea soon shall part, 
 Heaving for aye, without a heart ! 
 But why, dear mother, warn me so ? 
 / love Miss Churchill 1 Ah, no, no, 
 I view, enchanted, from afar, 
 And love her as I love a star. 
 For, not to speak of colder fear. 
 Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, 
 Under her life's gay progress hurl'd, 
 The wheels of the preponderant world, 
 Set sharp with swords that fool to slay 
 Who blunders from a poor byway, 
 To covet beauty with a crown 
 Of earthly blessing added on ; 
 And she's so much, it seems to me, 
 Beyond all women womanly, 
 I dread to think how he should fare 
 Who came so near as to despair.
 
 23 
 
 No more of this ! Dear mother, please 
 To send my books to Plymouth. These, 
 When I go hence, shall turn all hours 
 To profit, and amend my powers. 
 I've time on board to fill my post. 
 And yet make up for schooling lost 
 Through young sea-service. They all speak 
 German and French ; and these, with Greek, 
 Which Doctor Churchill thought I knew. 
 And History, which I'm ill in too. 
 Will stop a gap I somewhat dread. 
 After the happy life I've led 
 Among my Cousins ; and 'twill be 
 To abridge the space from them to me. 
 
 Yonder the sullen vessel rides 
 Where my obscure condition hides. 
 Waves scud to shore against the wind, 
 That flings the sprinkling surf behind ; 
 In port the bickering pennons show 
 Which way the ships would gladly go ;
 
 24 
 
 Througli Edgecumbe Park the rooted trees 
 Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze ; 
 On top of Edgecumbe's firm-set tower, 
 As foils, not foibles, of its power, 
 The light vanes do themselves adjust 
 To every veering of the gust ! 
 By me alone may nought be given 
 To guidance of the airs of heaven 1 
 In battle or peace, in calm or storm. 
 Should T my daily task perform, 
 (Better a thousand times for love,) 
 Who should my secret soul reprove ! 
 
 Mother, I've striven to conceal. 
 Yes, from myself, how much I feel ; 
 In vain. With tears my sight is dull. 
 My Cousin makes my heart so full. 
 Her happy beauty makes a man 
 Long to lay down his life ! How can 
 Aught to itself seem thus enough, 
 When I have so much need thereof !
 
 25 
 
 Blest is her place ! blissful is she ; 
 And I, departing, seem to be 
 Like the strange waif that comes to run 
 A few days flaming near the sun, 
 And carries back, through boundless night 
 Its lessening memory of light. 
 Oh, my dear Mother, I confess 
 To a weak grief of homelessness, 
 Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis years 
 Stace such a shower of girlish tears 
 Disgraced me ! Biit this wretched Inn, 
 At Plymouth, is so full of din, 
 Talkings and trampings to and fro. 
 And then my ship, to which I go. 
 To-night, is no more home. I dread. 
 As strange, the life I long have led ; 
 And as, when first I went to school 
 And found the hoiTor of a rule, 
 Which only ask'd to be obey'd, 
 I lay and wept, of dawn afraid.
 
 26 
 
 And thouglit, 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 lowering roof, 
 Blind and inevitable law, 
 Which makes light duties burdens, awe 
 Which is not revei'ence, 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. 
 By her instructed what may be 
 The joy of true society. 
 Frightful is solitude; yet 'tis. 
 Compared with such infestment, bliss.
 
 27 
 
 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'ei-. 
 Be not much other than before ? 
 Decline the high, harmonious sphere 
 In which I'm held, but while she's dear ? " 
 In unrespective peace forget 
 Those eyes for which my own are wet 
 With that delicious, fruitful dew 
 Which, check'd, will never flow anew ] 
 For daily life's dull, senseless mood, 
 Slay the sharp nerves of gratitude
 
 28 
 
 And sweet allegiance, which I owe, 
 Whether she cares for me or no ? 
 Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, prefer 
 To want for all in wanting her. 
 
 For all 1 Love's best is not bereft 
 Ever from hira to whom is left 
 The trust that God will .not deceive 
 His creature, fashion'd to believe 
 The prophecies of pure desire. 
 Not loss, npt 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.
 
 IV. 
 
 fitkxkk is Ih iliytljer.
 
 FREDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 TT^ASHION'D by Heaven and by art 
 So is she, that she makes the heart 
 Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace 
 So wonderful should have for place 
 The unworthy earth ! To see her smile, 
 As ignorant of her hap the while, 
 And walk this howling waste of sin. 
 As only knowing the heaven within, 
 Is sweet, and does for pity stir 
 Passion to be her minister ;
 
 32 
 
 Wherefore last night I lay awake, 
 And said, " Ah, Lord, for thy lovc'rf 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 Ions: 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
 
 33 
 
 And crisis of tlie coming hour, 
 Did hope itself draw sudden power. 
 So the hot-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 back'd man's desire, 
 IVIine, being smirchless 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 ! 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 While thus I raved, and cast in hope 
 A superstitious horoscope, 
 I reach'd the Dean's. The woman said, 
 " Miss ChurchiU's out." " Had she been dead," 
 I cried, " 'twere much the same to me, 
 " Who go, this very night, to sea." 
 " Nay, sir, she's only gone to prayer ; 
 " And here she comes, across the Square." 
 (0, but to be the unbanished sod 
 She daily treads, all bright from God !) 
 
 And now, 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 ; strained the chance 
 I had of honour and advance 
 In war to come ; and would not see 
 Sad silence meant " What's this to me !"
 
 35 
 
 When half my precious hour was gone, 
 She rose to greet a Mr. Vaiighan ; 
 And, as the image of the moou 
 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 flattering 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 tum'd her music o'er ; 
 Then came she with me to the door. 
 " Dearest Honoria," I said, 
 (By my despair familiar made,) 
 D 2
 
 36 
 
 "Heaven bless you!" Oh, to have back thenstepp'd, 
 
 And fall'u 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 !
 
 37 
 
 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. 
 Address to Malta. Would I might 
 But bf^ your little Child to-night, 
 And feel you: arms about me fold, 
 Against this loneliness and cold ! 
 
 45547
 
 x$. ira^am k |rteiti
 
 MES. GRAHAM TO FREDERICK. 
 
 II /FY own dear Child, Honoria's choice 
 
 Shows what she is, and I rejoice 
 You did not win her. Felix Vaiighan 
 Preferr'd to you 1 My faith is gone 
 In her fine sense ! And, thus, you see 
 You were too good for her ! Ah, me. 
 The folly of these girls : they doff 
 Their pride to sleek success, and scoff 
 At far more noble fire and might 
 That woo them from the dust of fight !
 
 42 
 
 But now, Dear, since the storm is past, 
 Your sky should not remain o'ercast. 
 A sea-life's dull, and, so, beware 
 Of nourisliing, for zest, despair. 
 Remember, Frederick, this makes twice 
 You've been in love ; then why not thrice, 
 Or ten times ? But a wise man shuns 
 To say " All's over," more than once. 
 Religion, duty, books, work, friends, 
 Ai-e anodynes, if not amends. 
 I'll not urge that a young man's soul 
 Is scarce the 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,
 
 43 
 
 When, to your spiiit's sick alarm, 
 It seem'd tliat all lier marvellous charm 
 Was marvellously fled ? The cause 
 'Tis like you sought not. This it was : 
 It happen'd, for that hour, her grace 
 Of voice, adornment, posture, face 
 Was what already heart and eye 
 Had ponder'd to satiety ; 
 And 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 ! 
 
 I blame not beauty. It 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 thing to wife,
 
 44 
 
 Which then seems nought, 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 ! 
 
 I blame not beauty, but 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
 
 45 
 
 A further grace, which all who aspire 
 
 To courtliest custom must acquire. 
 
 The world's her duty aud her sphere ; 
 
 But you have still been lonely, Dear. 
 
 (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 fit herself to you. 
 
 As women, when they marry, do. 
 
 For, since 'tis for their dignity 
 
 Their lords should sit like lords on high, 
 
 They wUlingly deteriorate 
 
 To a step below their 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 cultured grace that caught your love, 
 
 For fear you should not seem above
 
 46 
 
 Herself in fashion and degree, 
 As in true merit. Thus, you see, 
 'Twere little kindness, wisdom none. 
 To light your barn with such a sun.
 
 VI. 
 
 inhxkh k lis ||ia%r.
 
 FEEDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 npvEAE. Mother, do not write her name 
 
 With the least word or hint of blame. 
 Who else shall discommend her choice, 
 I giving it my hearty voice 1 
 She many me ? I loved too well 
 To think it good or possible. 
 Ah, never near her beauties come 
 The business of the narrow home ! 
 Far fly from her dear face, that shows 
 The sunshine lovelier than the rose, 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 The sordid gravity they wear 
 
 Who poverty's base burthen bear ! 
 
 (And they 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 !
 
 51 
 
 His brow, so gaily clear of craft ; 
 His wit, tlie timely truth that laugh'ct 
 To find itself so well express'd ; 
 His words, abundant yet the best ; 
 His spirit, of such handsome show 
 You saw not that his looks were so ; 
 His bearing, prospects, birth, all these 
 Might well, with small suit, greatly please ; 
 How greatly, when she saw ai-ise 
 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 their grace, were still imquell'd, 
 And force and flattery both compell'd 
 Her softness ! Say I'm worthy. I 
 Grew, in her presence, cold and shy. 
 It awed me, as an angel's might 
 In raiment of reproachful light. 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 Her gay looks told my sombre mood 
 
 That what's not happy is not good ; 
 
 And, just because 'twas life to please, 
 
 Death to repel her, truth and ease 
 
 Deserted me ; I strove to talk, 
 
 And stammer'd foolishness ; my walk 
 
 Was like a drunkard's ; once she took 
 
 My arm j it stifTen'd, ached, and shook ; 
 
 I guess'd her thought, and could have dropji'd ; 
 
 The streams of life within me stopp'd. 
 
 A likely wooer ! Blame her not ; 
 
 Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught 
 
 Against that perfectness which is 
 
 My strength, as once it was my bliss. 
 
 Nor let us chafe at social rules. 
 Leave that to poets and to fools. 
 Clay graffs and clods conceive the rose. 
 So base still fathers best. Life owes 
 Itself to bread ; enough thereof 
 And easy days condition love j
 
 53 
 
 And, highly train'd, love's roses thrive, 
 No more pale, scentless petals five, 
 Which moisten the considerate eye 
 To see what haste they make to die. 
 But heavens of brightness and perfume, 
 Which, month by month, renew the bloom 
 Of art-born graces, when the year 
 In all the natural grove is sere. 
 
 Thank God, I partly can descry 
 The meaning of humanity ! 
 In sight of him who sees it float 
 As many an isolated mote 
 In accidental light or dark, 
 And wants the instructed sense to mark 
 Its method, and the ear to hear 
 The moving music of its sphere. 
 What wonder if his private loss 
 Seem an intolerable cross, 
 Not to be suffer'd, in mere awe 
 Of what he calls the world's cold law.
 
 54 
 
 But he who once, with joy of soul, 
 Has had the vision of the whole, 
 Though to the wi-inging of his heart, 
 Will never more prefer the part. 
 Blame none, then ! Bright let be the air 
 About my lonely cloud of care. 
 
 " Religion, duty, books, work, friends :" 
 'Tis good advice, but there it ends. 
 I'm sick for what they have not got. 
 Send no more books ; they help me not. 
 I'm hurt, and find no salve for that 
 In gospels of the cricket-bat 
 Or anvil ; and, for zoophytes. 
 And algae, and Italian rights. 
 Myself and every soul I see 
 Are nearer, dearer mystery, 
 And subject to my proper will. 
 To some extent, for good or ill. 
 And, as for work, Mother, I find 
 The life of man is in his mind.
 
 55 
 
 (Though, trust the strains the fashion strums, 
 
 It seems 'tis rather in his thumbs !) 
 
 To work is well, nay, labour is, 
 
 They say, the bread of souls. If 'tis. 
 
 We do not worship corn and yeast ; 
 
 Indeed, they scarcely make a feast ! 
 
 Bread's needful, but the rule stands so 
 
 That needful most is oft most low. 
 
 I act my calling, yet there's still 
 
 A void which duty cannot fill. 
 
