The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
PART I. | 1 |
MY SONG. | 10 |
PART II. | 12 |
SONG. | 16 |
PART III. | 20 |
PART IV. | 27 |
Love caught his heart in a lovely surprise,
Just the first moment he looked in my
eyes:
Poor little eyes! by no prescience lit,
They saw him three weeks ere I lov’d
him one bit.
Fair is the book[1] where we read of a
life
Born to a throne, taking love for its
bliss,
Self-reproach wounding the sweet royal
wife
For keeping two years he had asked for
as his.
[Footnote 1: See ‘Life of Prince Consort,’ vol. i.]
So I might suffer a sort of remorse,
Thinking of days that I cared not, yet
knew;
Only, he says, ’’Tis a matter
of course
Girls should be woo’d and their
lovers should woo.’
Only, the blossom he stoops not to touch.
Sparkling with beauty that lies at his
feet;
Only, the blossom he coveteth much,
Is one that shineth as distant as sweet.
Only, a bird may fly helplessly near,
Chirping aloud in a manner too free;
Only, the bird he delighteth to hear,
Sings from the far-away top of a tree.
Is it for this he first fancied me, then?
He to whom earth her allegiance brings,
Noblest of nobles, a king among men,
Hero of heroes! a god among kings!
’Twill be very nice to be very old,
And with wrinkled brows and eyes that
are dim,
To sit by the fire and in dreams behold
The face of the child that was woo’d
by him.
Eve in her Eden, belov’d and preferr’d,
Sun, moon, and stars for her benefit made,
Bright as a blossom and gay as a bird,
Earth at her feet like a pleasure-ground
laid;
All things about her benignant and fair—
Was she of Adam an actual part?
Love shining over her everywhere—
Had he no trouble in winning her heart?
Born with a mind even Kant must admit
Had no antecedents for doubt or regret,
Only white paper where nothing is writ,
Was she his wife the first moment they
met?
Did she no gradual wooing receive?
Was she never a girl?—I am
sorry for Eve!
Or if like others her history sped,
In those lovely regions to mortals unknown;
Flirting and courting and woo’d
ere she wed,
Was the bird of her paradise Eve’s
chaperone?
I wonder if Adam my fancy would strike
As something like Harry!—What
is Harry like?
Handsome and tall, with command in his
eye,
The sweetest of smiles giving sternness
the lie;
His soldierly bearing keeps foemen at
bay;
His hair is clipped close in the orthodox
way;
His nose has a curve from the bridge to
the tip:
A statue might envy his short upper lip.
He dances divinely, and walks with an
air
Half autocratic and half debonair,
With something about him no words can
define:
Eve, was your hero as handsome as mine?
And oh! the years that pass’d over
my head
When I was leisurely growing or grown;
And oh! the minutes that suddenly led
To the sweetest thought that ever was
known.
Only one glad little glance that I gave,
Where by the window the passion-flower
grew,
And a strong man was turn’d into
a slave,
Watching and waiting for all that I do.
And a strong man’s heart beat only
for me—
Only for me while it answers life’s
call;
Till I was compell’d to hear
and to see;
And only one little look did it all!
Oh, such an infinitesimal thing!
One unthought-of minute hurrying by,
And the whole of two lives yet in their
spring
Are utterly chang’d for ever and
aye!
If with idle heart and with careless eyes
I had not happened just there and just
then
To smile at a flower beneath the skies,
Should I never have lov’d the first
of men?
Had he seen me first in a festal hour,
Or riding, or driving, or by the sea,
And not with a smile for the passion-flower,
Would he never, never have cared for me?
Who planted the root, and its climbing
plann’d?
Who water’d below or cherish’d
above?
Is it the work of a gardener’s hand
That causes my Harry and me to love?
Had that gardener never been born or hir’d,
Or done this one insignificant thing;
Had the passion-flower died;—my heart is tir’d
With the troublesome sudden thoughts that spring;
And mine eyes are filling with foolish tears,
And the pang that I feel is sharp and keen,
As I see the empty unhappy years,
And I think of all that might not have been.
* * * * *
Treason to love, that such thoughts should arise!
In Heaven I know our marriage was made;
Heaven is somewhere beyond those blue skies,
Why am I weeping and feeling afraid?
Happy the angels, who tenderly plan
These beautiful compacts to glorify man!
Happy the man and the woman who take
Humbly their crown for the dear angels’ sake!
Love in our hearts giving strength to
endure,
Eternal itself, makes eternity sure;
Earth growing perfect, unspeakably dear,
Only makes heaven seem yet more near.
Why do I tremble in fanciful doubt?
All things—or nothing—had
brought it about;
Whatever might happen, I must be
his;
What signifies talking, since so
it is?
So there came the last of the careless
days:
Did time in the very same manner move?
(My heart almost stops in a mute amaze
To think that it ever was not in
love.)
Up in the morning, as gay as a lark,
With a glad good-bye to the pleasant night;
Without an idea I am in the dark,
Or that just beyond is the real light;
Running down stairs, with a laugh as I
ran,
Free as ’the blossom that hangs
on the bough’—
I never had given a thought to a man,
And why in the world should I give one
now.
Dancing along through the hawthorn-crown’d
lane,
’Neath showers of flowers whose
name I bear,
Was it not strange I should find Harry
Vane
Coming to meet me just then and just there?
Is it for this our two lives have been
led,
Each travelling on its different way,
To meet with the blue sky over our head
Shaded by delicate blossoms of may?
Little reck’d I whom I happened
to meet,
That I had a lover I never guess’d,
As I danc’d along with my careless
feet,
And the heart of a child within my breast.
I had seen him a dozen times before,
With a pleasure that brought no sudden
change;
I knew that he lik’d me—but
nothing more:
O Harry! to think of it is so strange!
Sauntering on with the birds and the flowers,
Talking of things that we know or we knew—
Of the pretty wishes that once were ours
In long-ago times when our years were
few:
A wild little bird skims rapidly by;
And I tell of a day when my heart was
stirr’d,
And I cried as only a child can cry,
That I was a girl instead of a bird.
‘And oh!’ in an eager manner
I cried,
’I am feeling the very same wish
to-day:
Oh for two wild wings, and to spread them
wide,
And rush through the sky away and away.’
I cast up my eyes, to the smiling skies,
And smiling I lower’d their glance
again,
And as they were lower’d they met
his eyes,
And a thrill went through me of sweetest
pain.
I blush’d when I thought of my eager
words—
But why do I blush? and why do I care?
What does it matter to me and the birds,
Or the pretty blossoms or scented air?
‘And I,’ he replied, ’have
my wishes too:
Time teaches the real meaning of things;
And only this moment, looking at you,
I felt that an angel need not have
wings.’
We had sauntered on to the garden gate:
He look’d in my eyes ere we turn’d
to part:
I walk’d away in a manner sedate,
And with something new just touching my
heart.
When the first violet open’d in
bloom,
Was it surpris’d at its lovely perfume?
Why does not History tell us, who met
First, the sweet breath of the first violet?
Rather I’d know it than facts that
are known—
As when some tyrant ascended some throne,
A battle was fought, a comet display’d,
Coals were discover’d, or steam-engines
made.
I can no moment recall, ere I knew
Perfume pertain’d to those blossoms
of blue;
Had the first knowledge of sweetness like
this
Touch’d me to-day, what perfection
of bliss!
Children with all that creation can grant
Scarcely will miss the one pleasure I
want,
Just to remember the day and the
hour
When, by spring breezes caressingly blown,
Delicate fragrance of violet flower
First touch’d my senses, becoming
my own!
And what can it be—oh, what
can it be,
That has garnish’d earth with a
golden grace?
What is this something that entering me
Changes my life in a minute of space?
When I first notic’d the power in
his eyes—
Watching to see if they praise or condemn,
Blushing to meet them—came
into the skies
Beauty that never has vanish’d from
them.
When I first stopp’d in the midst
of my mirth,
While my heart beat in a tremulous way
Only to see him,—came over
the earth,
Glory that earth has retain’d to
this day.
When the first whisper assaulted my ear,
When the first pressure astonish’d
my hand,
When I first fancied that I might
be dear—
Life was a miracle joyous and grand.
When he first woo’d me with prayers,
for his own,
Suddenly came an eclipse of the light:
Sighing, I wish’d he would let me
alone;
Smiling, I long’d to hide out of
his sight.
Life being lit by a fairy-like gleam,
Sparkling and glittering, tender and pure,
Was not he stupid to change such a dream
Into reality tame and secure?
’Tis sweet to find I am wrong in
the thought,
Joy is but brighter for being confess’d;
Every moment has happiness brought,
Every stage of true love is the best.
They wish me at home to sit and to sew—
And I like to do what my aunt thinks right—
But the stitching never seem’d half
so slow,
Nor zigzagg’d itself as it did one
night.
And my work kept slipping out of my hand
As wonderful thoughts came into my head:
Sure, life is becoming too bright and
grand
To be given up to needles and thread!
I was thinking of words that Harry spake,
And of looks that more than mere words
betray,
With a joy as pure as the first snow-flake,
And almost as ready to melt away.
And with little tears beginning to start,
And with smiles and blushes that come
and go;
And I did not know what was in my heart,
Or else I pretended I did not know!
O sudden awaking from dream so fair!
’Tis the voice of my aunt, and I
hear it say—
’Child, are you falling asleep in
your chair?
Will you ever finish that collar,
May?’
I caught up my work (I knew I was wrong),
Determin’d to finish it ere we sup;
But something within me, for me too strong,
Conquer’d myself, and I had
to give up.
‘O, my Aunt Bridget,’ I timidly
said,
’I am tired of stitching—I
want to rest;
O let me gather the roses instead,
The young little roses the first and best.’
