LETTER XII.

Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire,

For thou hast sworn — as sweetly as a bell

Makes out its chime — the oath I love to tell,

The fealty-oath of which I never tire.

The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre,

And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell.

The air is fill'd with voices. I have found

Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy

Past all belief; a peace without alloy.

There is a splendour all about the ground

As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd,

Something had come which death could not destroy.

It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent

A smile from Heaven — as if to-day the clods

Were lined with silk — the trees divining rods,

And roses gems for some high tournament.

I should not be so proud, or so content,

If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods.

A shrined saint would change his place with me

If he but knew the worth of what I feel.

He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal

Hath much concern; but how forlorn is he!

How pale his pomp! He cannot sue to thee,

But I am sainted every time I kneel.

I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark

Had left the hills, and down the beaten road

I saunter'd forth a mile from mine abode.

I heard, afar, the watchdog's sudden bark,

And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark,

Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode.

The moon was pacing up the sky serene,

Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown

Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known;

And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene

From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between,

And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone.

The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind

To warn or comfort; or to make amends

For hope delay'd,— for ecstasy that ends

At dawn's approach. The firmament was blind

Of all its eyes; and, wanton up the wind,

There came the shuddering that the twilight sends.

The hills exulted at the Morning's birth,—

And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run

Before a king to say the fight is won.

The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth

Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth,

To celebrate the rising of the sun.

And when the soaring lark had done its prayer,

The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue

Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two,

To pause and think, and then did clip the air

And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there.

“Thank God!” I cried, “My dearest dream is true!”

I was too happy, then, to leap and dance;

But I could ponder; I could gaze and gaze

From earth to sky and back to woodland ways.

The bird had thrill'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance,

For he had found to-day his nest-romance,

And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her with his praise.

O Love! my Love! I would not for a throne,

I would not for the thrones of all the kings

Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings,

Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown,

Consent to rule an empire all alone.

No! I must have the grace of our two rings.

I must possess thee from the crowning curl

Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye

Down to the bosom where my treasures lie.

From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl

That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl,

And be thy lord and master till I die.

This, and no less: the keeper of thy fame,

The proud controller of each silken tress,

And each dear item of thy loveliness,

And every oath, and every dainty name

Known to a bride: a picture in a frame

Of golden hair, to turn to and caress.

And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours,

To laugh and talk with those who circumvent

And make mad speeches; though I know the bent

Of some such men, and though in ladies’ bowers

They brag of swords — I know my proven powers;

I know myself and thee, and am content.

I know myself; and why should I demur?

The lily, bowing to the breeze's play,

Is not forgetful of the sun in May.

She is his nymph, and with a servitor

She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her,

And knows her true, and loves her day by day.

E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart!

O Lady white as lilies on the lea,

And fair as foam upon the ocean free

Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart!

E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art,

And with my soul's desire I compass thee.

For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense

Of true endowment, and a bride indeed

Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need:

To be a beacon when the air is dense,

A bower of peace, a life-long recompense —

This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed.

And what is Man the while? And what his will?

And what the furtherance of his earthly hope?

To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope

A drowning sailor; all his blood to spill

For One he loves, to keep her out of ill —

This is the will of Man, and this his scope.

‘ Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon

It can be wild, and keep away from home

A thousand ships — and lash itself to foam —

And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon —

And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone

Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome.

This is the will of Man, and this is mine.

But lo! I love thee more than wealth or fame,

More than myself, and more than those who came

With Christ's commission from the goal divine.

Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine,

I cling to thee, my Life! as fire to flame.