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!