THE VICTORIES OF LOVE
Contents:
The Victories Of Love Amelia The Day After To-Morrow The Azalea Departure The Toys If I Were Dead A Farewell Sponsa Dei The Rosy Bosom'd Hours Eros
INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY
After the very cordial reception given to the poems of "The Angel in the House," which their author generously made accessible to the readers of these little books, it is evident that another volume from the same clear singer of the purity of household love requires no Introduction.
I have only, in the name of the readers, to thank Mr. Coventry Patmore for his liberality, and wish him--say, rather, assure him of--the best return he seeks in a wide influence for good.
H. M.
THE VICTORIES OF LOVE. BOOK I.
I. FROM FREDERICK GRAHAM.
Mother, I smile at your alarms! I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so she The bloom of life provoked in me And, hard till then and selfish, I Was thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delight In being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur; Honouring myself no less than her; Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace, Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriek Startled the light-leaved wood; on high Wander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grass Through which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe; Day was her doing, and the lark Had reason for his song; the dark In anagram innumerous spelt Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt; 'Twas the sad summit of delight To wake and weep for her at night; She turn'd to triumph or to shame The strife of every childish game; The heart would come into my throat At rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'd In her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bred Anxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic sky O'erarching childhood! Far and nigh Mystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun! What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scope The disconcerted heart, affects These ceremonies and respects? Why stratagems in everything? Why, why not kiss her in the ring? 'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold The city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attack By delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoff At hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flush'd my thought That, what in me such wonder wrought Was call'd, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, 'I love her,' told My secret to myself, behold A crisis in my mystery! For, suddenly, I seem'd to be Whirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads, As when the furious spider sheds Captivity upon the fly To still his buzzing till he die; Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrill'd me through and through With bliss beyond aught heaven can have, And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilder'd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunder'd our home from hers. This day Glad was I as I went her way. I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprang O'er the elastic sod, and sang 'I love her, love her!' to an air Which with the words came then and there; And even now, when I would know All was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strain Love taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more mark Than when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the grace Ineffable, their only trace A heart which, having felt no less Than pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight; A patient, poignant appetite For pleasures that exceed so much The poor things which the world calls such. That, when these lure it, then you may The lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew From Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, shows That liking still by favour goes! This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election free Of human merit; or let's say, A child by ladies call'd to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smiles Like any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not! None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies' brows. There's Mary; Heaven in her appears Like sunshine through the shower's bright tears; Mildred's of Earth, yet happier far Than most men's thoughts of Heaven are; But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth Seal'd amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talks She knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of what's fit so well 'Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've led With these my friends; and sweet 'twill be To abridge the space from them to me.
