To catch the dawning of inquiring thought,
And every change that time and teaching wrought.
This was my wish,-to guard thee as a child,
And keep thy stainless spirit undefiled;
To guide thy progress upward unto youth,
And store thy mind with every precious truth:-
Send thee to mingle with the world's rude throng,
In moral worth and manly virtue strong,
With such rare energies as well might claim
The patriot's glory, and the poet's fame;
То go down gently to the verge of death,
And bless thee with a father's parting breath,
Assur'd that thou wouldst duly come to lave,
With filial tears, a parent's humble grave.
Such was my wish, but Providence hath shown
How little wisdom man can call his own;
Such was my wish, but God hath been more just,
And brought my humble spirit to the dust.
I should not murmur that thou couldst not live-
Thou hast a brighter lot than earth can give;
Then let me turn to thy fair sisters here,
And hold them, for thy precious sake, more dear;
Restore them to a place upon my knee,
And yield that love which I reserved for thee.
One hope remains—and one that never dies—
That I may taste thy rapture in the skies;
Here let me bow my stricken soul in prayer,
Till God shall summon me to meet thee there!
A CONFESSION OF LOVE.
In Mrs. BROWNING's Aurora Leigh.
COULD I see his face,
I wept so? Did I drop against his breast,
Or did his arms constrain me? Were my cheeks
Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his?
And which of our two large explosive hearts
So shook me? That, I know not. There were words That broke in utterance . . . melted, in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion, then a kiss..
As long and silent as the ecstatic night,—
And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, which meant beyond
Whatever could be told by word or kiss.
But what he said... I have written day by day,
With somewhat even writing. Did I think
That such a passionate rain would intercept
And dash this last page? What he said, indeed,
I fain would write it down here like the rest,
To keep it in my eyes as in my ears,
The heart's sweet scripture, to be read at night
When weary, or at morning when afraid,
And lean my heaviest oath on when I swear
That, when all's done, all tried, all counted here,
All great arts, and all good philosophies,-
This love just puts its hand out in a dream,
And straight outreaches all things.
I fain would write. But if an angel spoke
In thunder, should we, haply, know much more
Than that it thunder'd? If a cloud came down
And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its shape,
As if on the outside, and not overcome?
And so he spake. His breath against my face
Confused his words, yet made them more intense,-
As when the sudden finger of the wind
Will wipe a row of single city-lamps
To a pure white line of flame, more luminous
Because of obliteration; more intense,-
The intimate presence carrying in itself
Complete communication, as with souls
Who, having put the body off, perceive
Through simply being. Thus, 'twas granted me
To know he loved me to the depth and height
Of such large natures, ever competent
With grand horizons by the land or sea,
To love's grand sunrise.
By Mrs. HEMANS.
THE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers,
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell chime
Floats through their woods at morn:
All other sounds in that still time
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves:
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!
THE QUIET OF A HOSPITAL.
By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
SHE stirred-the place seem'd new and strange as death.
The white strait bed, with others strait and white,
Like graves dug side by side, at measur'd lengths,
And quiet people walking in and out
With wonderful low voices and soft steps,
And apparitional equal care for each
Astonish'd her with order, silence, law:
And when a gentle hand held out a cup,
She took it as you do at sacrament,
Half awed, half melted-not being used, indeed,
To so much love as makes the form of love
And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks
And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes
Were turn'd in observation. O my God,
How sick we must be ere we make men just!
I think it frets the saints in heaven to see
How many desolate creatures on the earth
Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
And social comfort, in a hospital,
As Marian did. She lay there, stunn'd, half tranced,
And wish'd at intervals of growing sense,
She might be sicker yet, if sickness made
The world so marvellous kind, the air so hush'd,
And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep :
For now she understood (as such things were)
How sickness ended very oft in heaven,
Among the unspoken raptures. Yet more sick,
And surelier happy. Then she dropp'd her lids,
And folding up her hands as flowers at night,
Would lose no moment of the blessed time.
Then put she on all her religious weeds,
That decked her in her secret sacred deeds:
A crown of icicles, that sun nor fire
Could ever melt, and figured chaste desire.
A golden star shined in her naked breast,
In honour of the Queen-light of the East;
In her right hand she held a silver wand,
On whose bright top Peristera did stand,
Who was a Nymph, but now transformed a dove,
And in her life was dear in Venus' love;
And for whose sake she ever since that time
Choosed doves to draw her coach thro' heaven's blue clime;
Her plenteous hair in curl'd billows swims
On her bright shoulder; her harmonious limbs
Sustain'd no more than a most subtle veil,
That hung on them, as it durst not assail
Their different concord; for the weakest air
Could raise it swelling from her beauties fair.
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts.
Which as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think, there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much, unhappily.
'Twere good she were spoken with.
Let us go forth and tread down fate together.
We'll be companions of the gusty winds;
Laugh loud at hunger; conquer want; out-curse
The fierceness of the howling wilderness.
Firm here; or bolder onwards; that's our way.
He who gives back a foot, gives vantage ground
To whatsoever is his enemy.
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