The Victories of Love, and Other Poems. Coventry Patmore

she, for her foolish fear,

      Says trembling, ‘Do you love me.  Dear?’

      And I reply, ‘Sweetest, I vow

      I never loved but half till now.’

      She turns her face to the wall at this,

      And says, ‘Go, Love, ’tis too much bliss.’

      And then a sudden pulse is sent

      About the sounding firmament

      In smitings as of silver bars;

      The bright disorder of the stars

      Is solved by music; far and near,

      Through infinite distinctions clear,

      Their twofold voices’ deeper tone

      Utters the Name which all things own,

      And each ecstatic treble dwells

      On one whereof none other tells;

      And we, sublimed to song and fire,

      Take order in the wheeling quire,

      Till from the throbbing sphere I start,

      Waked by the heaving of my heart.

         Such dreams as these come night by night,

      Disturbing day with their delight.

      Portend they nothing?  Who can tell!’

      God yet may do some miracle.

      ’Tis nigh two years, and she’s not wed,

      Or you would know!  He may be dead,

      Or mad, and loving some one else,

      And she, much moved that nothing quells

      My constancy, or, simply wroth

      With such a wretch, accept my troth

      To spite him; or her beauty’s gone,

      (And that’s my dream!) and this man Vaughan

      Takes her release: or tongues malign,

      Confusing every ear but mine,

      Have smirch’d her: ah, ’twould move her, sure,

      To find I loved her all the more!

      Nay, now I think, haply amiss

      I read her words and looks, and his,

      That night!  Did not his jealousy

      Show—Good my God, and can it be

      That I, a modest fool, all blest,

      Nothing of such a heaven guess’d?

      Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet,

      To-morrow sees me at her feet!

         Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars

      Along the sacred English shores!

      There lies the lovely land I know,

      Where men and women lordliest grow;

      There peep the roofs where more than kings

      Postpone state cares to country things,

      And many a gay queen simply tends

      The babes on whom the world depends;

      There curls the wanton cottage smoke

      Of him that drives but bears no yoke;

      There laughs the realm where low and high

      Are lieges to society,

      And life has all too wide a scope,

      Too free a prospect for its hope,

      For any private good or ill,

      Except dishonour, quite to fill! 1

         —Mother, since this was penn’d, I’ve read

      That ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed

      The beautiful Miss Churchill.’  So

      That’s over; and to-morrow I go

      To take up my new post on board

      The Wolf, my peace at last restored;

      My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak,

      Shock-season’d.  Grief is now the cloak

      I clasp about me to prevent

      The deadly chill of a content

      With any near or distant good,

      Except the exact beatitude

      Which love has shown to my desire.

      Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’

      I hate and disavow all bliss

      As none for me which is not this.

      Think not I blasphemously cope

      With God’s decrees, and cast off hope.

      How, when, and where can mine succeed?

      I’ll trust He knows who made my need.

         Baseness of men!  Pursuit being o’er,

      Doubtless her Husband feels no more

      The heaven of heavens of such a Bride,

      But, lounging, lets her please his pride

      With fondness, guerdons her caress

      With little names, and turns a tress

      Round idle fingers.  If ’tis so,

      Why then I’m happier of the two!

      Better, for lofty loss, high pain,

      Than low content with lofty gain.

      Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me

      Her happiness and dignity!

      X.  FROM FREDERICK

      I thought the worst had brought me balm:

      ’Twas but the tempest’s central calm.

      Vague sinkings of the heart aver

      That dreadful wrong is come to her,

      And o’er this dream I brood and dote,

      And learn its agonies by rote.

      As if I loved it, early and late

      I make familiar with my fate,

      And feed, with fascinated will,

      On very dregs of finish’d ill.

      I think, she’s near him now, alone,

      With wardship and protection none;

      Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stress

      Of airs that clasp him with her dress,

      They wander whispering by the wave;

      And haply now, in some sea-cave,

      Where the ribb’d sand is rarely trod,

      They laugh, they kiss, Oh, God! oh, God!

      There comes a smile acutely sweet

      Out of the picturing dark; I meet

      The ancient frankness of her gaze,

      That soft and heart-surprising blaze

      Of great goodwill and innocence.

      And perfect joy proceeding thence!

      Ah! made for earth’s delight, yet such

      The mid-sea air’s too gross to touch.

      At thought of which, the soul in me

      Is as the bird that bites a bee,

      And darts abroad on frantic wing,

      Tasting the honey and the sting;

      And, moaning where all round me sleep

      Amidst the moaning of the deep,

      I

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  Written in 1856.