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THE DANCE

1

‘My memory of Heaven awakes!
   She’s not of the earth, although her light,
As lantern’d by her body, makes
   A piece of it past bearing bright.
So innocently proud and fair
   She is, that Wisdom sings for glee
And Folly dies, breathing one air
   With such a bright-cheek’d chastity;
And though her charms are a strong law
   Compelling all men to admire,
They go so clad with lovely awe
   None but the noble dares desire.
He who would seek to make her his
   Will comprehend that souls of grace
Own sweet repulsion, and that ’tis
   The quality of their embrace
To be like the majestic reach
   Of coupled suns, that, from afar,
Mingle their mutual spheres, while each
   Circles the twin obsequious star;
And, in the warmth of hand to hand,
   Of heart to heart, he’ll vow to note
And reverently understand
   How the two spirits shine remote;
And ne’er to numb fine honour’s nerve,
   Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,
Nor fail by courtesies to observe
   The space which makes attraction felt;
Nor cease to guard like life the sense
   Which tells him that the embrace of love
Is o’er a gulf of difference
   Love cannot sound, nor death remove.’

2

This learn’d I, watching where she danced,
Native to melody and light,
And now and then toward me glanced,
Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight.

3

Ah, love to speak was impotent,
   Till music did a tongue confer,
And I ne’er knew what music meant,
   Until I danced to it with her.
Too proud of the sustaining power
   Of my, till then, unblemish’d joy.
My passion, for reproof, that hour
   Tasted mortality’s alloy,
And bore me down an eddying gulf;
   I wish’d the world might run to wreck,
So I but once might fling myself
   Obliviously about her neck.
I press’d her hand, by will or chance
   I know not, but I saw the rays
Withdrawn, which did till then enhance
   Her fairness with its thanks for praise.
I knew my spirit’s vague offence
   Was patent to the dreaming eye
And heavenly tact of innocence,
   And did for fear my fear defy,
And ask’d her for the next dance. ‘Yes.’
   ‘No,’ had not fall’n with half the force.
She was fulfill’d with gentleness,
   And I with measureless remorse;
And, ere I slept, on bended knee
   I own’d myself, with many a tear,
Unseasonable, disorderly,
   And a deranger of love’s sphere;
Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,
   We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;
And, rising, found its brightness all
   The brighter through the tears of ruth.

4

Nor was my hope that night made less,
   Though order’d, humbled, and reproved;
Her farewell did her heart express
   As much, but not with anger, moved.
My trouble had my soul betray’d;
   And, in the night of my despair,
My love, a flower of noon afraid,
   Divulged its fulness unaware.
I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,
   Could my glad mind have credited
That influence had to me been given
   To affect her so, I should have said
That, though she from herself conceal’d
   Love’s felt delight and fancied harm,
They made her face the jousting field
   Of joy and beautiful alarm.

