III.
Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other:
We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.
SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY
FIVE MONTHS OLD.
(October 10, 1836.)
My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow
Could manage, just for half-an-hour,
Sir Joshua’s brush to borrow,
I might immortalise a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.
I’d paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I’d paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I’d draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.
I’d oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy’s song
Had Caroline or Chloe.
Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever
That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they’d jump for ever.
But then your odd endearing ways—
What study ere could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays—
What canvass ere could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.
Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art’s most fine creations!—
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory’s keeping.
Hereafter, when revolving years
Have made you tall and twenty,
And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,
May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,
Feel all her virtues hard to paint,
As now we deem her beauties.
TO HELEN.
(July 7th, 1836.)
When some grim sorceress, whose skill
Had bound a sprite to work her will,
In mirth or malice chose to ask
Of the faint slave the hardest task,
She sent him forth to gather up
Great Ganges in an acorn cup;
Or Heaven’s unnumbered stars to bring
In compass of a signet ring.
Thus Helen bids her poet write
The thanks he owes this morning’s light;
And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,—
“Four verses, only four, to-day.”
Dearest and best! she knows, if wit
Could ever half love’s debt acquit,
Each of her tones and of her looks
Would have its four, not lines, but books.
TO HELEN.
(WITH A SMALL CANDLESTICK, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.)
February 12th, 1838.
If, wand’ring in a wizard’s car
Through yon blue ether, I were able
To fashion of a little star
A taper for my Helen’s table,—
“What then?” she asks me, with a laugh:—
Why then, with all Heaven’s lustre glowing,
It would not gild her path with half
The light her love o’er mine is throwing!
TO HELEN.
(July 7th, 1839.)
Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,
That in so brief—so very brief a space,
He who in love both clouds and cheers our life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bestead;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.
Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone;
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My own!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
(1839.)
That she may see, our bright and fair,
How arduous is her path to fame,
How much of solemn thought and care
An empire’s interests fitly claim,—
That she may know how poor ’twould seem
In one who graces Britain’s throne
To patronise a party’s scheme
Or make a favourite’s cause her own,—
That she may feel to whom belong
Alike the contest and the prize,
Whence springs the valour of the strong,
Whence flows the counsel of the wise,—
That she may keep in womanhood
The heaven-born impulses of youth,
The zeal for universal good,
The reverence for eternal truth,—
That she may seek the right and just,—
That she may shun the false and mean,—
That she may win all love and trust,
Blessing and blest,—God save the Queen.