XII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA.

Dearest, my Love and Wife,‘ tis long

Ago I closed the unfinish'd song

Which never could be finish'd; nor

Will ever Poet utter more

Of Love than I did, watching well

To lure to speech the unspeakable!

‘ Why, having won her, do I woo?’

That final strain to the last height flew

Of written joy, which wants the smile

And voice that are, indeed, the while

They last, the very things you speak,

Honoria, who mak'st music weak

With ways that say,‘ Shall I not be

As kind to all as Heaven to me?’

And yet, ah, twenty-fold my Bride!

Rising, this twentieth festal-tide,

You still soft sleeping, on this day

Of days, some words I long to say,

Some words superfluously sweet

Of fresh assurance, thus to greet

Your waking eyes, which never grow

Weary of telling what I know

So well, yet only well enough

To wish for further news thereof.

Here, in this early autumn dawn,

By windows opening on the lawn.

Where sunshine seems asleep, though bright,

And shadows yet are sharp with night,

And, further on, the wealthy wheat

Bends in a golden drowse, how sweet

To sit and cast my careless looks

Around my walls of well-read books,

Wherein is all that stands redeem'd

From time's huge wreck, all men have dream'd

Of truth, and all by poets known

Of feeling, and in weak sort shown,

And, turning to my heart again,

To find I have what makes them vain,

The thanksgiving mind, which wisdom sums,

And you, whereby it freshly comes

As on that morning, ( can there be

Twenty-two years‘ twixt it and me? )

When, thrill'd with hopeful love, I rose

And came in haste to Sarum Close,

Past many a homestead slumbering white

In lonely and pathetic light,

Merely to fancy which drawn blind

Of thirteen had my Love behind,

And in her sacred neighbourhood

To feel that sweet scorn of all good

But her, which let the wise forfend

When wisdom learns to comprehend!

Dearest, as each returning May

I see the season new and gay

With new joy and astonishment,

And Nature's infinite ostent

Of lovely flowers in wood and mead.

That weet not whether any heed,

So see I, daily wondering, you,

And worship with a passion new

The Heaven that visibly allows

Its grace to go about my house,

The partial Heaven, that, though I err

And mortal am, gave all to her

Who gave herself to me. Yet I

Boldly thank Heaven, ( and so defy

The beggarly soul'd humbleness

Which fears God's bounty to confess,)

That I was fashion'd with a mind

Seeming for this great gift design'd,

So naturally it moved above

All sordid contraries of love,

Strengthen'd in youth with discipline

Of light, to follow the divine

Vision, ( which ever to the dark

Is such a plague as was the ark

In Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron,) still

Discerning with the docile will

Which comes of full persuaded thought,

That intimacy in love is nought

Without pure reverence, whereas this,

In tearfullest banishment, is bliss.

And so, dearest Honoria, I

Have never learn'd the weary sigh

Of those that to their love-feasts went,

Fed, and forgot the Sacrament;

And not a trifle now occurs

But sweet initiation stirs

Of new-discover'd joy, and lends

To feeling change that never ends;

And duties which the many irk,

Are made all wages and no work.

How sing of such things save to her,

Love's self, so love's interpreter?

How the supreme rewards confess

Which crown the austere voluptuousness

Of heart, that earns, in midst of wealth,

The appetite of want and health,

Relinquishes the pomp of life

And beauty to the pleasant Wife

At home, and does all joy despise

As out of place but in her eyes?

How praise the years and gravity

That make each favour seem to be

A lovelier weakness for her lord?

And, ah, how find the tender word

To tell aright of love that glows

The fairer for the fading rose?

Of frailty which can weight the arm

To lean with thrice its girlish charm?

Of grace which, like this autumn day,

Is not the sad one of decay,

Yet one whose pale brow pondereth

The far-off majesty of death?

How tell the crowd, whom a passion rends,

That love grows mild as it ascends?

That joy's most high and distant mood

Is lost, not found in dancing blood;

Albeit kind acts and smiling eyes,

And all those fond realities

Which are love's words, in us mean more

Delight than twenty years before?