Soft summer twilights caressing the air
Have buried the garden in lovely gloom;
But I knew that the eagerest roses there
Were just beginning to think they might
bloom.
The pretty wee stars kept peeping about,
And even peep’d in through our prison
bars,
As she gravely said, ’Who ever went
out
To gather a rose by the light of stars?’
My heart beat fast at the beautiful phrase;
She had not intended it, I suppose,
But I felt I could love her all my days,
If under the stars I might pluck one rose!
Pleading my cause in so ardent a way,
Almost evoking an answering glow,
Crying, ’You once were as young
and as gay’—
Then, she smil’d a little and let
me go.
’Twas pleasure enough to be out
of doors;
I look’d at the stars and I felt
content:
But it never rains, you know, but it pours,
And the path that I had to go—I
went!
Playing with fancies, in fanciful play,
‘If I want a rose,’ I demurely
said,
’I must look for an omen to point
the way,
And I must look for it over my head.’
So I found a star that shone in the sky,
And mark’d how it glitter’d
down on a tree,
And felt—but I swear that I
know not why—
There grow the roses intended for me!
And as I approach the shadowy boughs
That are spreading out over earth and
air,
A gay little miracle fate allows,
And the star appears to be sparkling there!
Gladly I ran o’er the daisy-clad
plain,
Led by the shimmering light of the star,
And under the tree I found—Harry
Vane
Lying, and smoking a ‘mild cigar!’
I started astonish’d—he
stood upright,
And said, in a voice persuasively kind,
’Don’t you know that
I come here every night,
To see your shadow flit by on the blind?’
I look’d where he pointed, as if
’twas I
Could see my own phantom flicker and pass,—
And Aunt Bridget’s shadow
mov’d solemnly by,
Over the canvas that hangs by the glass!
Oh, how could we help it?—we
laugh’d aloud
(Birds never cease their sweet voices
in spring;
And I think in youth little laughters
crowd
And spring to our lips at everything!)
In laughter we lost all sense of surprise;
It seem’d only natural we should
meet;
And a star shot flaming across the skies,
And a little glow-worm gleam’d at
my feet.
And a distant bell swung its solemn chime,
That seem’d to me like the voice
of a star;
And I think, through a century of time,
I shall always believe that such things
are.
And then—it was then—he
spoke, and I heard;
And the moon rose up, and the stars grew
dim,
And all of a sudden the nightingale-bird
Triumphantly chanted her jubilant hymn.
What are you singing about, little birds,
Twittering loudly in lime-tree and oak?
Telling each other the wonderful words
On a sweet May evening a lover spoke?
Butterflies, floating away from the trees,
With blossom-like wings of delicate dye,
You are bearing tidings certain to please,
Scatter them freely, but do not ask why.
Two lovers stood ’neath a star-lighted
sky,
Half fearfully touching enchanted ground:
One lover was Harry, and one was I,
And the world went merrily round and round.
Souls rushing together from distant parts,
Vows utter’d that cannot be ever
undone;
A minute ago two lives and two hearts,
Through time and eternity now but one.
O foolish butterflies! chattering birds!
Instinct in vain with humanity strives;
You can’t understand the wonderful
words
Or magical kisses that changed two lives!
What is Nature made for? is it for us
The beautiful world is burnish’d
and blent?
If we had not eyes, would blossoms shine
thus?
If we had not nostrils, would they have
scent?
I heard a philosopher say—in
isles
Surrounded by ocean, apart, alone,
With no living creature to reckon miles,
Wherein life had never been born or known,
That the clouds with electric flash may
meet,
And thunder may rattle its dreadful breath,
Yet never a sound break the rest complete,
Or the silence of this eternal death;
That the fierce storm-wind may bluster
and blow,
Tearing the trees from the root-broken
ground,
Or the wild sea-surf may leap and may
flow
In solemn silence with never a sound.
For sound is but the vibrations of air
That strike on the drum of the living
ear;
So if never a living ear is there,
There is nothing to strike and nothing
to hear.
Though the vibrations move on, and live,
And thus the law of their being obey,
’Tis the ear produces the sound
they give—
That’s what I heard a philosopher
say.
So if thunder, roll’d through quivering
air,
With that awful silence reigning around,
And you or I suddenly landed there,
All Nature would break at once into sound.
It seems very strange and eerie, you know;
I don’t understand how it is—do
you?
But a philosopher said it, so
I really suppose that it must be true.
And is not there something in human hearts
(Mountains, you know, must spring out
of the flat)
That at Love’s light touch into
music starts?
Ah, what would philosophers say to that?
There never was summer so bright as this,
And the world will always be burnished
thus;
For if Love the magical painter is,
He for ever will paint the same for us.
’Tis a light within that illumes
the land;
And free as the birds from sorrow or strife,
Very close together, and hand in hand,
We shall walk on through unlimited life.
‘Ah, Harry!’ I cried, ’I
shall lean on you!
’Tis the purest joy to look up so
high;
You will teach me all that I ought to
do;
On your noble strength can my steps rely.
I hope that you know I am very weak,
Only a poor little thing at the best;
But children can love before they can
speak,
And I hope that love will make up the
rest.’
Oh beautiful pathway, untouched by care;
Oh you scattered roses on which we tread;
You lead to a church with its holy prayer,
And its Heaven-blessing over us shed!
Nightingales singing an exquisite tune
All the sweet music for me and for you,
Saying my prayers by the light of the
moon,
Happy the prayers that are utter’d
for two!
Stars in the depth of a fathomless space,
Summer-blue sky by no shadow o’ercast,
Joy pointing on to a far-away grace
Brighter than e’en the beneficent
past;
Trouble to measureless distances fled,
Death too remote to be worthy a sigh—
Can there be any one sorry or dead?
Sorrow or death ’neath a summer-blue
sky!
Was there a moment we never had met?
Was there a time unexalted by him?
Shone the same lustre in suns when they
set?
Sparkled the river with joy to the brim?
Glitter’d the blue over heaven and
sea?
Flutter’d the birds to a musical
call?
Could he be happy unconscious of me?
And, without Harry, what was I at all?
I stand on a rock where two rivers meet,
With a life behind and a life before;
And one is ebbing away from my feet,
And the other is rising more and more.
Ah, poor little maiden! ah, dear little
wife!
Ah, days that are past and days that will
come!
The past is nothing—this only
is life;
I am going with him and am going
HOME.
And such a sweet pretty home as it is!
What shall I do with my exquisite bliss?
How can I ever be charming enough,
Where rumpling a roseleaf will make the
path rough?
How can I thank the great Father above
For showing His child such abundance of
love?
With Harry a home in a hovel were sweet,
And this is a palace that lies at my feet.
I look at the gardens spread out in the
sun,
Where every rosebud a prize might have
won;
Where lilies lift up tinted crowns to
the skies,
And clematis strike you aghast by their
size;
Where lawns smooth as ice tempt your feet
as they pass,
Though only a fairy should tread on such
grass;
And big forest trees on the slopes, spread
afar
Those branches that grander than anything
are.
I sweep through the rooms where the mirrors
portray
A slender young thing in a robe of pale
gray,
And catching quick glimpses, now here
and now there,
I own with delight she is graceful and
fair;
I study the creature, and smile as I see
How handsome a woman one day she may be;
I draw myself up with a stately expanse
And try to look grand, while I’m
longing to dance;
I flourish, I curtsey, I slip and I slide;—
This will do for a wife, this is fit for
a bride.
I smile and I bow, in a dignified way,
And even shake hands with the lady in
gray;
Then draw back astonish’d, afraid
to offend,
It is all a mistake, and she is not a
friend.
In a moment sweeps over the vision a change
Deliciously sweet and suddenly strange,
A blush in the cheek and a light in the
eyes;—
A step in the passage, to meet it she
flies,
And still in the mirror I mark the embrace,
Where the strong manly arms hide the small
blushing face.
When the sun rises early to call people
out,
There is nothing so sweet as to wander
about,
A hand on an arm or an arm round a waist,
In lover-like leisure or holiday haste.
Then, all is delightful we see or we hear,
And speaking or silence are equally dear;
The earth at our feet of an emerald hue,
The Heaven above us incredibly blue,
The flowers baptiz’d with miraculous
dew.
While yet the sky blushes to welcome the
sun,
Through the gay gardens we stroll and
we run;
In fields where lambs gambol less happy
than we,
Glittering grass makes a sheen like the
sea;
Birds unexpectedly set up a chant,
Adding a joy that the world seem’d
to want.
Creation is made for our pleasure alone:
Adam and Eve, with no sin to atone,
Knowledge untasted, less rapture have
known!
Keeping by Harry, a friend who is fond Follows as closely as follow he can: Is there an earthly affection beyond The love a good dog feels for a good man?
If twenty people fling down twenty gloves
Our Rover has never been known to fail;
He picks out the glove of the man he loves,
And brings it triumphantly, wagging his
tail.
Rover and I, under shadowy yew,
List’ning for Harry’s dear
step on the path—
He always hears it the first of
the two,
Which gives me a feeling half joy, half
wrath.
By divers states can our spirits be mov’d
Our hearts will answer to many a touch;
We love one creature for being much lov’d,
And we love another for loving much.
By delicate touches our souls are stirr’d,
Fraught with a meaning life never reveals:
I wonder the Bible says not a word
Of the faithful love that a good dog feels.
Good are the mornings for birds in a nest,
Fluttering out from a beautiful home;
Good are the mornings, but evenings are
best,
Seeking its shelter nor asking to roam.
Life, like a secret, is too much for one—
May be too little where numbers are great—
All may be vanity under the sun,
But all is charming when done tete
a tete.
Neighbours will call—what
a trouble it is!
Dinners and parties are made for our sake:
Why must society trouble our bliss?
