V. FROM FREDERICK
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ashion'd by Heaven and by artSo is she, that she makes the heartAche and o'erflow with tears, that graceSo lovely fair should have for place,(Deeming itself at home the while,)The unworthy earth! To see her smileAmid this waste of pain and sin,As only knowing the heaven within,Is sweet, and does for pity stirPassion to be her minister:Wherefore last night I lay awake,And said, 'Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake,Give not this darling child of ThineTo care less reverent than mine!'And, as true faith was in my word,I trust, I trust that I was heard.The waves, this morning, sped to land,And shouted hoarse to touch the strand,Where Spring, that goes not out to sea,Lay laughing in her lovely glee;And, so, my life was sunlit sprayAnd tumult, as, once more to-day,For long farewell did I draw nearMy Cousin, desperately dear.Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was noneGleam'd like the lightning in the sun;Yet hope I had, and joy thereof.The father of love is hope, (though loveLives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,)And, out of my immediate dreadAnd crisis of the coming hour,Did hope itself draw sudden power.So the still brooding storm, in Spring,Makes all the birds begin to sing.Mother, your foresight did not err:I've lost the world, and not won her.And yet, ah, laugh not, when you thinkWhat cup of life I sought to drink!The bold, said I, have climb'd to blissAbsurd, impossible, as this,With nought to help them but so greatA heart it fascinates their fate.If ever Heaven heard man's desire,Mine, being made of altar-fire,Must come to pass, and it will beThat she will wait, when she shall see.This evening, how I go to get,By means unknown, I know not yetQuite what, but ground whereon to stand,And plead more plainly for her hand!And so I raved, and cast in hopeA superstitious horoscope!And still, though something in her facePortended 'No!' with such a graceIt burthen'd me with thankfulness,Nothing was credible but 'Yes.'Therefore, through time's close pressure bold,I praised myself, and boastful toldMy deeds at Acre; strain'd the chanceI had of honour and advanceIn war to come; and would not seeSad silence meant, 'What's this to me?'When half my precious hour was gone,She rose to meet a Mr. Vaughan;And, as the image of the moonBreaks up, within some still lagoonThat feels the soft wind suddenly,Or tide fresh flowing from the sea,And turns to giddy flames that goOver the water to and fro,Thus, when he took her hand to-night,Her lovely gravity of lightWas scatter'd into many smilesAnd flatting weakness. Hope beguilesNo more my heart, dear Mother. He,By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me.With nought to do, and fondly fainTo hear her singing once again,I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er;Then came she with me to the door.'Dearest Honoria,' I said,(By my despair familiar made,)'Heaven bless you!' Oh, to have back then stepp'dAnd fallen upon her neck, and wept,And said, 'My friend, I owe you allI am, and have, and hope for. CallFor some poor service; let me proveTo you, or him here whom you love,My duty. Any solemn task,For life's whole course, is all I ask!'Then she must surely have wept too,And said, 'My friend, what can you do!'And I should have replied, 'I'll pray'For you and him three times a-day,And, all day, morning, noon, and night,My life shall be so high and rightThat never Saint yet scaled the stairsOf heaven with more availing prayers!'But this (and, as good God shall blessSomehow my end, I'll do no less,)I had no right to speak. Oh, shame,So rich a love, so poor a claim!My Mother, now my only friend,Farewell. The school-books which you sendI shall not want, and so return.Give them away, or sell, or burn.I'll write from Malta. Would I mightBut be your little Child to-night,And feel your arms about me fold,Against this loneliness and cold!
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