 What though the inaugural hour of right 
 
 Comes ever with a keen delight ! 
 
 Little relieves the labour's heat, 
 
 Or crowns the labour when complete ; 
 
 And life, in fact, is not less dull 
 
 For being very dutiful. 
 
 " The stately homes of England," lo, 
 
 " How beautiful they stand !" They owe. 
 
 How much to me and such as me 
 
 Their beauty of security !
 
 56 
 
 But who can long a low work mend 
 By looking to a lofty end 1 
 And let me, since 'tis truth, confess 
 The want's not fill'd by godliness. 
 God is a tower without a stair, 
 And His perfection love's despair. 
 'Tis He shall judge me when 1 die ; 
 He suckles with the hissing fly 
 The spider ; gazes patient down, 
 Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. 
 His vast love holds all this and more. 
 In consternation I adore ! 
 Nor can I ease this aching gulf 
 With friends, the pictures of myself. 
 
 Then marvel not that I recur 
 From each and all of these to her. 
 For more of heaven than her have I 
 No sensitive capacity. 
 Had I but her, ah, what the gain 
 Of owning aught but that domain !
 
 57 
 
 Nay, heaven's extent, however much, 
 Cannot be more than many such ; 
 And, she being mine, should God to me 
 Say " Lo ! my Child, I give to thee 
 All heaven besides," what could I then. 
 But, as a child, to Him complain 
 That, whereas my dear Father gave 
 A little space for me to have 
 In his great garden, now, o'erblest, 
 I've that, indeed, but all the rest, 
 Which, somehow, makes it seem I've got 
 All but my only cared-for plot. 
 Enough was that for my weak hand 
 To tend, my heart to understand. 
 
 Oh, the sick thought, 'twixt her and me 
 There's nothing, and the weary sea !
 
 VII. 
 
 £nkmli k l)xs ptlj^r.
 
 FREDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 "ly/rOTHEE,, in scarcely two hours more 
 
 I set my foot on English shore, 
 Two years untrod ! and, strange to tell, 
 Nigh miss'd, through last night's storm. There fell 
 A man from the shi-ouds, that roar'd to quench 
 Even the billows' blast and drench. 
 None else but me was by to mark 
 His loud cry in the louder dark, 
 Dark, save when lightning show'd the deeps 
 Standing about in stony heuj«.
 
 62 
 
 No time for choice ! A fortunate flash 
 Flamed as he rose ; a dizzy splash, 
 A strange, inopportune delight 
 Of mounting with the billowy might, 
 And falling, with a thrill again 
 Of pleasure shot from feet to brain. 
 And both paced deck, ere any knew 
 Our peril. Round us press'd the crew. 
 " Your duty was to let him drown," 
 The Captain said, and feign'd a frown ; 
 But wonder fill'd the eyes of most. 
 As if the man who had loved and lost 
 Honoria dared no more than that ! 
 
 My days have else been stale and flat. 
 This life's, at best, if justly scann'd, 
 A tedious walk by the othei-'s strand, 
 With, here and there cast up, a piece 
 Of coral or of ambergris. 
 Which boasted of abroad, we ignore 
 The burthen of the barren shore.
 
 63 
 
 Often might I my letters fill 
 
 With how the nerves refuse to thrill ; 
 
 How, throughout doubly-darken'd days, 
 
 I cannot recollect her face ; 
 
 How to my heart her name to tell 
 
 Is beating on a bi-oken bell ; 
 
 And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, 
 
 Scarce loving her, I hate myself. 
 
 Yet, latterly, with strange delight, 
 Rich tides have risen in the night, 
 And sweet dreams chased the fancies dense 
 Of waking life's dull somnolence. 
 I see her as I knew her, grace 
 Already glory in her face ; 
 I move about, I cannot rest. 
 For the proud brain and joyful breast 
 I have of hei\ Or else I float 
 Tlie i^ilot of an idle boat, 
 Alone with sun, and sky, and sea, 
 And her, the fourth simplicity.
 
 64: 
 
 Or Mildred, to some question, cries, 
 (Her merry mischief in her eyes), 
 " The Ball, oh, Frederick will go ; 
 " Honoria will be there !" and, lo, 
 As moisture sweet my seeing blurs 
 To hear my name so link'd with hers, 
 A mirror joins, by guilty chance, 
 Either's averted, watchful glance ! 
 Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze. 
 Her brilliant mildness thrids 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 ;
 
 65 
 
 Then says an Angel, " Day or night, 
 " If yours you seek, not her delight, 
 " Although by some strange witchery 
 " It seems you kiss hei', '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 sbe, for her foolish fear. 
 Says trembling, " Do you love me, Dear ?" 
 And I reply, " Ah, Sweet, I vow 
 " I never loved but half till now." 
 She tui'ns her face to the wall at tliis, 
 And says, " Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss." 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 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 infiaite distinctions clear, 
 Their two-fold voices' deeper tone 
 Thunders 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 beating of my heart. 
 
 Such ch-earas as these come night by night, 
 Disturbing day with their delight. 
 Portend they nothing 1 Who can tell ! 
 God yet may do some miracle. 
 'Tis now two years, and she's not wed, 
 Or you would know ! He may be dead.
 
 G7 
 
 Or mad and wooing some one else, 
 
 And she, much moved that nothing quells 
 
 My constancy, or, merely wroth 
 
 With such a wretch, accept my troth 
 
 To spite him ; or her beauty's gone, 
 
 (And that's my dream!) and this vile Vaughan 
 
 Takes her release ; or tongues malign, 
 
 Convincing all men's ears but mine. 
 
 Have smirch'd her : ah, 'twould move her, .sure, 
 
 To find I only worshipp'd 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 I'oars 
 Along the sacred English shores ! 
 
 p 2 
 
 J
 
 68 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Postscript. Since this was penn'd, I 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.
 
 69 
 
 For all the showering tears that soak 
 
 This paper. Grief is now the cloak 
 
 1 fold 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. 
 
 You'll point to 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 1 
 
 I'll trust He knows who made my need !
 
 VIII. 
 
 ixthxuk ia Ijts p^tfjxr.
 
 FREDEEICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 y THOUGHT the worst had brought me balm, 
 
 'Twas but the tempest's central calm. 
 Yague sinkings of the heart aver 
 That dreadful wrong has come to her, 
 And o'er this whim I brood and doat, 
 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.
 
 74 
 
 1 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 salt sand is rarely trod, 
 They laugh, they kiss. Oh, God ! oh, God ! 
 
 Baseness of men ! Pursuit being o'er, 
 Doubtless the Lover feels no more 
 The awful heaven of such a Bride, 
 But, lounging, let's her please his pride 
 With fondness, guerdons her caress 
 With little names, and twists a tress 
 Round idle fingers. If 'tis so. 
 Why then I'm happier of the two ! 
 Better, for lofty loss, like pain, 
 Than low content with lofty gain. 
 Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me 
 Her happiness and dignity !
 
 i 
 
 75 
 
 Thus, all day long till friglitful night 
 I fear she's harm'd by his delight, 
 And when I lay me down at even 
 'Tis Hades lit with neighbouring Heaven. 
 There comes a smile acutely sweet 
 Out of the picturing dark ; I meet 
 The ancient frankness of her gaze, 
 That simple, bold, and living 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.
 
 76 
 
 What world is this that I am in, 
 Where chance turns sanctity to sin ! 
 'Tis crime henceforward to desire 
 The only good, the sacred fix-e 
 Of all the universe is hell ! 
 I hear a Voice that 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 loss like yours, 
 " Be pious ! Give the beggar pelf, 
 " And love your neighbour as yourself ! 
 " You, who yet love, though all is o'er, 
 " And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more,
 
 77 
 
 " With soul which can in pity smile 
 
 " That aught with such a measure vile 
 
 " As self should be at all named ' love !' 
 
 " Your sanctity the i)riests reprove, 
 
 " Your case of grief they wholly miss. 
 
 " The Man of Sorrows names not this ! 
 
 " ' The years,' they say, ' graft love divine 
 
 " ' On the lopp'd stock of love like thine, 
 
 " ' The wild tree dies not, but converts.' 
 
 " So be it ; but the lopping hurts, 
 
 " The graff takes tardily ! Men stanch 
 
 " Meantime with earth the bleeding branch. 
 
 " There's nothing heals one woman's loss, 
 
 " And lightens life's eternal cross 
 
 " With intermission of sound rest, 
 
 " Like lying in another's breast. 
 
 " The cure is, to your thinking, low ! 
 
 " Is not life all, henceforward, so f 
 
 111 Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood ; 
 I'll sleep ! But, as I thus conclude.
 
 78 
 
 The intrusions of her gi-ace dispel 
 The comfortable glooms of hell. 
 
 A wonder ! Ere these lines were dried, 
 Vaughan and my Love, his teu-days' Bride, 
 Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo, 
 In beauty soft as is the snow 
 And powerful as the avalanche, 
 She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance ! 
 She smiled, siirprised. They came to see 
 The ship, not thinking to meet me. 
 At infinite distance she's my day ! 
 What then to him 1 Howbeit they say 
 'Tis not so sunny in the sun 
 But men might live cool lives thereon ! 
 
 All's well ; for I have seen arise 
 That reflex sweetness of her eyes 
 In his, and watch'd his breath defer 
 Humbly its bated life to her. 
 His wife. Dear Love, she's safe in his 
 Devotion ; and the thought of this,
 
 79 
 
 Though more than ever I admire, 
 Removes her out of my desire. 
 
 They bade adieu ; I saw them go 
 Across the sea ; and now I know 
 The ultimate hope I rested on, 
 The hope beyond the grave, is gone, 
 The hope that, in the heavens high, 
 At last it should a^jpear that I 
 Loved most, and so, by claim divine, 
 Should have her, in the heavens, for mine. 
 According to such nuptial sort 
 As may subsist in the holy court. 
 Where, if there are all kinds of joys 
 To exhaust the multitude of choice 
 In many mansions, then there are 
 Loves personal and particular. 
 Conspicuous in the glorious sky 
 Of universal charity. 
 As Hesper in the sunrise. Now 
 I've seen them, I believe their vow
 
 80 
 
 Immortal ; and the dreadful thouglit, 
 
 That he less honour'd than he ought 
 
 Her sanctity, is laid to rest, 
 
 And, blessing them, I too am blest. 
 
 My goodwill, as a springing air, 
 
 Ilnclouds a beauty in despair ; 
 
 I stand beneath the sky's pure cope 
 
 Unburthen'd even by a hope ; 
 
 And peace unspeakable, a joy 
 
 Which hope would deaden and destroy, 
 
 Like sunshine fills the airy gulf 
 
 Left by the vanishing of self. 
 
 That I have known her ; that she moves 
 
 Somewhere all-graceful ; that she loves, 
 
 And is belov'd, and that she's so 
 
 Most happy ; and to heaven will go. 
 
 Where I may meet with her, (yet this 
 
 I count but adventitious bliss,) 
 
 And that the full, celestial weal 
 
 Of all shall sensitively feel
 
 81 
 
 The partnership and work of each, 
 And, thus, my love and labour reach 
 Her region, there the more to bless 
 Her last, consummate happiness, 
 Is giaerdon up to the degree 
 Of that alone true loyalty 
 Which, sacrificing, is not nice 
 About the terms of sacrifice, 
 But offers all, Avith smiles that say, 
 'Twere nothing if 'twere not for aye I
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 JANE. 
 
 G -^
 
 rs. irakm I0 gukxkli
 
 MRS. GRAHAM TO FREDERICK. 
 
 T WEEP for your great grief, dear Boy, 
 
 And not less for your lofty joy. 
 You wanted her, ray Sou, for wife, 
 With the fierce need of life in life ! 
 That nobler passion of an hour 
 Was rather prophecy than power ; 
 And nature, from such stress unbent. 
 Recurs to deep discouragement. 
 Trust not such peace yet ; easy breath. 
 In hot diseases, argues death ;
 
 88 
 
 And tastelessnese within the mouth 
 
 Worse fever shows than heat or drouth. 
 
 Wherefore take timely warning, Dear, 
 
 Against a novel danger near. 
 
 Beware lest that " ill Voice" once more 
 
 Should plead, not vainly as before. 
 
 Wed not one woman, oh, my Son, 
 
 Because you love another one ! 
 
