The Victories of Love, and Other Poems. Coventry Patmore

      Yonder the sombre vessel rides

      Where my obscure condition hides.

      Waves scud to shore against the wind

      That flings the sprinkling surf behind;

      In port the bickering pennons show

      Which way the ships would gladly go;

      Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees

      Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze;

      On top of Edgecumb’s firm-set tower,

      As foils, not foibles, of its power,

      The light vanes do themselves adjust

      To every veering of the gust:

      By me alone may nought be given

      To guidance of the airs of heaven?

      In battle or peace, in calm or storm,

      Should I my daily task perform,

      Better a thousand times for love,

      Who should my secret soul reprove?

         Beholding one like her, a man

      Longs to lay down his life!  How can

      Aught to itself seem thus enough,

      When I have so much need thereof?

      Blest in her place, blissful is she;

      And I, departing, seem to be

      Like the strange waif that comes to run

      A few days flaming near the sun,

      And carries back, through boundless night,

      Its lessening memory of light.

         Oh, my dear Mother, I confess

      To a deep grief of homelessness,

      Unfelt, save once, before.  ’Tis years

      Since such a shower of girlish tears

      Disgraced me!  But this wretched Inn,

      At Plymouth, is so full of din,

      Talkings and trampings to and fro.

      And then my ship, to which I go

      To-night, is no more home.  I dread,

      As strange, the life I long have led;

      And as, when first I went to school,

      And found the horror of a rule

      Which only ask’d to be obey’d,

      I lay and wept, of dawn afraid,

      And thought, with bursting heart, of one

      Who, from her little, wayward son,

      Required obedience, but above

      Obedience still regarded love,

      So change I that enchanting place,

      The abode of innocence and grace

      And gaiety without reproof,

      For the black gun-deck’s louring roof.

      Blind and inevitable law

      Which makes light duties burdens, awe

      Which is not reverence, laughters gain’d

      At cost of purities profaned,

      And whatsoever most may stir

      Remorseful passion towards her,

      Whom to behold is to depart

      From all defect of life and heart.

         But, Mother, I shall go on shore,

      And see my Cousin yet once more!

      ’Twere wild to hope for her, you say.

      I’ve torn and cast those words away.

      Surely there’s hope!  For life ’tis well

      Love without hope’s impossible;

      So, if I love, it is that hope

      Is not outside the outer scope

      Of fancy.  You speak truth: this hour

      I must resist, or lose the power.

      What! and, when some short months are o’er,

      Be not much other than before?

      Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere

      In which I’m held but while she’s dear?

      For daily life’s dull, senseless mood,

      Slay the fine nerves of gratitude

      And sweet allegiance, which I owe

      Whether the debt be weal or woe?

      Nay, Mother, I, forewarn’d, prefer

      To want for all in wanting her.

         For all?  Love’s best is not bereft

      Ever from him to whom is left

      The trust that God will not deceive

      His creature, fashion’d to believe

      The prophecies of pure desire.

      Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.

      A mystery does my heart foretell;

      Nor do I press the oracle

      For explanations.  Leave me alone,

      And let in me love’s will be done.

      Fashion’d by Heaven and by art

      So is she, that she makes the heart

      Ache and o’erflow with tears, that grace

      So lovely fair should have for place,

      (Deeming itself at home the while,)

      The unworthy earth!  To see her smile

      Amid this waste of pain and sin,

      As only knowing the heaven within,

      Is sweet, and does for pity stir

      Passion to be her minister:

      Wherefore last night I lay awake,

      And said, ‘Ah, Lord, for Thy love’s sake,

      Give not this darling child of Thine

      To care less reverent than mine!’

      And, as true faith was in my word,

      I trust, I trust that I was heard.

         The waves, this morning, sped to land,

      And shouted hoarse to touch the strand,

      Where Spring, that goes not out to sea,

      Lay laughing in her lovely glee;

      And, so, my life was sunlit spray

      And tumult, as, once more to-day,

      For long farewell did I draw near

      My Cousin, desperately dear.

      Faint, fierce,