X. FROM FREDERICK.
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thought the worst had brought me balm:'Twas but the tempest's central calm.Vague sinkings of the heart averThat dreadful wrong is come to her,And o'er this dream I brood and dote,And learn its agonies by rote.As if I loved it, early and lateI make familiar with my fate,And feed, with fascinated will,On very dregs of finish'd ill.I think, she's near him now, alone,With wardship and protection none;Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stressOf airs that clasp him with her dress,They wander whispering by the wave;And haply now, in some sea-cave,Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod,They laugh, they kiss, Oh, God! oh, God!There comes a smile acutely sweetOut of the picturing dark; I meetThe ancient frankness of her gaze,That soft and heart-surprising blazeOf great goodwill and innocence.And perfect joy proceeding thence!Ah! made for earth's delight, yet suchThe mid-sea air's too gross to touch.At thought of which, the soul in meIs as the bird that bites a bee,And darts abroad on frantic wing,Tasting the honey and the sting;And, moaning where all round me sleepAmidst the moaning of the deep,I start at midnight from my bed--And have no right to strike him dead.What world is this that I am in,Where chance turns sanctity to sin!'Tis crime henceforward to desireThe only good; the sacred fireThat sunn'd the universe is hell!I hear a Voice which argues well:'The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry;Fall down and worship me, and IWill give you peace; go and profaneThis pangful love, so pure, so vain.And thereby win forgetfulnessAnd pardon of the spirit's excess,Which soar'd too nigh that jealous HeavenEver, save thus, to be forgiven.No Gospel has come down that curesWith better gain a loss like yours.Be pious! Give the beggar pelf,And love your neighbour as yourself!You, who yet love, though all is o'er,And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more,With soul which can in pity smileThat aught with such a measure vileAs self should be at all named "love!"Your sanctity the priests reprove;Your case of grief they wholly miss;The Man of Sorrows names not this.The years, they say, graft love divineOn the lopp'd stock of love like thine;The wild tree dies not, but converts.So be it; but the lopping hurts,The graft takes tardily! Men stanchMeantime with earth the bleeding branch.There's nothing heals one woman's loss,And lightens life's eternal crossWith intermission of sound rest,Like lying in another's breast.The cure is, to your thinking, low!Is not life all, henceforward, so?'Ill Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood:I'll sleep! But, as I thus conclude,The intrusions of her grace dispelThe comfortable glooms of hell.A wonder! Ere these lines were dried,Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride,Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo,In beauty soft as is the snowAnd powerful as the avalanche,She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance!She smiled, surprised. They came to seeThe ship, not thinking to meet me.At infinite distance she's my day:What then to him? Howbeit they say'Tis not so sunny in the sunBut men might live cool lives thereon!All's well; for I have seen ariseThat reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and watch'd his breath deferHumbly its bated life to her,His _wife_. My Love, she's safe in hisDevotion! What ask'd I but this?They bade adieu; I saw them goAcross the sea; and now I knowThe ultimate hope I rested on,The hope beyond the grave, is gone,The hope that, in the heavens high,At last it should appear that ILoved most, and so, by claim divine,Should have her, in the heavens, for mine,According to such nuptial sortAs may subsist in the holy court,Where, if there are all kinds of joysTo exhaust the multitude of choiceIn many mansions, then there areLoves personal and particular,Conspicuous in the glorious skyOf universal charity,As Phosphor in the sunrise. NowI've seen them, I believe their vowImmortal; and the dreadful thought,That he less honour'd than he oughtHer sanctity, is laid to rest,And blessing them I too am blest.My goodwill, as a springing air,Unclouds a beauty in despair;I stand beneath the sky's pure copeUnburthen'd even by a hope;And peace unspeakable, a joyWhich hope would deaden and destroy,Like sunshine fills the airy gulfLeft by the vanishing of self.That I have known her; that she movesSomewhere all-graceful; that she loves,And is belov'd, and that she's soMost happy, and to heaven will go,Where I may meet with her, (yet thisI count but accidental bliss,)And that the full, celestial wealOf all shall sensitively feelThe partnership and work of each,And thus my love and labour reachHer region, there the more to blessHer last, consummate happiness,Is guerdon up to the degreeOf that alone true loyaltyWhich, sacrificing, is not niceAbout the terms of sacrifice,But offers all, with smiles that say,'Tis little, but it is for aye!
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