Letters of Laura D'Auverne By Charles Swain |
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 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
9
LETTERS OF LAURA D'AUVERNE TO BERTHA.
LETTER FIRST. MARCH 23.
Marriage! when was Marriage happy? I am weary of this yoke—
Weary of this bland deception—this mere counterfeit—this cloak;
Oh! dear Bertha, never marry, never shackle life's poor span
With those vows that link you ever to exacting, selfish Man!
Weary of this bland deception—this mere counterfeit—this cloak;
Oh! dear Bertha, never marry, never shackle life's poor span
With those vows that link you ever to exacting, selfish Man!
Love! you should have heard his raptures,—heard those silver-wooing chords—
Passion-breathing, soul-enthralling, as his life hung on my words;
Oh! to hear him, Woman's advent was the advent of a grace
That lent lustre unto Heaven, and gave language to earth's face.
Passion-breathing, soul-enthralling, as his life hung on my words;
Oh! to hear him, Woman's advent was the advent of a grace
That lent lustre unto Heaven, and gave language to earth's face.
10
She—'twas she—that, like the morning, scatter'd gladness as she came;
Nature wreath'd her path with sweetness, wrote on every flower her name;
Music at her first fond whisper thrill'd and trembled into birth;
Beauty languished to be like her, Truth to imitate her worth!
Nature wreath'd her path with sweetness, wrote on every flower her name;
Music at her first fond whisper thrill'd and trembled into birth;
Beauty languished to be like her, Truth to imitate her worth!
Oh! dear Bertha, could you fancy angel breathings, such as these,
Ending in a marriage discord, like a wild cat o'er the keys?
Such a storm I've just escaped from;—but of course you know D'Auverne,
Know his obstinate ill-humour—know his pride;—but you shall learn.
Ending in a marriage discord, like a wild cat o'er the keys?
Such a storm I've just escaped from;—but of course you know D'Auverne,
Know his obstinate ill-humour—know his pride;—but you shall learn.
If I have a passion, Bertha, 'tis to mount the graceful steed,
Curb his haughty pace elastic, check his hot and dashing speed;
But D'Auverne abhors it—hates it!—Would you think a man of sense
Could be so perverse as hate it?—Truth is, dear, he hates expense!
Curb his haughty pace elastic, check his hot and dashing speed;
But D'Auverne abhors it—hates it!—Would you think a man of sense
Could be so perverse as hate it?—Truth is, dear, he hates expense!
11
Well, it ended in a quarrel. “Think you, sir,” I said to him,
“That each wish I should surrender to make triumph for your whim;
There are ladies round me, thousands, who have horses they may ride,
With attendants ever ready; wherefore, then, am I denied?”
“That each wish I should surrender to make triumph for your whim;
There are ladies round me, thousands, who have horses they may ride,
With attendants ever ready; wherefore, then, am I denied?”
As he rose, I rose and pass'd him, proudly, as I would command,
But he stepp'd all pale, and held me with an agitated hand,
And with quivering lip he murmur'd—“There's no pain this heart endures
Like the pain of thus denying any hope or wish of yours!
But he stepp'd all pale, and held me with an agitated hand,
And with quivering lip he murmur'd—“There's no pain this heart endures
Like the pain of thus denying any hope or wish of yours!
“If you love me Laura, love me”......but no word would I hear more,
But regained my chair, and, rocking, crush'd my passion 'gainst the floor;
Even this, dear, did not please him! for with short and snappish word,
“Cease that foolish rocking,” said he, “for 'tis fit I should he heard.”
But regained my chair, and, rocking, crush'd my passion 'gainst the floor;
Even this, dear, did not please him! for with short and snappish word,
“Cease that foolish rocking,” said he, “for 'tis fit I should he heard.”
12
“Since you force me, I must hear you,—there's for me no other choice,”
Spoke I, with a chilling courtesy, and a cold, contemptuous voice;
All astounded, gazed he on me, with a brow of gathering gloom,
Loosed my hand in utter silence—and I proudly left the room.
Spoke I, with a chilling courtesy, and a cold, contemptuous voice;
All astounded, gazed he on me, with a brow of gathering gloom,
Loosed my hand in utter silence—and I proudly left the room.
LETTER SECOND MARCH 24.