 Oft, with a disappointed man. 
 
 The first who cares to win him can ; 
 
 For, after love's heroic strain, 
 
 Which tired the heart and brought no gain. 
 
 He feels consoled, relieved, and eased 
 
 To meet with her who can be pleased 
 
 To proffer kindness, and compute 
 
 His acquiescence for pursuit ; 
 
 Who troubles not his lonely mood ; 
 
 Asks nought for love but gratitude ; 
 
 And, as it were, will let him weep 
 
 Himself within her arms to sleep.
 
 89 
 
 Ah, desperate folly ! (Tliongli, we know, 
 Who wed through love wed mostly so.) 
 
 Before all else, when wed you do. 
 See that the woman equals you, 
 Nor rush, from having loved too high, 
 Into a worse humility. 
 
 Whose Child, whose Cousin are you ? Wait 
 Until this blast shall well abate ! 
 Though love may seem to have wi'eck'd your life, 
 Look to the salvage ; take no wife 
 Who to your stooping feels she owes 
 Her name ; such debts make bosom-foes. 
 
 A poor .estate's a foolish plea 
 For marrying to a base degree. 
 A gentlewoman's twice as cheap, 
 ' As well as pleasanter, to keep. 
 Nor think grown women can be train' d. 
 Or, if they could, that much were gain'd ; 
 For never was a man's heart caught 
 By graces he himself had taught.
 
 90 
 
 And fancy not 'tis in the might 
 Of man to do without delight ; 
 For should you in her nothing find 
 To exhilarate the higher mind, 
 Your soul will clog its useless wings 
 With wickedness of lawful things, 
 And vampire pleasure swift destroy 
 Even the memory of joy. 
 So let no man, in desperate mood, 
 Wed a dull girl because she's good. 
 All virtues in his wife soon dim, 
 Except the power of pleasing him. 
 Which may small virtue be, or none ! 
 
 I know, my just and tender Son, 
 To whom the dangerous grace is given 
 That scorns a good which is not heaven ; 
 My Child, who used to sit and sigh 
 Under the bright, ideal sky, 
 And pass, to spai-e the farmer's wheat, 
 The poppy and the meadow-sweet !
 
 91 
 
 He would not let his wife's beart aclie 
 For what was mainly his mistake ; 
 But, having err'd so, all his force 
 Would fix upon the hard right course. 
 
 I see you with a vulgar wife ! 
 Or one absorb'd in. future life, 
 And in this transitory place 
 Contented with the means of grace ; 
 Uncultured, say, yet good and true, 
 And therefore inward fair, and, through 
 The veils which inward beauty swathe. 
 All lovely to the eye of faith ! 
 Ah, that's soon fagged ; faith falls away, 
 Without the ceremonial stay 
 Of outward loveliness and awe. 
 The weightier matters of the law 
 She pays ; mere mint and cummin not ; 
 And, in the road that she was taught. 
 She treads, and takes for granted still 
 Nature's immedicable ill ;
 
 92 
 
 So never wears within her eyes 
 
 A false report of paradise, 
 
 Nor ever modulates her mirth 
 
 With vain compassion of the earth, 
 
 Which made a certain happier face 
 
 Affecting, and a gayer grace 
 
 With pathos delicately edged ! 
 
 Yet, though she be not privileged 
 
 To unlock for you your heart's delight, 
 
 (Her keys being gold, but not the right,) 
 
 On lower levels she may do ! 
 
 Her joy is more in loving you 
 
 Than being loved, and she commands 
 
 All tenderness she vmderstands. 
 
 It is but when you pi-offer more 
 
 The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. 
 
 It's weary work enforcing love 
 
 On one who has enough thereof, 
 
 And honom* on the lowlihead 
 
 Of ignorance ! Besides, you dread.
 
 93 
 
 In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes 
 Of Rachel somewhere in the skies, 
 And both return, alike relieved, 
 To life less loftily conceived. 
 Alas, alas ! 
 
 Then wait the mood 
 In which a woman may be woo'd 
 Whose thoughts and habits are too high 
 For honour to be flattery ; 
 And such would surely not allow 
 The suit that you could proffer now. 
 Her equal yoke would sit with ease ; 
 It might, with wearing, even please, 
 (Not with a better word to move 
 The indignant loyalty of love !) 
 She would not mope when you were gay, 
 For want of knowing aught to say ; 
 Nor vex you with unhandsome waste 
 Of thoughts ill-timed and words ill- 
 placed j
 
 94 
 
 Nor hold small tilings for duties small, 
 (This brands ill-breeding most of -all,) 
 But, gilding uses with delight, 
 And comprehending nature right, 
 Would mend or veil each weaker part 
 With some sweet supplement of art. 
 Nor would she bring you up a brood 
 Of strangers bound to you by blood, 
 Boys of a meaner moral race, 
 Girls with their mother's evil grace, 
 But not her right to sometimes find 
 Her critic past his judgment kind ; 
 Nor, unaccustom'd to respect. 
 Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect. 
 Confirm you selfish and morose. 
 And slowly by contagion gross ; 
 But, glad and able to receive 
 The honour you would long to give, 
 Would hasten on to justify 
 Your hope of her, however high.
 
 95 
 
 Whilst you would happily incur 
 Compulsion to keep up with her. 
 
 Past price is such a woman, yet 
 Not rare, nor hard for you to get ; 
 And such, in marrying, yields so much 
 It could not less than greatly touch 
 The heart of him who call'd her Bride, 
 With tenderness, and manly pride, 
 And soft, protective, fond regard, 
 And thoughts to make no duty hard. 
 
 Your love was wild, (but none the less 
 Praise be to love, whose wild excess 
 Reveals the honour and the height 
 Of life, and the supreme delight 
 In store for all but him who lies 
 Content in mediocrities !) 
 To wed with one less loved may be 
 Part of divine expediency. 
 Many men cannot love ; more yet 
 Cannot love such as they can get.
 
 96 
 
 Who still should many, and do, and find 
 Comfort of heart and peace of mind 
 More than when love-sick spirits dull 
 The force of manhood masterful, 
 Which woman's softnesses require. 
 And women ever most admire.
 
 II. 
 
 fithmli k \}lB lotlrer. 
 
 ir
 
 I
 
 FREDEPJCK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 "YTOUE. letter, Mother, bears the date 
 
 Of six months back, and comes too late. 
 My Love, past all conceiving lost, 
 A change seem'd good, at any cost. 
 From lonely, stupid, silent grief, 
 Vain, objectless, beyond relief. 
 And like a sea-fog settled dense 
 On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. 
 I grew so idle, so despised 
 Myself, my powers, by her unprized ; 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 Honouring my post, but nothing more ; 
 
 And lying, when I lived on shore, 
 
 So late of mornings ; sharp tears stream'd 
 
 For such slight cause, — if only gleam'd. 
 
 Remotely, sorrowfully bright, 
 
 On clouded eves at sea, the light 
 
 Of English headlands in the sun, — 
 
 That soon I deem'd 'twere better done 
 
 To lay this poor, complaining wraith 
 
 Of \inreciprocated faith ; 
 
 And so, with heart still bleeding quick, 
 
 But strengthen'd by the comfort sick 
 
 Of knowing that she could not care, 
 
 I turn'd my back on my despair ; 
 
 And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane, — 
 
 A dear, good Girl, who saw my pain. 
 
 And spoke as if she pitied me, — 
 
 How glad and thaukfid I should be 
 
 If some kind woman, not above 
 
 Myself in rank, would give her love
 
 101 
 
 To one that knew not how to woo. 
 Whereat she, without more ado, 
 Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed 
 With what I meant to have proposed. 
 And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane 
 Suit one another well. My gain 
 Is very great in this good wife. 
 To whom I'm bound, for natural life, 
 By hearty faith, yet crossing not 
 My faith towards — I know not what ! 
 As to the ether is the air, 
 Is her good to Honoria's fair ; 
 One place is full of both, yet each 
 Lies quite beyond the other's reach 
 And recognition. Star and star, 
 Rays crossing, closer rivals are, 
 Sequester'd in their separate spheres. 
 And now, except some casual tears, 
 The old grief lives not. If you say. 
 Am I contented 1 Yea and nay !
 
 102 
 
 For what's base but content to grow 
 
 With less good than the best we know 1 
 
 But think me not from sense withdrawn 
 
 By passion for a hojie that's gone, 
 
 So far as to forget how much 
 
 A woman is, as merely such, 
 
 To man's affection. What is best. 
 
 In each, belongs to all the rest ; 
 
 And though, in marriage, quite to kiss 
 
 And half to love the custom is, 
 
 'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare, 
 
 The soul's interior despair, 
 
 And life between two troubles toss'd, 
 
 To me, who think not with the most ; 
 
 Whatever 'twould have been before 
 
 My Cousin's time, 'tis now so sore 
 
 A treason to the abiding throne 
 
 Of that sweet love which I have known, 
 
 I cannot live so, and I bend 
 
 My mind perforce to comprehend
 
 103 
 
 That He who gives command to love 
 Does not require a thing above 
 The strength he gives. The highest degree 
 Of the hardest grace, humility ; 
 The step t'wards heaven the latest trod, 
 And that which makes us most like God, 
 And us much more than God behoves, 
 Is, to be humble in our loves. 
 Henceforth for ever therefore I 
 Renounce all partiality 
 Of passion. Subject to control 
 Of that perspective of the soul 
 Which God Himself pronounces good, 
 Confirming claims of neighbourhood, 
 . And giving man, for earthly life, 
 The closest neighbour in a wife, 
 I'll serve all. Jane be mvich more dear 
 Than others as she's much more near ! 
 
 Is one unloveable, and would 
 We love him, let us do him good !
 
 'y 
 
 104 
 
 How easy, then, the effect to^ raise 
 Where nought's amiss but homely ways. 
 I love her, love her ! Sweet tears come 
 Of this my self-will's martyrdom ; 
 And sweet tears are love's test, for love 
 Is nought without the joy thereof. 
 Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis true 
 That 'twas another joy I knew 
 When freighted was my heart with fire 
 Of fond, irrational desire 
 For fascinating, female charms, 
 And hopeless heaven in two white arms. 
 " There's nothing half so sweet in life," 
 As the old song says ; and I nor wife 
 Nor Heaven affront, if I profess, 
 That care for heaven with me were less 
 But that I'm utterly imbued 
 With faith of all Earth's good renew'd 
 In realms where no short-coming pains 
 Expectance, and dear love disdains
 
 105 
 
 Time's treason, and the gathering dross, 
 And lasts for ever in the gloss 
 Of melting. 
 
 All the bright past seems, 
 Now, but a vision in my dreams. 
 Which shows, albeit the dreamer 
 
 wakes, 
 The standard of right life. Life aches 
 To be therewith conform'd ; but, oh. 
 The world's so stolid, dark, and low ! 
 That and the mortal element 
 Forbid its beautiful intent, 
 And, like the unborn butterfly, 
 It feels the wings, and wants the sky. 
 
 But perilous is the lofty mood 
 Which cannot pull with lowly good ! 
 Right life, for me, is life that wends 
 By lowly ways to lofty ends. 
 I well perceive, at length, that haste 
 T'wards heaven itself is only waste ;
 
 106 
 
 And thus I dread the impatient spur 
 Of aught that speaks too phiin of Her. 
 There's little here that story tells ; 
 But music talks of nothing else. 
 Therefore, when music breathes, I say, 
 (And busier urge my task,) Away ! 
 Thou art the voice of one I knew, 
 But what thou say'st is not yet true; 
 Thou art the voice of her I loved. 
 And I would not be vainly moved. 
 
 Thus love, which did from death set free 
 All things, now dons death's mockery, 
 And takes its place with thiugs that are 
 But little noted. Do not mar 
 For me your peace ! My health is high. 
 The proud possession of mine eye 
 Departed, I am much like one 
 Who had by haughty custom grown 
 To think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, 
 Horses, and carriages, and hounds.
 
 107 
 
 Fine linen, and an eider bed 
 
 As much his need as daily bread, 
 
 And honour of men as much or more : 
 
 Till, strange misfortune smiting sore. 
 
 His pride all goes to pay his debts, 
 
 A lodging anywhere he gets. 
 