CANTO XII
The Abdication

PRELUDES

I

The Chace

She wearies with an ill unknown;
   In sleep she sobs and seems to float,
A water-lily, all alone
   Within a lonely castle-moat;
And as the full-moon, spectral, lies
   Within the crescent’s gleaming arms,
The present shows her heedless eyes
   A future dim with vague alarms.
She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,
   For, life-in-life not yet begun,
Too many are its mysteries
   For thought to fix on any one.
She’s told that maidens are by youths
   Extremely honour’d and desired;
And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,
   What bliss to be so much admired!’
The suitors come; she sees them grieve;
   Her coldness fills them with despair;
She’d pity if she could believe;
   She’s sorry that she cannot care.
But who now meets her on her way?
   Comes he as enemy or friend,
Or both? Her bosom seems to say,
   He cannot pass, and there an end.
Whom does he love? Does he confer
   His heart on worth that answers his?
Or is he come to worship her?
   She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!
Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
   As in the grass a serpent glides,
He fascinates her fluttering will,
   Then terrifies with dreadful strides.
At first, there’s nothing to resist;
   He fights with all the forms of peace;
He comes about her like a mist,
   With subtle, swift, unseen increase;
And then, unlook’d for, strikes amain
   Some stroke that frightens her to death,
And grows all harmlessness again,
   Ere she can cry, or get her breath.
At times she stops, and stands at bay;
   But he, in all more strong than she,
Subdues her with his pale dismay,
   Or more admired audacity.
She plans some final, fatal blow,
   But when she means with frowns to kill,
He looks as if he loved her so,
   She smiles to him against her will.
How sweetly he implies her praise!
   His tender talk, his gentle tone,
The manly worship in his gaze,
   They nearly make her heart his own.
With what an air he speaks her name;
   His manner always recollects
Her sex, and still the woman’s claim
   Is taught its scope by his respects.
Her charms, perceived to prosper first
   In his beloved advertencies,
When in her glass they are rehearsed,
   Prove his most powerful allies.
Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
   When a bold youth so swift pursues,
And siege of tenderest courtesy,
   With hope perseverant, still renews!
Why fly so fast? Her flatter’d breast
   Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She loves her fears; veil’d joys arrest
   The foolish terrors of her blood;
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,
   Vanquish’d, takes warmth from his desire;
She makes it more, with hidden art,
   And fuels love’s late dreaded fire.
The generous credit he accords
   To all the signs of good in her
Redeems itself; his praiseful words
   The virtues they impute confer.
Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,
   She’s three times gentler than before;
He gains a right to call her his,
   Now she through him is so much more;
’Tis heaven where’er she turns her head;
   ’Tis music when she talks; ’tis air
On which, elate, she seems to tread,
   The convert of a gladder sphere!
Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,
   Behold his tokens next her breast,
At all his words and sighs perceived
   Against its blythe upheaval press’d!
But still she flies. Should she be won,
   It must not be believed or thought
She yields; she’s chased to death, undone,
   Surprised, and violently caught.

II

Denied

The storm-cloud, whose portentous shade
   Fumes from a core of smother’d fire,
His livery is whose worshipp’d maid
   Denies herself to his desire.
Ah, grief that almost crushes life,
   To lie upon his lonely bed,
And fancy her another’s wife!
   His brain is flame, his heart is lead.
Sinking at last, by nature’s course,
   Cloak’d round with sleep from his despair,
He does but sleep to gather force
   That goes to his exhausted care.
He wakes renew’d for all the smart.
   His only Love, and she is wed!
His fondness comes about his heart,
   As milk comes, when the babe is dead.
The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,
   His own allegiant thoughts despise;
And far into the shining morn
   Lazy with misery he lies.

III

The Churl

This marks the Churl: when spousals crown
His selfish hope, he finds the grace,
Which sweet love has for ev’n the clown,
Was not in the woman, but the chace.

THE ABDICATION

1

From little signs, like little stars,
   Whose faint impression on the sense
The very looking straight at mars,
   Or only seen by confluence;
From instinct of a mutual thought,
   Whence sanctity of manners flow’d;
From chance unconscious, and from what
   Concealment, overconscious, show’d;
Her hand’s less weight upon my arm,
   Her lowlier mien; that match’d with this;
I found, and felt with strange alarm
   I stood committed to my bliss.

2

I grew assured, before I ask’d,
   That she’d be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaim’d graces bask’d,
   At leisure, till the time should serve,
With just enough of dread to thrill
   The hope, and make it trebly dear;
Thus loth to speak the word to kill
   Either the hope or happy fear.

3

Till once, through lanes returning late,
   Her laughing sisters lagg’d behind;
And, ere we reach’d her father’s gate,
   We paused with one presentient mind;
And, in the dim and perfumed mist,
   Their coming stay’d, who, friends to me,
And very women, loved to assist
   Love’s timid opportunity.

4

Twice rose, twice died my trembling word;
   The faint and frail Cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard
   The chafers rustling in the limes.
Her dress, that touch’d me where I stood,
   The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom’s gentle neighbourhood,
   Her pleasure in her power to charm;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch,
   The least seem’d most by blissful turn,
Blissful but that it pleased too much,
   And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires
   Was traversed by the breath I drew;
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,
   She, answering, own’d that she loved too.

