5
‘My niece has told you every word
I said of you! What may I mean?
Of course she has; but you’ve not heard
How I abused you to the Dean;—
Yes, I’ll take wine; he’s mad, like her;
And she will have you: there it ends!
And, now I’ve done my duty, Sir,
And you’ve shown common-sense, we’re friends!’
6
‘Go, child, and see him out yourself,’
Aunt Maude said, after tea, ‘and show
The place, upon that upper shelf,
Where Petrarch stands, lent long ago.’
7
‘These rose-leaves to my heart be press’d,
Honoria, while it aches for you!’
(The rose in ruin, from her breast,
Fell, as I took a fond adieu.)
‘You must go now, Love!’ ‘See, the air
Is thick with starlight!’ ‘Let me tie
This scarf on. Oh, your Petrarch! There!
I’m coming, Aunt!’ ‘Sweet, Sweet!’ ‘Good-bye!’
‘Ah, Love, to me ’tis death to part,
Yet you, my sever’d life, smile on!’
These “Good-nights,” Felix, break my heart;
I’m only gay till you are gone!’
With love’s bright arrows from her eyes,
And balm on her permissive lips,
She pass’d, and night was a surprise,
As when the sun at Quito dips.
Her beauties were like sunlit snows,
Flush’d but not warm’d with my desire.
Oh, how I loved her! Fiercely glows
In the pure air of frost the fire.
Who for a year is sure of fate!
I thought, dishearten’d as I went,
Wroth with the Dean, who bade me wait,
And vex’d with her, who seem’d content.
Nay, could eternal life afford
That tyranny should thus deduct
From this fair land, which call’d me lord,
A year of the sweet usufruct?
It might not and it should not be!
I’d go back now, and he must own,
At once, my love’s compulsive plea.
I turn’d, I found the Dean alone.
‘Nonsense, my friend; go back to bed!
It’s half-past twelve!’ ‘July, then, Sir!’
‘Well, come to-morrow,’ at last he said,
‘And you may talk of it with her.’
A light gleam’d as I pass’d the stair.
A pausing foot, a flash of dress,
And a sweet voice. ‘Is Felix there?’
‘July, Love!’ ‘Says Papa so?’ ‘Yes!’
CANTO III.
The Country Ball.
PRELUDES.
I.
Love Ceremonious.
Keep your undrest, familiar style
For strangers, but respect your friend,
Her most, whose matrimonial smile
Is and asks honour without end.
’Tis found, and needs it must so be,
That life from love’s allegiance flags,
When love forgets his majesty
In sloth’s unceremonious rags.
Let love make home a gracious Court;
There let the world’s rude, hasty ways
Be fashion’d to a loftier port,
And learn to bow and stand at gaze;
And let the sweet respective sphere
Of personal worship there obtain
Circumference for moving clear,
None treading on another’s train.
This makes that pleasures do not cloy,
And dignifies our mortal strife
With calmness and considerate joy,
Befitting our immortal life.