AMELIA, ETC.

Whene'er mine eyes do my Amelia greet

It is with such emotion

As when, in childhood, turning a dim street,

I first beheld the ocean.

There, where the little, bright, surf-breathing town,

That shew'd me first her beauty and the sea,

Gathers its skirts against the gorse-lit down

And scatters gardens o'er the southern lea,

Abides this Maid

Within a kind, yet sombre Mother's shade,

Who of her daughter's graces seems almost afraid,

Viewing them ofttimes with a scared forecast,

Caught, haply, from obscure love-peril past.

Howe'er that be,

She scants me of my right,

Is cunning careful evermore to balk

Sweet separate talk,

And fevers my delight

By frets, if, on Amelia's cheek of peach,

I touch the notes which music cannot reach,

Bidding‘ Good-night!’

Wherefore it came that, till to-day's dear date,

I curs'd the weary months which yet I have to wait

Ere I find heaven, one-nested with my mate.

To-day, the Mother gave,

To urgent pleas and promise to behave

As she were there, her long-besought consent

To trust Amelia with me to the grave

Where lay my once-betrothed, Millicent:

‘ For,’ said she, hiding ill a moistening eye,

‘ Though, Sir, the word sounds hard,

God makes as if He least knew how to guard

The treasure He loves best, simplicity.’

And there Amelia stood, for fairness shewn

Like a young apple-tree, in flush'd array

Of white and ruddy flow'r, auroral, gay,

With chilly blue the maiden branch between;

And yet to look on her moved less the mind

To say‘ How beauteous!’ than‘ How good and kind!’

And so we went alone

By walls o'er which the lilac's numerous plume

Shook down perfume;

Trim plots close blown

With daisies, in conspicuous myriads seen,

Engross'd each one

With single ardour for her spouse, the sun;

Garths in their glad array

Of white and ruddy branch, auroral, gay,

With azure chill the maiden flow'r between;

Meadows of fervid green,

With sometime sudden prospect of untold

Cowslips, like chance-found gold;

And broadcast buttercups at joyful gaze,

Rending the air with praise,

Like the six-hundred-thousand-voiced shout

Of Jacob camp'd in Midian put to rout;

Then through the Park,

Where Spring to livelier gloom

Quicken'd the cedars dark,

And,‘ gainst the clear sky cold,

Which shone afar

Crowded with sunny alps oracular,

Great chestnuts raised themselves abroad like cliffs of bloom;

And everywhere,

Amid the ceaseless rapture of the lark,

With wonder new

We caught the solemn voice of single air,

‘ Cuckoo!’

And when Amelia,‘ bolden'd, saw and heard

How bravely sang the bird,

And all things in God's bounty did rejoice,

She who, her Mother by, spake seldom word,

Did her charm'd silence doff,

And, to my happy marvel, her dear voice

Went as a clock does, when the pendulum's off.

Ill Monarch of man's heart the Maiden who

Does not aspire to be High-Pontiff too!

So she repeated soft her Poet's line,

‘ By grace divine,

Not otherwise, O Nature, are we thine!’

And I, up the bright steep she led me, trod,

And the like thought pursued

With,‘ What is gladness without gratitude,

And where is gratitude without a God?’

And of delight, the guerdon of His laws,

She spake, in learned mood;

And I, of Him loved reverently, as Cause,

Her sweetly, as Occasion of all good.

Nor were we shy,

For souls in heaven that be

May talk of heaven without hypocrisy.

And now, when we drew near

The low, gray Church, in its sequester'd dell,

A shade upon me fell.

Dead Millicent indeed had been most sweet,

But I how little meet

To call such graces in a Maiden mine!

A boy's proud passion free affection blunts;

His well-meant flatteries oft are blind affronts;

And many a tear

Was Millicent's before I, manlier, knew

That maidens shine

As diamonds do,

Which, though most clear,

Are not to be seen through;

And, if she put her virgin self aside

And sate her, crownless, at my conquering feet,

It should have bred in me humility, not pride.

Amelia had more luck than Millicent:

Secure she smiled and warm from all mischance

Or from my knowledge or my ignorance,

And glow'd content

With my — some might have thought too much — superior age,

Which seem'd the gage

Of steady kindness all on her intent.

Thus nought forebade us to be fully blent.

While, therefore, now

Her pensive footstep stirr'd

The darnell'd garden of unheedful death,

She ask'd what Millicent was like, and heard

Of eyes like her's, and honeysuckle breath,

And of a wiser than a woman's brow,

Yet fill'd with only woman's love, and how

An incidental greatness character'd

Her unconsider'd ways.

But all my praise

Amelia thought too slight for Millicent,

And on my lovelier-freighted arm she leant,

For more attent;

And the tea-rose I gave,

To deck her breast, she dropp'd upon the grave.

‘ And this was her's,’ said I, decoring with a band

Of mildest pearls Amelia's milder hand.

‘ Nay, I will wear it for her sake,’ she said:

For dear to maidens are their rivals dead.

And so,

She seated on the black yew's tortured root,

I on the carpet of sere shreds below,

And nigh the little mound where lay that other,

I kiss'd her lips three times without dispute,

And, with bold worship suddenly aglow,

I lifted to my lips a sandall'd foot,

And kiss'd it three times thrice without dispute.

Upon my head her fingers fell like snow,

Her lamb-like hands about my neck she wreathed.

Her arms like slumber o'er my shoulders crept,

And with her bosom, whence the azalea breathed,

She did my face full favourably smother,

To hide the heaving secret that she wept!

Now would I keep my promise to her Mother;

Now I arose, and raised her to her feet,

My best Amelia, fresh-born from a kiss,

Moth-like, full-blown in birthdew shuddering sweet,

With great, kind eyes, in whose brown shade

Bright Venus and her Baby play'd!

At inmost heart well pleased with one another,

What time the slant sun low

Through the plough'd field does each clod sharply shew,

And softly fills

With shade the dimples of our homeward hills,

With little said,

We left the‘ wilder'd garden of the dead,

And gain'd the gorse-lit shoulder of the down

That keeps the north-wind from the nestling town,

And caught, once more, the vision of the wave,

Where, on the horizon's dip,

A many-sailed ship

Pursued alone her distant purpose grave;

And, by steep steps rock-hewn, to the dim street

I led her sacred feet;

And so the Daughter gave,

Soft, moth-like, sweet,

Showy as damask-rose and shy as musk,

Back to her Mother, anxious in the dusk.

And now‘ Good-night!’

Me shall the phantom months no more affright.

For heaven's gates to open well waits he

Who keeps himself the key.