'Tis the Sabbath morning, Bertha, yet the Sabbath bells but jar
'Gainst my feelings, all in tumult,—'gainst my heart, whose pulse is war;
Oh! the speeches which I fashioned, word by word, and inly spoke
Through the long night's sleepless watching, ere the loitering morn awoke.
'Gainst my feelings, all in tumult,—'gainst my heart, whose pulse is war;
Oh! the speeches which I fashioned, word by word, and inly spoke
Through the long night's sleepless watching, ere the loitering morn awoke.
13
As the drawn and dark'ning curtains shut the early beam of day
From the lofty arched ceiling—from the lone couch where I lay,
Myriad words came stern before me, myriad thoughts my soul imbued
With a colour stern of temper, and a purpose unsubdued!
From the lofty arched ceiling—from the lone couch where I lay,
Myriad words came stern before me, myriad thoughts my soul imbued
With a colour stern of temper, and a purpose unsubdued!
“Never—never!” cried I, “never will I bend with feelings mute,
Humbling every wish, will, fancy—every thought his mood to suit;
Never—never! sooner wither 'mid this winter of the brain—
Sooner years of nights made sleepless—sooner endlessness of pain.”
Humbling every wish, will, fancy—every thought his mood to suit;
Never—never! sooner wither 'mid this winter of the brain—
Sooner years of nights made sleepless—sooner endlessness of pain.”
Noon shed amber through the casement ere I ventured down the stair;
Cold it seem'd, and lone, and stately, as no footstep had been there;
All within remain'd unalter'd,—yet the very mirror took
Shades of sadness: my own features seem'd my own self to rebuke.
Cold it seem'd, and lone, and stately, as no footstep had been there;
All within remain'd unalter'd,—yet the very mirror took
Shades of sadness: my own features seem'd my own self to rebuke.
14
There was laughter, light, elastic,—voluble as music floats
On a tide of silver, breaking into drops of ringing notes;
Some one entered—'twas De Montfort—she with whom I was to ride,
And my pride wept tears, though hidden, as she laughing sought my side.
On a tide of silver, breaking into drops of ringing notes;
Some one entered—'twas De Montfort—she with whom I was to ride,
And my pride wept tears, though hidden, as she laughing sought my side.
Oh! be sure I did not spare him; I unclothed his specious cue
Of affection, fear, and such like, lest some danger might ensue!
As she left me who should enter, just as nothing had occurr'd,
But D'Auverne, who clasped me closely—fondly—and without a word.
Of affection, fear, and such like, lest some danger might ensue!
As she left me who should enter, just as nothing had occurr'd,
But D'Auverne, who clasped me closely—fondly—and without a word.
Quick his arm I threw beyond me, saying—“Sir, let me be gone—
I, of course, must bend in all things; you it seems, give way in none!
Follow, then, your inclination, follow out each selfish line
Even as you please, and, henceforth, from this hour I'll follow mine!”
I, of course, must bend in all things; you it seems, give way in none!
Follow, then, your inclination, follow out each selfish line
Even as you please, and, henceforth, from this hour I'll follow mine!”
15
So he paused again; then, smiling, tried to coax me to his will,
Saying, “For so slight a matter, shall we live in anger still?
Look within mine eyes, dear Laura, there my heart you may behold;”—
“Sir,” I said, “the heart I see there—is a heart that loves but gold!”
Saying, “For so slight a matter, shall we live in anger still?
Look within mine eyes, dear Laura, there my heart you may behold;”—
“Sir,” I said, “the heart I see there—is a heart that loves but gold!”
Bertha, scarce the words were given—passion-spoken—passion-born—
Rudely—rashly—falsely utter'd—utter'd, too, with needless scorn—
Ere my heart burn'd to recall them, as I saw him start, and gaze,
Ashy pale, as one bewilder'd—half in anguish—half amaze!
Rudely—rashly—falsely utter'd—utter'd, too, with needless scorn—
Ere my heart burn'd to recall them, as I saw him start, and gaze,
Ashy pale, as one bewilder'd—half in anguish—half amaze!
“God, oh God!” he cried; “what evil have I done that this should be!
I, whose love—whose love—oh! weakness, tears!—unmanly tears to see;
Never,” groan'd he, “have you loved me; and 'tis better we should part—
You, to fashion's giddy minions; I,—to wretchedness of heart.
