XI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.
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ou wanted her, my Son, for wife,With the fierce need of life in life.That nobler passion of an hourWas rather prophecy than power;And nature, from such stress unbent,Recurs to deep discouragement.Trust not such peace yet; easy breath,In hot diseases, argues death;And tastelessness within the mouthWorse fever shows than heat or drouth.Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fearAgainst a different danger near:Wed not one woman, oh, my Child,Because another has not smiled!Oft, with a disappointed man,The first who cares to win him can;For, after love's heroic strain,Which tired the heart and brought no gain.He feels consoled, relieved, and easedTo meet with her who can be pleasedTo proffer kindness, amid computeHis acquiescence for pursuit;Who troubles not his lonely mood;And asks for love mere gratitude.Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know,Who wed through love wed mostly so.At least, my Son, when wed you do,See that the woman equals you,Nor rush, from having loved too high,Into a worse humility.A poor estate's a foolish pleaFor marrying to a base degree.A woman grown cannot be train'd,Or, if she could, no love were gain'd;For, never was a man's heart caughtBy graces he himself had taught.And fancy not 'tis in the mightOf man to do without delight;For, should you in her nothing findTo exhilarate the higher mind,Your soul would deaden useless wingsWith wickedness of lawful things,And vampire pleasure swift destroyEven the memory of joy.So let no man, in desperate mood,Wed a dull girl because she's good.All virtues in his wife soon dim,Except the power of pleasing him,Which may small virtue be, or none!I know my just and tender Son,To whom the dangerous grace is givenThat scorns a good which is not heaven;My Child, who used to sit and sighUnder the bright, ideal sky,And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat,The poppy and the meadow-sweet!He would not let his wife's heart acheFor what was mainly his mistake;But, having err'd so, all his forceWould fix upon the hard, right course.She's graceless, say, yet good and true,And therefore inly fair, and, throughThe veils which inward beauty fold,Faith can her loveliness behold.Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls awayWithout the ceremonial stayOf outward loveliness and awe.The weightier matters of the lawShe pays: mere mint and cumin not;And, in the road that she was taught,She treads, and takes for granted stillNature's immedicable ill;So never wears within her eyesA false report of paradise,Nor ever modulates her mirthWith vain compassion of the earth,Which made a certain happier faceAffecting, and a gayer graceWith pathos delicately edged!Yet, though she be not privilegedTo unlock for you your heart's delight,(Her keys being gold, but not the right,)On lower levels she may do!Her joy is more in loving youThan being loved, and she commandsAll tenderness she understands.It is but when you proffer moreThe yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore.It's weary work enforcing loveOn one who has enough thereof,And honour on the lowliheadOf ignorance! Besides, you dread,In Leah's arms, to meet the eyesOf Rachel, somewhere in the skies,And both return, alike relieved,To life less loftily conceived.Alas, alas!Then wait the moodIn which a woman may be woo'dWhose thoughts and habits are too highFor honour to be flattery,And who would surely not allowThe suit that you could proffer now.Her equal yoke would sit with ease;It might, with wearing, even please,(Not with a better word to moveThe loyal wrath of present love);She would not mope when you were gay,For want of knowing aught to say;Nor vex you with unhandsome wasteOf thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed;Nor reckon small things duties small,And your fine sense fantastical;Nor would she bring you up a broodOf strangers bound to you by blood,Boys of a meaner moral race,Girls with their mother's evil grace.But not her chance to sometimes findHer critic past his judgment kind;Nor, unaccustom'd to respect,Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect,Confirm you selfish and morose,And slowly, by contagion, gross;But, glad and able to receiveThe honour you would long to give,Would hasten on to justifyExpectancy, however high,Whilst you would happily incurCompulsion to keep up with her.
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