The Victories of Love, and Other Poems

The Victories of Love, and Other Poems

After the very cordial reception given to the poems of The Angel in the House, which their author generously made accessible to the readers of these little books, it is evident that another volume from the same clear singer of the purity of household love requires no Introduction. I have only, in the name of the readers, to thank Mr. Coventry Patmore for his liberality, and wish himsay, rather, assure him ofthe best return he seeks in a wide influence for good. H. M. Mother, I smile at your alarms! I own, indeed, my Cousins charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their fathers sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so she The bloom of life provoked in me And, hard till then and selfish, I Was thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delight In being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur; Honouring myself no less than her; Obeying, in the loneliest place, Evn to the slightest gesture, grace, Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbirds shriek Startled the light-leaved wood; on high Wanderd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trappd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grass Through which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe; Day was her doing, and the lark Had reason for his song; the dark In anagram innumerous spelt Her name with stars that throbbd and felt; Twas the sad summit of delight To wake and weep for her at night; She turnd to triumph or to shame The strife of every childish game; The heart would come into my throat At rosebuds; howsoeer remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoeer, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confessd In her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bred Anxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic sky Oerarching childhood! Far and nigh Mystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun! What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scope The disconcerted heart, affects These ceremonies and respects? Why stratagems in everything? Why, why not kiss her in the ring? Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold The city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attack By delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoff At hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flushd my thought That, what in me such wonder wrought Was calld, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, I love her, told My secret to myself, behold A crisis in my mystery! For, suddenly, I seemd to be Whirld round, and bound with showers of threads, As when the furious spider sheds Captivity upon the fly To still his buzzing till he die; Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrilld me through and through With bliss beyond aught heaven can have, And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilderd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunderd our home from hers. This day Glad was I as I went her way. I stretchd my arms to the sky, and sprang Oer the elastic sod, and sang I love her, love her! to an air Which with the words came then and there; And even now, when I would know All was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strain Love taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more mark Than when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the grace Ineffable, their only trace A heart which, having felt no less Than pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight; A patient, poignant appetite For pleasures that exceed so much The poor things which the world calls such. That, when these lure it, then you may The lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew From Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than lookd at, shows That liking still by favour goes! This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election free Of human merit; or lets say, A child by ladies calld to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smiles Like any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not! None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies brows. Theres Mary; Heaven in her appears Like sunshine through the showers bright tears; Mildreds of Earth, yet happier far Than most mens thoughts of Heaven are; But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth Seald amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talks She knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules oer a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals Temple glowd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skilld to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of whats fit so well Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. Ive time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I faild in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life Ive led With these my friends; and sweet twill be To abridge the space from them to me. ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 4009
Author: Patmore, Coventry
Release Date: May 1, 2003
Format: eBook
Language: English

Contributors

Editor: Morley, Henry, 1822-1894