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HARRY.

BY

Fanny Wheeler Hart

THE AUTHOR

OF

'MRS. JERNINGHAM'S JOURNAL'

FOURTH EDITION.

New York

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1877

DEDICATED TO

Menella Smedley,

AS A TINY TOKEN

OF

BOUNDLESS LOVE AND ADMIRATION.

HARRY.

PART I.

Love caught his heart in a lovely surprise,

Just the first moment he looked in my eyes:

Poor little eyes! by no prescience lit,

They saw him three weeks ere I lov'd him one bit.

Fair is the book[¹] where we read of a life

Born to a throne, taking love for its bliss,

Self-reproach wounding the sweet royal wife

For keeping two years he had asked for as his.

So I might suffer a sort of remorse,

Thinking of days that I cared not, yet knew;

Only, he says, ''Tis a matter of course

Girls should be woo'd and their lovers should woo.'

Only, the blossom he stoops not to touch.

Sparkling with beauty that lies at his feet;

Only, the blossom he coveteth much,

Is one that shineth as distant as sweet.

Only, a bird may fly helplessly near,

Chirping aloud in a manner too free;

Only, the bird he delighteth to hear,

Sings from the far-away top of a tree.

Is it for this he first fancied me, then?

He to whom earth her allegiance brings,

Noblest of nobles, a king among men,

Hero of heroes! a god among kings!

'Twill be very nice to be very old,

And with wrinkled brows and eyes that are dim,

To sit by the fire and in dreams behold

The face of the child that was woo'd by him.

Eve in her Eden, belov'd and preferr'd,

Sun, moon, and stars for her benefit made,

Bright as a blossom and gay as a bird,

Earth at her feet like a pleasure-ground laid;

All things about her benignant and fair—

Was she of Adam an actual part?

Love shining over her everywhere—

Had he no trouble in winning her heart?

Born with a mind even Kant must admit

Had no antecedents for doubt or regret,

Only white paper where nothing is writ,

Was she his wife the first moment they met?

Did she no gradual wooing receive?

Was she never a girl?—I am sorry for Eve!

Or if like others her history sped,

In those lovely regions to mortals unknown;

Flirting and courting and woo'd ere she wed,

Was the bird of her paradise Eve's chaperone?

I wonder if Adam my fancy would strike

As something like Harry!—What is Harry like?

Handsome and tall, with command in his eye,

The sweetest of smiles giving sternness the lie;

His soldierly bearing keeps foemen at bay;

His hair is clipped close in the orthodox way;

His nose has a curve from the bridge to the tip:

A statue might envy his short upper lip.

He dances divinely, and walks with an air

Half autocratic and half debonair,

With something about him no words can define:

Eve, was your hero as handsome as mine?

And oh! the years that pass'd over my head

When I was leisurely growing or grown;

And oh! the minutes that suddenly led

To the sweetest thought that ever was known.

Only one glad little glance that I gave,

Where by the window the passion-flower grew,

And a strong man was turn'd into a slave,

Watching and waiting for all that I do.

And a strong man's heart beat only for me—

Only for me while it answers life's call;

Till I was compell'd to hear and to see;

And only one little look did it all!

Oh, such an infinitesimal thing!

One unthought-of minute hurrying by,

And the whole of two lives yet in their spring

Are utterly chang'd for ever and aye!

If with idle heart and with careless eyes

I had not happened just there and just then

To smile at a flower beneath the skies,

Should I never have lov'd the first of men?

Had he seen me first in a festal hour,

Or riding, or driving, or by the sea,

And not with a smile for the passion-flower,

Would he never, never have cared for me?

Who planted the root, and its climbing plann'd?

Who water'd below or cherish'd above?

Is it the work of a gardener's hand

That causes my Harry and me to love?

Had that gardener never been born or hir'd,

Or done this one insignificant thing;

Had the passion-flower died;—my heart is tir'd

With the troublesome sudden thoughts that spring;

And mine eyes are filling with foolish tears,

And the pang that I feel is sharp and keen,

As I see the empty unhappy years,

And I think of all that might not have been.

* * * * *

Treason to love, that such thoughts should arise!

In Heaven I know our marriage was made;

Heaven is somewhere beyond those blue skies,

Why am I weeping and feeling afraid?

Happy the angels, who tenderly plan

These beautiful compacts to glorify man!

Happy the man and the woman who take

Humbly their crown for the dear angels' sake!

Love in our hearts giving strength to endure,

Eternal itself, makes eternity sure;

Earth growing perfect, unspeakably dear,

Only makes heaven seem yet more near.

Why do I tremble in fanciful doubt?

All things—or nothing—had brought it about;

Whatever might happen, I must be his;

What signifies talking, since so it is?

So there came the last of the careless days:

Did time in the very same manner move?

(My heart almost stops in a mute amaze

To think that it ever was not in love.)

Up in the morning, as gay as a lark,

With a glad good-bye to the pleasant night;

Without an idea I am in the dark,

Or that just beyond is the real light;

Running down stairs, with a laugh as I ran,

Free as 'the blossom that hangs on the bough'—

I never had given a thought to a man,

And why in the world should I give one now.

Dancing along through the hawthorn-crown'd lane,

'Neath showers of flowers whose name I bear,

Was it not strange I should find Harry Vane

Coming to meet me just then and just there?

Is it for this our two lives have been led,

Each travelling on its different way,

To meet with the blue sky over our head

Shaded by delicate blossoms of may?

Little reck'd I whom I happened to meet,

That I had a lover I never guess'd,

As I danc'd along with my careless feet,

And the heart of a child within my breast.

