Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK VI.

• THERE are some minds that never feel their power
• While beams the light of pleasure's sunny hour,
• Unknown their strength to combat earthly ills,
• While the sweet draught their cup of gladness fills.
• page: 116
• Then are they sometimes vain, capricious too,
• Uncertain, changeful, to themselves untrue,
• The slightest breath disturbs them, and they fear,
• Yet scarce know why, their onward course to steer.
• But let the storm come darkening o'er their way,
• No more amid the restless surf they play;
• But sweeping forward on the foaming main,
• Nor wind, nor wave, can stem their course again.

• Martha was one of these, a sportive child,
• A girl ungovernable, wayward, wild,
• A woman sensitive, and quickly moved
• By praise or censure from the few she loved.
• Thus had her lover urged his suit in vain,
• She yielded not, yet feared to give him pain.
• One day relenting, pleased she heard him praised,
• Another changed by laughter idly raised;
• Her aunt's derision, and her sisters' scorn
• Blighting the hopes of better feeling born.

• But were they true, the tidings Henry told?
• Her father suffering from his want of gold?
• No power, no means, her brother's wish to grant—
• Her sisters useless, and extravagant—
• It was too true; her father now could raise
• But half the income of more prosperous days;
• And her strong purpose firmly fixed at last,
• All weak misgivings to the winds she cast.
• She could be happy, that she never feared,
• With one whose goodness more and more endeared;
• Her father's home would still be bright and gay,
• For those who lingering in that home might stay;
• But she, more blest, would hail the welcome thought,
• Her bread should never by his toil be bought.

• Henry was silent now, or kindly spoke,
• For deeper thoughts within his bosom woke.
• Lucy had seldom joined the unfeeling jest,
• And Helen's scorn grew milder with the rest;
• page: 118
• Ere came that day of mingled joy and pain,
• The first link breaking in their household chain.
• A few short weeks were left to Martha yet,
• To teach her faithful memory to forget;
• To build her future out of things unseen,
• Her home without the garden, and the green;
• To cast her hope's bright anchor in the sea,
• And wait the issues of—uncertainty.

• And now, to make the strengthening bond more close,
• The prudent lover ventured to propose,
• His orphan sister, as a guest, should come
• To share the welcome of the farmer's home.
• She came, and kindness and respect were paid,
• Both warm and genuine, to the town-bred maid,
• Whose fairy foot, small waist, and pallid cheek,
• The tenderest mould of human form bespeak.
• She was an orphan, left in childhood lone,
• No mother's love around her cradle thrown,
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• Her helpless infancy her only dower.
• And thus her brother, from its earliest hour,
• In all things else a prudent man and sage,
• Had watched too fondly o'er her tender age;
• Had spared her youth with discipline to train,
• And thus consigned her to a world of pain.
• True, she appeared most gentle, kind, and fair,
• As untried characters so often are;
• But a spoiled child to feeble woman grown,
• Let no man love, the cost will be his own.

• It was the time for waving woods to show
• The autumnal tints that deepen as they glow,
• For golden grain to wave alone the field,
• For orchard boughs their rosy fruit to yield;
• And still the farmer joined the reapers' hand,
• Sharing their labour with unsparing hand.
• And Henry joined them too, but oftener strayed
• To where his sisters wandered through the glade,
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• Seeking the hazel-nut, the purple sloe,
• Or fruitful bramble with its prickly bough,
• Or pausing by the brink of pebbly brook,
• For social converse, or for idle book.
• While Martha plied her needle by their side,
• And oft to stay their rambling footsteps tried.

• Here Henry found them, not like nymphs of old
• Bathing their tresses in the fountain cold,
• But laughing merrily with girlish glee,
• His welcome form in rustic garb to see.
• Then would they chide him to the field again,
• And bid him hasten back to reap the grain.
• Yet claim his aid to reach some loftier bough,
• Or, o'er the brook, some stepping-stone to throw;
• While feeble Emma, leaning on his arm,
• Asked, without words, protection from all harm.
• For she, unused to scenes so strange and wild,
• Shrunk back from danger, like a timid child;
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• Declared she never could the streamlet pass,
• And looked for poisonous adders in the grass.
• While trembling, laughing, she would step within
• The brook's clear margin, with her slipper thin,
• Then say she needs must die, for never yet
• Had she escaped from cold, with feet so wet.

