Griselda: a society novel in rhymed verse. Blunt Wilfrid Scawen

had espoused the amiable Lord L.,

      A worthy nobleman, in high repute

      For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot;

      A silent man, well mannered and well dressed,

      Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed

      With fortune's favours, but without pretence,

      Whom manners almost made a man of sense.

      In early life he had aspired to fame

      In the world of letters by the stratagem

      Of a new issue, from his private press,

      Of classic bards in senatorial dress,

      "In usum Marchionis." He had spent

      Much of his youth upon the Continent,

      Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems,

      In every town from Tiber unto Thames,

      And gaining store of curious knowledge too

      On divers subjects that the world least knew:

      Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid

      With dust and lumber somewhere in his head.

      A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life

      Had never quite been lighted for the strife

      And turmoil of the world, but flickered down

      In an uncertain twilight of its own,

      With an occasional flash, that only made

      A deeper shadow for its world of shade.

      When he returned to England, all admired

      The taste of his collections, and inquired

      To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall

      To wear these gems and jewels after all.

      But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone,

      A snare and stumbling-block to more than one,

      Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said,

      Lord L. already had too long delayed.

      Be it as it may, he abdicated life

      The day he took Griselda to his wife.

      And then Griselda loved him. All agreed,

      The world's chief sponsors for its social creed,

      That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not

      The very fool some said and idiot,

      Or whether under cloak of dulness crass,

      He veiled that sense best suited to his case,

      Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light,

      For curtain eloquence and dead of night;

      And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread,

      Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed,

      Here at this word all sides agreed to rest:

      Griselda did her duty with the best.

      Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth

      A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth,

      And watched with sad and ever jealous eye

      The vision of your beauty passing by,

      Why was it that that brow inviolate,

      That virginal courage yet unscared by fate,

      That look the immortal queen and huntress wore

      To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore

      Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously,

      And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why?

      How shall I tell the secret of your soul

      Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole

      My boyhood's ancient folly to declare

      Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were,

      Though such the truth?

      Griselda's early days

      Of married life were not that fitful maze

      Of tears and laughter which betoken aught,

      Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought,

      Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued,

      Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood.

      Those who then saw Griselda saw a child

      Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled

      By every simplest pleasure of her age,

      Gay as a bird just issued from its cage,

      When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace

      Doubt or disquiet written on her face,

      Where none there was. And, if the truth be told,

      Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old.

      She found it well that her sweet seventeen

      Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen

      Just as she felt, contented with her lot,

      Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not.

      She held her husband the more dear that he

      Was kind within the bounds of courtesy,

      And love was not as yet within her plan,

      And life was fair, and wisdom led the van.

      For she was wise – oh, wise! She rose at eight

      And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat

      The morning through with staid and serious looks,

      Counting the columns of her household books,

      Her daily labour, or with puzzled head

      Bent over languages alive and dead,

      Wise as, alas! in life those only are

      Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year.

      Wealth had its duties, time its proper use,

      Youth and her marriage should be no excuse;

      Her education must be made complete!

      Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it.

      The afternoons, in sense of duty done,

      Went by more idly than the rest had gone.

      If in the country, which Lord L. preferred,

      She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird,

      Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake,

      Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake,

      Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses,

      Her sick to visit, or her church to dress.

      Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful:

      They hardly found the time to find it dull.

      In London, where they spent their second year,

      Came occupations suited to the sphere

      In which they lived; and to the just pretence

      Of our Griselda's high-born consequence,

      New duties to the world which no excuse

      Admitted. She was mistress of L. House

      And heir to its traditions. These must be

      Observed by her in due solemnity.

      Her natural taste, I think, repelled the noise,

      The rush, and dust, and crush of London joys;

      But habit, which becomes a second sense,

      Had reconciled her to its influence

      Even