 And takes his wife and child thereto 
 
 Weeping, and other relics few, 
 
 Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf. 
 
 As precious only to himself 
 
 But, soon, kind compensations, all 
 
 Unlook'd for, ease his cruel fall ; 
 
 The sun still shines; the country green 
 
 Has many riches, poorly seen 
 
 From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat 
 
 Goes well with thrift in what they eat ; 
 
 And there's amends for much bereft 
 
 In better thanks for much that's left. 
 
 For Jane, dear Mother, what at first 
 You'll see in her is all the worst.
 
 108 
 
 I'll say, at once, in outward make, 
 
 She is not fail' enough to wake 
 
 The wish for fair. She bears the bell, 
 
 However, where no othei's dwell ; 
 
 And features somewhat plainly set, 
 
 And homely manners leave her yet 
 
 The crowning boon and most express 
 
 Of Heaven's inventive tenderness, 
 
 A woman. But I do her wrong. 
 
 Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue ! 
 
 For, since 'twas for my peace, I've grown 
 
 More learned in my taste, and own 
 
 A sort of handsomeness that pays 
 
 No homage to the hourly gaze. 
 
 And dwells not on the arch'd brow's height 
 
 And lids which softly lodge the light, 
 
 Nor in the pure field of the cheek 
 
 Flowers, though the soul be still to seek ; 
 
 But shows as fits that solemn place 
 
 Whereof the window is the face :
 
 109 
 
 Blankness and leaden outlines mark 
 What time the Church within is dark ; 
 Yet view it on a Sunday night, 
 Or some occasion else for light, 
 And each ungainly line is seen 
 Some special character to mean 
 Of Saint or Prophet, and the whole 
 Blank window is a living scroll. 
 
 Her knowledge and conversing powers, 
 You'll find, are poor. The clock, for hours. 
 Loud clicking on the mantel-shelf, 
 Has all the talking to itself. 
 But to and fro her needle runs 
 Twice, while the clock is ticking once ; 
 And, when a wife is well in reach. 
 Not silence separates, but speech ; 
 And I, contented, read, or smoke 
 And idly think, or idly stroke 
 The winking cat, or watch the fire. 
 In social peace that does not tire ;
 
 no 
 
 Until, at easeful end of day, 
 
 She moves, and puts her work away, 
 
 And, saying " How cold 'tis," or " How warm, 
 
 Or something else as little harm, 
 
 Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, ! 
 
 A woman's welcome to my breast, \ 
 
 With all the great advantage clear 
 
 Of none else having been so near. 
 
 But sometimes, (how shall I deny !) 
 There falls, with her thus sitting by. 
 Dejection, and a chilling shade. 
 Remember'd pleasures, as they fade, 
 Salute me, and, in fading, grow, 
 Like foot-prints in the thawing snow. 
 I feel oppress'd beyond my force 
 With foolish envy and remorse. 
 I love this woman, but I might 
 Have loved some else with more delight ; 
 And strange it seems of God that He 
 Should make a vain capacity.
 
 Ill 
 
 Such times of ignorant relapse, 
 'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. 
 The dream, the discontent, the doubt. 
 To some injustice flaming out, 
 Were't else, might leave us both to moan 
 A kind tradition overthrown, 
 And dawning promise once more dead 
 In the pernicious lowlihead 
 Of not aspiring to be fair. 
 And what am I that I should dare 
 Dispute with God, who moulds one clay 
 To honour and shame, and wills to pay 
 With equal wages them that delve 
 About his vines one hour or twelve !
 
 III. 
 
 Sm to gte. 6nlnm.
 
 JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM. 
 
 "TVEAR Motlier-in-Law, dear Fred, (you've heard 
 
 I've mai'ried him,) sends love, and word 
 He hopes you'll come and see us soon. 
 Dear Fred will be on leave all June, 
 And, for a week, or even more, 
 We shall be very glad I m sure. 
 Dear Fred said / must write. He thought 
 It seem'd so disrespectful not. 
 I'm sure that's the last thing I'd be 
 To dear Fred'n relatives. Both he 
 
 1 2
 
 116 
 
 And I are well, dear Mrs. Graham, 
 And trust sincerely you're tbe same. 
 The house is rather small we've got. 
 But dear Fred says that yours is not 
 So large by half 3 so you'll not mind. 
 
 If you can't leave your Maid behind^ 
 Who, Fred says, always goes with you, 
 I'll manage somehow for her too. 
 
 You've heai'd of Uncle John, no doubt. 
 My choice, when first he found it out, 
 Displeased him, till he saw dear Fred, 
 Who, you'll be glad, he thinks well-bred, 
 And an extremely nice young man. 
 When I told Uncle John our plan 
 About you, of his own accoi'd 
 He said, " Well, Jane, you can't afford 
 " To hire a vehicle, my Dear ; 
 " So, while your Mother-in- Law is here, 
 " I'll send my carriage every day. 
 " The turnpikes wont be much to pay."
 
 117 
 
 That's the kind sort of man, you know ! 
 I feel quite sure you'll like him so. 
 He's well aware your femily, 
 Though you're not rich, is very high, 
 And therefore he will not neglect, 
 Though rich himself, all due respect. 
 
 I've heard of your dear daughter Grace, 
 Who died. I hope to fill her place. 
 You must not think, now Fred has got 
 A closer tie, that you will not 
 Be loved just like you used to be. 
 For my pai't, I am glad to see 
 Affection. When I have but said 
 Your name, I've known him turn quite red. 
 If I bewail our nature's taint, 
 He says he has seen a faultless Saint. 
 Of course that's you. I think there's none 
 More kind and just than your dear Son, 
 Yet, between us, Fred's worldly frame 
 IMust grieve you much, dear Mrs, Graham ;
 
 118 
 
 "Who are, I'm sure, from all I've beard, 
 A vessel chosen of the Lord. 
 But I have hopes of him ; for, oh, 
 How can we ever surely know 
 But that the very darkest place 
 May be the scene of saving grace, 
 Which softens even hearts of stone ! 
 Commending you now to the Throne 
 Of Mercy, I remain in all, 
 Dear Mi^s. Graham, excuse this scrawl, 
 In greatest haste, but still the same 
 Your most affectionate Jane Graham.
 
 IV. 
 
 mrt €mmt k ^nq Qimt^n
 
 LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL. 
 
 T'VE dreadful news, my Sister dear ! 
 Frederick has married, as we hear, 
 Some awful girl. This fact we get 
 From Mr. Bartou, whom we met 
 At Abury once. He used to know, 
 At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe, 
 Who did not keep him up, of course. 
 And yet he writes, (could taste be worse !) 
 And tells John he had " seen Fred Graham, 
 '• Commander of the Wolf, — the same 
 
 I
 
 122 
 
 " Tlie Mess call'd Joseph, — with his Wife 
 " Under his arm." He lays his life, 
 " The fellow married her for love, 
 " For there was nothing else to move. 
 " H. is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said 
 " Her Mother was a Kitchen- Maid," 
 
 Poor Fred ! What imll Honoria say 1 
 She thought so highly of him. Pray 
 Tell it her gently, for I'm sm-e 
 That, in her heart, she liked him more 
 Than all her Cousins. I've no right, 
 I know you hold, to trust my sight ; 
 But Frederick's state could not be hid ! 
 And Felix, coming when lie did, 
 Was lucky ; for Honoi'ia, too, 
 Was almost gone. How warm she grew 
 On " worldliness" when once I said 
 I fancied that in love poor Fred 
 Had tastes much better than his means ! 
 His hand was worthy of a Queen's,
 
 123 
 
 Said she, and actually shed tears 
 The night he left us for two years, 
 And sobVd, when ask'd the cause to tell, 
 That " Frederick look'd so miserable." 
 He did look very dull, no doubt, 
 But such things girls don't cry about. 
 
 What weathercocks men always prove ! 
 You're quite right not to fall in love. 
 / never did, and, truth to tell, 
 I don't think it respectable. 
 The man can't understand it, too ! 
 He likes to be in love with you, 
 But scarce knows how, if you love him, 
 Poor fellow ! When it's woman's whim 
 To serve her husband night and day. 
 The kind soul lets her have her way. 
 So, if you wed, as soon you should, 
 Be selfish for your husband's good ! 
 Happy the men who relegate 
 Their pleasures, vanities, and state
 
 124 
 
 To us. Their nature seems to be 
 
 To enjoy themselves by deputy, 
 
 For, seeking their own benefit, 
 
 Dear, what a mess they make of it ! 
 
 A man will work his bones away, 
 
 If but his wife will only play ; 
 
 He does not mind how much he's teased, 
 
 So that his plague looks always pleased ; 
 
 And never thanks her, while he lives, 
 
 For anything, but what he gives ! 
 
 It's hai'd to manage men, we hear! 
 
 Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear. 
 
 The most important step by far 
 
 Is finding what their colours are. 
 
 The next is, not to let them know 
 
 The reason why they love us so. 
 
 The indolent droop of a blue shawl, 
 
 Or grey silk's fluctuating fall, 
 
 Covers the multitude of sins 
 
 In me; your husband, Love, might wince
 
 125 
 
 At azure, and be wild at slate, 
 And yet do well with chocolate. 
 Of course you'd let him fancy he 
 A dored you for your piety ! 
 
 There, now I've said enough, my Dear, 
 To make you hate me for a year. 
 You need not write to tell me so. 
 Yours fondly, Mildred Clitheroe.
 
 V. 
 
 Mm k itt aioifver.
 
 JANE TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 T^EAE. Mother, Frederick's all, and more, 
 
 A great deal, than you say, I'm sure ; 
 And, as you write, of course I see 
 How glad and thankful I should be 
 For such a husband. Yet, to tell 
 The truth, I am so miserable ! 
 There surely must be some mistake. 
 What could he see in me to take 
 His fancy ! I remember, though, 
 He never said he loved me. No, 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 I'm no more fit for Frederick's wife 
 Than Queen of England. If my life 
 Could serve his very sliglitest whim, 
 I'm sure I'd give it up for him 
 With pleasure; but what sltall I do ! 
 I find that he's so great and true 
 That everything seems false and wrong 
 I've done and thought my whole life long ; 
 And so, though he is often kind, 
 And never really cross, my mind 
 Is all so dull and dead with fear 
 That Yes and No, when he is near, 
 Is much as I can say. He's quite 
 Unlike what most would call polite, 
 And yet, when first I saw him come 
 To tea in Aunt's fine drawdng-room. 
 He made me feel so common. Oh, 
 How dreadful if he thinks me so ! 
 It's no use tiying to behave 
 To him. His eye, so kind and grave,
 
 131 
 
 Sees through and through me ! Could not you, 
 Without his knowing that I knew, 
 Ask him to scold me now and then ? 
 Llother, it's such a weary strain 
 The way he has of treating me 
 As if 'twas something fine to be 
 A woman ; and appearing not 
 To notice any faults I've got, 
 But leaving me to mend, or bear 
 The guilt unblamed. I'm quite aware, 
 Of course, he knows I'm plain, and small, 
 Stupid, and ignorant, and all 
 Awkward and mean. As Frederick these. 
 I see the beauty which he sees 
 Wlieu often he looks strange awhile. 
 And recollects me with a smile. 
 I wish he had that fancied Wife, 
 With me for Maid, now ! all my life 
 To dress her out for him, and make 
 Her beauty lovelier for his sake. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 To have her rate me till I cried ; 
 Then see her seated by his side, 
 And driven off proudly to the Ball ; 
 Then to stay up for her, wliilst all 
 The servants were asleep ; and hear 
 At dawn the carriage rolling near, 
 And let them in ; and hear her laugh, 
 And boast he said that none was half 
 So beautiful, and that the Queen, 
 Who danced with him the first, had seen 
 And noticed her, and ask'd who was 
 That lady in the golden gauze ! 
 And then to go to bed, and lie 
 In a sort of heavenly jealousy, 
 Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd 
 She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. 
 
 Mother, I look and feel so ill ; 
 And soon I shall be uglier still, 
 You know. But I have heard that men 
 Never think women ugly then.
 
 133 
 
 Pray write and tell me if that's true. 
 And pardon me for teazing you 
 About my silly feelings so. 
 
