Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK VII.

• THERE is a landmark to the traveller's eye,—
• Hope's constant symbol pointing to the sky,—
• The village spire, above the trees that throw
• Their mournful shadow o'er the graves below.
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• And well the eye long used to other lands
• Recalls again the valley where it stands,
• The green hill-side, the hedge-row, and the lane,
• The meadow-stream meandering through the plain,
• Spanned by the bridge, where meets the village maid
• Her rustic lover in the evening shade.
• All these, with their soft colouring warm and true,
• The wanderer's faithful memory can renew;
• Nor time, nor change, nor distance, can impair
• The lovely landscape ever green and fair.
• 'Tis for the village spire the school-boy looks,
• Returning home from masters, and from books,
• To gambol half his classic lore away,
• Through the bright summer's jocund holiday.
• 'Tis for the village spire the maiden sighs,
• While gazing fondly with her tearful eyes,
• She sees it gleaming through the twilight gloom,
• When first her footsteps leave her native home.
• 'Tis for the village spire the exile burns,
• With yearning bosom, as remembrance turns
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• To all he was, and all he might have been,
• Had he remained as simple as that scene.
• Nor looks the eye of faith unheeding there,
• Upon that beacon rising high and clear,
• Pointing from out the grovelling things of earth,
• To that bright realm where sorrow ne'er had birth.

• And Lucy Herbert loved to think, and gaze
• Upon that scene, well known in early days,
• When wandering with her sisters, forth they came
• To seek the lowly door of village dame;
• Or when with cordial by their mother sent,
• To the old cottage in the lane they went,
• To see the sick man on his humble bed,
• And feverish child within its cradle laid.
• Long sickness lingers in the poor man's home,
• And death most wished for seems most loath to come.
• The feverish child that fearful hour survived,
• Had now at woman's brightest bloom arrived;
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• While the old father, scarcely half restored,
• His widowed state and helpless doom deplored.
• Yet Phebe nursed him well, and made his hearth
• Look clean and cheerful, though it wanted mirth,
• For theirs was real poverty to know,
• That fatal cankerworm so sure and slow,
• That oft from cheek of beauty eats the rose,
• And o'er the path of age its venom throws.

• 'Twas in this cottage first that Lucy found
• The reverend pastor of the hamlets round;
• A venerable man, with hoary hair,
• And staff in hand, meet sign of pastoral care.
• Here too she heard him read the words of truth,
• With well-timed counsel both for age and youth.
• And she would listen with attentive ear,
• Until that voice—its tones so firm and clear,
• Gave to those truths an impulse o'er her soul,
• Powerful alike to soften, and control.
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• Little she learned of doctrine, less she knew
• Of points disputed by the learned few;
• But deep and ardent was her wish to prove
• How much she felt a dying Saviour's love;
• How yearned her bosom to redeem the time,
• The wasted moments of her girlish prime;
• And she would ask, in accents meek and low,
• That holy man to guide, and teach her how.
• She was a simple child in wisdom's ways,
• Yet could she sing her heavenly Father's praise
• With feelings more intense, and more profound.
• That earthly bliss she never yet had found.
• For much that others felt not, pained her mind;
• She was too delicate, and too refined,
• Too gentle for this world, with its rude strife;
• And thus she seemed almost to shrink from life,
• Like some frail bark, that, having put to sea,
• Finds the dark billows heave too heavily,
• While tossed and shattered by the raging main,
• It fain would seek the sheltering port again.
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• Oh! where should suffering soul like this findd peace
• Amid the world's wild storms that never cease?
• Or such meek dove find shelter for her breast,
• Save in the ark of everlasting rest?

• 'Twas not alone to muse and think of heaven,
• That Lucy's mind to better thoughts was given;
• Though well she loved, at evening,'s twilight hour,
• To yield her soul to contemplation's power;
• Yet was she found, with each returning sun,
• Awake to life, its serious tasks begun,
• Prepared to meet the duties of the day,
• As those alone can be, who rise to pray.
• And now her browr, so pure and calm before,
• With a more heavenly radiance was spread o'er,
• While she more patiently would bear reproof,
• Suffer injurious thought, nor stand aloof
• From occupations once degrading deemed,
• That now a part of Christian duty seemed.
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• Now was she seen, with every Sabbath-day,
• At morn, and noon, to wend her cheerful way
• Through summer's scorching heat, and winter's rain,
• To that old church beside the village lane,
• Where groups of girls to meet her first, would try,
• And look their welcome as her steps drew nigh.
• Then would she lead them through the solemin aisle.
• And check the forward step, and sportive smile;
• With mild authority, but look severe,
• Inspiring love, and still commanding fear.