I, whose love—whose love—oh! weakness, tears!—unmanly tears to see;
Never,” groan'd he, “have you loved me; and 'tis better we should part—
You, to fashion's giddy minions; I,—to wretchedness of heart.
16
Out the door he trembling hurried,—out my heart the passion came,
And I sat rebuked, admonished, in my bitterness of shame;
Oh! this pride—this pride, my Bertha, 'tis a fiend from which to shrink;
Many a cup of human sorrow forceth it the lip to drink.
And I sat rebuked, admonished, in my bitterness of shame;
Oh! this pride—this pride, my Bertha, 'tis a fiend from which to shrink;
Many a cup of human sorrow forceth it the lip to drink.
LETTER THIRD. MAY 1.
Flowers are smiling o'er the meadow—birds are merry on the wing—
In my heart life's flowers are drooping—dying in their life's young spring;
Three long weeks have fled, my Bertha, heavy weeks, with woe o'ercast—
Since, with solemn sad vibration, Time's dull hand hath knell'd the Past.
In my heart life's flowers are drooping—dying in their life's young spring;
Three long weeks have fled, my Bertha, heavy weeks, with woe o'ercast—
Since, with solemn sad vibration, Time's dull hand hath knell'd the Past.
17
Oh! but Memory is ungrateful, ever seeking its own will,
Feeding every thought of passion with some fancied wrong or ill;
Yet, when needed to support one,—to sustain our heat of mood—
It betrays the heart by turning what before seem'd ill—to good!
Feeding every thought of passion with some fancied wrong or ill;
Yet, when needed to support one,—to sustain our heat of mood—
It betrays the heart by turning what before seem'd ill—to good!
Many an act of true affection rush'd with wayard force to mind;
Many a needless, fond indulgence: he had only been too kind;
Scarce an hour ago my memory could with nought but evil meet;
Now, like rain in roses vanish'd,—I see nothing but the sweet.
Many a needless, fond indulgence: he had only been too kind;
Scarce an hour ago my memory could with nought but evil meet;
Now, like rain in roses vanish'd,—I see nothing but the sweet.
But my story—to my story:—When D'Auverne thus pale withdrew,
And my passion, like a culprit, stood in all its guilt to view,
Quick I heard him reach his study,—turn with sudden wrench the key—
While I listen'd—all affrighted—wondering what the end might be.
And my passion, like a culprit, stood in all its guilt to view,
Quick I heard him reach his study,—turn with sudden wrench the key—
While I listen'd—all affrighted—wondering what the end might be.
18
Would he!—how my blood froze in me!—rashly, madly, seek death's goal,
By an act that might for ever shut forgiveness from his soul?
Thrice I shudd'ring crept to listen, praying God with earnest breath
To console him—to relieve him—or to give me instant death!
By an act that might for ever shut forgiveness from his soul?
Thrice I shudd'ring crept to listen, praying God with earnest breath
To console him—to relieve him—or to give me instant death!
Not a sound, a breath, a movement,—all was silent save my breast,
Whose tumultuous throbbings warn'd me it should never more find rest;
Oh! the horror of a silence o'er whose hideous calm may burst
Such an act, gore-stain'd and guilty, as leaves Man denounced, accurst!
Whose tumultuous throbbings warn'd me it should never more find rest;
Oh! the horror of a silence o'er whose hideous calm may burst
Such an act, gore-stain'd and guilty, as leaves Man denounced, accurst!
Darkly pass'd the dreary midnight;—things distemper'd minds reveal
Crowded round me, till the moment when we met at morning meal;
Oh! those blood-shot eyes reproached me,—that dear face, so pale yet sweet,
And those lips that still pretended to partake, yet did not eat.
Crowded round me, till the moment when we met at morning meal;
Oh! those blood-shot eyes reproached me,—that dear face, so pale yet sweet,
And those lips that still pretended to partake, yet did not eat.
19
If he'd look'd but once upon me,—made, though but the least, advance,
Said one word to scorn or scold me,—given but one censuring glance,
I'd have humbled me before him, owned his censure well applied;
But the words I would have utter'd, on my lips, discouraged, died.
Said one word to scorn or scold me,—given but one censuring glance,
I'd have humbled me before him, owned his censure well applied;
But the words I would have utter'd, on my lips, discouraged, died.
