Part 13

I BUSIED myself to find a sure Snug hermitage That should preserve my Love secure From the world’s rage; Where no unseemly saturnals, Or strident traffic-roars, Or hum of intervolved cabals Should echo at her doors.

I laboured that the diurnal spin Of vanities Should not contrive to suck her in By dark degrees, And cunningly operate to blur Sweet teachings I had begun; And then I went full-heart to her To expound the glad deeds done.

She looked at me, and said thereto With a pitying smile, “And this is what has busied you So long a while? O poor exhausted one, I see You have worn you old and thin For naught! Those moils you fear for me I find most pleasure in!”

THE VOICE OF THE THORN

WHEN the thorn on the down Quivers naked and cold, And the mid-aged and old Pace the path there to town, In these words dry and drear It seems to them sighing: “O winter is trying To sojourners here!”

When it stands fully tressed On a hot summer day, And the ewes there astray Find its shade a sweet rest, By the breath of the breeze It inquires of each farer: “Who would not be sharer Of shadow with these?”

III

But by day or by night, And in winter or summer, Should I be the comer Along that lone height, In its voicing to me Only one speech is spoken: “Here once was nigh broken A heart, and by thee.”

FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY

I THOUGHT and thought of thy crass clanging town To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, I held my heart in bond, and tethered down Fancy to where I was, by force of will.

I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, One little bud is far more sweet to me Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;

And strove to feel my nature brought it forth Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; But it was vain; for I could not see worth Enough around to charm a midge or fly,

And mused again on city din and sin, Longing to madness I might move therein!

16 W. P. V., 1866.

HER CONFESSION

AS some bland soul, to whom a debtor says “I’ll now repay the amount I owe to you,” In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness That such a payment ever was his due

(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh, By such suspension to enhance my bliss.

And as his looks in consternation fall When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed, The debtor makes as not to pay at all, So faltered I, when your intention seemed

Converted by my false uneagerness To putting off for ever the caress.

W. P. V., 1865–67.

TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND

DID he who drew her in the years ago— Till now conceived creator of her grace— With telescopic sight high natures know, Discern remote in Time’s untravelled space

Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we, And with a copyist’s hand but set them down, Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy When his Original should be forthshown?

For, kindled by that animated eye, Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim, And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly The wild conviction welling up in him

That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead, The “very, very Rosalind” indeed!

8 ADELPHI TERRACE, 21st April 1867.

TO AN ACTRESS

I READ your name when you were strange to me, Where it stood blazoned bold with many more; I passed it vacantly, and did not see Any great glory in the shape it wore.