 Please, Mother, never let him know 
 A word of what I write. I'd not 
 Complain, but for the fear I've got 
 Of going wild, as I've heard tell 
 Of some one shut up in a cell, 
 With no one else to talk to. He, 
 Finding that he was loved by me 
 The most, might think himself to blame ; 
 And I should almost die for shame. 
 
 When I get up, — that's now at seven. 
 And 'tis not light, — my heart's like heaven 
 At times ; for I've a foolish whim 
 That Fred loves me as I love him, 
 And, though I'm neither fair nor wise, 
 Love, somehow, makes a woman nice. 
 But daylight makes the glass reflect 
 The fact ; and then I recollect
 
 134 
 
 That often in the uight things seem 
 Which are not, thoiigh we do not dream. 
 
 If being good would serve — but oh, 
 The thought's ridiculous, you know. 
 Why, I myself, I never could 
 See what's in women's being good. 
 They've nothing in the world to do 
 But as it's just their nature to. 
 Now, when the men, you know, do right, 
 They have to try with all their might. 
 They're so much nobler ! As for us. 
 We don't deserve the least the fuss 
 They make about us. 
 
 Mother, mind 
 You must not think that he's unkind. 
 Why, I would rather Frederick 
 Should hate me, beat me with a stick, 
 Than stop at home all day and coo. 
 As Aunt likes Uncle John to do.
 
 135 
 
 I'm never pi'ouder, after all, 
 Than when he stands, so stern and tall, 
 Before the fire. With busy lives, 
 Men can't love like their idle wives ! 
 And, oh, how dull, whilst they were out, 
 Had women nought to cry about !
 
 I
 
 VI. 
 
 ,|r. Cliurtpi Iff Irekricjj.
 
 DR. CHUECHILL TO FEEDEPJCK. 
 
 T\EAR Nephew, we have heard your news 
 
 From strangers ! Be assured we use 
 Not lightly to relax our love 
 "Where once 'tis bound ; and I approve 
 Your reasons, whatsoe'er they be, 
 For silence. Yield no less to me 
 For saying I wish, with all my heart, 
 Your happiness, and on the part 
 Of Mary, who is still at home, 
 Whenever you may choose to come
 
 140 
 
 And bring your Wife, you both will find 
 A welcome cousinly and kind. 
 
 As dn old man, a relative, 
 And churchman, I make free to give 
 My blessing, burthen'd with the truth 
 For want of which the fragile youth 
 Of wedJock suffers shocks and fears, 
 That swell the heart with needless tears, 
 I'll not suppose that rarest chance 
 Has fall'n which makes a month's romance. 
 Few, if 't^vere known, wed whom they would ; 
 And tills, like all God's laws, is good. 
 For nought's so sad the whole world o'er 
 As much love which has once been more. 
 
 Glorious for warmth and light is love ; 
 But worldly thi ogs in the rays thereof 
 Extend their shadows, every one 
 False as the image which the sun 
 At noon or eve dwarfs or protracts. 
 A perilous lamp to light men's acts !
 
 141 
 
 By Heaven's kind, impartial plan, 
 Well wived is he that's truly man, 
 If but the woman's womanly, 
 As sure I am your choice must be. 
 Lust of the eyes and pride of life 
 Perhaps she's not. The better, wife ! 
 If it be thus, if you have known 
 (As who has not?) some heavenly one 
 Whom the dull background of despair 
 Help'd to show forth supremely fair ; 
 If Memory, still remorseful, shapes 
 Young Passion bringing Eschol grapes 
 To travellers iu the Wilderness, 
 This truth will make regret the less : 
 Mighty in love as graces are, 
 God's ordinance is mightier far • 
 And he who is but just and kind 
 And patient, shall for guerdon find, 
 Before long, that the body's bond 
 Is all else utterly beyond
 
 142 
 
 In powor of love to actualise 
 The soul's bond whicli it signifies, 
 And even to deck a wife with grace 
 External in the form and face. 
 A five years' wife and not yet fair 1 
 Blame let the man, not Nature, bear ! 
 For as the sun, warming a bank 
 Where last year's grass droops grey and 
 
 dank, 
 Evokes the violet, bids disclose 
 In yellow crowds the fresh primrose, 
 And foxglove hang her flushing head. 
 So vernal love, where all seems dead, 
 Makes beauty abound. 
 
 Nor was that nought, 
 That ti'ance of joy beyond all thought. 
 The vision, in one, of womanhood ; 
 But for all women holding good ! 
 Should marriage such a prologue want, 
 'Twere sordid and most ignorant
 
 143 
 
 Profanity ; but, having this, 
 
 'Tis honour now, and future bliss. 
 
 Life, as a child, is put to play 
 
 Love's simple gamut day by day. 
 
 If on this humble task he dwells, 
 
 Not flying off to something else, 
 
 But as the Master bids, devotes 
 
 To these few oft-repeated notes, 
 
 His practice, till such comes to be 
 
 His subtle, smooth celerity 
 
 That from his easy hand they are flung 
 
 Like bead-rows by a touch unstrung, 
 
 The Master, after many days, 
 
 Beyond hope speaks, " Now go thy ways ; 
 
 "And, in thy safe and finish'd art, 
 
 " Take, with the cliime of heaven, tliy part."
 
 VII. 
 
 Mmth to lis mim.
 
 I
 
 FREDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ~\/|" OTHER, on my returning home 
 
 Last night, I went to my wife's room, 
 Who, whispering me that our alarms 
 Were over, put into my arms 
 Your Grandson. And I give you joy 
 Of what, I'm told, is a fine boy. 
 Their notion that he's just like me 
 Is neither fact nor flattery ! 
 To you I'll own the little wight 
 Fill'd me, unfatherly, with fright, 
 L 2
 
 148 
 
 So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, 
 
 There came, minute, remote, the ciy, 
 
 Piercing, of original pain. 
 
 I put the wonder back to Jane, 
 
 Who proffer' d, as in kindly course, 
 
 Untried amends for strange divorce. 
 
 It guess'd at once, by great good luck, 
 
 The clever baby, how to suck ! 
 
 Yet Jane's delight seem'd dash'd, that I, 
 
 Of strangers still by nature shy, 
 
 Was not familiar quite so soon 
 
 With her small friend of many a moon. 
 
 But when the new-made Mother smiled, 
 She seem'd herself a little child, 
 Dwelling at large beyond the law 
 By which, till then, I judged and saw, 
 And that fond glow which she felt stii- 
 For it, suffused my hearb for her ; 
 To whom, from the weak babe, and thence 
 To me, an influent innocence.
 
 149 
 
 Happy, reparative of life, 
 
 Came, and slie was indeed my wife, 
 
 As there, lovely with love she lay. 
 
 Brightly contented all the day 
 
 To hug her sleepy little boy 
 
 In the reciprocated joy 
 
 Of touch, the childish sense of love, 
 
 Ever inquisitive to prove 
 
 Its strange possession, and to know 
 
 If the eyes' report be really so. 
 
 She wants his name to be like 
 mine, 
 But I demur, at twenty-nine, 
 To being call'd " Old Frederick." 
 Her father's, Richard, would be " Dick ;" 
 So John has now been fix'd upon, 
 After her childless Uncle John, 
 Who owns the Grimsley Powder -Mill. 
 And, perhaps, may put liiin in liis 
 Will.
 
 150 
 
 'Tis also settled, since the mind, 
 
 As Jane has heard, may be refined, 
 
 In babyhood, by siglits that lull 
 
 The senses with the Beautiful, 
 
 That John must be refined at once. 
 
 No fault of ours if he's a dunce ! 
 
 She covets, in the shower-bath's place, 
 
 A marble image of a Grace, 
 
 Or, if that costs too much, a cast ; 
 
 But we are both agreed, at last, 
 
 'Twill do to pin a certain shawl. 
 
 Too gay to wear, against the wall, 
 
 And let him learn to kick and coo 
 
 At lovely stripes of red and blue. 
 
 And, since Nurse says that, now-a-days, 
 
 Boys learn, at school, such wicked ways, 
 
 Our John's to be brought up at home. 
 
 Nor must he take to sea, but some 
 
 Less perilous and restless life. 
 
 Which will not part him from his wife ;
 
 151 
 
 The Law might give his talents play ! 
 It's cleai' he's clever from the way 
 He looks about, and frowns, and winks, 
 Which shows that he observes and thinks.
 
 I.
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sm t0 ilrs. (gxnhm.
 
 JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM. 
 
 ~r\;^AR Mother, — such, if you'll allow, 
 
 In love, not law, I'll call you now, — 
 I hope you're well. I write to say 
 Frederick has got, besides his pay, 
 A good appointment in the Docks ; 
 Also to thank you for the frocks 
 And shoes for baby. I, D.v., 
 Shall wean him soon. Fred goes to sea 
 No more. I am so glad ; because, 
 Though kinder husband never was.
 
 156 
 
 He seems still kinder to become 
 
 The more he stays with me at home. 
 
 Wheu we've been parted, I see plain 
 
 He's dull till lie gets used again 
 
 To marriage. Do not tell him, though ; 
 
 I would not have him know I know. 
 
 For all the world. 
 
 How good of you 
 Not, as I've heard some mothers do. 
 To hate his wife ! I try to mind 
 All your advice ; but sometimes find 
 I do not well know how. I thought 
 To take it about dress ; so bought 
 A gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl ; 
 But Frederick was not pleased at all ; 
 For, though he smiled, and said, " How 
 
 smart !" 
 I feel, you know, what's in his heart. 
 But I shall learn ! I fancied long 
 That care in dress was very wrong,
 
 157 
 
 Till Frederick, in his startling way, 
 
 When I began to blame, one day. 
 
 The Admiral's Wife, because we hear 
 
 She spends two hours, or something neai*, 
 
 In dressing, took her part, and said 
 
 How all things deck themselves that wed ; 
 
 How birds and plants grow fine to please 
 
 Each other in their marriages ; 
 
 And how (which certainly is true — 
 
 It never struck me — did it you ?) 
 
 Dress "was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, 
 
 And has much Scrij^ture countenance. 
 
 For Eliezer, we are told, 
 
 Adorn'd with jewels and with gold 
 
 Rebecca. In the Psalms, again, 
 
 How the King's Daughter dress'd ! And, then, 
 
 The Good Wife in the Proverbs, she 
 
 Made herself clothes of tapestry, 
 
 Purple, and silk : and there's much more 
 
 I had not thought about before !
 
 158 
 
 It's strange how well Fred understands 
 A Book I don't see in liis hands 
 At all, except at Churcli. 
 
 Do you know, 
 Since Baby came, lie loves me so ! 
 I'm really useful, now, to Fred; 
 And none could do so well instead. 
 It's nice to fancy, if I died. 
 He'd miss me from the Darling's side ! 
 Also, there's something now, you see, 
 On which we talk, and quite agree j 
 On which, without pride too, I can 
 Hope I am wiser than a man. 
 I should be happy now, if quite 
 Convinced that Frederick was right 
 About religion ; but he's odd, 
 A nd veiy seldom speaks of God ; 
 And, though I trust his prayers are 
 
 said, 
 Because he goes so late to bed.
 
 159 
 
 I doubt his calling. Glad to find 
 
 A text adapted to his mind, 
 
 I show'd him Thirty -three and four 
 
 Of Chapter seven, first of Cor., 
 
 Which seems to allow, in Man and Wife, 
 
 A little worldliness of life. 
 
 He smiled, and said that he knew all 
 
 Such things as that without Saint Paul ! 
 
 And once he said, when I with pain 
 
 Had got him just to read Romaine, 
 
 " Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn. 
 
 " Who wait for heaven to come to them 
 
 " Are little like to go to heaven, 
 
 " If logic's not the devil's leaven !" 
 
 I cried at such a wicked joke. 
 
 And he, surprised, went out to smoke. 
 
 But to judge him is not for me, 
 Who sin myself so dreadfully 
 As half to doubt if I should care 
 To go to heaven, and he not there.
 