• How shall the pedagogue be made to learn,
• That youthful generous tempers needs must spurn
• The mock majestic of his petty rule,
• That vainly fights for mastery in his school?
• Can he believe mere punishment will bring
• Conviction to the breast where follies spring?
• Can he believe, while peeping all about,
• To find the whispering or the sleeping out,
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• With cane upraised, and fury in his eve,
• And switching cut that makes the culprit cry?—
• Can he believe? or will his pupils say
• That this is worship on the Sabbath-day?—
• His thoughts in unison with what they hear,
• Of Christian charity, and slavish fear
• Cast out by love? No, while they turn again
• To where the preacher pours his fervid strain,
• They hear the stroke of prayer-book on the head
• Of some tired sleeper, or their own instead.

• Shame would we cry upon this scene of strife,
• But that it represents poor human life.
• Our best endeavours mingled with alloy,
• Our works of love with passions that destroy.
• So gross the ignorance that blinds our eyes
• To human nature, ever in disguise,
• That e'en this pedagogue may sink to rest,
• Thanking his Maker he has done his best.

• Nor could the graceful form of Lucy move
• Unheeded on her embassy of love.
• One eye there was that watched her bending low,
• Truth on her lips, and peace upon her brow,
• Her snow-white hand extending round the form
• Of rebel child, so rosy, rude, and warm,
• So well content in ignorance to dwell,
• And scarce by that soft touch constrained to spell,
• That common patience would have pushed aside
• The infectious sleeper, and some other tried.
• But she was labouring in a sacred cause,
• And hence her meekness and her strength arose.
• Yes, there was one who marked her placid look,
• And sometimes turned from off his holy book,
• While hung the attentive audience on his breath,
• To see if Lucy took her seat beneath—
• A young collegian, who had come to share
• His sacred duties with the pastor there.
• For feeble grew the venerable man,
• His years advancing to life's utmost span;
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• Yet while his people hailed him with delight,
• They thought the curate better could indite,
• Could read more fluently and charmed the ear
• With voice more musical, and smooth, and clear.

• Eustace could speak in silvery tones, and soft,
• With bland expression, more inviting oft
• Than real kindness clothed in homely dress,
• Though for the hour of trial, how much less!
• Yet was he kind, for he was mild of mood,
• And while he saw the fact, scarce understood
• How any man should let such fiery guest
• As guilty passion desolate his breast.
• Thus were the sinful doubly so to him,
• Who saw temptation thtoughit a glass so dim,
• It seemed a thing far off amongst the vile,
• While he from his proud eminence could smile,
• And wonder at the grovelling mass below
• Of blindfold ignorance, and guilty woe.
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• Well schooled in doctrine, he was fain to impart
• The knowledge he had gained, though not by heart:
• Of best constructions oft would talk and tell,
• And high authorities could quote as well;
• With ready finger point the dubious text,
• Expose the false translator's vain pretext,
• Proving, whatever might be said or thought,
• His memory at least had been well taught.

• All this to Lucy seemed a mine of gold,
• Wisdom's true wealth, its endless worth untold.
• And she would listen, anxiously intent
• To catch whate'er the learned student meant;
• Till question came at last of her belief,
• When burned her cheek with shame as well as grief;
• To think how low, how ignorant her mind,
• Compared with one so lofty and refined.
• Yet she confessed herself, as one who fears
• Still hopes assistance from the friend who hears;
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• And while the glistening tear-drops dimmed her eye,
• She looked more like an angel from the sky
• Sent down to minister, than guilty child.
• How could he answer but in accents mild?—
• Too mild, alas! for yer her young heart to bear,
• Without that impress time can never wear,
• Nor effort move, nor hope with colouring gay,
• Nor sorrow wash, with all her tears, away.

• Lucy was formed to love, not with excess,
• Nor weak display of lavish tenderness;
• But with deep thoughts that seemed so meek and still,
• Yet her fond bosom's utmost bound could fill,
• Tuning its various chords, that used to lie
• Unstrung before, to one sweet melody.