If he'd only—once more only—said, “My Laura, must we part?—
Must we still live on in anger?” I'd have clasped him to my heart,
Own'd my brief, yet bitter error,—own'd that I had deeply erred,—
Pleaded to his love for pardon,—sued for one forgiving word!
Must we still live on in anger?” I'd have clasped him to my heart,
Own'd my brief, yet bitter error,—own'd that I had deeply erred,—
Pleaded to his love for pardon,—sued for one forgiving word!
But in silence—still in silence—and he rose without a look!
Then a month's estrangement followed,—weeks of torture, hard to brook;
I denied myself to each one—shut me from the light of day—
Yearning for that lost affection, that rich love I threw away.
Then a month's estrangement followed,—weeks of torture, hard to brook;
I denied myself to each one—shut me from the light of day—
Yearning for that lost affection, that rich love I threw away.
20
One calm evening—it was starlight—lone I sat, and life review'd
Gazing through the open casement, with Night's beauty all subdued.
Would D'Auverne, methought, but enter, I would tell him all I feared;—
As divining my petition, at that moment he appeared.
Gazing through the open casement, with Night's beauty all subdued.
Would D'Auverne, methought, but enter, I would tell him all I feared;—
As divining my petition, at that moment he appeared.
“Laura,” spoke he, slow and sadly, “you're not happy?”—and I said,
“Miserable am I—wretched!—who are happy save the dead?”
He replied, “I leave for travel, and 'tis needful you should stay
With your parents;—'tis uncertain how long I remain away!
“Miserable am I—wretched!—who are happy save the dead?”
He replied, “I leave for travel, and 'tis needful you should stay
With your parents;—'tis uncertain how long I remain away!
“I have known—but wherefore speak it?—misery never comes alone—
Other losses, other sorrows, o'er my pathway have been thrown;
Month by month hath earthly fortune faded into empty air;
Needing solace, I've found sorrow; needing hope, I've met despair.
Other losses, other sorrows, o'er my pathway have been thrown;
Month by month hath earthly fortune faded into empty air;
Needing solace, I've found sorrow; needing hope, I've met despair.
21
“But no matter—'tis no matter: Time hath mercy yet in store;
There is light in the Hereafter—though there's light on earth no more;
If I die, whate'er remaineth shall be yours, and yours alone;
My last words are,—May you never know the anguish I have known.”
There is light in the Hereafter—though there's light on earth no more;
If I die, whate'er remaineth shall be yours, and yours alone;
My last words are,—May you never know the anguish I have known.”
Gone—yes, gone!—unheard, unpardoned: in my woe I craved for death.
All the air from earth to heaven seemed too little for my breath!
Gone! my very heart seemed bursting, crush'd unto its very core;
It was midnight when they found me, fainting, bleeding on the floor.
All the air from earth to heaven seemed too little for my breath!
Gone! my very heart seemed bursting, crush'd unto its very core;
It was midnight when they found me, fainting, bleeding on the floor.
22
LETTER FOURTH. MAY 3.
Time goes even with the wretched,—that is something for life's woes,
Hopeless, friendless, rayless, joyless—sick or healthy—still Time goes!
If it so had pleaséd Heaven, gladly had I slept from pain,—
Slumber'd on, oh! well contented never to have waked again.
Hopeless, friendless, rayless, joyless—sick or healthy—still Time goes!
If it so had pleaséd Heaven, gladly had I slept from pain,—
Slumber'd on, oh! well contented never to have waked again.
Wrestling with my bitter sorrow, early I resolved on flight;
From my wardrobe took my dresses—folded, packed them, for the night;
From my bureau snatch'd some trifles friendship only made of worth,
And, array'd for my departure, stood as bann'd on mine own hearth.
From my wardrobe took my dresses—folded, packed them, for the night;
From my bureau snatch'd some trifles friendship only made of worth,
And, array'd for my departure, stood as bann'd on mine own hearth.
23
Parents! Home!—what home? what parents?—Parents I will never claim;
Home!—that spot so loved, so honour'd,—shall I back to it in shame?
Never; whilst I've strength I'll labour,—teach my spirit self-control:
Talents studied for adornment shall support me and console!
Home!—that spot so loved, so honour'd,—shall I back to it in shame?
Never; whilst I've strength I'll labour,—teach my spirit self-control:
Talents studied for adornment shall support me and console!
