University of Virginia Library

In two short years from that eventful day,
Beneath the shade of scented orange boughs
And flow'ring myrtles, near a cypress tree
Clung round with roses, Constance sat and mused
In a fair garden. Her's were blissful dreams,
And from her heart a never-ending hymn
Of gratitude and praise rose up to heav'n—
Above the feath'ry palms and calm blue sky
Reflected in the glitt'ring tideless sea.
For time had made her Geoffrey Denzil's wife,
And she was once again in Italy—
Nor did this sacred second marriage-ring
Encircling her slight finger, exorcise
(As rings, alas! have oft been known to do!)
Aught of the tenderness she felt before
When it was bitterness and shame to love.
And Denzil, with his independent heart
Scorning the laws and customs of the world,
Learnt it was not alone the guilty zest
With which some natures seek forbidden fruit
That heretofore had made him deem he lov'd.
For now that they were lawful man and wife
The love he felt for her intensified
And deepen'd with the days—the happy days!
And with these days were blended happy nights—
Oh, bless'd experience, but to few vouchsafed!
The treble unity of heart and mind
And all those pulses of material life,
Which throb in harmony to one great end—
The sweet, perpetual, intermingling
Of sense and soul,—the mutual interchange
Of all that each can render—each receive!
Oh, for but half a year of such a dream
How willingly would I exchange the rest—
Those future years of loveless solitude
Which Heaven may predestine me to live!
For days which darken into blissful nights
When, heart to heart, in one another's arms
We sink not into blank forgetfulness,
Since e'en in sleep the senses realize
The sacred presence of our best belov'd!
For nights that fade into the happy dawn
When, after this sweet half-unconsciousness,
We wake to know we were not duped by dreams,
But that we hold against our grateful heart
Our dearest treasure! oh, for days and nights
Such as I sometimes dream of, give me grief
And after-pangs of bitter suffering,
But let me glory in the unknown joy
Of some such days and nights before I die!
“Ah, unregenerate! will you always doubt?
“And yet,” she added, grasping at a straw,
“You know at any rate, pray'r does no harm—
“If wasted, it is wasted, but the air
“Is all the purer for our purer thought—
“It is no superstition that degrades
“Like some that men have follow'd long ago—
“I feel so grateful when I see the sun
“Shining as now, on such a lovely scene—
“My inward intimate existence yearns
“To give some proof of gratitude to God
“And so to Him I lift my heart in pray'r.”
And thus the days went on, until at last
One of the little pray'rs that Constance pray'd
Was granted to her, and her grateful heart
Began to realize the long'd-for bliss
Of knowing that some soul-begotten ray
Of light and life, intense—intangible—
Meeting with Denzil's warm impatient lips
In those dear days and those mysterious nights,
Had wrought in her that wond'rous miracle,
Ever recurring, yet for ever new,
Incomprehensible and beautiful,—
That inexplicable, sweet, incarnation
Of two-fold love, first-felt, a flutt'ring hope
Faint as the plash of muffled elfin oars
In some unfathomable mystic lake,
Or as the fancied murmur of the waves
To one who has been dreaming of the sea.