IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM.
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onoria, trebly fair and mildWith added loves of lord and child,Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrongThe rest, touch not her beauty, youngWithin youth which rather seems her clime,Than aught that's relative to time.How beyond hope was heard the prayerI offer'd in my love's despair!Could any, whilst there's any woe,Be wholly blest, then she were so.She is, and is aware of it,Her husband's endless benefit;But, though their daily ways revealThe depth of private joy they feel,'Tis not their bearing each to eachThat does abroad their secret preach,But such a lovely good-intentTo all within their governmentAnd friendship as, 'tis well discern'd,Each of the other must have learn'd;For no mere dues of neighbourhoodEver begot so blest a mood.And fair, indeed, should be the fewGod dowers with nothing else to do,And liberal of their light, and freeTo show themselves, that all may see!For alms let poor men poorly giveThe meat whereby men's bodies live;But they of wealth are stewards wiseWhose graces are their charities.The sunny charm about this homeMakes all to shine who thither come.My own dear Jane has caught its grace,And, honour'd, honours too the place.Across the lawn I lately walk'dAlone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd,Gentle and goddess-like of air,Honoria and some Stranger fair.I chose a path unblest by these;When one of the two Goddesses,With my Wife's voice, but softer, said,'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?'She moves, indeed, the modest peerOf all the proudest ladies here.Unawed she talks with men who standAmong the leaders of the land,And women beautiful and wise,With England's greatness in their eyes.To high, traditional good-sense,And knowledge ripe without pretence,And human truth exactly hitBy quiet and conclusive wit,Listens my little, homely Jane,Mistakes the points and laughs amain;And, after, stands and combs her hair,And calls me much the wittiest there!With reckless loyalty, dear Wife,She lays herself about my life!The joy I might have had of yoreI have not; for 'tis now no more,With me, the lyric time of youth,And sweet sensation of the truth.Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd,In my chance choice let be confess'dThe tenderer Providence that rulesThe fates of children and of fools!I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept,And from her side this morning stepp'd,To bathe my brain from drowsy nightIn the sharp air and golden light.The dew, like frost, was on the pane.The year begins, though fair, to wane.There is a fragrance in its breathWhich is not of the flowers, but death;And green above the ground appearThe lilies of another year.I wander'd forth, and took my pathAmong the bloomless aftermath;And heard the steadfast robin singAs if his own warm heart were Spring.And watch'd him feed where, on the yew,Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew;And then return'd, by walls of peach,And pear-trees bending to my reach,And rose-beds with the roses gone,To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. VaughanWas there, none with her. I confessI love her than of yore no less!But she alone was loved of old;Now love is twain, nay, manifold;For, somehow, he whose daily lifeAdjusts itself to one true wife,Grows to a nuptial, near degreeWith all that's fair and womanly.Therefore, as more than friends, we met,Without constraint, without regret;The wedded yoke that each had donn'dSeeming a sanction, not a bond.
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