University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

I lay aside my pen,—my story ends,
“Of some few years in some few English lives;”
Warning of evils wrought by bosom friends
To some few English husbands and their wives,—
A simple story—unimprov'd by rhymes,
And unembellish'd with that mystic glow
Which hovers o'er the tales of olden times,
The chivalresque romaunts of long ago.
Yet I would say, to compensate for this,
(Had but my Constance lov'd the man she ought,
And had my Geoffrey's been a lawful kiss,)
That I had felt and understood each thought
Portray'd in them; and that they liv'd and mov'd
And had their being outside the gilded rim
Of this poor book, and that they sinn'd and lov'd,
And that in truth I knew both her and him.—
Or wholly in the flesh, or as, may be,
A sculptor recognises, blent in one
From many models borrow'd, arm or knee
Or rounded throat or bosom;—and the sun
Has shone in very truth on ev'ry scene
My humble pen has striven to portray,
And Denzil Place and Farleigh Court have been
With all their inmates, and I know the day
When Constance first saw Geoffrey Denzil ride
Thro' long arcades of evergreens, and when
She knelt in love and anguish by his side
And told him all her aching heart knew then.
Not by these names were known this erring pair,
(Nor yet that injured husband, kind and old)—
But he was human, she alas, was fair—
And ‘good Sir Johns’ are always manifold.
You search in vain for moral or advice—
For flow'ry language,—complicated plot,—
Or cunning metaphor, or neat and nice
And pointed epigram,—you find them not
I tremble for my reader's kind good will,
And hang a bashful head, yet seem to see
(No doubt with partial eyes,) a moral still
Which lingers here, if only seen by me.
Poor Constance was not born so bad and base
As needs must seem a guilty faithless wife,
And had her heart been harder, or her face
Less fair, she might have liv'd a blameless life.
She was the eager champion of the poor,
And Denzil was her helper in the cause,
High were their motives, and their conduct pure,
And if his soul despised our human laws
It was because they seem'd less just and true
Than those that he had fashion'd as his own,—
He would have form'd a new religion, too,
E'en better,—broader,—than this present one.
He did not forge, as weapon to obtain
His evil purpose, any cunning scheme
Such as some men have form'd, who wish'd to gain
The love of other women,—for his dream
Had been to veil his idol in the shrine
His love and reverence had rais'd on high,
And worship her as tho' a thing divine
Almost too sacred for the human eye
To light upon;—whilst she had seen with grief
In him the signs of a persistent will
To war against all orthodox belief,
Yet hoped, with patience, to convert him still,
So sought his side, nor ever miss'd the chance
Of tender word of counsel, wise and strong
Beyond her years, or sweet reproachful glance
At any word or action seeming wrong.
No naughty novels did my Geoffrey lend,—
No Ernest Feydeaus, and no Paul de Kocks,
He was the “working man of England's friend”
And talk'd of Progress whilst she knitted socks,
'Twas thus they fell . . . . . ! E'en as they sagely plann'd
The reformation of the human kind,
They saw their boasted bulwarks blown as sand
At the remorseless mercy of the wind!
“Captain or Colonel, Knight, or man-at-arms”
So may you fall, whilst gazing at the sky,
Blind to the many dangers and alarms
Which close beside you in your pathway lie!
And you, fair lady, who could never err
Save from your beauty, or your ‘melting mood’
Which dreads all cruelty,—be warn'd by her
And be a little cruel to be good!
She did not fall from love of deadly sin,
Nor did her breast for guilty pleasures glow,
And pure had been the heart that beat within,
Save for her fatal fear of saying “no.”
But ah, forgive her! in the coming years
She cannot cross your path, or cause your cheek
To blush for her delinquencies,—her tears
Are dried for ever, and her voice will speak
To Geoffrey Denzil not one loving word
Of all the many he remembers yet,
Nor is her fairy footfall ever heard
Now or for ever;—so forgive, forget
Her many faults and failings, she is dead,
And many miss her, and would fain recall
Her and her frailties, and would e'en, instead,
Exaggerate her virtues:—faults and all
Some foolish people lov'd her. She is gone
Like this sad autumn day, of which the hue
Suits well this landscape;—all the sculptured stone
Of these two Denzil dragons, wet with dew
Is glist'ning from a newly risen moon
Charming the hazy distance 'neath her reign
Of silv'ry sad enchantment. Very soon
Thro' ev'ry quaint Elizabethan pane
Glimmers a twinkling light. Farewell old home!
Old house with windows looking like the eyes
Of some old friend, who smiles at those who come
And sighs for those who go;—but mostly sighs
For her who never more will come or go,
And never more may look upon thy face!
Farewell sad witness of her shame and woe,
Farewell to Constance and to Denzil Place.