 160 
 
 He must be right ; and I dare say 
 I soon shall understand his way. 
 To other things, once strange, I've grown 
 Accustom'd, nay, to like. I own 
 'Twas long befoi'e I grew well used 
 To sit, while Frederick read or mused 
 For hours, and scarcely spoke. When he. 
 For all that, held the door to me. 
 Picked up my handkerchief, and rose 
 To set my chair ; with other shows 
 Of honour, such as men, 'tis true, 
 To sweethearts and fine ladies do. 
 It almost seem'd an unkind jest ; 
 But now I like these ways the best. 
 They somehow help to make me good ; 
 And I don't mind his quiet mood. 
 If Frederick does seem dull awhile, 
 There's Baby. You should see him smile ! 
 I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, 
 And he will learn no better yet ;
 
 161 
 
 Aud when he's big and wise, you know, 
 There'll be new babes to think me so. 
 Indeed, now little Johnny makes 
 A busiei' time of it, and takes 
 Our thoughts off one another more, 
 I'm happy as need be, I'm sui-e ! 
 
 M
 
 ■^ooK m. 
 
 P^ACIJEL. 
 
 Jr2
 
 \i
 
 I. 
 
 |;nie to girs. 6ni[)aiir,

 
 JANE TO MRS. rxRAHAM. 
 
 IT^EAR Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, 
 And we're all well. I, in my last, 
 Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, 
 A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, 
 One of Fi-ed's Salisbury Cousins, came. 
 Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name 1 
 'Twas that Honoria, no doubt. 
 Whom Fred would sometimes talk about 
 
 And speak to, when his nights were bad, 
 
 And so I told her that I had.
 
 1G8 
 
 She look'd so beautiful and kind ! 
 And so much like the wife my mind 
 Was fond of jncturiug for Fred, 
 Those wretched years we first were wed;, 
 Before I guess'd, or use could prove 
 The sort of things my husband loved ; 
 And how just living with mc was, 
 In some strange way, the dearest cause 
 For liking, and, instead of charms, 
 Was being accustom'd to my arms ; 
 And even how my getting ill, 
 And nervous, cross, and uglier still, 
 And bringing him all kinds of care, 
 Affected him like growing fair ; 
 And how, by his brave fingers press'd. 
 The blister, that would burn my breast 
 And only make his own to smart. 
 Drew the proud flesh from either's heart; 
 And so, for all indignities 
 Of life in health and in disease,
 
 169 
 
 His friendliness got more and more ! 
 
 Of this great joy to make quite sure, 
 I aslc'd once, (when he could not see,) 
 Why such things made him fond of me 1 
 He kiss'd me and said, the honour due 
 To the weaker vessel surely grew 
 With the vessel's weakness ! 
 
 I'll go on, 
 However, about Mrs. Vaughan. 
 Visiting, yesterday, she said, 
 The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that Fred 
 Was very ill ; she begg'd to be, 
 If possible, of use to me. 
 What could she do 1 Last year, Fred's 
 
 Aunt 
 Died, leaving her, who had not a want, 
 Her fortune. Half was his, she thought ; 
 But Fred, she knew, would ne'er be brought 
 To take his rights at second-hand ! 
 Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd
 
 170 
 
 With me, wliicli even Frederick, 
 
 As favour done to Iter, would like. 
 
 What did I think of putting John 
 
 To school and college 1 Mr. Vaughan, 
 
 When John was old enough, could give 
 
 Preferment to her relative, 
 
 In Government or Church. I said 
 
 I felt quite sure that dearest Fred 
 
 Would be so thankful. Would we come, 
 
 And make ourselves, then, quite at home, 
 
 Next month, at High-Hurst 1 CLange of air 
 
 Both he and I should need, and there 
 
 At leisure we could talk, and fix 
 
 Our j)]ans, as John was nearly six. 
 
 It seemed so rude to think and doubt, 
 So I said. Yes. In going out, 
 She said, " How odd of Frederick, Dear," 
 (I wish'd he had been there to hear,) 
 " To send no cards, or tell me what 
 " A nice new Cousin I had got !" 
 Wasn't that kind 1 
 
 n
 
 171 
 
 V/lien Fred grew strong; 
 I had, I found, done very wrouc. 
 For the first time, his voice and eye 
 Weve angry. But, witli folks so high 
 As Fred and Mrs, Vaughan and you, 
 It's hard to guess what's right to do ! 
 And he wont teach me. 
 
 Dear Fred wrote, 
 Directly, such a lovely note. 
 Which, though it undid all I'd done, 
 Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, 
 So kind ! His words, I can't say why, 
 Like soldiers' music, made me cry. 
 Do, Mother, ask dear Fred to go 
 Without me ! I can't leave, you know. 
 The babes. Besides, 'twere folly stark 
 For me to go to High-Hurst Park. 
 I'm not so awkward as I was ; 
 But, all confused, and just because 
 By chance he call'd me " Love" to-day, 
 I made such haste out of his way 
 
 I
 
 172 
 
 I overset my chair ; whereat 
 Fred hiiigh'd, and on the spitting cat 
 The fire-screen tumbled ; so I tried 
 These risks no more, and stood and cried, 
 And hid for shame my burning face, 
 To hear he liked " that kind of grace." 
 Fancy if such a thing was done 
 Where ladies move like Mrs. Vaughan ! 
 But dearest Fred shovid, once a year, 
 Just get a sight of his own sphere. 
 
 I
 
 II. 
 
 ¥m Oif|fm to Pn €hmm.
 
 LADY CLITHEEOB TO MAEY CHUECHILL. 
 
 XAEAPv Saint, I'm still at Higli-Hurst Park. 
 
 The liouse is fill'd with folks of mark. 
 Honoria suits a good estate 
 Much better than I hoped. How fate 
 Pets her with happiness aud pride ! 
 And such a loving lord, beside ! 
 But, between us. Sweet, everything 
 Has limits, and to build a Aving 
 To this old house, when Courtholm stands 
 Empty upon his Berkshire lands.
 
 176 
 
 And all that Honor might be near 
 
 Papa, was buying love too dear. 
 
 And yet, to see mild Mrs. Yaughan 
 
 Shining on all she looks upon, 
 
 You'd think that none could stand more 
 
 high 
 Than others in her charity ; 
 And to behold her courtly lord 
 Converse with her across the board, 
 'Twould seem that part of perfect life 
 "Was not to covet one's own wife. 
 The hypocrites ! 
 
 Love, there are two 
 Guests here, whose names will startle you, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham ! 
 I thought he stay'd away for shame. 
 He and his wife were ask'd, you know, 
 And would not come, four years ago. 
 You recollect Miss Smjrthe found out 
 Who she had been, and all about
 
 177 
 
 The Cliaplain and tlie Powder-Mil], 
 And how the fine Aunt tried to instil 
 Uaut ton, and how, at last, poor Jane 
 Had got so shy and gauche that, when 
 The Dockyard gentry came to sup, 
 She always had to be lock'd up; 
 And some one wrote to John and said 
 Her mother was a Kitchen-Maid. 
 Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know 
 It must be all a fib. But, oh. 
 She is the oddest little Pet 
 On which my eyes were ever set ! 
 She's so outree and natiiral 
 That, when she first arrived, we all 
 Wonder' d, as when a robin comes 
 In thi'ough the window to eat crumbs 
 At breakfast with us. She has sense, 
 Humility, and confidence ; 
 And, save in dressing just a thought 
 Gayer in colours than she ought, 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 (To-day she looks a cross between 
 Gi])sy and Fairy, red and green,) 
 All that she does is somehow well. 
 And yet one never quite can tell 
 What she miglit do or utter next. 
 Lord Clitheroe is mucli perplex'd ; 
 Her husband, every now and then, 
 Looks nervous ; all the other men 
 Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, 
 Nor one good feature in her face. 
 Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head. 
 Like very altar-fires to Fred, 
 Whose step she follows every wliere, 
 Like a tame duck, to the despair 
 Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part 
 To break her funny little heart. 
 Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view 
 That people, if they're good and true, 
 And treated well, and let alone. 
 Will kindly take to what's their own.
 
 179 
 
 And always be original, 
 
 Like children. (Honor's just like all 
 
 The rest of ns ! But, thinking so, 
 
 It's well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe, 
 
 Who hates originality, 
 
 Though he puts up with it in me !) 
 
 Poor ]\Irs. Graham has never been 
 To the Opera ! You should have seen 
 The innocent way she told the Earl 
 She thought Plays sinful when a girl, 
 And now she never had a chance ! 
 Frederick's complacent smile and glance 
 Towards lier, show'd me, past a doubt, 
 Honoria had been quite cut out. 
 It's very odd ; for Mrs. Graham, 
 Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, 
 Seems the last woman you'd liave thouglit 
 Her lover would have ever sought ! 
 She never reads, I find, nor goes 
 Anywhere ; so that I suppose 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 She came at all she ever knew 
 By lapping milk, as kittens do. 
 
 Talking of kittens, by the bye. 
 You've much more influence than I 
 With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, 
 To be a little more severe 
 With those sweet children. They've the run 
 Of all the house. When school was done, 
 Maude burst in, while the Earl was there, 
 With " Oh, Mamma, do be a bear !" 
 They come on with the fruit, and climb 
 In people's laps, and all the time 
 Eat, and we ladies have to rise, 
 Lest Frank should die of strawberries. 
 
 And there's another thing, my Love, 
 I wish you'd show you don't approve, 
 (But perhaps you do !) Tliough all confess 
 Her tact is absolute in dress. 
 She does not get her things so good 
 As, with her fortune now, she should.
 
 181 
 
 I feel quite certain, between us, 
 
 She cheats her husband, (she did thus 
 
 With dear Papa,) and has no end 
 
 Of pin-money, full half to spend 
 
 On folks who think themselves in this 
 
 Paid takers of her tolls to Bliss. 
 
 She has her faults, but I must say 
 She's handsomer, in her quiet way, 
 Than ever ! This odd wife of Fred 
 Adores his old Love in his stead.
 
 III. 
 
 \m ta ps. iraljam.
 
 JANE TO MES. GRAHAM. 
 
 "li/r OTHER, at last, we are really come 
 
 To High-Hurst. Johnny stays at home. 
 We settled that it must be so, 
 For he has been to Aunt's, at Stowe, 
 And leam'd to leave his h's out ; 
 And people like the Vaughans, no doubt, 
 Would think this dreadful. I, at first, 
 Half fear'd this visit to the Hurst. 
 Fred must, I knew, be so distress'd 
 By aught in me unlike the rest
 
 18G 
 
 Who come here. But I find the place 
 
 Delightful ; there's such ease and grace 
 
 And kindness, and all seem to be 
 
 On such a high equality. 
 
 They have not got to think, you know, 
 
 How far to make the money go. 
 
 But Frederick says it's less the expense 
 
 Of money, than of sound good sense, 
 
 Quickness to care what others feel, 
 
 And thoughts with nothing to conceal ; 
 
 Which I'll teach Johnny. Mi-s. Yaughan 
 
 Was waiting for us on the Lawn, 
 
 And kiss'd and call'd me " Cousin." Fred 
 
 Neglected his old friends, she said. 
 
 He laugh'd, and i*edden'd up at this. 
 
 She was, I think, a flame of his ; 
 
 But I'm not jealous ! Luncheon done, 
 
 I left him, who had just begun 
 
 To talk about the chance of war, 
 
 With an old Lady, Lady Carr, —
 
 187 
 
 A Countess, but I'm more afraid, 
 A great deal, of the Lady's maid, — 
 And went with Mrs. Yaughau to see 
 The pictures, which appear'd to be 
 Of sorts of horses, boors, and cows 
 Call'd Wouvermans, and Cuyps, and Dows. 
 And, then, she took me up, to show 
 Her bedroom, where, long years ago, 
 A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestries 
 Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses ; 
 And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door 
 Leads, thence, into her bright boudoir. 
 Where even her husband may but come 
 By favour. He, too, has his room, 
 Kept sacred to his solitude. 
 Did I not think the plan was good 1 
 She ask'd me ; but I said how small 
 Our house was, and that, after all, 
 Though Fred would never say his prayers 
 At night, till I was safe upstairs.
 
 ISS 
 
 I thought it wrong to be so shy 
 
 Of beiug good when I was by. 
 
 " Oh, you should humour him !" she said, 
 
 With her sweet voice and smile ; and led 
 
 The way to where the children ate 
 
 Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate. 
 
 She's only Nursery-Governess, 
 
 Yet they consider her no less 
 
 Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me. 
 
 Just think how happy she must be ! 
 
 The Ball-Iloom, with its painted sky. 
 