• Oh, pretty airs of female helplessness!
• Weak in yourselves, what influence ye possess,
• What power to win the lordly heart of man,
• When neither common sense nor wisdom can.
• Grant we, the charm of weakness is not all,
• The foot that steps aside must needs be small.
• Vain childish fear must tinge a lovely brown,
• And fair must be the lip whence folly's accents flow.

• 'Twas thus the orphan, oft by Henry's side
• Looked up imploring for his help to guide;
• page: 122
• And while her fairy hand she placed in his,
• It thrilled his bosom with a secret bliss,
• To think how well—how ably he could blend
• All she desired—protector, guide, and friend.
• So passed those autumn hours. 'Twas like a dream,
• So fair and fruitless such bright visions seem,
• When gazing back from winter's world of snow,
• We ask, Where are those fruits and flowerets now?

• Could autumn moons for ever brightly shine,
• And verdant boughs their wreaths of beauty twine,
• Could cloudless suns for ever rise and set,
• And fragrant flowers beam forth with dew-drops wet,
• Could fields and forests look for ever green,
• No touch of blight upon their foliage seen;
• Could the clear brook unsullied still remain,
• Through summer's burning heat, and winter's rain;
• Could the sweet warblers of the genial spring
• Through the whole year their songs of gladness sing;
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• Could beauty last, or blooming health remain,
• Or youth outlive all grief, disease, and pain;
• Then were it sweet through fadeless woods to stray,
• With some fair being, innocent as gay,
• Whose smiling charms should make the flowers more bright—
• Whose kindness wake a world of new delight;
• Sweet were it then for fancy's skill to weave
• Some scheme of sorrow, not enough to grieve,
• Some hardship, or some hind'rance, to induce
• That gentle thing our willing aid to choose.

• Thus reasons man, and thus he reasons right,
• While suppositions merely meet his sight.
• But when he brings his beautiful ideal
• To share a world like ours—so stern and real—
• To face the tempest, and endure the storm,
• With tears and terrors that have ceased to charm;
• When sordid cares, a restless host, arise;
• When beauty fades, and youth's warm vigour dies;
• page: 124
• When dormant temper wakens, wild and fierce,
• And childhood's ceaseless cries, that wound and pierce;
• When sickness comes, and penury and pain,
• With all the ills that follow in their train;
• Oh, who would dare to meet the woes of life,
• And share its sorrows with a pining wife?
• Who would commit his children to her care,
• Or seek her sympathy his grief to share?
• Who would expect, when trials pressed him sore,
• The timid trembler could his peace restore?
• Or who would wish, beside his feverish bed,
• The feeble thing that could not raise his head?
• With nerves too delicate to feel at home
• Where sickness saddened, or where death might come?

• No! let not sterling virtues lose their worth
• Before these graces of unnatural birth,
• Forced into life by artificial means,
• To make all women goddesses, or queens.
• page: 125
• And let not man his generous nature trust,
• Seldom indeed, more generous than just.
• It is not always that he loves to soothe;
• For idle steps the rugged path to smooth;
• To guide the fearful, or support the weak;
• Or wisdom's words in folly's ear to speak.
• The knot once tied, he wisely asks in turn
• To be the soothed one, and his wife must learn.
• Her part is now to cheer his rugged path,
• To calm his fears, and soften down his wrath,
• To chase the clouds of sorrow from his brow,
• And the bright side of every scene to show.
• Woe waits her failure, misery most extreme,
• If of her selfish griefs she still would dream—
• The loss of all to woman's heart most dear—
• Her husband's love—what hath she left to cheer?
• But let her seek for happiness in his,
• Ask nought on earth but secondary bliss,
• Then comes her recompense, her full reward—
• Peaceful her breast, unchanging his regard.