5

Honoria was to be my bride!
   The hopeless heights of hope were scaled
The summit won, I paused and sigh’d,
   As if success itself had fail’d.
It seem’d as if my lips approach’d
   To touch at Tantalus’ reward,
And rashly on Eden life encroach’d,
   Half-blinded by the flaming sword.
The whole world’s wealthiest and its best,
   So fiercely sought, appear’d when found,
Poor in its need to be possess’d,
   Poor from its very want of bound.
My queen was crouching at my side,
   By love unsceptred and brought low,
Her awful garb of maiden pride
   All melted into tears like snow;
The mistress of my reverent thought,
   Whose praise was all I ask’d of fame,
In my close-watch’d approval sought
   Protection as from danger and blame;
Her soul, which late I loved to invest
   With pity for my poor desert,
Buried its face within my breast,
   Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.

Book II

THE PROLOGUE

1

Her sons pursue the butterflies,
   Her baby daughter mocks the doves
With throbbing coo; in his fond eyes
   She’s Venus with her little Loves;
Her footfall dignifies the earth,
   Her form’s the native-land of grace,
And, lo, his coming lights with mirth
   Its court and capital her face!
Full proud her favour makes her lord,
   And that her flatter’d bosom knows.
She takes his arm without a word,
   In lanes of laurel and of rose.
Ten years to-day has she been his.
   He but begins to understand,
He says, the dignity and bliss
   She gave him when she gave her hand.
She, answering, says, he disenchants
   The past, though that was perfect; he
Rejoins, the present nothing wants
   But briefness to be ecstasy.
He lands her charms; her beauty’s glow
   Wins from the spoiler Time new rays;
Bright looks reply, approving so
   Beauty’s elixir vitæ, praise.
Upon a beech he bids her mark
   Where, ten years since, he carved her name;
It grows there with the growing bark,
   And in his heart it grows the same.
For that her soft arm presses his
   Close to her fond, maternal breast;
He tells her, each new kindness is
   The effectual sum of all the rest!
And, whilst the cushat, mocking, coo’d,
   They blest the days they had been wed,
At cost of those in which he woo’d,
   Till everything was three times said;
And words were growing vain, when Briggs,
   Factotum, Footman, Butler, Groom,
Who press’d the cyder, fed the pigs,
   Preserv’d the rabbits, drove the brougham,
And help’d, at need, to mow the lawns,
   And sweep the paths and thatch the hay,
Here brought the Post down, Mrs. Vaughan’s
   Sole rival, but, for once, to-day,
Scarce look’d at; for the ‘Second Book,’
   Till this tenth festival kept close,
Was thus commenced, while o’er them shook
   The laurel married with the rose.

2

‘The pulse of War, whose bloody heats
Sane purposes insanely work,
Now with fraternal frenzy beats,
And binds the Christian to the Turk,
And shrieking fifes’—

3

      But, with a roar,
   In rush’d the Loves; the tallest roll’d
A hedgehog from his pinafore,
   Which saved his fingers; Baby, bold,
Touch’d it, and stared, and scream’d for life,
   And stretch’d her hand for Vaughan to kiss,
Who hugg’d his Pet, and ask’d his wife,
   ‘Is this for love, or love for this?’
But she turn’d pale, for, lo, the beast,
   Found stock-still in the rabbit-trap,
And feigning so to be deceased,
   And laid by Frank upon her lap,
Unglobed himself, and show’d his snout,
   And fell, scatt’ring the Loves amain,
With shriek, with laughter, and with shout;
   And, peace at last restored again,
The bard, who this untimely hitch
   Bore with a calm magnanimous,
(The hedgehog rolled into a ditch,
   And Venus sooth’d), proceeded thus:

CANTO I
Accepted

PRELUDES

I

The Song of Songs

The pulse of War, whose bloody heats
   Sane purposes insanely work,
Now with fraternal frenzy beats,
   And binds the Christian to the Turk,
And shrieking fifes and braggart flags,
   Through quiet England, teach our breath
The courage corporate that drags
   The coward to heroic death.
Too late for song! Who henceforth sings,
   Must fledge his heavenly flight with more
Song-worthy and heroic things
   Than hasty, home-destroying war.
While might and right are not agreed,
   And battle thus is yet to wage,
So long let laurels be the meed
   Of soldier as of poet sage;
But men expect the Tale of Love,
   And weary of the Tale of Hate;
Lift me, O Muse, myself above,
   And let the world no longer wait!

