Part 13

Oh, poor heart--love, if thou willest; but, thine own soul still possessing, Live thy life: not a reflection or a shadow of his own: Lean as fondly, as completely, as thou willest--but confessing That thy strength is God's, and therefore can, if need be, stand alone.

Little means were there around her to make farther, wider ranges, Where her loving gentle spirit could try any stronger flight; And she turned aside, half fearing that fresh thoughts were fickle changes-- That she must stay as he left her on that farewell summer night.

Love should still be guide and leader, like a herald should have risen, Lighting up the long dark vistas, conquering all opposing fates; But new claims, new thoughts, new duties found her heart a silent prison, And found Love, with folded pinions, like a jailer by the gates.

Yet why blame her? it had needed greater strength than she was given To have gone against the current that so calmly flowed along; Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain and dew of heaven, And her nature was too passive, and her love perhaps too strong.

The great world of thought, that rushes down the years, and onward sweeping Bears upon its mighty billows in its progress each and all, Flowed so far away, its murmur did not rouse them from their sleeping; Life and Time and Truth were speaking, but they did not hear their call.

Years flowed on; and every morning heard her prayer grow lower, deeper, As she called all blessings on him, and bade every ill depart, And each night when the cold moonlight shone upon that quiet sleeper, It would show her ring that glittered with each throbbing of her heart.

Years passed on. Fame came for Philip in a full, o'erflowing measure; He was spoken of and honoured through the breadth of many lands, And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were only pleasure, As if fame were only honour, when he laid them in her hands.

Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result expected, For how could it fail, since merit and renown go side by side: And the neighbours who first fancied genius ought to be suspected, Might at last give up their caution, and could own him now with pride.

Years flowed on. These empty honours led to others they called better, He had saved some slender fortune, and might claim his bride at last: Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled by the letter That now made her future certain, and would consecrate her past.

And he came: grown sterner, older--changed indeed: a grave reliance Had replaced his eager manner, and the quick short speech of old: He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance; He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold.

Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes, and listened To her calm soft voice, relating all the thoughts of these long years; And if Mildred's heart was heavy, and at times her blue eyes glistened, Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears.

Autumn with its golden corn-fields, autumn with its storms and showers, Had been there to greet his coming with its forests gold and brown; And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the year's last flowers, When he left the quiet village, and took back his bride to town.

Home--the home that she had pictured many a time in twilight, dwelling On that tender gentle fancy, folded round with loving care; Here was home--the end, the haven; and what spirit voice seemed telling, That she only held the casket, with the gem no longer there?

Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint and weary, For a hope deferred--and sadder still to see it fade and fall; Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow sick and dreary, Then to find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain of all.

What was wanting? He was gentle, kind, and generous still, deferring To her wishes always; nothing seemed to mar their tranquil life: There are skies so calm and leaden that we long for storm-winds stirring, There is peace so cold and bitter, that we almost welcome strife.

Darker grew the clouds above her, and the slow conviction clearer, That he gave her home and pity, but that heart, and soul, and mind Were beyond her now; he loved her, and in youth he had been near her, But he now had gone far onward, and had left her there behind.

Yes, beyond her: yes, quick-hearted, her Love helped her in revealing It was worthless, while so mighty; was too weak, although so strong; There were courts she could not enter; depths she could not sound; yet feeling It was vain to strive or struggle, vainer still to mourn or long.

He would give her words of kindness, he would talk of home, but seeming With an absent look, forgetting if he held or dropped her hand; And then turn with eager pleasure to his writing, reading, dreaming, Or to speak of things with others that she could not understand.

He had paid, and paid most nobly, all he owed; no need of blaming; It had cost him something, may be, that no future could restore: In her heart of hearts she knew it; Love and Sorrow, not complaining, Only suffered all the deeper, only loved him all the more.

Sometimes then a stronger anguish, and more cruel, weighed upon her, That through all those years of waiting, he had slowly learnt the truth; He had known himself mistaken, but that, bound to her in honour, He renounced his life, to pay her for the patience of her youth.

But a star was slowly rising from that mist of grief, and brighter Grew her eyes, for each slow hour surer comfort seemed to bring; And she watched with strange sad smiling, how her trembling hands grew slighter, And how thin her slender finger, and how large her wedding-ring.

And the tears dropped slowly on it, as she kissed that golden token With a deeper love, it may be, than was in the far-off past; And remembering Philip's fancy, that so long ago was spoken, Thought her Ring's bright angel guardian had stayed near her to the last.

Grieving sorely, grieving truly, with a tender care and sorrow, Philip watched the slow, sure fading of his gentle, patient wife; Could he guess with what a yearning she was longing for the morrow, Could he guess the bitter knowledge that had wearied her of life?

Now with violets strewn upon her, Mildred lies in peaceful sleeping; All unbound her long, bright tresses, and her throbbing heart at rest, And the cold, blue rays of moonlight, through the open casement creeping, Show the ring upon her finger, and her hands crossed on her breast.

Peace at last. Of peace eternal is her calm sweet smile a token. Has some angel lingering near her let a radiant promise fall? Has he told her Heaven unites again the links that Earth has broken? For on Earth so much is needed, but in Heaven Love is all!

VERSE: BORROWED THOUGHTS

I. FROM "LAVATER."

Trust him little who doth raise To one height both great and small, And sets the sacred crown of praise, Smiling, on the head of all.