 Where heavy angels seem to fly, 
 
 Is a dull place ; its size and gloom 
 
 Make them prefer, for drawing-room. 
 
 The Library, all done up new 
 
 And comfortable, with a view 
 
 Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs. 
 
 When she had shown me through the house, 
 (I wish I could have let her know 
 That she herself was half the show,
 
 189 
 
 She is so handsome and so kind,) 
 
 She had the children down, who had dined, 
 
 And, taking one in either hand, 
 
 Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd. 
 
 The lovely garden gently slopes 
 
 To where a curious bridge of ropes 
 
 Crosses the Avon to the Park. 
 
 We rested by the stream, to mark 
 
 The brown backs of the hovering trout. 
 
 Frank tickled one, and took it out 
 
 From under a stone. We saw liis owls, 
 
 And awkward Cochin China fowls, 
 
 And shaggy pony in the cvoft ; 
 
 And then he dragg'd us to a loft, 
 
 Where pigeons, as he push'd the door, 
 
 Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor. 
 
 And set us coughing. I confess 
 
 I trembled for my nice silk dress. 
 
 I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan 
 
 Ventured with that which she had on, —
 
 190 
 
 A mere white wrapper, with a few 
 
 Plain trimmings of a tranquil blue, 
 
 But, oh, so pretty ! Then the bell 
 
 For dinner rang. I look'd quite well, 
 
 (" Quite charming" were the words Fred said,) 
 
 In the new gown that I've had made 
 
 At Salisbury. In the drawing-room 
 
 Was Mr. Vai;ghan, just then come home. 
 
 I thought him rather cold, but find 
 
 That he's at heart extremely kind. 
 
 He's Captain of the Yeomanry, 
 
 And Magistrate, and has to see 
 
 About the paupers and the roads ; 
 
 And Fred says he has written odes 
 
 On Mrs. Vaughan, to send her praise, 
 
 Like Laura's, down to distant days. 
 
 So she deserves ! Wliat cause there is, 
 
 I know not, though, for saying this, 
 
 But that she looks so kind and young. 
 
 And every word's a little song.
 
 191 
 
 I am so proud of Frederick, 
 He's so high-bred and lordly-like 
 With Mrs. Yanglian ! He's not quite so 
 At Lome with me ; but that, you know, 
 I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt, 
 And seem to mock at my desert. 
 Not but that I'm a duteous wife 
 To Fred ; but in another life, 
 Where all are fair that have been true, 
 I hope I shall be graceful too. 
 Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, Good-bye. 
 That happy thought has made me cry.
 
 IV. 
 
 Immh D;!ii(jl);in to gr. €\nmUlL
 
 EONOEIA VAUGHAN TO DR CHURCHILL. 
 
 T\EAREST Papa, at last we are come, 
 
 The tiresome season over, home ! 
 How honourable it seems to me ! 
 I am sick of town society. 
 The Opera, and the flatteries 
 Of cynic, disrespectful eyes! 
 
 Frederick is here. Tell Mrs. Fife; 
 Who adored him. He has brought his wife. 
 She is so nice ; but Felix goes 
 Next Sunday with her to the Close, 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 And you will judge her. She the first 
 Has made me jealous, though the Hurst 
 Is lit so oft with loveliness, 
 And, when in town, where I was less 
 Constrain'd in choice, I always ask'd 
 The prettiest. Felix really bask'd 
 Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room 
 Was all aflame with female bloom ; 
 And, since I praised and did not pout. 
 His little, lawless loves went out 
 With the last brocade. 'Tis not the same, 
 I find, with Mrs. Frederick Graham ! 
 I must not have her stopping here 
 More than a fortnight once a year. 
 My husband says he never saw 
 Such proof of what he holds for law 
 That beauty is love which can be seen. 
 Whatever he by this may mean, 
 Were it not fearful if he fell 
 In love with her on pi'inciple!
 
 197 
 
 Felix has spoken only twice: 
 Once on Savoy, and once on this 
 Shameful Reform Bill; and on each 
 He made a most successful speech ; 
 And both times I, of course, was there 
 And heard him cheer'd. But, (how unfair !) 
 Whenever, wishing to explain 
 His meaning, he got up again, 
 They call'd out "Order" and "Oh, oh!" 
 He abused the Newspapers, and so 
 The "Times" left out the cries of " Hear." 
 The very Oppositioa cheer 
 Dear Felix j and at what he said 
 The Arch-Kadical turn'd white and red. 
 I saw him with my opera-glass. 
 Yet they allow'd the law to pass 
 The second reading. Should this cheat 
 Succeed next spring, we lose our seat ! 
 Nor shall I grieve. The wisest say 
 There's near at hand an evil day ;
 
 J8 
 
 And, though, if Felix chose to stir, 
 
 I am sure ho might be Minister, 
 
 I tell him, they serve England most 
 
 Who keep, at whatsoever cost. 
 
 Their honour; and, when best and first 
 
 Have flung their strength to last and worsts 
 
 And ruling means, from hour to hour 
 
 Cajoling those who have the power, 
 
 A gentleman should stay at home, 
 
 And let his rulers sometimes come 
 
 And blush at his high privacy. 
 
 Felix, T know, agrees with me. 
 
 Although he calls me, "Fierce white cat!" 
 
 And says, 'tis not yet come to that. 
 
 Yesterday, he and I fell out ; 
 Can you believe it 1 'Twas about 
 The cost at which he says I dress'd 
 Last season. I came off the best ; 
 And you, Papa, by both stand task'd 
 Instead, as you shall learn : I ask'd,
 
 199 
 
 Would he, at one house, think it nice 
 To see me in the same dress twice 1 
 Of course he kiss'd me, and said, " J^o !" 
 And then I proved, he made me go 
 To Lady Lidderdale's three fetes 
 And both her dances ! Magistrates 
 Ought to know better than to try 
 A charge dismiss'd ; and he and I 
 Had talk'd this over once before ! 
 Forgiv'n, he vow'd to offend no more. 
 But, oh, he actually says 
 Tou caution'd him against my ways. 
 We both are shock'd Papa could be 
 So cruel and unfatherly ! .
 
 V. 
 
 ^ukntli to Ms llolkr.
 
 i\
 
 FREDERICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 /^OULD any, wliilst there's any woe, 
 
 Be wholly blest, the Yanghans were so ! 
 Each is, and is aware of it, 
 The other's endless benefit ; 
 But, though their daily ways reveal 
 The depth of private joy they feel, 
 'Tis not their bearing each to each 
 That does abroad their secret preach, 
 But such a lovely good-intent 
 To all within their government
 
 204 
 
 And friendship, as, 'tis well discern'd. 
 Each of the other must have learn'd ; 
 For no mere faith of neighbourhood 
 Ever begot so fair a mood. 
 
 Honoria, made more dove-like mild 
 With added loves of lord and child, 
 Is else unalter'd. Years, that wrong 
 The rest, touch not her beauty, young 
 With youth that seems her natal clime, 
 And no way relative to time. 
 All in her presence generous grow, 
 As in the sunshine flowers blow ; 
 As colours, each superb to sight, 
 When all combined are only light, 
 Her many noble virtues miss 
 Proud virtue's blazon, and are bliss ; 
 The standards of the depth are furl'd ; 
 The powers and pleasures of the world 
 Pay tribute ; and her days are all 
 So high, pure, sweet, and practical,
 
 205 
 
 She almost seems to have, at home, 
 What's promised of the life to come. 
 
 And fair, in fact, should be the few- 
 God dowers with nothing else to do ; 
 And liberal of their light, and free 
 To show themselves, that all may see ! 
 For alms let poor men poorly give 
 The meat whereby men's bodies live ; 
 But they of wealth are stewards wise 
 Whose graces are their charities. 
 
 The sunny charm about this home 
 Makes all to shine who thither come. 
 My own dear Jane has caught its 
 
 grace, 
 And does an honour to the place. 
 Across the lawn I lately walk'd 
 
 Alone, and watch'd where moved and 
 
 talk'd, 
 Gentle and goddess-like of air, 
 Honoria and some stranger fair.
 
 206 
 
 I cliose a patli away from tbese ; 
 When one of the two Goddesses, 
 With my wife's voice, but softer, said, 
 ■^ Will you not walk with us, dear Fred ?" 
 
 She moves, indeed, the modest peer 
 Of all the proudest ladies here. 
 'Tis wonderful she should not be 
 Put out by such fine company. 
 We daily dine with men who stand 
 Among the leaders of the land, 
 And women beautiful and wise, 
 With England's greatness in their eyes. 
 To high, traditional good-sense. 
 And knowledge wide without pretence, 
 And human truth exactly hit 
 By quiet and conclusive wit, 
 Listens my little, homely dove, 
 Mistakes the points, and laughs for love. 
 You should have seen the vain delight. 
 After we went upstairs last night.
 
 20; 
 
 Witli which she stood and comb'd her hair, 
 And call'd me much the wittiest there ! 
 
 "With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, 
 She lays herself about my life ! 
 The joy I might have had of yore 
 I have not ; for 'tis now no more, 
 With me, the lyric time of youth, 
 And glad sensation of the truth ; 
 Yet, beyond hope or purpose blest, 
 In my rash choice, let be confess'd 
 The tenderer Providence that rules 
 The fates of childi'en and of fools ! 
 
 I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, 
 And from her side, this morning stepp'd, 
 To bathe my brain from drowsy night 
 In the sharp air and golden light. 
 The dew, like frost, was on the pane. 
 The year begins, though fair, to wane. 
 There is a fragrance in its breath 
 Which is not of the flowers, but death,
 
 208 
 
 And green above the ground appear 
 The lilies of another year. 
 I wandered forth, and took my path 
 Among the bloomless aftei'math ; 
 And heard the steadfast robin sing, 
 As if liis own warm heart were spring, 
 And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, 
 Hung sugar'd drops of crimson dew ; 
 And then return'd, by walls of peach 
 And pear-trees bending to my reach, 
 And rose-beds with the roses gone, 
 To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan 
 Was there, none with her. I confess 
 I love her rather more than less ! 
 But she alone was loved of old ; 
 Now love is twain, nay, manifold; 
 For, somehow, he whose daily life, 
 Adjusts itself to one true wife, 
 Grows to a nuptial, near degree 
 With all that's fair and womanly.
 
 209 
 
 Therefore, as more than frleuds, we met 
 Without constraint, without regret ; 
 The wedded yoke that each had doun'd 
 Seeming a sanction, not a bond.
 
 VI. 
 
 sin. 6nil)anr to fiiMtli, 
 
 p 2
 
 MRS. GRAHAM TO FREDERICK. 
 
 A MAN'S taskmastei-s ai'e enough ! 
 
 Add not yourself to the host thereof. 
 This did you ever from the first, 
 As now, in venturing to the Hurst. 
 You won, my child, from weak surprise, 
 A vigour to be doubly wise 
 ]n wedlock : with success, then, cease. 
 Nor I'isk the triumph and the peace. 
 'Tis not pure faith that hazards even 
 The adultei'ous hope of change in heaven.
 
 214 
 
 Your love lacks joy, your letter says. 
 Yes ; love requires tlie focal space 
 Of recollection, or of hope, 
 E'er it can measure its own scope. 
 Too soon, too soon, comes Death to show 
 We love more deeply than we know 1 
 The rain, that fell upon the height 
 Too gently to be call'd delight, 
 Within the dark vale reappears, 
 As a wild cataract of tears ; 
 And love in life should strive to see 
 Sometimes what love in death would be ! 
 (Easier to love, we so should find. 
 It is, than to be just and kind !) 
 
 She's cold. Put to the cofiin-lid. 
 What distance for another did, 
 That death has done for her ! The good, 
 Once gazed upon with heedless mood, 
 Now fills with tears the famish'd eye, 
 And turns all else to vanity.
 
 215 
 
 'Tis sad to sec, with death between, 
 
 The good we have pass'd, and have not seen ! 
 
 How sti-ong appear the words of all ! 
 
 The looks of those that live appal. 
 
 They are the ghosts, and check the breath ; 
 
 There's no reality but death, 
 
 And hunger for some signal given 
 
 That we shall have our own in lieaven! 
 
 But this the God of love lets be 
 
 A horiible uncertainty. 
 
