VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK.
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leave this, Dear, for you to read,For strength and hope, when I am dead.When Grace died, I was so perplex'd,I could not find one helpful text;And when, a little while before,I saw her sobbing on the floor,Because I told her that in heavenShe would be as the angels even,And would not want her doll, 'tis trueA horrible fear within me grew,That, since the preciousness of loveWent thus for nothing, mine might proveTo be no more, and heaven's blissSome dreadful good which is not this.But being about to die makes clearMany dark things. I have no fear,Now that my love, my grief, my joyIs but a passion for a toy.I cannot speak at all, I find,The shining something in my mindThat shows so much that, if I tookMy thoughts all down, 'twould make a book.God's Word, which lately seem'd aboveThe simpleness of human love,To my death-sharpen'd hearing tellsOf little or of nothing else;And many things I hoped were true,When first they came, like songs, from you,Now rise with witness past the reachOf doubt, and I to you can teach,As if with felt authorityAnd as things seen, what you taught me.Yet how? I have no words but thoseWhich every one already knows:As, 'No man hath at any timeSeen God, but 'tis the love of HimMade perfect, and He dwells in us,If we each other love.' Or thus,'My goodness misseth in extentOf Thee, Lord! In the excellentI know Thee; and the Saints on EarthMake all my love and holy mirth.'And further, 'Inasmuch as yeDid it to one of these, to MeYe did it, though ye nothing thoughtNor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.'What shall I dread? Will God undoOur bond, which is all others too?And when I meet you will you sayTo my reclaiming looks, 'Away!A dearer love my bosom warmsWith higher rights and holier charms.The children, whom thou here may'st see,Neighbours that mingle thee and me,And gaily on impartial lyresRenounce the foolish filial firesThey felt, with "Praise to God on high,Goodwill to all else equally;"The trials, duties, service, tears;The many fond, confiding yearsOf nearness sweet with thee apart;The joy of body, mind, and heart;The love that grew a reckless growth,Unmindful that the marriage-oathTo love in an eternal styleMeant--only for a little while:Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought;All love, not new, stands here for nought!'Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear,Even to utter such a fear!Are we not 'heirs,' as man and wife,'Together of eternal life?'Was Paradise e'er meant to fade,To make which marriage first was made?Neither beneath him nor aboveCould man in Eden find his Love;Yet with him in the garden walk'dHis God, and with Him mildly talk'd!Shall the humble preference offendIn Heaven, which God did there commend?Are 'Honourable and undefiled'The names of aught from heaven exiled?And are we not forbid to grieveAs without hope? Does God deceive,And call that hope which is despair,Namely, the heaven we should not share!Image and glory of the man,As he of God, is woman. CanThis holy, sweet proportion dieInto a dull equality?Are we not one flesh, yea, so farMore than the babe and mother are,That sons are bid mothers to leaveAnd to their wives alone to cleave,'For _they_ two are one flesh!' But 'tisIn the flesh we rise. Our union is,You know 'tis said, 'great mystery.'Great mockery, it appears to me;Poor image of the spousal bondOf Christ and Church, if loosed beyondThis life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet,There's not a single word to set.The speech to the scoffing SadduceeIs not in point to you and me;For how could Christ have taught such clodsThat Caesar's things are also God's?The sort of Wife the Law could makeMight well be 'hated' for Love's sake,And left, like money, land, or house;For out of Christ is no true spouse.I used to think it strange of HimTo make love's after-life so dim,Or only clear by inference:But God trusts much to common sense,And only tells us what, withoutHis Word, we could not have found outOn fleshly tables of the heartHe penn'd truth's feeling counterpartIn hopes that come to all: so, Dear,Trust these, and be of happy cheer,Nor think that he who has loved wellIs of all men most miserable.There's much more yet I want to say,But cannot now. You know my wayOf feeling strong from Twelve till TwoAfter my wine. I'll write to youDaily some words, which you shall haveTo break the silence of the grave.
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