II

The Kites

I saw three Cupids (so I dream’d),
   Who made three kites, on which were drawn,
In letters that like roses gleam’d,
   ‘Plato,’ ‘Anacreon,’ and ‘Vaughan.’
The boy who held by Plato tried
   His airy venture first; all sail,
It heav’nward rush’d till scarce descried,
   Then pitch’d and dropp’d for want of tail.
Anacreon’s Love, with shouts of mirth
   That pride of spirit thus should fall,
To his kite link’d a lump of earth,
   And, lo, it would not soar at all.
Last, my disciple freighted his
   With a long streamer made of flowers,
The children of the sod, and this
   Rose in the sun, and flew for hours.

III

Orpheus

The music of the Sirens found
   Ulysses weak, though cords were strong;
But happier Orpheus stood unbound,
   And shamed it with a sweeter song.
His mode be mine. Of Heav’n I ask,
   May I, with heart-persuading might,
Pursue the Poet’s sacred task
   Of superseding faith by sight,
Till ev’n the witless Gadarene,
   Preferring Christ to swine, shall know
That life is sweetest when it’s clean.
   To prouder folly let me show
Earth by divine light made divine;
   And let the saints, who hear my word,
Say, ‘Lo, the clouds begin to shine
   About the coming of the Lord!’

IV

Nearest the Dearest

Till Eve was brought to Adam, he
   A solitary desert trod,
Though in the great society
   Of nature, angels, and of God.
If one slight column counterweighs
   The ocean, ’tis the Maker’s law,
Who deems obedience better praise
   Than sacrifice of erring awe.

V

Perspective

What seems to us for us is true.
The planet has no proper light,
And yet, when Venus is in view,
No primal star is half so bright.

ACCEPTED

1

What fortune did my heart foretell?
   What shook my spirit, as I woke,
Like the vibration of a bell
   Of which I had not heard the stroke?
Was it some happy vision shut
   From memory by the sun’s fresh ray?
Was it that linnet’s song; or but
   A natural gratitude for day?
Or the mere joy the senses weave,
   A wayward ecstasy of life?
Then I remember’d, yester-eve
   I won Honoria for my Wife.

2

Forth riding, while as yet the day
   Was dewy, watching Sarum Spire,
Still beckoning me along my way,
   And growing every minute higher,
I reach’d the Dean’s. One blind was down,
   Though nine then struck. My bride to be!
And had she rested ill, my own,
   With thinking (oh, my heart!) of me?
I paced the streets; a pistol chose,
   To guard my now important life
When riding late from Sarum Close;
   At noon return’d. Good Mrs. Fife,
To my, ‘The Dean, is he at home?’
   Said, ‘No, sir; but Miss Honor is;’
And straight, not asking if I’d come,
   Announced me, ‘Mr. Felix, Miss,’
To Mildred, in the Study. There
   We talk’d, she working. We agreed
The day was fine; the Fancy-Fair
   Successful; ‘Did I ever read
De Genlis?’ ‘Never.’ ‘Do! She heard
   I was engaged.’ ‘To whom?’ ‘Miss Fry
Was it the fact?’ ‘No!’ ‘On my word?’
   ‘What scandal people talk’d!’ ‘Would I
Hold out this skein of silk.’ So pass’d
   I knew not how much time away.
‘How were her sisters?’ ‘Well.’ At last
   I summon’d heart enough to say,
‘I hoped to have seen Miss Churchill too.’
   ‘Miss Churchill, Felix! What is this?
I said, and now I find ’tis true,
   Last night you quarrell’d! Here she is.’

3

She came, and seem’d a morning rose
   When ruffling rain has paled its blush;
Her crown once more was on her brows;
   And, with a faint, indignant flush,
And fainter smile, she gave her hand,
   But not her eyes, then sate apart,
As if to make me understand
   The honour of her vanquish’d heart.
But I drew humbly to her side;
   And she, well pleased, perceiving me
Liege ever to the noble pride
   Of her unconquer’d majesty,
Once and for all put it away;
   The faint flush pass’d; and, thereupon,
Her loveliness, which rather lay
   In light than colour, smiled and shone,
Till sick was all my soul with bliss;
   Or was it with remorse and ire
Of such a sanctity as this
   Subdued by love to my desire?

