University of Virginia Library

I love thee, lady—oh how well—
Nor thou canst guess, nor I can tell;
But 'tis with such a reverent love
As saints feel here for saints above;
A love less fond than household ties
And sweet domestic sympathies;
Less passionate, but purer far
Than purest dreams of lovers are;—
Such love as felt the Florentine
For her, his soul's immortal queen,
Who led him, in angelic guise,
Through the bright realms of Paradise.
For thou, though mortal still I ween,
Even such a guide to me hast been;
A cheering light, a mission'd star
To guide my footsteps from afar,
Through mist and fog, through shower and shine,
Right heavenward to thy home and mine.
Whence comes it then, (if thou canst guess,)
That when my heart would fain express
The thoughts thy presence makes to flow,—
The feelings that within me glow;
When I would open my full soul
Without reserve, without control,
Lay bare to thee each secret part
Of this poor, wayward, sinful heart,—
And speak with thee, in converse high,
Of thoughts that roam beyond the sky,—
Of all my hopes,—of all my fears,—
Of griefs that “lie too deep for tears,”—
Of doubts that o'er my spirit steal,—
Of all I would, but cannot feel,—
Of many a dark, rebellious hour,
In thought and will, to Heaven's high power—
Of bitter strife waged hard within,—
Of triumphs dark achieved by sin—
When thus I would pour forth to thee
My inmost soul's anxiety,—
Or when, in less religious mood,
I'd talk with thee, if talk I could,
On subjects grave of pleasant thought,—
In all too happy to be taught
By thy pure wisdom, which doth reach
The farthest realm of thought and speech,
And make all lovely—tell me why
This spell-bound tongue so dumb doth lie?
Why is it that thy speaking eye,
Which smiles upon me with intent
To give serene encouragement,—
And thy sweet words, which fain would break
My spirit's charm, and gently wake
My slumbering speech to converse high,
By sense of mutual sympathy—
Why do these serve to tighten more
The chain which was so tight before?
Why doth each sweet attempt of thine
To give me freedom, only twine
A heavier, stronger spell around me
Than that with which my nature bound me?
Why, when my heart is yearning still
Of fervent talk to take its fill,
Doth want of power so fetter will,
That half in fear, and half in joy,
I falter like a frighten'd boy,
And stammer forth, in hurried tone,
A few faint, scatter'd words alone;—
Unmeaning words of vain assent,
Or more unmeaning sentiment—
Betokening thought confused and dim,—
Ideas indistinct, that swim
In shapeless masses, undefined
And dreamlike, through my labouring mind;
And feelings which, though proud to feel,
I neither dare nor can reveal?

It is not fear—it is not love,
Which so my charmed soul doth move,
That I must oft appear to thee
Senseless or passionless to be.
O lady! 'tis a dread respect
Of thy majestic intellect;
A sense of awe which makes me bow
Before thy voice, before thy brow,
In reverence for that depth of mind
So richly stored, so disciplined
To the full use of all its powers,
By patient thought and studious hours;
And, more than this, a consciousness,
Too deep for language to express,
Of that most perfect holiness
Which God himself in thee hath wrought
Through years of calm religious thought,—
Through study deep and constant prayer,—
Through trials dark—through grief and care,
Through contemplation pure and high—
Through many a well won victory,
With toil and pain, achieved o'er sin—
Enfranchising the depths within
From all dominion but his own,
And slowly building up a throne
In thy pure soul, whereon he may
Himself reign paramount for aye.
'Tis true, elsewhere I may have found
Minds as exact, nor less profound;
And haply some, in many years,
Almost in holiness thy peers;
But never, never found I one
In whom thy wit and wisdom shone
So chasten'd as they are in thee
By fervent Christianity;
Thy reason calm—thy faith intense—
Thy clear and bright intelligence;
And all this with a woman's heart,
Framed perfectly in every part,
And rich in sympathies of earth—
The love that gladdens home and hearth—
The prudence mild—the sense discreet—
The household smile so bright and sweet—
The sweeter tears, so prompt to flow,
Not for thine own but others' woe;
The grace which clothes in fairest dress
All this thine other loveliness;
In voice and look, in mind and heart,
Lady, how beautiful thou art!

And I,—should not this soul of mine
Feel, as it doth, rebuked by thine?
This soul, which howsoe'er endued
With capabilities of good—
With powers of thought, and feeling high,
And some bright gleams of phantasy,—
Did, in the morn of life's brief day,
Cast all its better gifts away;
Waste half its brightest years on earth
In cares and pleasures little worth;
Leaving itself untutor'd still,—
Unpurified from moral ill—
Unfurnish'd with the needful store
Of earthly or of heavenly lore;—
Its headstrong passions unsubdued—
Its carnal spirit unrenew'd;
Each talent unimproved, or given
To things on earth, not things in heaven?
Myself the slave, the creature still
Of self-indulgence and blind will?
O lady, look not at my heart;
For, all benignant as thou art,
Thou couldst not choose but love me less,
Couldst thou behold, or know, or guess
Its yet too great unworthiness.

And wilt thou love me less? Ah me!
That I should thus conceive of thee!
That such a thought should e'er have birth
As that of losing, here on earth,
Thy friendship—the best boon, but one,
I yet retain beneath the sun!
No, lady, I can ne'er believe
But that howe'er thy soul may grieve
Over my many faults, thou still
Wilt yield me, of thine own sweet will,
Affection unreserved, but kind,
And with remembrances entwined
Dear, though most sad, of recent ties,
Close knit by mutual sympathies,
And sorrows, in which thou and I
Wept and consoled alternately.

Forgive me, then, that I so oft
Hear thy dear voice, so sweet and soft,
Provoking me by gentlest force
To intellectual discourse;
Yet sit, as seems, regardless by,
In helpless taciturnity.
Think of me, as of one whose seat
Should be for ever at thy feet;
As one who fain would learn of thee,
In most sincere humility—
Yea, like a meek and docile child—
Religion pure and undefiled;—
As one whom God to thee hath given,
A friend to be prepared for Heaven.