The Victories of Love, and Other Poems Part 5

With people born and bred so high As Fred and Mrs. Vaughan and you, It's hard to guess what's right to do; And he won't teach me!

Dear Fred wrote, Directly, such a lovely note, Which, though it undid all I had done, Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, So kind! His words. I can't say why, Like soldiers' music, made me cry.

BOOK II.

I. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER.

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart Are not half known till they depart!

Although I long'd, for many a year, To love with love that casts out fear, My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me, And heaven seem'd less far off than he; And in my fancy I would trace A lady with an angel's face, That made devotion simply debt, Till sick with envy and regret, And wicked grief that G.o.d should e'er Make women, and not make them fair.

That me might love me more because Another in his memory was, And that my indigence might be To him what Baby's was to me, The chief of charms, who could have thought?

But G.o.d's wise way is to give nought Till we with asking it are tired; And when, indeed, the change desired Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise, It comes by Providence, not Grace; And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs Are groans at unexpected cares, First Baby went to heaven, you know, And, five weeks after, Grace went, too, Then he became more talkative, And, stooping to my heart, would give Signs of his love, which pleased me more Than all the proofs he gave before; And, in that time of our great grief, We talk'd religion for relief; For, though we very seldom name Religion, we now think the same!

Oh, what a bar is thus removed To loving and to being loved!

For no agreement really is In anything when none's in this.

Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd His wife against his hearty breast, The interior difference seem'd to tear My own, until I could not bear The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife, And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.

He never felt this. If he did, I'm sure it could not have been hid; For wives, I need not say to you, Can feel just what their husbands do, Without a word or look; but then It is not so, you know, with men.

From that time many a Scripture text Help'd me, which had, before, perplex'd.

Oh, what a wond'rous word seem'd this He is my head, as Christ is his!

None ever could have dared to see In marriage such a dignity For man, and for his wife, still less, Such happy, happy lowliness, Had G.o.d himself not made it plain!

This revelation lays the rein-- If I may speak so--on the neck Of a wife's love, takes thence the check Of conscience, and forbids to doubt Its measure is to be without All measure, and a fond excess Is here her rule of G.o.dliness.

I took him not for love but fright; He did but ask a dreadful right.

In this was love, that he loved me The first, who was mere poverty.

All that I know of love he taught; And love is all I know of aught.

My merit is so small by his, That my demerit is my bliss.

My life is hid with him in Christ, Never therefrom to be enticed; And in his strength have I such rest As when the baby on my breast Finds what it knows not how to seek, And, very happy, very weak, Lies, only knowing all is well, Pillow'd on kindness palpable.

II. FROM LADY c.l.i.tHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.

Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park.

The house is fill'd with folks of mark.

Honoria suits a good estate Much better than I hoped. How fate Loads her with happiness and pride!

And such a loving lord, beside!

But between us, Sweet, everything Has limits, and to build a wing To this old house, when Courtholm stands Empty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be near Papa, was buying love too dear.

With twenty others, there are two Guests here, whose names will startle you: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham!

I thought he stay'd away for shame.

He and his wife were ask'd, you know, And would not come, four years ago.

You recollect Miss Smythe found out Who she had been, and all about Her people at the Powder-mill; And how the fine Aunt tried to instil _Haut ton_, and how, at last poor Jane Had got so shy and _gauche_ that, when The Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock'd up; And some one wrote to us and said Her mother was a kitchen-maid.

Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know It _must_ be all a fib. But, oh, She _is_ the oddest little Pet On which my eyes were ever set!

She's so _outree_ and natural That, when she first arrived, we all Wonder'd, as when a robin comes In through the window to eat crumbs At breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence; And, save in dressing just a thought Gayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross between Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) She always happens to do well.

And yet one never quite can tell What she _might_ do or utter next.

Lord c.l.i.theroe is much perplex'd.

Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other men Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face.

Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhere Like a tame duck, to the despair Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part To break her funny little heart.

Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view That people, if they're good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what's their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor's just like all The rest of us! But, thinking so, 'Tis well she miss'd Lord c.l.i.theroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me.

Poor Mrs. Graham has never been To the Opera! You should have seen The innocent way she told the Earl She thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance!

Frederick's complacent smile and glance Towards her, show'd me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out.

'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you'd have thought _Her_ lover would have ever sought.

She never reads, I find, nor goes Anywhere; so that I suppose She got at all she ever knew By growing up, as kittens do.

Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than I With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severe With those sweet Children. They've the run Of all the place. When school was done, Maud burst in, while the Earl was there, With 'Oh, Mama, do be a bear!'

Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of Fred Adores his old Love in his stead!

She _is_ so nice, yet, I should say, Not quite the thing for every day.

Wonders are wearying! Felix goes Next Sunday with her to the Close, And you will judge.

Honoria asks All Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basks Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room Is thus aflame with female bloom.

But then she smiles when most would pout; And so his lawless loves go out With the last brocade. 'Tis not the same, I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham.

Honoria should not have her here,-- And this you might just hint, my Dear,-- For Felix says he never saw Such proof of what he holds for law, That 'beauty is love which can be seen.'

Whatever he by this may mean, Were it not dreadful if he fell In love with her on principle!

III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Mother, I told you how, at first, I fear'd this visit to the Hurst.

Fred must, I felt, be so distress'd By aught in me unlike the rest Who come here. But I find the place Delightful; there's such ease, and grace, And kindness, and all seem to be On such a high equality.

They have not got to think, you know, How far to make the money go.

But Frederick says it's less the expense Of money, than of sound good-sense, Quickness to care what others feel And thoughts with nothing to conceal; Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan Was waiting for us on the Lawn, And kiss'd and call'd me 'Cousin.' Fred Neglected his old friends, she said.

He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this.

She was, you know, a flame of his; But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done, I left him, who had just begun To talk about the Russian War With an old Lady, Lady Carr,-- A Countess, but I'm more afraid, A great deal, of the Lady's Maid,-- And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see The pictures, which appear'd to be Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows Call'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows.

And then she took me up, to show Her bedroom, where, long years ago, A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestries Of Cupids, G.o.ds, and G.o.ddesses, And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door Leads thence into her soft Boudoir, Where even her husband may but come By favour. He, too, has his room, Kept sacred to his solitude.

Did I not think the plan was good?

She ask'd me; but I said how small Our house was, and that, after all, Though Frederick would not say his prayers At night till I was safe upstairs, I thought it wrong to be so shy Of being good when I was by.

'Oh, you should humour him!' she said, With her sweet voice and smile; and led The way to where the children ate Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate.

She's only Nursery-Governess, Yet they consider her no less Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me.

Just think how happy she must be!

The Ball-Room, with its painted sky Where heavy angels seem to fly, Is a dull place; its size and gloom Make them prefer, for drawing-room, The Library, all done up new And comfortable, with a view Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs.

When she had shown me through the house, (I wish I could have let her know That she herself was half the show; She _is_ so handsome, and so kind!) She fetch'd the children, who had dined; And, taking one in either hand, Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd.

The lovely garden gently slopes To where a curious bridge of ropes Crosses the Avon to the Park.

We rested by the stream, to mark The brown backs of the hovering trout.

Frank tickled one, and took it out From under a stone. We saw his owls, And awkward Cochin-China fowls, And s.h.a.ggy pony in the croft; And then he dragg'd us to a loft, Where pigeons, as he push'd the door, Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor, And set us coughing. I confess I trembled for my nice silk dress.

I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan Ventured with that which she had on,-- A mere white wrapper, with a few Plain tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of a quiet blue, But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell For dinner rang. I look'd quite well ('Quite charming,' were the words Fred said,) With the new gown that I've had made I _am_ so proud of Frederick.

He's so high-bred and lordly-like With Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite so At home with me; but that, you know, I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt, And seem to mock at my desert.

Not but that I'm a duteous wife To Fred; but, in another life, Where all are fair that have been true, I hope I shall be graceful too, Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye!

That happy thought has made me cry, And feel half sorry that my cough, In this fine air, is leaving off.

IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM.

Honoria, trebly fair and mild With added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrong The rest, touch not her beauty, young Within youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that's relative to time.

How beyond hope was heard the prayer I offer'd in my love's despair!

Could any, whilst there's any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so.

She is, and is aware of it, Her husband's endless benefit; But, though their daily ways reveal The depth of private joy they feel, 'Tis not their bearing each to each That does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intent To all within their government And friendship as, 'tis well discern'd, Each of the other must have learn'd; For no mere dues of neighbourhood Ever begot so blest a mood.

And fair, indeed, should be the few G.o.d dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and free To show themselves, that all may see!

For alms let poor men poorly give The meat whereby men's bodies live; But they of wealth are stewards wise Whose graces are their charities.

The sunny charm about this home Makes all to shine who thither come.

My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour'd, honours too the place.