Dinners and neighbours are quite a mistake!
Drest as a bride, I must dine at the Grange;
Harry beside me, I have not a care;
Only it seems so exceedingly strange
Not to be thinking of meeting him there!
Jane does my hair with a skill, I confess,
Smilingly thinking of days that are gone,
When for a party I ran up to dress
With neither a husband nor maid of my
own.
Life that is past, did you certainly pass?
When were you actual? how did you change?
Who is this girl that I see in the glass
Thinking of things that are happy and
strange?
Who is this man who may enter the room,
Placidly certain his presence must please,
Settle her colours, select her perfume,
Hands in his pockets serenely at ease:
Who can the girl be, and who is the man?
Light-hearted creatures who live but to
love!
‘Tis the result of the Angels’
kind plan,
One of the marriages made up above!
Hand laid in hand to the stairs we advance,
Feet scarcely touching the carpet at all:
Why should they walk who are able to dance?
Clasping each other, we waltz through
the hall!
Pleasant the drive in the twilight’s
soft gloom;
Dazzling the change to society’s
light;
Proud of my Harry I enter the room,
Every eye on my gallant young knight.
Lovely the welcome around me I see—
Will it be thus through a beautiful life?
Everybody attentive to me,
And only because I am Harry’s wife?
Dear to my heart are the glitter and grace;
But nothing so charming, or bright, is
here
As the gracious smile upon Harry’s
face,
Or his manly voice as it greets my ear.
As from the banquet the ladies depart
I hear two gentlemen murmuring low—
’The Captain has got an excellent
start
But he won’t set the Thames on fire,
you know!’
Then I look back and attempt to decide Who is this Captain who must not aspire; I meet Harry’s eyes, and I smile with pride, For I know he could set the Thames on fire!
Afterwards music; he sings and I sing,
She sings and they sing, and minutes flit
past:—
Harmony certainly quickens Time’s
wing,
And the lark sings loudest when flying
fast.
HIS SONG.
Must he toil beneath the sun Who has nothing else to do? What’s the use of such a one? I know not—pray do you? Skies are not aflame for him; He converses not with elves; Primroses on river’s brim Can be nothing but themselves.
Need he interfere with me,
Who care only to be blest?
Go thy way, unhappy bee,
Leave a butterfly at rest.
Butterflies with painted wings
Are a part of Nature’s plan;
Is not every bird that sings,
Wiser than a busy man?
Harry’s rich tenor delighteth my
ears
Oft as I hear it; ’tis ever the
same;
Brings to my eyes a soft soupcon
of tears,
Sends from my heart little thrills through
my frame.
When
the sea
Speaks
to me,
Sure I may reply to it;
When
the skies
Catch
my eyes,
I must smile a little bit.
When
the trees
Try
to please
With their buds and blossoms new,
Shall
I dare
Not
to care
For a world so bright and true?
Earth
and sky,
Tell
me why
Sorrow ever comes between?
Is
it you,
Heaven
blue?
Is it you, my earth so green?
Is
it there
In
the air
That you neither of you touch?
Is
the wind
So
unkind
When I love its kiss so much?
Let
it be
Earth
or sea,
Skies or breezes as they move,
Earth
is sweet
’Neath
my feet,
Heaven sweeter yet above;
And
the air
Ev’rywhere
Is the sweetest of the three;
I
will take,
For
their sake,
Anything they bring to me!
Men flocking round me, I find I’m
admir’d;
Praise is as sweet as a gratified whim;
When a girl pleases she never feels tir’d—
Harry smiles at me, and I smile at him.
Through the open doors of a crystal dome
Sweet is the scent of the tropical flowers,
The splendid exiles who, banish’d
from home,
Are sparkling and shining to gladden ours.
Figures appearing ’mid blossom and
fruit,
In an airy, fairy, magical way;
Their lips keep moving altho’ they
are mute
For ears too distant to hear what they
say.
From a lily bud can a voice be sent?—
’Let us hope the Captain’s
wild oats are sown;
A pretty young wife should make him content’—
Only a word in a soft-spoken tone!
Moving serenely ’mid beauty and
song,
Am not I born for the glittering throng?
Treading on roses with delicate feet,
Is not a life a perpetual treat?
Can we be more than delighted and blest?
Pleasure is beautiful—is it
the best?
Highest and best that our nature can know?
Answer my heart—and my heart
answers No.
And my heart answers, ’more beautiful
yet
Life is for those who leave Home
with regret,
And greet it again as the sailor greets
shore,
Gaily returning to life gone before.’
Thus from the banquet two lovers depart,
Owning thy truth, lovely voice of my heart;
Seeking a home that, whatever befall,
Is brighter and sweeter and dearer than
all;
Better than all that the world can decree,
For happy young creatures like Harry and
me!
Self-ordained critics, we sit at our ease,
Life spread before us to judge as we please;
Harry in quite a ridiculous way
Prates about wine, like a swell in a play;
Next, the made dishes proceeding to scan,
With wisdom becoming a greedy old man;
Looking so charmingly youthful and gay,
I laugh in his face at his airs of gourmet;
Admitting myself but three things to be
nice—
Champagne, lobster salad, and strawberry
ice.
Then pass the people in sparkling review;
I ask fifty questions beginning with Who?
Midnight approaches—a sense
of repose
Floating about me, my eyelids half close;
Rising, I languidly say, ’By the
bye,
Who is the Captain?’ he laughs in
reply,
Stands up in front of me, just face to
face,
Makes me a bow with an air and a grace:
‘The Captain this moment before
you’ you see—
That’s my nickname in the country,’
says he.
Pleasantly sleepy I felt ere he spake,
Now I am thoroughly widely awake;
A shock passes through me of horrid surprise,
I turn upon Harry my wondering eyes,
Catching at hopes, as the drowning at
straws,
I cry, as the truth for a moment withdraws,
’You’re quizzing me, Harry—that’s
what you’re at,
It cannot be you that they
speak of like that!’
Then he insists on my telling, displeas’d
At any concealment, WHAT have I heard?
Worried and wearied, bewilder’d
and teaz’d,
I blurt it out and repeat every word!
Harry regards me with almost a stare—
Pulls his moustache with a sort of amaze—
Passes his hand through his clustering
hair
And—bursts out laughing, as
if it was praise!
There is nothing so sweet or full of grace
(Can one who has seen it ever forget?)
As the smile that comes over Harry’s
face;
It is Heaven on earth—and yet—and
yet—
I feel a strange chill steal into my heart—
Should he permit such remarks from the
crowd?
Can it be their part? Can it be his
part?
They the mean snobs! he the noble and
proud!
No shooting to-day of partridge or snipe;
It has steadily rained since morning broke,
In dancing spirits I kindle his pipe
(I am learning to like the smell of smoke!)
He has given up such a deal for me!
He likes to give up his bachelor way;
He says it is charming not to be
free,
So he only smokes one pipe in the day.
Together we sit in his little room,
Which is fitted up like a dainty toy;
And if without there is darkness and gloom,
Within there is plenty of light and joy.
‘Tell me of all you have done, if
you can,’
I cry, as the pretty smoke lightly curls;
’I want to hear of the life of a
man
I, who only know of the life of girls!’
He shakes his head with a smile and a
nod,
The smoke curling round it with idle aim;
He is like the picture of some young god,
Who, from painted clouds, looks out of
a frame.
’The life of a girl is a fairy thing,
With a sweetness none can wish to forget,
Caught from a snowdrop in earliest spring
Or the first faint breath of a violet;
The life of a man, as it is and was,
Is like autumn leaves decaying and dead,
With a flavour of bad theatrical gas,
And of last night’s banquet,’
my husband said.
I laugh’d at the gay nonsensical
speech,
In my merry pride at being his wife;
I sat at his feet, and I bade him teach
A neophyte out of his noble life.
He mutter’d ‘My noble life!’
with a frown,
’With noble lives I have little
to do;
My dear, put those frivolous notions down,
I am but a man, and a weak one too.
My life has been full of confounded things,
I am only a man, like other men;
But we hear a flutter of angel-wings,
And our demons forsake us, there and then.
In marrying thee, my innocent sprite,
I had caught a glimpse of a purer joy;
I turn’d a new page, and the page
was white;
I’m quite determin’d to be
a good boy!’
His hand sought my head with a careless
grace,
And the sun shone suddenly out on us;
O gracious and sweet was my Harry’s
face,—
Why should a hero belie himself thus?
When turf is level how rapid the pace!
Linger ye moments!—be patient
my life!
Marriage is only an idyl of grace,
What knows a bride of the bliss of a wife?
Are all things the dearer for growing
old?
As flowers are sweeter deep in
a wood;
Will the warmth of May in July seem cold?
Was earth less perfect when God call’d
it ‘good’?
Even roses when young are only green,
And the exquisite perfume faint and small,
If roses are lovely when just half seen,
When blown they are sweetest and best
of all.
Time passes on, and they open too
much;
Still the rich fragrance about them is
shed;
Delicate petals fall off with a touch;
Happy and mourn’d for, the roses
are dead!
And when we die (if death ever
can be,
Life leaping in me, it sounds like a jest),
May it be thus with my Harry and me—
Love’s latest perfume its sweetest
and best.
He, whom I speak to, smiles into my face,
Crying, with kisses, that life would restore,
’All that you say has a feminine
grace;
But hasn’t Moore said something
like it before?’
From the piano I draw forth a peal,
Greeting the sound with a smile and a
sigh,
Singing ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’
I feel
That summer and roses can never
die!
’Twas a beautiful evening, fresh
and fair,
Earth sweeter far than impossible skies;
My heart beating light as a bird in air,
When Harry brought home with him Jack
Devize.
Did no presentiment touch me that day?
Never a soupcon of evil or ill?
