« PreviousContinue »
And she turn’d-her bosom shaken with a sudden storm
of sighs— All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes
Saying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they should
do me wrong;” Saying, “ Dost thou love me, cousin ? ” weeping, “I
have loved thee long.”
Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his
glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the
chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music
out of sight.
Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses
ring, And her whisper throng’d my pulses with the fulness of
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately
ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have
sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish
Is it well to wish thee happy ?-having known me—to
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than
Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise
As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its
novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his
What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are
glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's
disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength
of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten’d forehead of
Well—'tis well that I should bluster!-Hadst thou less
unworthy proved — Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever
wife was loved.
Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery
Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her,
I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.
Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she
No—she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore.
Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet
sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.