Yet “Departure” stung my senses with a sharp contracting pain;
All the room swam round and round me, circling as with fire my brain;
O'er the desk, which there lay open, I my tortur'd bosom bowed,
And in utter desolation—aimless, friendless—wept aloud!
All the room swam round and round me, circling as with fire my brain;
O'er the desk, which there lay open, I my tortur'd bosom bowed,
And in utter desolation—aimless, friendless—wept aloud!
With the scalding tears fast falling, for the last time I address'd
Him, who, had he then but seen me, thus repentant, thus distress'd,
Had—no matter: what pride bringeth, pride must sternly learn to bear,
Gain content from disappointment,—gather vigour from despair!
Him, who, had he then but seen me, thus repentant, thus distress'd,
Had—no matter: what pride bringeth, pride must sternly learn to bear,
Gain content from disappointment,—gather vigour from despair!
24
“Not, D'Auverne, to wound or grieve you,” wrote I, weeping, trembling on;
“But to pray you to speak kindly—to judge mildly—when I'm gone;
Not too rashly—not too coldly—think, though I have done you wrong,
I have never less than loved you; my worst fault, a faulty tongue.
“But to pray you to speak kindly—to judge mildly—when I'm gone;
Not too rashly—not too coldly—think, though I have done you wrong,
I have never less than loved you; my worst fault, a faulty tongue.
Ere you read this, she who pens it will have left you, sorrow torn;
Left you, but with heart as faithful as upon her bridal morn;
Left you—for I cannot, durst not, go unto my father's roof,
'Neath this sentence of your anger, 'neath this stain of your reproof.
Left you, but with heart as faithful as upon her bridal morn;
Left you—for I cannot, durst not, go unto my father's roof,
'Neath this sentence of your anger, 'neath this stain of your reproof.
Whatsoever fate await me, it shall but my firmness prove;
Never taint shall reach that bosom you once honour'd with your love.
If I die, and you forgive me, though it be too late to save—
You may, with a true assurance, scatter lilies o'er my grave.
Never taint shall reach that bosom you once honour'd with your love.
If I die, and you forgive me, though it be too late to save—
You may, with a true assurance, scatter lilies o'er my grave.
25
Had you—but 'tis vain to speak it—had you sought my fault to screen,
Warned me kindly of my danger, this distraction had not been!
Long I waited—long, but vainly—one relenting glance to meet,
To avail me of that moment, to have cast me at your feet!
Warned me kindly of my danger, this distraction had not been!
Long I waited—long, but vainly—one relenting glance to meet,
To avail me of that moment, to have cast me at your feet!
You will think, if still you love me as you loved me once, D'Auverne,—
Once—when you came miles to woo me—miles, a single smile to earn:
You will think—will think—and mourn me; for when I have pass'd away,
Memory, like an angel weeping, will remind you of that day!”
Once—when you came miles to woo me—miles, a single smile to earn:
You will think—will think—and mourn me; for when I have pass'd away,
Memory, like an angel weeping, will remind you of that day!”
Ere I ended came his footstep, as with hesitating pace,
And I listened, hoping wildly once again to see his face;
As irresolute of purpose, suddenly he hurried down,—
And I heard him answer sharply—“He should not return from town.”
And I listened, hoping wildly once again to see his face;
As irresolute of purpose, suddenly he hurried down,—
And I heard him answer sharply—“He should not return from town.”
26
Mute I mark'd the shadows shifting, sinking, dying in the west;
Heard the last one of the household hastening to her welcome rest;
Sleepless watch'd I till the dawn-light trembled on the foliage green,
Then—with broken steps and faltering—left the sleeping house unseen.
Heard the last one of the household hastening to her welcome rest;
Sleepless watch'd I till the dawn-light trembled on the foliage green,
Then—with broken steps and faltering—left the sleeping house unseen.
LETTER FIFTH. MAY 17.
In the gray receding distance street and spire, like visions, swept—
O'er that mighty mass of beings shadow after shadow crept;
And a shadow wrapp'd my spirit, darker than the dawn e'er wore,
As, abandon'd and unfriended, thus I left my native shore.
O'er that mighty mass of beings shadow after shadow crept;
And a shadow wrapp'd my spirit, darker than the dawn e'er wore,
As, abandon'd and unfriended, thus I left my native shore.