• The man who lightly speaks of woman's love
• Knows not that precious pearl, all price above.
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• He sees her smiling through the sunny hour,
• Fickle, and vain, and arrogant of power,
• Sporting with passion that she loves to calm,
• Inflicting wounds that she may pour the balm,
• Ambitious to subdue, yet quick to show
• The willing tears for other's pain that flow;
• He sees this fluttering thing with eyes so bright,
• Tortured by pain, enraptured by delight;
• He hears her promise never more to rove,
• And calls the gift she offers him, her love.

• Oh! worse than insult to that sacred name,
• To call the glimmering of such feeble flame,
• That constant light, by gracious heaven bestowed
• To cheer the pilgrim on life's thorny road.
• But there is love in woman's “heart of hearts,”
• That scarcely with expiring breath departs.
• Pure as a child's affection, when it feels
• The first warm gush that o'er its bosom steals;
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• Fervent and faithful, as a mother knows
• When round her babe the sheltering arm she throws,
• Warm, as the fire that lights the martyr's zeal;
• Great, as the hero's lofty soul can feel;
• Firm, as true friendship, but far more intense.
• And more regardless of all recompense;
• Ambitious to deserve, vain but to be
• The loveliest object one on earth can see;
• Fickle to suit his mood; whene'er he sighs,
• Sad, with true sorrow, not its poor disguise;
• Pleased when he smiles, yet not with wild delight,
• Fearing to force herself upon his sight;
• Lest her weak fondness should be seen too much,
• Too little felt, the magic of its touch.

• This love was Lucy's, nor unasked it came
• Tinging her cheek with many a blush of shame—
• Shame that she was not worthy of the friend
• Who sought with hers his future lot to blend.
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• Yet she could learn his wishes, watch his mood,
• The boundless debt of love and gratitude
• Could make it all her happiness to pay,
• Through the sweet service of each future day.

• Love has its attributes, and never yet
• Was born without them, or was half so sweet
• As when some other flowery bands entwine
• With its fair wreath, like roses with the vine.
• Thus will affliction blend in woman's breast,
• Hope of compassion with the stranger guest;
• And sorrow's tear her sympathy command,
• When love alone had vainly sought her hand.
• Thus oft she learns, not sober truth alone,
• Though clear the light upon its pages thrown,
• Yet while the tide of knowledge fills her mind,
• Her heart is less intelligent than kind.
• Thus when religion lends her holy flame
• To cast a halo round some honoured name,
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• Pure, then, and deep, the well-spring whence arise
• Thoughts of affection, wrapped in fair disguise,
• Blending the flowers that blossom on this earth
• With those that ne'er beneath the skies had birth;
• Gilding the landscape with celestial light,
• For this cold world too holy, and too bright;
• Sending to heaven, upon the wings of prayer,
• Feelings too human for acceptance there.
• And when the issue comes, as come it must,
• Sinking too low beneath the sentence just;
• As if shut out—rejected from above,
• Because some blight has touched our earthly love.

• Lucy, while venturing on temptation's brink,
• Was far too peaceful, and too blest, to think
• That danger lurked, where safety seemed to lead,
• And thus she feared not that fair path to tread.
• Thus were the duties of each day more dear,
• Because the approving smile so oft was near;
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• And evening came more sweetly to her eye,
• When he she reverenced so much, was nigh.

• Nothing was wanting now: she once had been
• Lonely and sad, when gazing on that scene—
• The village church—the trees—and that low grave,
• O'er which the elms their dark green branches wave.
• Here had she wandered, and had ofttimes thought
• Her mother's death so sore a grief had brought,
• No future bliss could ever soothe her pain,
• Or the world look like paradise again.
• Here had she mused, and wept those tears unseen,
• Which but for secret channels ne'er had been;
• Tears that will sometimes dim the sunny eye,
• And stain the cheek of youth, we scarce know why.
• Save that the heart, too covetous of joy,
• Wants more of happiness, with less alloy;
• And pines to think, while pleasure's cup runs o'er.
• That this is all, and life can give no more.

• It was not thus with Lucy now, her eye
• Saw neither cloud nor tempest in the sky;
• Nor blight, nor weed, nor shadow on the ground,
• Nor falling leaf, nor barren waste around.
• For he who taught her spirit to aspire
• With more belief, though not with more desire,
• Seemed like a shield around her helplessness,
• And thus she loved him, almost to excess.