No, the world was bright with Harry away,
And when Harry came back it was brighter
still.
The man stood there, and his shadow was
laid
Straight at my feet by the sunset decrees;
I mark’d it well, and I was not
afraid;
And when Harry nam’d him I smil’d
with ease.
The roses poured out their exquisite scent,
Birds gave us the sweetest music they
had,
And the little grasses daintily bent
In the tender breeze, as if they were
glad.
Are there not angels to guard us and keep?
Are spirits not round us hidden
from sight?
Oh! angels and spirits were all asleep,
Or they must have warn’d me that
fatal night.
I have wak’d with the thought of
an absent friend
(And others I know who have done the same),
And have felt ’ere I see the daylight’s
end,
Her letter must come—and her
letter came.
I have run indoors with the happy thought
That something pleasant was going to be,
And—coincidence strange!—my
eye has caught
The sight of the thing it desired to see.
I have felt a depression all the day,
A dullness for which I could not account,
And a flower has died—a dog
run away—
Or a horse gone lame that I wish’d
to mount.
And if from the regions of mysteries Something can warn us of trifles like these; How could it be I met Mr. Devize With a smiling face and a heart at ease?
No dream at night, when by wonderful laws
The bodies are dead, the spirits alive;
No little heart—sinking without
a cause
When the perfect sunshine made nature
thrive;
No omen or signal, little or great,
Not a quicken’d pulse or a flutter’d
breath;—
So Harry and I rush’d on to our
fate,
And the unseen world was passive as Death.
We stroll’d through the gardens
till dinner came,
The scented breezes were faultlessly sweet;
The sun went suddenly down in a flame,
While the birds their jubilant hymns repeat,
We chatted at dinner, and afterwards,
And the moments pleasantly slid away,
But when Mr. Devize suggested cards,
I laughingly told him I could not play.
The cards are produced; the men begin;
I sit by Harry and watch his hand;
I am very eager that he should win,
And when he does so, I feel very grand.
’Twas all very well for once you
see;
Its novelty made it a thing to praise;
It was quite a joke for a girl like me,
Living with men and observing their ways.
But when Jack had dined again and again,
And with others enjoy’d the cards
and fare.
With a little shiver that felt like pain,
I would say ‘good night’ and
leave Harry there.
Cool is the chamber and pleasant the light,
Tranquil and innocent, tender and calm;
Sweet are the thoughts that approach us at night,
Sweet as the breeze with its perfumy balm.
And if I am reading the happy Word,
Or saying my prayers by the taper’s glow,
I wish that my Harry had this preferr’d
To the painted toys and the men below.
* * * * *
’I wish that my Harry had this preferr’d’—
But ought I to wish it, if he does not?
Has my foolish heart from its duty err’d,
And the soft compliance of love forgot?
There can be no question ’twixt wrong and right;
And surely we all can be brave and strong;
Yet I seem a little perplex’d to-night,
And hardly to know what is right or wrong.
I’m very young to be anyone’s
wife,
And to know about serious things like
these—
Must my little hand touch my husband’s
life
With a thought of something more
than to please?
What shall I do with this ghost of a care
That makes my silly heart flutter and
sink?
I will first kneel down and will say a
prayer,
And then I’ll ask Harry what I should
think!
Harry stalk’d into my room in a
rage—
’Hilton and Wilton have clear’d
me out quite;
A run of ill luck at every stage—
Fifty pounds lost since you left us to-night!
I’ll have my revenge on the rogues
I vow!’
Marks of strange anger disfigure his face,
A dry parch’d lip and a thundery
brow,
And a sharp bright eye that has lost its
grace.
So a lov’d little hand comes smoothing
down—
Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;
The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,
And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.
‘Ah, dearest,’ I whisper,
’mourn not for this,
On a summer day with a heap of flowers;
This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,
It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.’
All the strange passion had vanish’d,
I ween;
The Harry I knew had come back again;
And on his sweet face I had never seen
A sweeter smile than illumin’d it
then.
With smiles he caress’d me:
’you little thing—
You dear little thing,’ he tenderly
said;
’We have banish’d you by the
cards we bring;
Let us banish cards and have you instead.’
I clapp’d my hands, and my heart
beat light,
As I softly whisper’d, ’Indeed
you may,
For I’m certain, Harry, it is not
RIGHT
To spend so much money and time at play.’
He gave me an odd little look askance,
And mutter’d, ‘A man must
do something though;’
I answer’d the look with a loving
glance,
’But the something need not be cards,
you know;
There is plenty to do before we die,
That may suit a gay and a careless mood;
We are so happy, Harry, you and
I,
That I think we ought to be ever so good.
Playing at cards for money, I’m
clear,
Is an alien thing in beautiful lives’—
He grumbled, ’The fellows will think
me queer;
But then the poor fellows have not
got wives.’
We talk’d the matter delightfully
out;
Our words were earnest and bright and
free;
We twisted it round, we turn’d it
about,
And we both agreed that it should not
be.
‘You are my angel,’ he cried, with a kiss;
‘I fear lest your wings are spreading to fly,’
And his angel I ought to be, in this,
For ’tis he who is tempted, and not I.
O, women have no temptations at all;
They have only to keep their white lives white;
But men are so tempted, that men must fall—
O wonderful Harry who stands upright!
* * * * *
Again the sweet evenings we had at first:
He reads, and I work; or we play and sing;
And looks and words that, if life were accurs’d,
In memory only, would rapture bring.
Engagements of course will sometimes arise;
But the joy is still in the coming back;
And sometimes he dines with us (Jack Devize),
And sometimes my husband dines out with Jack.
Under the cliff with its towering crest,
Where the wandering sea has fill’d
the space,
A sweet little village has made its nest,
A sort of miniature watering place.
Scarcely a mile by the upper cliff way—
Further of course by the beach-shaded
road—
Little Bellhaven contentedly lay,
Easily reached from our pleasant abode.
Therein a Church, and a place of Dissent,
A shop where we purchase our sugar and
shoes,
Therein a Library ladies frequent;
Therein a club where the men read the
news;
Also a chamber where, lit from above,
Balls white and crimson disport on green
baize,
That capital game which gentlemen love,
Where Harry conquers whenever he plays.
Billiards require grace, agility, skill;
No one without them can hope to excel;
But Harry never did anything ill
That it is manly and right to do well.
In my pretty turn-out with ponies gray,
At a rattling pace to the club I come,
And feel like a queen triumphantly gay,
As I drive my conquering Hero home.
I like him to play; I like him to win;
I like to wait by the Ocean expanse,
To watch its wild waves come careering
in,
In regular order unknown to chance.
I like the scent of the weeds that they
bear,
And their rolling sound on the pebbly
beach;
I like the touch of the salt-flavour’d
air;
There is beauty, pleasure, and health
in each.
A little hotel in Bellhaven stands,
Where dinners are serv’d remarkably
well,
And sometimes Harry slips out of my hands
And dines with Jack at this little hotel.
I’m not very fond of the place,
I own;
Ought I to mind it, if Harry’s amused?
But I feel so lonely when I’m alone,
And sometimes I feel a little ill-used.
’Tis seldom my husband deserts me
thus,
He is always home ere the clock strikes
ten;
So I won’t be foolish and make a
fuss,
But try to remember that men are men.
Sitting and waiting for Harry alone,
Watching the minutes, and wanting him
back—
Why are you absent, my Harry, my own?
Am not I nicer than billiards and Jack?
Traitress to ask such a question! for
shame!
Thou art, thou knowest, beginning and
end!
His whole life is thine—he
is not to blame!
May not thy husband go out with a friend?
Thou art the false one, and he is the
true—
Fretful and idle, unworthy thy king!
Hast thou not anything useful to do,
Thou good-for-nothing and cross little
thing?
Scolding myself, I spring up from my chair,
Calling out loud that the time is not
long;
March down the room with a resolute air,
Seize my guitar, and burst out into song!
Poor little girl, sitting singing alone,
Pretty guitar round a slender neck hung,
Smiles on thy lips, but a sad little moan,
Deep in a heart that is foolish and young.
SONG.
To one whose footsteps fall
Upon a mountain’s height,
Earth must seem very small,
And heaven infinite.
Then why do misty tears
Conceal each lofty crest,
If earth so far appears,
So near the land of rest?
Hush! for the mists withdraw
The Hidden shines in bliss;
Who in a valley saw
A heaven-light like this?
I think when earth can speak
(She will one of these days),
That every mountain-peak
Will give a shout of praise.
I did not care for the song that I sang;
I was not thinking of mountains at all;
Tiresome and strange in mine ears the
words rang—
’Heaven is infinite, earth is so
small’—
Rang in that eerie monotonous way
Words sometimes will, when we don’t
will one bit.
Which proves they’re alive—It
is hard in the day,
But in the night who can battle
with it?
And a little sob rose up in my throat—
‘Harry, Harry, Harry,’ thrill’d
through the sob;
I touch’d the guitar, and its answering
note
Came unexpected, and made my heart throb.
It was once upon a time,
Ere the roses bud and blow,
Underneath the scented lime,
Long ago, ah, long ago!
Is it I that was so fair,
When the sun is slanting low,
With a lily in my hair,
Ah, so very long ago?
Was my heart as light as this
Was the lily white as snow?
What a happy hour it is,
Long ago, ah, long ago?
Then the lily bloom’d to save,
Ere a tear had learn’d to flow
Now it lies upon a grave,
Ah, so very long ago!
While I sat singing, steps came on the
path,
Outside the window—what marvel
is this?
Steady and solemn, they make my heart
wrath,
Steps come towards me, and they are not
his!
Steps in the night time pass up to my
door;
Then comes a knocking might waken the
dead:
Instead of one Harry there must be four,
Only not one has his light springy tread.
