I know not--but a nobler face My eyes have seldom seen;A keen and fine intelligence, And, better still, the truest sense Were in her speaking mien.
But bloom or lustre was there none, Only at moments, fitful shone An ardour in her eye, That kindled on her cheek a flush, Warm as a red sky's passing blush And quick with energy.
Her speech, too, was not common speech, No wish to shine, or aim to teach, Was in her words displayed:
She still began with quiet sense, But oft the force of eloquence Came to her lips in aid;Language and voice unconscious changed, And thoughts, in other words arranged, Her fervid soul transfused Into the hearts of those who heard, And transient strength and ardour stirred, In minds to strength unused, Yet in gay crowd or festal glare, Grave and retiring was her air;'Twas seldom, save with me alone, That fire of feeling freely shone;She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze, Nor even exaggerated praise, Nor even notice, if too keen The curious gazer searched her mien.
Nature's own green expanse revealed The world, the pleasures, she could prize;On free hill-side, in sunny field, In quiet spots by woods concealed, Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys, Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay In that endowed and youthful frame;Shrined in her heart and hid from day, They burned unseen with silent flame.
In youth's first search for mental light, She lived but to reflect and learn, But soon her mind's maturer might For stronger task did pant and yearn;And stronger task did fate assign, Task that a giant's strength might strain;To suffer long and ne'er repine, Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.
Pale with the secret war of feeling, Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;The wounds at which she bled, revealing Only by altered cheek and eye;She bore in silence--but when passion Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam, The storm at last brought desolation, And drove her exiled from her home.
And silent still, she straight assembled The wrecks of strength her soul retained;For though the wasted body trembled, The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.
She crossed the sea--now lone she wanders By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;Fain would I know if distance renders Relief or comfort to her woe.
Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever, These eyes shall read in hers again, That light of love which faded never, Though dimmed so long with secret pain.
She will return, but cold and altered, Like all whose hopes too soon depart;Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, The bitter blasts that blight the heart.
No more shall I behold her lying Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me;No more that spirit, worn with sighing, Will know the rest of infancy.
If still the paths of lore she follow, 'Twill be with tired and goaded will;She'll only toil, the aching hollow, The joyless blank of life to fill.
And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary, Her hand will pause, her head decline;That labour seems so hard and dreary, On which no ray of hope may shine.
Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair;Then comes the day that knows no morrow, And death succeeds to long despair.
So speaks experience, sage and hoary;I see it plainly, know it well, Like one who, having read a story, Each incident therein can tell.
Touch not that ring; 'twas his, the sire Of that forsaken child;And nought his relics can inspire Save memories, sin-defiled.
I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, I, who his daughter loved, Could almost curse the guilty dead, For woes the guiltless proved.
And heaven did curse--they found him laid, When crime for wrath was rife, Cold--with the suicidal blade Clutched in his desperate gripe.
'Twas near that long deserted hut, Which in the wood decays, Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, And lopped his desperate days.
You know the spot, where three black trees, Lift up their branches fell, And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, Still seem, in every passing breeze, The deed of blood to tell.
They named him mad, and laid his bones Where holier ashes lie;Yet doubt not that his spirit groans In hell's eternity.
But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth, Infects our thoughts with gloom;Come, let us strive to rally mirth Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth In some more cheerful room.
THE WIFE'S WILL.
Sit still--a word--a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake)
The glassy calm that soothes my woes--
The sweet, the deep, the full repose.
O leave me not! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me!
Yes, close beside thee let me kneel--
Give me thy hand, that I may feel The friend so true--so tried--so dear, My heart's own chosen--indeed is near;And check me not--this hour divine Belongs to me--is fully mine.
'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence--wandering wide;'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of stormless skies;For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her gaze.
Ay,--well that single tear may fall;Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past;Well mayst thou speak of love to me, For, oh! most truly--I love thee!
Yet smile--for we are happy now.
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow?
What sayst thou? "We muse once again, Ere long, be severed by the main!"
I knew not this--I deemed no more Thy step would err from Britain's shore.
"Duty commands!" 'Tis true--'tis just;Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh, Would I to turn thy purpose try;But, William, hear my solemn vow--
Hear and confirm!--with thee I go.
"Distance and suffering," didst thou say?
"Danger by night, and toil by day?"
Oh, idle words and vain are these;Hear me! I cross with thee the seas.
Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I--thy true wife--will duly share.
Passive, at home, I will not pine;Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine;Grant this--and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid:
'Tis granted--with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul unmingled bliss.