 How great her smallest virtue seems, 
 How small her greatest fault ! Ill dreams 
 Were those that foil'd with loftier grace 
 The homely kindness of her face. 
 'Twas here she sat and work'd, and there 
 She comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair; 
 Or, with one baby at her breast. 
 Another taught, or hush'd to rest. 
 Praise does the heart no more refuse 
 To the divinity of use.
 
 216 
 
 Her humblest good is hence most high 
 
 In the heavens of fond memoiy ; 
 
 And love says Amen to the word, 
 
 A prudent wife is from the Lord. 
 
 Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best, 
 
 As that in which she oftenest dress'd,) 
 
 For memory's sake more precioiis grown 
 
 Than she herself was for her own. 
 
 Poor wife ! foolish it seem'd to fly 
 
 To sobs instead of dignity, 
 
 When she was hurt. Now, more than all. 
 
 Heart-rending and angelical 
 
 That ignorance of what to do, 
 
 Bewilder'd still by wrong from you. 
 
 (For what man ever yet had grace 
 
 Ne'er to abuse his power and place 1) 
 
 No magic of her voice oi' smile 
 Raised in a trice a fairy isle, 
 Biit fondness for her underwent 
 An xmregarded increment, 
 
 I
 
 217 
 
 Like that wliicli lifts, tliroiigli centuries, 
 The coral reef within the seas, 
 Till, lo ! the land where was the wave. 
 Alas ! 'tis everywhere her grave.
 
 VII. 
 
 iuMtli to I)is !l]olI)cr.

 
 FEEDEPiICK TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 A T Jane's desire, lest High-Hurst Park 
 Should make our cottage cold and dark, 
 After thi'ee weeks we came away, 
 To spend at home our Wedding-Day. 
 Twelve wedding-days gone by, and none 
 Yet kept, to keep them all in one. 
 She and myself, (with John and Grace 
 On donkeys,) visited the place 
 I first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood. 
 Bearing the basket, stufF'd with food.
 
 222 
 
 Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, 
 I halted where the wauderinf? fflade 
 Divides the thicket. There I knew. 
 It seem'd, the very drops of dew- 
 Below the xinalter'd eglantine. 
 Nothing had changed since I was nine! 
 
 In the green desert, down to eat 
 We sat, our rustic grace at meat 
 Good appetite, through that long climb 
 Hungry two hours before the time. 
 And there Jane took her stitching out, 
 And John for birds' nests look'd about, 
 And Gx'ace and Baby, in between 
 The wai'm blades of the breathing ci'een, 
 Dodged grasshoppers; and I no less, 
 In conscientious idleness, 
 Enjoy 'd myself, under the noon 
 Stretch'd, and the sounds and sights of June 
 Receiving, with a drowsy charm, 
 Through muffled ear and folded arm.
 
 223 
 
 And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, 
 I half remember'd liow it seem'd 
 When I, too, was a little child 
 About the wild wood roving wild. 
 Pure breezes from the far-off height 
 JSIelted the blindness from my sight. 
 Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, 
 I saw again as then I saw. 
 As theivl saw I saw again 
 The harvest waggon in the lane. 
 With high-hung tokens of its pride 
 Left in the elms on either side; 
 The daisies coming out at dawn 
 In constellations on the lawn ; 
 The glory of the daffodil ; 
 The three black windmills on the hill. 
 Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, 
 Sent magic shadows past the rye. 
 Within the leafy coppice, lo. 
 Move wealth than miser's dreams could show.
 
 224 
 
 The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, 
 Five golden beaks agape for food ; 
 Tlie Gipsies, all tlie svimmer seen 
 Native as poppies to the Green ; 
 The winter, with its frosts and thaws 
 And opulence of hips and haws ; 
 The lovely marvel of the snow ; 
 The Tarnar, with its altering show 
 Of gay ships sailing np and down, 
 Among the fields and by the Town. 
 And, dearer ftirthau anything, 
 Came back the songs you used to sing. 
 (Ah, might you sing such songs again, 
 And I, your child, but hear as then, 
 With conscious profit of the gulf 
 Flown over from my present self!) 
 And, as to men's retreating eyes, 
 Beyond high mountains higher rise. 
 Still farther back there shone to me, 
 The dazzling dusk of infancy.
 
 .225 
 
 Thitlaer I look'd, as, sick of night, 
 The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, 
 And does not see the day, 'tis true. 
 But sees the rosy tops that do. 
 
 Meantime Jane stitch'd, and fann'd the flies 
 From my repose, with hush'd replies 
 To Grace, and smiles when Baby fell. 
 Her countenance love visible 
 Appear'd, love audible her voice. 
 Why in the past alone rejoice, 
 Whilst here was wealth before me cast 
 Which, as you say, if 'twere but past 
 Were then most precious ! Question vain 
 When ask'd again and yet again, 
 Year after year; yet now, for no 
 Cause, but that heaven's bright winds will blow 
 Not at our beck, but as they list. 
 It brought that distant, golden mist 
 To grace the hour, firing the deep 
 Of spirit and the drowsy keep 
 Q
 
 226 
 
 Of joy, till, spreading uncontain'd 
 
 The holy power of seeing gain'd 
 
 The outward eye, this owning even 
 
 That where there's love and truth there's heaven. 
 
 Debtor to few, far-separate hours 
 Like this, that truths for me are powers, 
 (Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yet 
 Not to forget that I forget !) 
 I know their worth, and this, the chief, 
 I count not vain because 'twas brief. 
 
 And now a cloud, bright, huge, and calm, 
 Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm ; 
 O'ertoppling crags, portentous towers 
 Appear'd at beck of viewless powers 
 Along a rifted mountain range. '^^ 
 
 Untraceable and swift iu change, 
 Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread 
 To solemn bulks, seen overhead ; 
 The sunshine quench' d, from one dark foi'm 
 Fuemd the appalling light of storm.
 
 227 
 
 Straight to the zenith, black with bale, 
 The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale ; 
 And one wide night of hopeless hue 
 Hid from the heart the recent blue. 
 And soon, with thunder crackling loiid, 
 A flash within the formless cloud 
 Show'd vague recess, projection dim, 
 Lone sailing rack, and shadowy rim. 
 
 We stood, safe group d beneath a shed. 
 Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, 
 Who told her, fondling with her hair, 
 " The naughty thunder, God took care 
 " Tt should not hurt good little girls." 
 At this Grace re-arranged her curls ; 
 But John, disputing, seem'd to me 
 Too much for Jane's theology, 
 Who bade him watch the tempest. Now 
 A blast made all the woodland bow ; 
 Against the whirl of leaves and dust 
 Kine dropp d their heads ; the tortured gust 
 Q 2
 
 228 
 
 Jagg'cl and convulsed tlie ascending smoke 
 To uiockeiy of tlie lightning's stroke. 
 The blood prick'd, and a blinding flash 
 And close, co-instantaneous crash 
 Humbled the soul, and the rain all round 
 Resilient dimui'd the whistling groimd, 
 Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, 
 Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past. 
 Leaving a trouble in the copse 
 Of brawling birds and tinkling drops. 
 
 Change beyond hope ! Far thunder faint 
 Mutter'd its vast and vain complaint, 
 And gaps and fractiu-es fringed with light 
 Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons bright 
 Of cloudlets glittering calm and fair 
 Through gulfs of calm and glittering air. 
 
 With this adventure, we retumM. 
 The roads the feet no longer burn'd. 
 A wholesome smell of rainy earth 
 Refresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth. 
 
 li^ 
 
 '■S
 
 229 
 
 The donkey-boy drew friendly near 
 
 My wife, and, toucli'd by the kind cheer 
 
 Her countenance sliow'd, or sooth'd perchance 
 
 By the soft evening's sad advance. 
 
 As we were, stroked tlie flanks and head 
 
 Of the ass, and, somewbat thick-voiced, said, 
 
 " To 'ave to wop the donkeys so 
 
 " 'Ai'dens the 'art, but they wont go 
 
 " Without !" My wife, by this impress' d. 
 
 As men judge poets by their best, 
 
 When now we reach'd the welcome door, 
 
 Gave him his hire, and sixpence more.
 
 YIII. 
 
 lane ta Ito. §xu\m.
 
 JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM. 
 
 T^E AR Mother, I just wi-ite to say 
 
 We've pass'd a most delightful day, 
 As, no doubt, you have heard from Fred. 
 (Once, you may recollect, you said. 
 True friendship neither doubts nor doats. 
 And does not read each other's notes ; 
 And so we never do !) I'll miss. 
 For Fred's impatient, all but this : 
 We spent, — the children, he, and I, — 
 Our wedding anniversary
 
 234 
 
 In the woods, where, while I tried to keep 
 
 The flies off, so that he might sleep. 
 
 He actually kiss'd my foot, — 
 
 At least, the beautiful French boot, 
 
 Your gift, — and, laughing with no cause 
 
 But pleasure, said I really was 
 
 The very nicest little wife ; 
 
 And that he prized me more than life. 
 
 When Fred once says a thing, you know, 
 
 You feel so sure it must be so, 
 
 It's almost dreadful ! Then on love, 
 
 And marriage, and the world above. 
 
 We talk'd ; for, though we seldom name 
 
 Religion, both now think the same. 
 
 Oh, Mother, what a bar's removed 
 
 To loving and to being loved ! 
 
 For no agi-eement really is 
 
 In anything when none's in this. 
 
 Why, once, if dear, dear Frederick press'd 
 
 His wife against his hearty breast,
 
 235 
 
 The interior difference seem'd to tear 
 My own, until I could not bear 
 The trouble. Oh, that dreadful strife. 
 It show'd indeed that faith is life. 
 Fred never felt this. If he did, 
 I'm sure it could not have been hid ; 
 For wives, I need not say to you, 
 Can feel just what their husbands do, 
 Without a word or look. But then 
 It is not so, you know, with men. 
 
 And now I'll tell you how he talk'd. 
 While in the Wood we sat or walk'd. 
 He told me that '• The Sadducees 
 " Inquired not of true marriages 
 " When they provoked that dark reply, 
 " Which now costs love so many a sigh, 
 " In vain would Christ have taught such clods 
 " That Cassar's things are also God's !" 
 I can't quite think that happy thought, 
 It seems so novel, does it not 1
 
 236 
 
 Fred only means to say, you know, 
 It may, for aught we are told, be so. 
 He thinks that joy is never higher 
 Than when love worships its desire 
 Far ofl'. His words were : " After all, 
 " Hope's mere reversal may befall 
 " The partners of His glories who 
 " Daily is crucified anew : 
 " Splendid privations, martyrdoms > 
 " To which no weak remission comes, 
 " Perpetual passion for the good 
 " Of them that feel no gratitude, 
 " Far circlings, as of planets' fires, 
 " Round never to be reacli'd desires, 
 " Whatever rapturously sighs 
 " That life is love, love sacrifice." 
 And then, as if he spoke aloud 
 To some one looking from a cloud, 
 "All 1 am sure of heaven is this, 
 " Howe'er the mode, I shall not miss
 
 237 
 
 '•' One true deli»'ht wliicli I have known. 
 
 " Not on tlie changeful earth alone 
 
 " Shall loyalty remain unmoved 
 
 " T'wards everything I ever loved. 
 
 " So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voice 
 
 " To Jacob in the field, ' Rejoice ! 
 
 " ' Serve on some seven more sordid years, 
 
 " ' Too short for weariness or tears ; 
 
 " ' Serve on ; then, oh Beloved, well-tried, 
 
 " ' Take me for ever for thy bride !' " 
 
 You see, though Frederick sometimes shocks 
 One's old ideas, he's orthodox. 
 Was it not kind to talk to me 
 So really confidentially 1 
 
 Soon silent, as before, he lay. 
 But I felt giddy all the day. 
 And now my head aches ; so farewell ! 
 
 Postscript. — I've one thing more to tell : 
 Fred's teaching Johnny algebra ! 
 The rogue already treats mannna
 
 238 
 
 As if lie tliouglit her, in his mind, 
 Rathei' silly, but veiy kind. 
 Is not that nice 1 It's so like Fred ! 
 Good-bye ! for I'm to go to bed, 
 Because I'm tired, or ought to be. 
 That's Frederick's way of late. You see 
 He really loves me after all. 
 He's growing quite tyrannical ! 
 
 THE END.
 
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