My old nurse’s son to sea ran away—
At a ‘Norwester,’ or gale
from the South,
I’ve heard the poor woman tremblingly
say
The sound ‘brought her heart up
into her mouth!’
I, little prattler, crouched down at her
feet,
Would stop aghast in my innocent play,
Wondering, will she be able to eat,
Supposing her heart in her mouth shall
stay?
Strange are our minds and their workings,
I’m sure
Studying them might drive Solomon wild:
At the loud knocking, I ran to the door
With a sudden thought of that nurse and
child.
I saw her rocking herself in her chair,
While the mad wind blew ’neath the
stormy sky;
I saw the little child watching her there,
And knew, with a pang, that the child
was I.
(Strange are the pangs, that, when life
is most fair,
With not a regret to shadow the scene,
Seize on the heart with a sudden despair,
From a passing mem’ry of what has
been.)
And while to the door I ran with a start,
Frighten’d to death at the knocking
without,
I was thinking of my old nurse’s
heart,
And not of what all the noise was
about!
Four men without peering sharply within;
One girl within looking out at the men;
Silence at first—you might
have heard a pin
Drop on the doorsteps—silence—and
then,
‘What do you want?’ cried
the girl. She spoke loud,
In a voice that sounded unlike her own.
‘We want Mr. Vane,’ said a
man, who bowed,
And uttered the words in a gentle tone.
They were very well dressed—they
were not poor—
They had shining hats and cloaks wrapp’d
about,
These men who stood at the happy hall-door,
Where Harry and I run in and run out.
(You want him? I want him, I might
have said;
But only to say so seem’d like a
sin):
‘He is not within’; and I
shook my head,
And while I yet spoke the men were
within.
They did not appear to wish to intrude;
They did not attempt to frighten me now;
They did not push by me; they were not
rude;—
But somehow they enter’d—I
know not how.
’It’s no use trying to ’ide
‘im, my dear,’
Said one, in a really fatherly way;
’In course we knows that the gen’leman’s
’ere;
And till he turns up we shall ‘ave
to stay.’
’The gentleman’s here? but
no one has come;
And no one can come—it
is much too late.
Mr. Vane is out—he will soon
be home;
But I really must ask you not to wait.’
The man laid a finger against his nose;
With a horrible slyness look’d at
me:
’We understands all that ’ere,
I suppose;
But you’d better come to
terms,’ said he.
I stared at the man with my vacant eyes,
That dreamily question’d him how
he dared?
And suddenly saw, with extreme surprise,
It was a policeman at whom I stared.
The five of us stood in the pleasant hall;
And four were policemen, and one was I;
And Harry had never come home at all;
And the clock struck one with a gasping
sigh.
My heart grew cold, and my courage ran
down;
I pinch’d my finger—I
tried not to scream—
I felt like a creature about to drown,
And I cried aloud ‘It MUST be a
dream!’
I angrily spoke,—and I spoke
out loud;
I knew ’twas a dream and
nothing in it;
I spurn’d the dream with a gesture
proud,
And ORDERED myself to wake that minute.
Of course, I just fell asleep where I
sat,
And this is a dream—yes I know
it is—
But O it is stranger than dreaming, that
Harry has not waken’d me with a
kiss!
I looked at the men, who are searching
round,
And taking a note of all they can find;
Examining ceiling and walls and ground,—
—I am surely going out of my
mind!
I said to myself in a coaxing way—
’I am wide awake, and he has
come back;
Harry is acting a sort of a play:
He has dress’d himself up, and so
has Jack.’
A glance or a signal dispers’d the
men:
Two went upstairs, and another below;
The leader sat down in the hall; and then—
What am I to do? Where am
I to go?
I rush’d to the door, and I flung
it wide—
A frighten’d creature can anything
dare—
And I saw the darkness that lay outside,
And I heard the silence—and
nothing was there.
‘Harry! Harry! Harry!’
was all my cry,
As I stood alone at the open door;
And the night heard me—and
so did the sky,
And the wind and the earth—and
nothing more.
I turn’d from the door with a sad
surprise:
I could call for my love and call in vain;
And I met that horrid policeman’s
eyes,
Keenly and quietly watching my pain.
He suddenly called for his men to come;
So they made their appearance one by one,
And he said, ’The gen’leman’s
not been ’ome,
And she ’asn’t a notion what
he’s done.
And he won’t come now, you
may swear to that;
I rayther think he’ll look arter
a ship:
I rayther suspect we’ve been rayther
flat,
And the gen’leman’s given
us the slip!’
With a regular march they trod the ground,
Suddenly left me alone in the hall;
In the dreadful silence that settled round,
Again I knew I was dreaming it
all?
A voice that can banish my sleep I know;
I know a voice that could wake me if dead;
A loud cheery voice, but it might speak
low,
And ‘May, little May,’ it
whispering said.
I stand like a statue of silence.
Hush!
I listen not with my ears, but my soul;
And I feel the sudden accustom’d
blush,
As again the whisper reaches its goal.
I open the window. ’Mid blossom
and bough
Of clustering laurel and Daphne white,
I am showering kisses on Harry’s
brow,
And dropping the first tears I’ve
shed to-night.
His face is as white as the Daphne-bud;
He is hiding down on the hidden sward;
He is wan and haggard, and splashed with
mud;
He is crouching frighten’d—my
king and lord!
He whisper’d, and fill’d my
heart with dismay,—
Scared by the sounds that used once to
rejoice!—
O Harry, my Harry, speak loudly, I pray,
And not in that shocking whispering
voice.
He whisper’d, ’I’ve
got in a horrid scrape;
Fetch me some money, and bid me good-bye;
I must run away, and make my escape,’—
‘I shall run with you, my darling,’
said I.
‘You cannot,’ he murmur’d;—a
speechless love
Shone out of his eyes; he return’d
my kiss—
’I never intended—Great
Father above,
You know that I never intended
this.
Fetch me some money—the desk
and the key—
You know them—be quick! or
dearly you’ll rue—
My life’s in your hands!—have
mercy on me—
Fetch me some money—It’s
all you can do.’
A horrible haste in manner and voice,
A desperate hungry imploring haste;
I rush’d up the stairs—I
had not a choice,
And I snatch’d the notes from where
they were plac’d
All that I had—to the window
I rush’d—
With kisses and tears in his hands I laid;
He return’d the kisses, with lips
that crush’d
Their vehement kisses on lips dismay’d.
He was almost gone; but I held him tight,
And cried in my anguish, ’You have
forgot—
When shall I follow you, darling? to-night?’
He shook his head, and he answer’d
me not!
He threw off my hands in a savage way;
He cried, ‘I adore you,’ in
fondest tone;
’You shall follow me, sweet—I
dare not stay—
I’ll write to you, darling;’
and he is gone!
O the weary, dark, impossible days,
That have dragg’d their lingering
length since then!
O the cruel sunshine’s merciless
blaze!
O the unnatural faces of men!
I was told it all—it was all
explain’d;
And they all declar’d that I understood;
But only one knowledge on earth remain’d,
I knew that Harry was noble and good.
They had dined together—together
play’d,
Together quarrell’d—who
cares about what?
And somebody, speaking about them, said,
‘They were out and out a thorough
bad lot!’
’They left the village, they rush’d
to the cliff,
A dissolute crew that good Christians
condemn’—
This is the way they keep talking, as
if
I did not know Harry was one of
them!
’Shouting and swearing, and heated
and flush’d,
All talking together, and running pell
mell,
Out to the cliff from the village they
rush’d,
And two men were fighting, and one man
fell.’
And the man who fell over the dreadful
edge,
For ever lost, and for ever must be;
There was never a sandbank, rock, or ledge,
There was nothing but the pitiless
sea!
I hear it said, without doubt or surmise,
Over and over and over again,
The man who was murder’d was Jack
Devize,
And the man who murder’d him, Harry
Vane!
I dream I am standing on purple heights,
Alone and alone for ever and aye;
The sun is shining with pitiless lights;
I pray that darkness may cover the sky.
I dream I am lying buried in sand,
Alone and alone for ever and aye;
Parch’d and dry is the terrible
land;
I pray but for water before I die.
I dream I am tossing on ocean waves,
Alone and alone for ever and aye;
I shudder to think of the open graves;
Under daisy blossoms I pray to lie.
O daisy buds I am dreaming of you,
Alone and alone for ever and aye;
From a dream of daisies scatter’d
with dew
I wake with a start, and a piercing cry.
Let me but dream of affliction and shame,
Of saints that punish and sinners that
cower,
Of troubles by sickness and sword and
flame,
And not of an innocent daisy flower!
I am haunted by words—by seven
words—
Seven words echoing everywhere;
They are borne on breezes, and sung by
birds,
They are written on earth and sea and
air.
I think there is nothing else is my own;
I think there is nothing else is alive;
Seven words and I are always alone;
The world about me may hunger and strive.
I have heard that mystic meaning is hid,
I have heard that wonderful things are
made,
Of the number seven—may God
forbid—
For I cannot tell, and I feel afraid.
The sweetest poem that ever was writ—
Do you not know it?—is ‘We
are seven;’
For the dear little girl who talks in
it,
Will not give up her brothers in Heaven.
What the stupid sense of the grown-up
man
Urges, she cannot perceive; but prefers
The simple faith of her own sweet plan,
And the brothers in Heaven still are hers.
The very last day that Harry was here
I read him those verses, and Harry smil’d;
And we held some converse, divinely dear,
Which was all about that dear little child.
Is it for this that I think of it now?
Is it for this he let seven words fall?
O pulses are beating behind my brow,
And I think my heart is not beating at
all!