• Cold and insensible must be the heart
• That feels not sad, when comes the hour to part,
• Even with the slightly loved, or lately known,
• Whose lot on earth has mingled with our own.
• But when affection weaves the binding chain,
• When treasured memories all their warmth retain,
• When thoughts of childhood shared within one home,
• A cloud of witnesses, unsought for, come;
• Then will the tide of natural sorrow swell,
• Though hope may brighten o'er the last farewell.

• 'Twas thus around the farmer's cheerful home,
• Where hand in hand the sisters used to roam,
• They wandered now, the last time on the green,
• While fell the moonlight, verdant boughs between.
• Martha once more at Henry's side appears,
• Her bright eyes glancing through unbidden tears,
• While Lucy's arm around her slender waist,
• A silent witness of her love, was placed.
• page: 127
• Helen most beautiful when most subdued,
• Shared with the rest that evening's pensive mood;
• And gentle Emma, still from Henry took
• For more than courtesy, each tone and look,
• Reading by that fine instinct woman knows,
• Truth, that no language half so quickly shows.

• Was it not luxury then to feel the power
• Of autumn moonlight in that peaceful hour?
• To see the shadows of those ancient trees,
• To hear the whisperings of the evening breeze,
• To cast the flood-gates of remembrance back,
• To walk again through childhood's dubious track,
• To see the past, as oft its page appears,
• Without its trials, and without its tears?
• To turn and watch the best beloved on earth,
• Standing upon the soil that gave them birth
• For the last time? yet pining not to stay,
• So bright the hope that beckons them away?
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• Yes there is luxury in grief like this,
• Something that almost turns our tears to bliss;
• While thoughts unspoken flow from heart to heart,
• And no one dares to utter—“We must part!”

• Such was the evening, but when morning rose
• A different scene awoke them from repose.
• Guests from both town and country—favours white,
• And silks and satins glowing on the sight,
• Coaches in waiting, horsemen of all grades,
• At doors and windows simpering servant maids.
• Away they go—a fluttering cavalcade,
• Wheeling along beyond the chesnut shade;
• At length they reach the little church-yard green,
• And pass its venerable elms between,
• While cottage dames—their spinning-wheels forgot,
• And village children, hasten to the spot.
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• What ails the father that he will not brook
• That gazing concourse? Why that altered look?
• Can heart like his find aught to sadden here?
• Yes, he hath seen one tombstone, white, and clear.
• And now he thinks, yet fain his thoughts would shroud,
• Of the last time he met that gazing crowd!
• The next may be to raise another mound,
• Another tombstone on that hallowed ground.
• Whose will it be? Oh! question full of fear!
• Who best can say, “My home hath not been here.”

• 'Twas an old-fashioned wedding, and there came
• Relations of all character and name;
• For that one day, distinction laid aside;
• While poured good wishes on the blooming bride.
• They were a motley group from far and near,
• Yet welcome all, and plenteous was the cheer.
• And wide was spread the richly-furnished board,
• Before that mansion's hospitable lord.
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• Then rose the playful smile to Helen's lip,
• To see how strangely people taste and sip,
• When all unused to touch the glittering plate,
• Which marks to them the tables of the great.
• Scarce with respectful tone and look she spoke,
• For Henry's glancing eye her laughter woke,
• As gathered in their friends with aspect strange,
• While strove the aunt to assemble and arrange—
• Yet fared they not amiss—served was each guest,
• With viands choice, and wines the very best.
• No labour lost to satisfy or please,
• No fear the keenest hunger to appease.
• Vast had the preparation been, and vast
• The admiring wonder of each rural guest.
• Dishes were there of which they ne'er had heard,
• While those best known, so strangely were prepared,
• So strewn with flowers, so garnished, and displayed,
• Vain their surmises how such things were made.
• Thus ignorant what to ask for, or to trust,
• They half desired again the homely crust.
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• Till William Herbert pressed them to partake,
• With heart-warm smiles that welcomes ever make;
• When freedom reigned amid the happy throng,
• Too fain at last their welcome to prolong.

• 'Twas an old-fashioned wedding, and the sun
• Went down before the parting had begun.
• That sad, sad parting, when the household chain
• Is broken, never more to hold again
• One severed link—perchance the firmest there;
• How shall the chain of love that fragment spare?

