The lump of gold: and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Thou'rt better, Edward,” said, in gentle tone,
Aubrey's own Lilian, o'er his pillow bending;
“The fever and the agony are gone,
And peace is with thee.” One warm tear descending,
Fell on his hand. “Oh, piteous dew,” he said,
“That shows she loves me; would the healing flow
If I could tell her all that she must know
When the cold grass waves dankly o'er my head!”

II.

“Aye! Edward! I am thine: whate'er thou art!”
His pale face shone with ecstacy of gladness—
A moment only: looming from his heart
Came the dark shadow of unsolaced sadness.
“Few are mine hours,” he said, “and full of sorrow,
But if thou'lt pity and forgive my guilt

I could die happier; from thy face I borrow
Mine only joy:—Thou'lt pity me?—Thou wilt?”

III.

“Aye! from my heart's deep heart, and inmost soul!
How could I love thee, if I did not share
All thou endurest; all but thy despair?
Look up repenting: Faith shall make thee whole;
And if this human love, so frail and fond,
Shall lead thee to it, rise from thy despond,
And know it thine; thine only, as of yore,
And thine, thine only—now and evermore.

IV.

True love bears all but treason to itself;
In sorrow, comforting; in loss of pelf
Coining its looks to treasure; kindly words
To fortunes and estates; in guilt and pain
Looking up hopefully through Sorrow's rain
To sunshine and the chant of heavenly birds!”

V.

“Let me die happy!” said the feeble man;—
The parson entered, all his visage bright
With inward glory,—“No! thou shalt not die—
Lily brings comfort, all that true love can,
But I bring greater; on thy soul's dim night
Impetuous morning rushes from the sky,
And shows thee hope on earth as well as heaven.”
He looked up doubtful,—“I am unforgiven!”

VI.

“Nay!” said the parson, “Darest thou define
The infinite height and depth of love divine
Or scope of mercy? Leave us for a space,
Lily, my child.” She glided from the place
Like a fair sunbeam from the lingering gloom,
And Aubrey felt a chilness in the room;
And darkness where so late pure light had shone.
“Why didst thou bid my star of peace be gone?

Without her presence life forgets to burn—
Let me not die until the light return!”

VII.

Three hours beside his bed the good man sat,
Watchful, benign, and patient. Their discourse
Lilian nor knew, nor guessed;—but hoped and prayed
That on her lord's sad soul long-vanished peace
Might fall like moonlight on a troubled sea,
Or choral music in cathedral aisles,
That stills all worldly passion where it breathes,
And wafts the willing fancy straight to heaven
Amid the seraphim that know and love,
And milder cherubim that love and know;—
Their whispers, melodies, their converse high,
Eternal harmonies unheard of men,
Imagined only by the ecstatic few
Who catch far off faint echoes of their song,
And tell to none the mysteries they dream.

VIII.

Was her hope vain? She thought not, when she saw
Her father's face; and when he spoke, the hope
Flushed into certainty. “Let him repose—
He hath heard news that will revive his soul.
No evil dreams shall vex him;—let him rest.
Watch thou beside him, Lily, if thou wilt,
And when he wakes, make known that I am here.
Say nothing more of me, but of thyself
All that thy love may dictate. He is healed.”

IX.

And so it happened. “Lily,” said her lord,
Ere passed the week, as, leaning on her arm,
He walked in sunshine through the leafy lanes,
And caught the odorous breezes on his cheeks—
“I feel new life; all joys that I had lost
Have come back greater, fairer than before;
To thee I owe them, and thy saintly sire.

When I am stronger, as I soon shall be,
I'll tell thee all the evil I have done
Since last I left thee for the golden land;
And all the good, I hope, full blessed with thee,
To do hereafter. Courage fails me yet—
But no, not courage;—only strength;—that comes
Daily and hourly. Meanwhile, the blue sky,
The wind that wantons 'mid the beechen boughs,
And sports amid thy hair, dear love, and mine;
The sunshine, and the wild flow'rs by the way,
The innocent carol of the heartsome birds,
Fill me with joy so deep, I dread to tell
How blest I am, lest telling it should mar,
And seem to invite the lurking fiends that watch
To strike the goblet from our thirsty lips,
And punish happiness that boasts too soon;—
As if they said—‘since happiness can be
The fault is ours;—out with it from the world!’”

X.

“Be glad and fear not!” was the prompt reply,
“Innocent joy is piety to God,
A joy diffusive, like the light of heaven,
Fair in itself, and making all things fair,
Even in its shadow!” Thus they walked and spoke;
And thus came splendour to his fading eye,
Thus came the crimson to his pallid cheek,
The hopeful courage to his youthful heart
That Sorrow had not dulled with apathy,
Or punctured with the poisonous gall of hate.

XI.

“Thy father knows my secret—so must thou,”
Said Aubrey to his wife one summer morn,
Sitting upon the green sward 'mid the flowers;
“I've strength to tell it, and from thee, sweet heart,
I may hide nothing—of thy love secure;—
Dreading to lose thy love, I might conceal

Aught that would rob me of the meanest mite
Of an affection which is more than life;—
That which upholds it, chastens and adorns.

XII.

“The shadow is past: the storm-bent tree, unscathed,
Stands in its place and lifts its boughs to heaven,
And if I've suffered—suffering nerves the strong.
The placid river, flowing through the mead,
Shows not its strength; but when its pathway slopes
Downwards 'mid jagged rocks, and chasms austere,
It knows the task necessity decreed,
And awes the world with spectacle of power.
Such course I've run; and now, grown calm once more,
I can reflect the starlight of thine eyes,
And mirror in clear heart the things of heaven.
Come place thy hand in mine, and hear the tale.”