And my brain, it keeps whirling round
and round,
Like a sing-song wheel through a ship
at night;
And the seven words that constantly sound
Are ‘you shall follow me, sweet,’
and ‘I’ll write.’
I wonder if I have been going mad,
In the strange wild world I am living
in?
I think that I have—I hop’d
that I had—
For I weary with wondering, what is sin?
There’s blood on your hand—there’s
blood on your soul—
O lily-white hand—soul noble
and true!
You murder’d him where the blue
waters roll,
And he set the seal of his death on you.
I have sat so happily by your side,
I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;
But I think that you died, and I think
that I died—
And death is the end of all, and the best.
It was God who created men and time;
And a better than you He could not need;
So if you did it, it was not a crime,
And if ’twas a crime, you did not
the deed.
I am fighting with life, with death I
strive;
Ready for neither; both crush with their
might;
Only those seven words keep me alive—
You said ‘you shall follow me,’
and ‘I’ll write.’
They stealthily talk; I hear what they
say—
Sharply she hears who each syllable dreads—
Glancing at me in significant way,
Touching their foreheads and shaking their
heads.
’Mad?’—’not exactly—bewilder’d—confus’d;
Thoughts turn’d astray by grief’s terrible force;
Not even by love is murder excus’d;
She cannot believe that he did it, of course.
She thinks him a hero, and so loves on;
Reason enthron’d would annihilate this;
Love would have nothing to nestle upon,
Did she perceive him the sinner he is.’
* * * * *
Words striking my brain like sunshine on ice,
Bursting the bulwarks that kept the flood in;
Is love only madness? Will reason suffice
To crucify love at the presence of sin?
Reason comes back with all honours she had,
Calmly accepting my life as it is;
I will not go mad—I dare not go mad—
I must prove love is not treason like this!
Is he not all that I thought him?
Be still
O treacherous heart—then you
were to blame:
I married my Harry for good or ill,
And through good and ill I love him the
same.
If God died for us, and lay in a grave,
Leaving His mansions of glory for this;
It must have been from a longing to save
Such a noble sinner as Harry is.
In His own image created He him,
And He called man ‘good’ on
the virgin sod;
And when He beheld His image grow dim,
He died to redeem it—the gracious
God!
Rebuking myself with an angry pain—
What was I wishing for? What would
I have?
A paragon fram’d by my shallow brain,
And not the sinner God died to save?
I have driven madness out of my
brain,
Studying life with intolerant eyes;
Praying and weeping and praying again—
Earth is good for nothing but prayers
and sighs.
We all are made up of follies and faults,
That, if time but serv’d, would
lead us to crime;
And for every time my darling halts,
I am sure I have halted fifty times!
I am not blinded or prejudiced here;
I have sought the truth and found what
I sought;
I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;
You should not have play’d and quarrell’d
and fought.
Had you been here on that evening—a
cry
Comes out of my heart as one grace
I implore:
Let me not think of our evenings, or I
Shall suddenly die, and see him no more.
I know you were wrong, my darling; I know
That we all do wrong, and must all repent;
But this horrible depth of nameless woe
Was nothing on earth but an accident.
With your tender heart and your gracious
way,
And your temper as gay as cloudless skies,
You would sooner have died that fatal
day
Than taken the life of Jack Devize.
O tender heart, art thou lonely and cold,
With no one to comfort or take thy part?
O sweet gay words in the days that are
old!
And oh, to be clasp’d to that tender
heart!
I am so afraid that you feel remorse
For an end that indeed you could
not prevent;
And I am not there to put gentle force
On what you should and should not
repent.
I am so afraid that you grieve too
much,
With a sorrow that nothing will stop or
stay:
O Harry, don’t let your sorrow
be such;
O darling, you shall be happy some
day!
They want to have you; they hunt you to
death:
They cannot believe that you meant
the deed!
Have they no sense? no perception? no
faith?
Are they helmless boats, without God or
Creed?
Waiting, waiting, waiting, Harry, for
you,
While the dreadful days drag wearily by;
I cannot wait longer—what shall
I do?
For till I have kiss’d you I cannot
die.
Frighten’d at every movement or
sound—
Every thing except one thing forgot—
Always in terror that you have been found—
Would the first moment be rapture
or not?
Wandering aimlessly everywhere,
Upstairs and downstairs, from room into
room,
Searching for nothing—for nothing
is there,
Only the changeless impregnable gloom.
Stifled within, the cool gardens I seek;—
Like poor human souls the flowers all
die;
Even the birds are refusing to speak,
Crush’d by the weight of a leaden-gray
sky.
Is this the whole of it? is this the end?
Life finish’d off by a heartless
Amen?
When will you write to me? when will you
send?
When shall I follow you, Harry?—Ah
when?
I wander’d far from my hateful abode;
The hour was becoming a little late;
Just there a gate open’d into a
road,
And a boy was leaning upon the gate.
Faithful old Rover, who follow’d
me out,
Went perfectly frantic beholding this
boy,
Sniff’d at his coat, leaping wildly
about,
And danced like a dog that dances for
joy.
He was a stripling both slender and tall
(My idle eyes vacantly take the view),
His coat was too large, or he was too
small,
His nose was a snub, and his eyes were
blue.
Angry I felt to see Rover rejoice,
But he suddenly stopp’d, began to
quake,
And howl’d in a most deplorable
voice,
As if his dog-heart was ready to break.
Then the boy, stooping down, something slipp’d in
(The something was little and square and white)
Between the steel collar and hairy skin,
Saw that I saw it, and so took to flight.
Wagging his tail, a hurrah in each beat,
Expanding his chest with a gesture grand,
Rover ran back to crouch down at my feet,
Licking my eager incredulous hand.
* * * * *
It was in my hands—I tore it apart,
This letter that Harry had writ to me;
My head turn’d giddy, and so did my heart,
And turn’d my eyes blind that I could not see.
O wicked blind eyes, will you not be clear?
Have I not told you ’tis written by him?
’Tis a piece of Heaven I am holding here,
And my horrible earthly eyes are dim!
The cruel letters run out and run in,
Fluttering, tottering, stammering by,
Mixing together like threads that you
spin,
Flying apart, as birds recklessly fly.
Is it for years that I helplessly stand,
While tremulous lights into shadows flit,
With a piece of Heaven held in my hand,
Which is mine—and I cannot
enter it!
At last—O my wonderful dear
at last!
Thou always comest, howe’er it is—
The senseless signs into symmetry pass’d,
For a few short seconds it must
be bliss!
And so standing there in the twilight’s
fall
(What happen’d is nothing but what
must be)
I read the first words that ever at all
My Harry (God bless him!) has written
me.
HARRY’S LETTER.
’O Child, when my words your sweet
youth beguil’d
I meant to make you the happiest
child!
I meant that no earthly life should
be known
As bless’d as the life I had made
my own;
My weakness and follies I had forgot—
But you were happy with me, were
you not?
I am not worthy my Love should come,
Forsaking for my sake her English home;
Exiled from all that is happy and good,
Caress’d by a hand that is stain’d
with blood.
Your innocent face shall never be kiss’d
By him who his Heaven and Hope has miss’d!
I suffer for sin, as I ought to do;
But, my darling, it shall not fall on
you.
’I am safely hous’d by a faithful friend, And the letter I write his hands will send; I’m at Clarendon Crescent, Liverpool (I’ve told you, Love, of the dear old school); Clarence will help me all ways that he can (Though a good tutor, he is a good man). I shall sail for another hemisphere, Leaving behind me my anguish and fear; Leaving behind me my joy and my grace, I shall soon pass over limitless space.
’Could I but have seen you but once again!
It is hard to suffer and not complain!
’Tis my sin against you I most repent
(I did make you happy? you were content?)
’O fool, who possessing all man may win,
Could not keep his fool-nature free from sin!
Love must have changed to a useless regret;
You cannot forgive me—can you forget?’
* * * * *
Without an hour’s or a minute’s delay
All is arranged, I decide what to do;
My brain is at work, my heart is at play,
I am running, flying, Harry, to you.
O stricken woman, whose life is all black,
Wearily walking in sorrow and shame!
O gay little girl who comes running back,
You are not, I’m certain, one and the same!
The sky is hid in its lead-coloured pall,
Not a bird utters the least little tone;
The blossoms about me wither and fall;
The change must be in me—and me alone!
* * * * *
I tell them I cannot endure it more;
That the empty house is killing my heart;
They have done their best to assist before,
And they eagerly help me to depart.
The world is very good-natured, I find
(Why do worldlings often their home condemn?)
And servants are always extremely kind,
If mistresses only are kind to them.
’I go to London to meet a friend’—
They are all agreed I want change and rest—
I give a direction where they may send,
I take my own maid, and I leave the rest.
I know that detectives are on my track,
Watching the house—watching
all that I do—
I have to pretend I am coming back,
And enact this drama, Harry, for you.
I am sorry to say goodbye to all—
For all had been kind in days that are
dead;
But the only tear that my eyes let fall
Was dropp’d upon Rover’s shaggy
old head.
My London friend I can trust; she is one
That I knew at school, and have lov’d
for years—
O happy school-days that are past and
done!
O beautiful friendship, unsoiled by tears!
Restlessly, wearily eager am I—
(Do girls feel thus when about to elope?)—
I leave Harry’s home ’neath
a star-lit sky,
And my heart beats high with a single
hope.
And my heart beats high with a single
hope,
Which has come on a sudden when unsought;
In all the wide world there is only scope
For a single hope and a single thought.
O why should a wide world have more than
this?
When after all has been done and been
said,
’Tis a single grief or a single
bliss
That rekindles a life or strikes it dead.
Clasp’d in her arms, with her tears
on my cheek,
Her kind husband warmly grasping my hand,
In statue-like calm, I move not nor speak—
A silent machine for one purpose plann’d.