• The bride and bridegroom, with the guests, all gone,
• Sadness around the farmer's hearth was thrown,
• For sorely missed was Martha's flitting form,
• Her willing hand, her greeting frank and warm,
• When gathering in beside the evening fire,
• She looked around, with smiles that never tire.

• Henry alone, who would have felt the most
• Had no sweet dream his mental vision crossed,
• Walked to and fro, along the silent room,
• And inly smiled, scarce conscious of the gloom.
• For he had won from that fair orphan girl,
• A gem beyond all price—a precious pearl—
• The love—the confidence of her young heart,
• And thus he smiled, when others sighed to part.
• Thus woke the morning light with joy to him,
• His future now, no longer dark or dim;
• No more he spurned the farmer's homely toil,
• His secret visions brightening all the while;
• Labour was light, and tasks of duty, now
• Cast not a cloud upon his ardent brow.
• 'Twas the first dawn of manly hope that gave
• Strength to his wilt and made his purpose grave,
• That swept the fairy dreams of youth aside,
• And filled his bosom with a generous pride,
• To break away from selfish pleasure's thrall,
• To be to one, and for her sake to all,
• page: 133
• Within whose sphere his influence might extend,
• The man of weight—the counsellor—the friend.

• Love hath been said to seek the leafy glen,
• Moonlight, and mountain haunts, untrod by men;
• To shun the world, and shrink from vulgar day,
• Or in soft sighs to breathe itself away;
• But Henry's love, formed on a different plan,
• Reclaimed the poet—dignified the man;
• And taught him how to live, and think, and feel,
• As one who labours for the general weal.
• Thus would he close the fascinating page,
• When the experience of riper age
• Called his attention to his father's farm,
• To raise the shed, or keep the cattle warm;
• And scarce one hour of pastime would he spare,
• To seek the feathered brood or timid hare.
• Yet was his promise to Lord William made,
• To roam with him along the leafy glade,
• page: 134
• To scour the stubble-field, or climb the hill,
• Startling the pheasant where the woods were still;
• Sending along the lonely wilderness
• Their murderous echo—signal of distress.

• And bright the rosy morn that called them forth,
• Cloudless the sky, the freshening breeze blew north.
• The long grass bent beneath a sheet of dew,
• Save where the sportsman's wandering feet brushed through;
• Or bounding dogs that gambolled far and wide,
• Till called, and chidden, to their master's side.
• One moment drooping, patient, meek, and slow,
• The next, away across the fields they go;
• Impelled, regardless of all future strife,
• By their ungovernable gush of life,—
• Of life pent up within the weary stall,
• Shut out from sunshine, and free air, and all
• That man luxuriates in, and yet denies
• To the poor dog that pining, suffering, lies,
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• Bright was the morn, and lovely was the scene,
• As burst the sunlight o'er the deepening green,
• The purple heather, and the mellower glow
• Tinging the woods in the deep vale below.
• Where hastening on its way, a swollen brook,
• Rippling along, its pleasant pastime took.
• Sound was there none but this along the hill,
• Save the nut-gatherers answering, and then still,
• Or bleat of wandering sheep, or rustling tree,
• As winged the flutteringi bird its flight so free.

• Is it not happiness to stand and gaze
• 'Mid the deep silence of such autumn days?
• The harvest gathered in—man's labour done—
• Nature reflecting back a cloudless sun—
• Smiling, yet scarce with joy—asleep, not dead—
• Her diadem of beauty round her head.
• It is not happiness for man; his bliss
• Wakens the woods from silence deep like this,
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• With the brute echo of his barbarous gun,
• And victims' quivering cry, that scream and run.
• Vain are the autumn tints to him—his eye
• No charm beyond the cowering hare can spy.
• Vain are the rippling streams—his anxious ear
• Nought but the covey's whirring sound can hear.
• Vain all the brightest boons by nature given,
• Her sunniest scenes, her shadowings forth of heaven,
• If man must ever mar her smiling face,
• And o'er her verdant realm his bloody pathway trace.