IV. FROM FREDERICK.
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onder the sombre vessel ridesWhere my obscure condition hides.Waves scud to shore against the windThat flings the sprinkling surf behind;In port the bickering pennons showWhich way the ships would gladly go;Through Edgecumb Park the rooted treesAre tossing, reckless, in the breeze;On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower,As foils, not foibles, of its power,The light vanes do themselves adjustTo every veering of the gust:By me alone may nought be givenTo guidance of the airs of heaven?In battle or peace, in calm or storm,Should I my daily task perform,Better a thousand times for love,Who should my secret soul reprove?Beholding one like her, a manLongs to lay down his life! How canAught to itself seem thus enough,When I have so much need thereof?Blest in her place, blissful is she;And I, departing, seem to beLike the strange waif that comes to runA few days flaming near the sun,And carries back, through boundless night,Its lessening memory of light.Oh, my dear Mother, I confessTo a deep grief of homelessness,Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis yearsSince such a shower of girlish tearsDisgraced me! But this wretched Inn,At Plymouth, is so full of din,Talkings and trampings to and fro.And then my ship, to which I goTo-night, is no more home. I dread,As strange, the life I long have led;And as, when first I went to school,And found the horror of a ruleWhich only ask'd to be obey'd,I lay and wept, of dawn afraid,And thought, with bursting heart, of oneWho, from her little, wayward son,Required obedience, but aboveObedience still regarded love,So change I that enchanting place,The abode of innocence and graceAnd gaiety without reproof,For the black gun-deck's louring roof.Blind and inevitable lawWhich makes light duties burdens, aweWhich is not reverence, laughters gain'dAt cost of purities profaned,And whatsoever most may stirRemorseful passion towards her,Whom to behold is to departFrom all defect of life and heart.But, Mother, I shall go on shore,And see my Cousin yet once more!'Twere wild to hope for her, you say.I've torn and cast those words away.Surely there's hope! For life 'tis wellLove without hope's impossible;So, if I love, it is that hopeIs not outside the outer scopeOf fancy. You speak truth: this hourI must resist, or lose the power.What! and, when some short months are o'er,Be not much other than before?Drop from the bright and virtuous sphereIn which I'm held but while she's dear?For daily life's dull, senseless mood,Slay the fine nerves of gratitudeAnd sweet allegiance, which I oweWhether the debt be weal or woe?Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, preferTo want for all in wanting her.For all? Love's best is not bereftEver from him to whom is leftThe trust that God will not deceiveHis creature, fashion'd to believeThe prophecies of pure desire.Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.A mystery does my heart foretell;Nor do I press the oracleFor explanations. Leave me alone,And let in me love's will be done.
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