‘O white little face,’ she
tremblingly cries,
’It cannot be yours, that white
little face;
O when did you get those far-seeking eyes?
And the stillness in lieu of girlish grace?’
And looking at me she drew back alarm’d,
She felt that something divided
us;
She, who lived the life of the happy charm’d,
And I, who am battling with fortune thus.
Out spake her husband—’I
know what to do;
Put her to bed—she will wake
by-and-by—
Then let her have, in the boudoir with
you,
A hot cup of tea and thorough good cry.’
As a judge in court he summ’d up
the whole;
I laugh’d my first laugh since the
grief began;
For I thought, this is how a woman’s
soul
Is held at the hands of a worthy man!
I answer’d him with a sort of a
scorn—
The least little bend from a haughty height—
’I left home last evening, was here
at morn,
And shall be in Liverpool long ere night.’
They were startled, eager, anxious and
kind
(They had read the papers and learn’d
the fact),
But they question’d not, from the
touch refin’d
Of a sweet good-nature that men call tact.
I told where he was—I trusted
them both,
Sounding the depths of their souls in
their eyes;
The man was too honest to need an oath,
And the woman too tender not to be wise.
They were ready to help with hand and
heart
(And a kindness no balancing prudence
bounds),
Fed me and petted me, let me depart,
And lent me at parting five hundred pounds.
We started as if for an airing gay,
No coachman or footman, not even Jane;
The husband drove us the whole of the
way,
And saw me safe in the Liverpool train.
The tears of my friend lie wet on my cheek,
I pointed onward, and wistfully smil’d;
Her husband smil’d too, though he
did not speak
And kiss’d me as if I had been his
child.
Never a slumber the whole of the night,
Never a slumber with day in the skies;
Nature assumes preternatural light,
Set in sharp outlines that dazzle my eyes.
Blackness and whiteness—no
colour there is—
Terrible contrast of lustre and shade—
Yet no surprise thrills my spirit at this
Wonderful world into silhouettes made.
Countries and cities rush hastily by,
Hedgerows and forests excitedly fly;
Rapidly earth pirouettes through the sky;
All things are madly in motion, but I—
If they would stop for one minute, but
one,
Thought might return from spheres distant
and dim;
Thought has forsaken me; I am alone,
With but one consciousness—nothing
but him.
We have reach’d the station—the
train is left:
What I am doing I know must be done;
I am a creature whose body’s bereft
Of all sensations and feelings save one.
I don’t think I see the streets and the lights, Or hear the answers my questions brought; Yet something guides me, and guides me aright— Is mesmerism the nonsense I thought? If the brain, engross’d by a single fact, Fails the whole army of nerves to sustain, The outposts perhaps, refusing to act, Transmit neither sight nor sound to the brain.
But are SOULS dependent on eye and ear?
Does nothing come straight to them
from above?
Are there no spirit-instincts, to see
and hear,
And no miraculous power of Love?
I have found the Crescent, and number
Two—
I have rung the bell—the servant
has come—
I have opened my lips, and words run through,
And they ask ‘Is Mr. Clarence at
home?’
A man has appear’d from some inner
place
(I heard him describ’d ’ere
this trance began)—
Is he moving away into empty space?
I must come to life and must stop this
man.
A terrible nightmare on throat and brain—
A body and soul in bewilder’d strife—
Shall I never be quite alive again?—
I’ll make a desperate struggle for
life!
I catch at his arm as he passes by,
As a drowning creature clutches at life;
And I whisper low as a lullaby—
‘Give him me instantly—I
am his wife!’
He stares in my face with nothing to say—
A tremor comes over his brow and lip—
He flings up his arms in a helpless way,
And stammers—’Alas! he’s
on board the ship!’
I am not fainting—I am not
appall’d—
I am not beat down—I feel no
despair:
It seems all expected and all forestall’d,
As I utter my three words, ‘When
and where?’
’Two hours ago at the Northern quay’—
He offers me food, and to rest and sit—
I have left the house—I am
on my way—
I have hail’d a cab and jump’d
into it.
O faster! O faster! O yet more
fast!
There’s nothing on earth but driving
like this:
I know it will all come right at
the last,
But I am not certain what the right is.
There is a river and there is a boat
(I read it all in a far-away tale)—
O faster! O faster! you do but float;
Pull away with your oars, shake out your
sail!
A woman, I know, must sail in a skiff,
And reach a ship ere it reaches the sea;
But it is a wonderful matter if
The woman who sits here is really me!
O faster! O faster! you scarcely
stir—
The ship has grown large that was but
a speck!
We have reached the ship—we
have boarded her—
And I SEE who is standing on her deck!
I see who stands there, I hear and see
His incredulous joy and startled cry,
His beautiful wonder at sight of me;
I feel his embraces, and then—I
die!
I know not how long I was lying dead;
I know not what happen’d day after
day:
But I know whose breast supported my head;
I know in whose arms I passively lay.
I know whose voice I was hearing again;
With no vivid emotion through me sent,
But only with that sweet absence of pain
The young call repose, and the old, content.
I know of the presence that o’er
me shed
Through all that I suffer’d a perfect
ease;
I know all this because I am dead—
I suppose the dead can know what they
please!
Can I be dead? It is foolish to die,
Earth shining brighter than any bright star.
Death, do you know it is Harry and I?
Heaven is here—must I seek it afar?
Death, seize thy prey from the world-weary track;
Let not the happy by thee be remov’d;
Slowly and softly and sweetly come back,
Life that she loves to a girl that is lov’d!
* * * * *
Cut through the waves, happy ship ’neath my feet;
Scatter thy prow with beneficent spray!
Never an admiral leading a fleet
Felt as triumphant as I do to-day!
Ocean around us, and Heaven above;
Hands clasp’d together in innocent bliss;
Heart meeting heart with the fulness of love—
Can there be anything sweeter than this?
Seeking a home on a far-distant shore,
Mid gigantic forests and splendid flow’rs,
Where sorrow cannot bewilder us more,
Or fear reach a solitude perfect as ours.
Crossing blue oceans ’neath heavens
as blue,
Seeking new worlds with new winters and
springs;
Even the old stars are changing to new,
Lovely confusion of wonderful things!
Almost forgetting to feel a regret—
Almost forgotten the world whence we came—
Only our hearts, Harry, cannot forget;
Only our love will be ever the same!
Talking together through nights and through
days;
Talking together through days and through
nights;
Facing futurity’s fathomless haze;
Piercing its shadows with delicate lights.
Forward our glances immutably cast
(Pillars of salt will not garnish our
way!)
Just for the present forgetting the past,
Planning the future in all that we say.
Where neither sorrow nor sin has beguil’d,
Deep in a forest, a home will be made;
Nature contrasting with hand undefil’d
Novel creations of sunlight and shade.
Softness and grandeur enchantingly blent,
Deep in a forest two lives pass away;
Wrapp’d in each other, supremely
content,
Lighted by love’s irrefrangible
ray.
So the ship flew on that contain’d
us two,
With ocean around and heaven above;
It seem’d there was nothing for
us to do
But to love and live, and to live and
love.
So the ship flew on to the sinless shore,
Where a younger world from the deep sea
starts;
Where sorrow cannot bewilder us more,
Or fear lay her cold hand over our hearts.
It is just as lovely as what we plann’d,
With its exquisite air of bright repose;
And ’tis Harry himself must till
the land,
And ’tis I must sweep and cook,
I suppose!
Is it playing at life, this life of ours?
Has childhood come back with its pleasant
plays?
Mid gigantic trees and delicious flow’rs
We are passing our happy nights and days.
But the little cloud—O the
little cloud—
So little at first it might almost please—
That covers us up like a dead man’s
shroud,
Growing bigger and bigger by degrees.
Alas! is it only in some bright past
That love can be perfect and bliss secure?
O days of delight that flew by too fast,
Leaving the present too empty and poor!
I had sometimes fancied a pang like this,
From a passing tone, or a look in his
face;
But the meeting was such unclouded bliss,
And the days that follow’d it full
of grace.
In the sweet content of finding a home,
There was not leisure for joy to grow
dim;
But the cloud was there, and ready to
come,
And the cloud was the fear of change in
him!
Harry is changed—he is graver,—I
think
Never I’ll see the old Harry again:
There’s a look in his face that
makes my heart sink,
For it is a look of a hopeless pain.
Sometimes I hardly can keep down my cries—
I could wring my hands—I could
tear my hair—
When an expression comes into his eyes,
Which is the expression of a despair.
He never alludes to the dreadful past;
But when his lips tremble and brow is
knit,
I cannot bear it, and cry out at last,
‘O talk of it, Harry—O
talk of it!’
His eyes are full of a helpless regret
(And I almost wish I was lying dead);
Will he not talk of it? not even yet?—
He speaks in a whisper, and shakes his
head.
‘I cannot—I dare not.’
’You can—you dare—
You must do it, Harry—just
for my sake;
For this burthen, which it is not
to bear,
Is crushing my heart, and my heart will
break.’
He kisses my lips—he presses
my hand—
Looking straight in my face without surprise;
But it seems that he cannot understand,
And very wide of the mark he replies—
’I will not shadow that innocent
heart
With the lightest cloud that may dim its
light.’
’But my life in your life must take
its part,
Or I am lost in the darkness of night.
I married you, Harry, for good or ill,
For better or worse, for sickness or health.
O let me the beautiful vow fulfil,
Joyously, utterly—never by
stealth!
I am not your wife while you treat
me thus,
And life is becoming too hard to bear;
Is there that in the heart of one of us,
That the heart of the other must not share?
’I almost died when you left me,
my dear;
Yet you did it quite for my good, you
know;
O where should I be if I was not here?
’Neath a little grass hillock lying
low!