CANTO II
The Course of True Love

PRELUDES

I

The Changed Allegiance

Watch how a bird, that captived sings,
   The cage set open, first looks out,
Yet fears the freedom of his wings,
   And now withdraws, and flits about,
And now looks forth again; until,
   Grown bold, he hops on stool and chair,
And now attains the window-sill,
   And now confides himself to air.
The maiden so, from love’s free sky
   In chaste and prudent counsels caged,
But longing to be loosen’d by
   Her suitor’s faith declared and gaged,
When blest with that release desired,
   First doubts if truly she is free,
Then pauses, restlessly retired,
   Alarm’d at too much liberty;
But soon, remembering all her debt
   To plighted passion, gets by rote
Her duty; says, ‘I love him!’ yet
   The thought half chokes her in her throat;
And, like that fatal ‘I am thine,’
   Comes with alternate gush and check
And joltings of the heart, as wine
   Pour’d from a flask of narrow neck.
Is he indeed her choice? She fears
   Her Yes was rashly said, and shame,
Remorse and ineffectual tears
   Revolt from has conceded claim.
Oh, treason! So, with desperate nerve,
   She cries, ‘I am in love, am his;’
Lets run the cables of reserve,
   And floats into a sea of bliss,
And laughs to think of her alarm,
   Avows she was in love before,
Though has avowal was the charm
   Which open’d to her own the door.
She loves him for his mastering air,
   Whence, Parthian-like, she slaying flies;
His flattering look, which seems to wear
   Her loveliness in manly eyes;
His smile, which, by reverse, portends
   An awful wrath, should reason stir;
(How fortunate it is they’re friends,
   And he will ne’er be wroth with her!)
His power to do or guard from harm;
   If he but chose to use it half,
And catch her up in one strong arm,
   What could she do but weep, or laugh!
His words, which still instruct, but so
   That this applause seems still implied,
‘How wise in all she ought to know,
   How ignorant of all beside!’
His skilful suit, which leaves her free,
   Gives nothing for the world to name,
And keeps her conscience safe, while he,
   With half the bliss, takes all the blame;
His clear repute with great and small;
   The jealousy his choice will stir;
But ten times more than ten times all,
   She loves him for his love of her.
How happy ’tis he seems to see
   In her that utter loveliness
Which she, for his sake, longs to be!
   At times, she cannot but confess
Her other friends are somewhat blind;
   Her parents’ years excuse neglect,
But all the rest are scarcely kind,
   And brothers grossly want respect;
And oft she views what he admires
   Within her glass, and sight of this
Makes all the sum of her desires
   To be devotion unto his.
But still, at first, whatever’s done,
   A touch, her hand press’d lightly, she
Stands dizzied, shock’d, and flush’d, like one
   Set sudden neck-deep in the sea;
And, though her bond for endless time
   To his good pleasure gives her o’er,
The slightest favour seems a crime,
   Because it makes her love him more.
But that she ne’er will let him know;
   For what were love should reverence cease?
A thought which makes her reason so
   Inscrutable, it seems caprice.
With her, as with a desperate town,
   Too weak to stand, too proud to treat,
The conqueror, though the walls are down,
   Has still to capture street by street;
But, after that, habitual faith,
   Divorced from self, where late ’twas due,
Walks nobly in its novel path,
   And she’s to changed allegiance true;
And prizing what she can’t prevent,
   (Right wisdom, often misdeem’d whim),
Her will’s indomitably bent
   On mere submissiveness to him;
To him she’ll cleave, for him forsake
   Father’s and mother’s fond command!
He is her lord, for he can take
   Hold of her faint heart with his hand.

II

Beauty

‘Beauty deludes.’ O shaft well shot,
   To strike the mark’s true opposite!
That ugly good is scorn’d proves not
   ’Tis beauty lies, but lack of it.
By Heaven’s law the Jew might take
   A slave to wife, if she was fair;
So strong a plea does beauty make
   That, where ’tis seen, discretion’s there.
If, by a monstrous chance, we learn
   That this illustrious vaunt’s a lie,
Our minds, by which the eyes discern,
   See hideous contrariety.
And laugh at Nature’s wanton mood,
   Which, thus a swinish thing to flout,
Though haply in its gross way good,
   Hangs such a jewel in its snout.