How, Dearest, finish without wrong

To the speechless heart, the unfinish'd song,

Its high, eventful passages

Consisting, say, of things like these:—

One morning, contrary to law,

Which, for the most, we held in awe,

Commanding either not to intrude

On the other's place of solitude

Or solitary mind, for fear

Of coming there when God was near,

And finding so what should be known

To Him who is merciful alone,

And views the working ferment base

Of waking flesh and sleeping grace,

Not as we view, our kindness check'd

By likeness of our own defect,

I, venturing to her room, because

( Mark the excuse! ) my Birthday‘ twas,

Saw, here across a careless chair,

A ball-dress flung, as light as air,

And, here, beside a silken couch,

Pillows which did the pressure vouch

Of pious knees, ( sweet piety

Of goodness made and charity,

If gay looks told the heart's glad sense,

Much rather than of penitence,)

And, on the couch, an open book,

And written list — I did not look,

Yet just in her clear writing caught:—

‘ Habitual faults of life and thought

Which most I need deliverance from.’

I turn'd aside, and saw her come

Adown the filbert-shaded way,

Beautified with her usual gay

Hypocrisy of perfectness,

Which made her heart, and mine no less,

So happy! And she cried to me,

‘ You lose by breaking rules, you see!

Your Birthday treat is now half-gone

Of seeing my new ball-dress on.’

And, meeting so my lovely Wife,

A passing pang, to think that life

Was mortal, when I saw her laugh,

Shaped in my mind this epitaph:

‘ Faults had she, child of Adam's stem.

But only Heaven knew of them.’

Or thus:

For many a dreadful day,

In sea-side lodgings sick she lay,

Noteless of love, nor seem'd to hear

The sea, on one side, thundering near,

Nor, on the other, the loud Ball

Held nightly in the public hall;

Nor vex'd they my short slumbers, though

I woke up if she breathed too low.

Thus, for three months, with terrors rife,

The pending of her precious life

I watched o'er; and the danger, at last,

The kind Physician said, was past.

Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks the East

Breathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased,

And so she only did not die;

Until the bright and blighting sky

Changed into cloud, and the sick flowers

Remember'd their perfumes, and showers

Of warm, small rain refreshing flew

Before the South, and the Park grew,

In three nights, thick with green. Then she

Revived, no less than flower and tree,

In the mild air, and, the fourth day,

Looked supernaturally gay

With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone,

The while I tied her bonnet on,

So that I led her to the glass,

And bade her see how fair she was,

And how love visibly could shine.

Profuse of hers, desiring mine,

And mindful I had loved her most

When beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast,

She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me,

Nothing but soft humility;

Nor e'er enhanced she with such charms

Her acquiescence in my arms.

And, by her sweet love-weakness made

Courageous, powerful, and glad.

In a clear illustration high

Of heavenly affection, I

Perceived that utter love is all

The same as to be rational,

And that the mind and heart of love,

Which think they cannot do enough,

Are truly the everlasting doors

Wherethrough, all unpetition'd, pours

The eternal pleasance. Wherefore we

Had innermost tranquillity,

And breathed one life with such a sense

Of friendship and of confidence,

That, recollecting the sure word:

‘ If two of you are in accord

On earth, as touching any boon

Which ye shall ask, it shall be done

In heaven,’ we ask'd that heaven's bliss

Might ne'er be any less than this;

And, for that hour, we seem'd to have

The secret of the joy we gave.

How sing of such things, save to her,

Love's self, so love's interpreter?

How read from such a homely page

In the ear of this unhomely age?

‘ Tis now as when the Prophet cried:

‘ The nation hast Thou multiplied,

But Thou hast not increased the joy!’

And yet, ere wrath or rot destroy

Of England's state the ruin fair,

Oh, might I so its charm declare,

That, in new Lands, in far-off years,

Delighted he should cry that hears:

‘ Great is the Land that somewhat best

Works, to the wonder of the rest!

We, in our day, have better done

This thing or that than any one;

And who but, still admiring, sees

How excellent for images

Was Greece, for laws how wise was Rome;

But read this Poet, and say if home

And private love did e'er so smile

As in that ancient English isle!’