You would be living, to labour and strive,
And I should be lying quite dead—quite
dead!
You would be thinking of me as alive,
While daisies were growing over my head.
And now—for my good—will
you crush my life
With a burthen it cannot bear, I know?
O Harry, my darling, I am your
wife—
O what have I done that you treat me so?’
He stared in my eyes with a sort of frown,
That more than a smile gave promise of
grace;
The mask that he wore fell suddenly down,
A wonderful change came over his face.
He sat at my feet, and his head he laid
Low down on my lap, and he did not move,
But he murmur’d softly, ’I
am afraid
I shall make a fool of myself, my love.’
And then he suddenly burst into tears
(I had never seen tears in Harry’s
eyes),
And he cried, ’If I live a hundred
years,
I shall see the wild face of Jack Devize!’
Then I felt the doom that was o’er
us laid,
And our lives stood before me pale and
gray;
My heart turn’d sick—I
was feeling afraid—
As I kept kissing Harry’s tears
away.
And must his life be so faint and so dim?
And his heart be rack’d by a useless
pain?
While I’m always trying to comfort
him,
And always trying to comfort in vain?
Ah no, my beloved, it shall not
be so,
I will try so hard—I will pray
so much;
Comfort will come to you, Harry, I know,
And grief die out ’neath her delicate
touch.
We must both be brave and must play our
parts;
We must fight the battle with weapons
fit;
Time will take sorrow out of our hearts,
But oh, the pity—the pity of
it!
There are no more secrets ’twixt
you and me;
Our hearts may reveal their thoughts as
they pass;
There is a ripple the less on the sea,
And a purer light flits over the grass.
If shadows are dark, and lights are not
clear,
It is only the common lot of man;
We must live our actual lives, my dear,
And make the best of those lives that
we can.
I used to be certain of perfect bliss,
And find it in every breath I drew;
And now the height of my happiness is
To lessen the sorrow that burthens you!
Thank God that we met when our lives were bright,
And earth was as fair as heaven above,
And stood in the lovely religious light,
And vowed the sweet vows to cherish and love.
O Harry, my dear! if we had not met,
What would you do with your desolate life?
O merciful God, can I ever forget
Your goodness in letting me be his wife?
* * * * *
We walk ’neath the weight that we have to bear
(I suppose all people walk under weights);
They say that a road of trouble and care
Is the straightest road to the Heaven-gates.
I hope we shall find the gates open far,
So that close together we both come in;
I shrink from the thoughts of the gates ajar,
When only the one might an entrance win.
I wonder if Heaven is brighter yet,
Than the home that lies o’er a distant
main;
I wonder if there we shall quite
forget
That we never saw that dear home again!
I must not be tired, or think of my load;
I must try to walk with a step more free;
I have to help Harry along the road,
That is so much harder for him than me.
Living alone in the depths of a wood,
Life catches meanings, and things become
clear;
But Harry is growing so very good,
That it almost gives me a sort of fear.
‘O little May-blossom!’ he
softly cries,
As together we tread the well-worn way,
’There is nothing sweeter beneath
the skies,
Than a little shining blossom of May!
O lie on my heart, as you ever do,
Till my heart grows lighter under your
touch;
O little May-blossom! while I have you
No shaft of misfortune can hurt me much!’
He has work’d all day on the virgin
sod;
We have eaten the meal that my hands prepare;
We have said our prayers to the Father-God,
And Harry is placidly sleeping there.
He is sleeping there, while I work away—
My busy needle has plenty to do;
And my thoughts turn idly to yesterday,
And a world where troubles were very few;
To a world that shines in a distance fair, Like a fairy dream, impossibly sweet,— Was life what it seem’d when we liv’d out there? Or was it only a lovely deceit?
Slumber approach’d not my eyes—open’d
wide—
My wide-open eyes that so seldom weep!
Harry turn’d in his sleep, and turning
sigh’d—
It breaks my heart when he sighs in his
sleep.
And while I sat there in the twilight-gloom,
Looking at life with my wide-open eyes,
A ghost slipp’d suddenly into the
room,
And that ghost was the ghost of Jack Devize!
A shiver ran o’er me from head to
foot—
The crisis had come, and fate wrought
her worst—
I tried to speak, but my tongue was quite
mute,
And I knew that a ghost could not
speak first.
O ought I to wake my Harry, or no?
To question the Thing, and let it depart?
The good God would never frighten me so,
If it was not to ease my Harry’s
heart.
But while I was doubting in fear and pain,
And praying for light to see my way clear,
The ghost said—’My goodness!
it’s Mrs. Vane!
How in the world did the woman come here?’
The ghost stalk’d towards me with
outstretch’d hand:
I put mine behind me, and back’d
away;
My terrified brain could not understand,
And my arid lips had nothing to say.
Yet for Harry’s sake no time must
be lost:
I must ask the dreadful Thing why it came;
Then I remember’d ’twas he
kill’d the ghost,
And I hung down my head and blush’d
for shame.
Suddenly turning, my Harry it saw;
Suddenly sprang t’wards the couch
where he lay;—
A deadlier terror conquering awe,
Brave as a lion, I stood in its way.
I wav’d both my hands to signal
it back:
‘You shall not come near him!’
I wildly said;
’He never intended to kill you,
Jack—
O Jack, I hope you don’t
mind being dead!’
Strive as we will, fate can calmly defeat—
What is to be, happens—and
always will;
Harry awoke, and stood up on his feet,
And my heart leapt madly and then stood
still.
I trembled for Harry, all unprepar’d!
I stood between the Alive and the Dead!
The man and the ghost at each other star’d—
And the man got white, and the ghost got
red.
The man kept on staring with hungry eyes,
Pointing at it, till I trembled to see;
Then said in a whisper, ’It’s
Jack Devize!’—
Shook himself wildly and turn’d
upon me.
His hand sought his brow in a weak sad
way,
A pitiful look came into his face:
‘It is a brain-phantom,’ I
heard him say,
‘Which my weary brain engenders
in space!’
‘No, Harry,’ I whisper’d,
’it is not so;
I wish that it was—from my
heart I do’—
I held him tight, whispering very low,
‘Tis a real ghost, for—I
see it too!’
I felt his arm quiver under my clasp;
He started backwards with such a great
start;
He flung up his arms, and cried with a
gasp,
‘Oh speak to me, Jack, whatever
thou art!’
The ghost caught his hands with a cheer
almost,
And shook them right manfully where it
stood,
Shouting ’I’m neither a phantom
nor ghost;
I am Jack Devize, and am flesh and blood!’
And so the sorrow was only a dream
(As the sun uprises the dream departs);
And the false false sorrow did only seem,
And the true true joy came into our hearts.
I had so determin’d to be resign’d,
And to school myself to a patient mood,
That I felt a little ill-used to find
There was no occasion for being good.
But oh the joy, like the sweetest surprise,
With a light light heart and nothing to
bear!
And oh to be looking in Harry’s
eyes
And never a fear of what I see there!
And when earth is deck’d in eternal
spring,
Singing we go on a flowery way;
And happiness is such a happy thing,
And it seems so natural to be gay.
I think that the dullest will understand
Jack was not drown’d when he fell
from the height;
A ship passing by, as if it was plann’d,
Carried him off mid the darkness of night.
He was up to the neck in debts and scrapes;
And when the west wind refreshingly blew,
He thought it the pleasantest of escapes
To sail for new worlds with nothing to
do.
Strolling and idling by day and by night,
He liv’d by his wits, with a laugh
for fate;
And his wits not being extremely bright,
He accomplish’d nothing remarkably
great.
Wandering ev’rywhere, ragged and
poor,
With nothing to do and plenty to say,
By the merest chance he enter’d
our door
To ask for a meal and a bed by the way.
So the three of us met delighted there,
And set sail together that perfect spring,
When the skies were fine and the winds
were fair,
And our hearts were lighter than anything.
From the midst of the sea the white cliffs
rise—
The snowy white cliffs of the ocean gem!
And they smile their welcome into our
eyes
As Harry and I smile it back on them.
Standing together alone on the deck,
With a hope that almost becomes a fear,
We can watch that wonderful little speck
Grow into places unspeakably dear.
Is it years or days since we sail’d
away?
And are we returning the self-same track?
Did we cross the ocean but yesterday?
And is it to-day we are coming back?
Back to the home whence he vanish’d
that night,
In through the hall where I talk’d
with the men,—
Can it be true that our hearts are so
light?
When did we dream? Is it now?
Was it then?
And oh! to stand on the well-known road
In the bright uncertain English weather;
And oh! the hearts that are free from
a load,
And oh! the hands that are knit together!
And oh! to see Rover leap to his side
With a yell as if he doubted his sight!
I thought the old dog would have really
died
In his vehement agony of delight.
And I know the present is not a
dream,
For I feel a touch and a well-known kiss;
And they are not phantoms that shine and
gleam
From days that are past with a solemn
bliss.
From days that are lit by a heaven-ray,
To kindle our hearts and strengthen our
faith;
For Harry and I are changed in a way,
Like people whose eyes have looked upon
death.[2]
My Harry has won such a patient mood,
And has grown so resolute and so wise;
He is always trying to do some good,
And always succeeding in what he tries.
The trials I trembled that he should bear,
His noble heart has accepted as such;
And I see they were sent with a tender
care,
And never intended to be too much.
My heart is too full of its joy, I fear,
When he whispers in fond caressing tone—
’It was not my trials that won me,
dear;
It was watching my darling bear her own.
Afar from the hut in the dusky wood,
We sometimes recall with a yearning sigh,
The days of our sorrowful solitude,
When the world was nothing but he and
I.
[Footnote 2:
For she had look’d upon
a great man’s death
And she was changed.
Queen Isabel, by MENELLA SMEDLEY.]