I had seen him a dozen times before,

With a pleasure that brought no sudden change;

I knew that he lik'd me—but nothing more:

O Harry! to think of it is so strange!

Sauntering on with the birds and the flowers,

Talking of things that we know or we knew—

Of the pretty wishes that once were ours

In long-ago times when our years were few:

A wild little bird skims rapidly by;

And I tell of a day when my heart was stirr'd,

And I cried as only a child can cry,

That I was a girl instead of a bird.

'And oh!' in an eager manner I cried,

'I am feeling the very same wish to-day:

Oh for two wild wings, and to spread them wide,

And rush through the sky away and away.'

I cast up my eyes, to the smiling skies,

And smiling I lower'd their glance again,

And as they were lower'd they met his eyes,

And a thrill went through me of sweetest pain.

I blush'd when I thought of my eager words—

But why do I blush? and why do I care?

What does it matter to me and the birds,

Or the pretty blossoms or scented air?

'And I,' he replied, 'have my wishes too:

Time teaches the real meaning of things;

And only this moment, looking at you,

I felt that an angel need not have wings.'

We had sauntered on to the garden gate:

He look'd in my eyes ere we turn'd to part:

I walk'd away in a manner sedate,

And with something new just touching my heart.

When the first violet open'd in bloom,

Was it surpris'd at its lovely perfume?

Why does not History tell us, who met

First, the sweet breath of the first violet?

Rather I'd know it than facts that are known—

As when some tyrant ascended some throne,

A battle was fought, a comet display'd,

Coals were discover'd, or steam-engines made.

I can no moment recall, ere I knew

Perfume pertain'd to those blossoms of blue;

Had the first knowledge of sweetness like this

Touch'd me to-day, what perfection of bliss!

Children with all that creation can grant

Scarcely will miss the one pleasure I want,

Just to remember the day and the hour

When, by spring breezes caressingly blown,

Delicate fragrance of violet flower

First touch'd my senses, becoming my own!

And what can it be—oh, what can it be,

That has garnish'd earth with a golden grace?

What is this something that entering me

Changes my life in a minute of space?

When I first notic'd the power in his eyes—

Watching to see if they praise or condemn,

Blushing to meet them—came into the skies

Beauty that never has vanish'd from them.

When I first stopp'd in the midst of my mirth,

While my heart beat in a tremulous way

Only to see him,—came over the earth,

Glory that earth has retain'd to this day.

When the first whisper assaulted my ear,

When the first pressure astonish'd my hand,

When I first fancied that I might be dear—

Life was a miracle joyous and grand.

When he first woo'd me with prayers, for his own,

Suddenly came an eclipse of the light:

Sighing, I wish'd he would let me alone;

Smiling, I long'd to hide out of his sight.

Life being lit by a fairy-like gleam,

Sparkling and glittering, tender and pure,

Was not he stupid to change such a dream

Into reality tame and secure?

'Tis sweet to find I am wrong in the thought,

Joy is but brighter for being confess'd;

Every moment has happiness brought,

Every stage of true love is the best.

They wish me at home to sit and to sew—

And I like to do what my aunt thinks right—

But the stitching never seem'd half so slow,

Nor zigzagg'd itself as it did one night.

And my work kept slipping out of my hand

As wonderful thoughts came into my head:

Sure, life is becoming too bright and grand

To be given up to needles and thread!

I was thinking of words that Harry spake,

And of looks that more than mere words betray,

With a joy as pure as the first snow-flake,

And almost as ready to melt away.

And with little tears beginning to start,

And with smiles and blushes that come and go;

And I did not know what was in my heart,

Or else I pretended I did not know!

O sudden awaking from dream so fair!

'Tis the voice of my aunt, and I hear it say—

'Child, are you falling asleep in your chair?

Will you ever finish that collar, May?'

I caught up my work (I knew I was wrong),

Determin'd to finish it ere we sup;

But something within me, for me too strong,

Conquer'd myself, and I had to give up.

'O, my Aunt Bridget,' I timidly said,

'I am tired of stitching—I want to rest;

O let me gather the roses instead,

The young little roses the first and best.'

Soft summer twilights caressing the air

Have buried the garden in lovely gloom;

But I knew that the eagerest roses there

Were just beginning to think they might bloom.

The pretty wee stars kept peeping about,

And even peep'd in through our prison bars,

As she gravely said, 'Who ever went out

To gather a rose by the light of stars?'

My heart beat fast at the beautiful phrase;

She had not intended it, I suppose,

But I felt I could love her all my days,

If under the stars I might pluck one rose!

Pleading my cause in so ardent a way,

Almost evoking an answering glow,

Crying, 'You once were as young and as gay'—

Then, she smil'd a little and let me go.

'Twas pleasure enough to be out of doors;

I look'd at the stars and I felt content:

But it never rains, you know, but it pours,

And the path that I had to go—I went!

Playing with fancies, in fanciful play,

'If I want a rose,' I demurely said,

'I must look for an omen to point the way,

And I must look for it over my head.'

So I found a star that shone in the sky,

And mark'd how it glitter'd down on a tree,

And felt—but I swear that I know not why—

There grow the roses intended for me!

And as I approach the shadowy boughs

That are spreading out over earth and air,

A gay little miracle fate allows,

And the star appears to be sparkling there!

Gladly I ran o'er the daisy-clad plain,

Led by the shimmering light of the star,

And under the tree I found—Harry Vane

Lying, and smoking a 'mild cigar!'

I started astonish'd—he stood upright,

And said, in a voice persuasively kind,