27
Strange, my Bertha, how affection lingers where young footsteps go,
Strange how slight a thing may fasten on the heart, and we not know:
Scotland was my mother's birth-land; and as came the hour to part,
That dear name I'd heard in childhood came the first thing to my heart.
Strange how slight a thing may fasten on the heart, and we not know:
Scotland was my mother's birth-land; and as came the hour to part,
That dear name I'd heard in childhood came the first thing to my heart.
Not that I knew friend or kindred, or a rood of its bright land,
Yet, although a stranger to me, it held forth no stranger's hand:
'Twas the name my mother's accents centred in her child's young breast—
And that child, in her first sorrow, look'd unto its shores for rest!
Yet, although a stranger to me, it held forth no stranger's hand:
'Twas the name my mother's accents centred in her child's young breast—
And that child, in her first sorrow, look'd unto its shores for rest!
See me then a wanderer, Bertha, hopless in my great despair;
I, from earliest recollection, cherish'd with too fond a care:
See me tread that shore romantic,—glowing 'mid poetic grace—
With a vision, sorrow blinded, turning to its beauteous face.
I, from earliest recollection, cherish'd with too fond a care:
See me tread that shore romantic,—glowing 'mid poetic grace—
With a vision, sorrow blinded, turning to its beauteous face.
28
Close behind the village post-house, where the coach stopp'd for the night,
Flowed a broad and rapid torrent, leaping down from height to height;
Full of music rolled its waters, like a psalm of endless praise,
Unto him who guides for ever the eternity of days!
Flowed a broad and rapid torrent, leaping down from height to height;
Full of music rolled its waters, like a psalm of endless praise,
Unto him who guides for ever the eternity of days!
Slowly on, by mount and valley, followed I its downward sweep—
Till at last its organ-grandeur, stop by stop, was hushed to sleep;
'Twas an evening such as seraphs might have chosen to appear,
Half mistaking Nature's beauty for their own transcendent sphere.
Till at last its organ-grandeur, stop by stop, was hushed to sleep;
'Twas an evening such as seraphs might have chosen to appear,
Half mistaking Nature's beauty for their own transcendent sphere.
From the book I brought to cheer me, page from page I listless tore,
Watching still the sloping waters as the scatter'd leaves they bore;
And I thought—oh! blesséd Heaven—if 'twere but the same to thee—
Would my page of life thus ending—thus forgotten—here might be!
Watching still the sloping waters as the scatter'd leaves they bore;
And I thought—oh! blesséd Heaven—if 'twere but the same to thee—
Would my page of life thus ending—thus forgotten—here might be!
29
And my soul with woe grew darkened,—guideless, wilder'd in its way;—
God, it thought, would sure forgive it;—wherefore then its peace delay?
Oh! so calm the paper floated—floated, eddied, sank, and died,
That it seem'd no common effort to resist that wished for tide!
God, it thought, would sure forgive it;—wherefore then its peace delay?
Oh! so calm the paper floated—floated, eddied, sank, and died,
That it seem'd no common effort to resist that wished for tide!
Then methought of the hereafter!—if this sin were not forgiven,
Would there be some spirit-kingdom, midway yet 'tween earth and heaven?
Some bright region wherein Mercy, comforting, consoling, trod,—
Where the air was full of angels, winging ransom'd souls to God!
Would there be some spirit-kingdom, midway yet 'tween earth and heaven?
Some bright region wherein Mercy, comforting, consoling, trod,—
Where the air was full of angels, winging ransom'd souls to God!
Oh! to know! but—but to know it! oh! to grasp that hope sublime!
Tell me, thou proud Sun, whose march is o'er the triumphs of all time,—
Answer thou, who call'st the Nations from their utter night of gloom,
Tell me what lies stretched beyond thee?—what is Death?—and what the Tomb?
Tell me, thou proud Sun, whose march is o'er the triumphs of all time,—
Answer thou, who call'st the Nations from their utter night of gloom,
Tell me what lies stretched beyond thee?—what is Death?—and what the Tomb?
30
Of that sphere of unknown being—of that vast mysterious shore,
Unto which ten thousand ages travel, and are seen no more—
Of the multitudes who've parted—of the myriad loved who've gone,
Is there, from that shore of silence, none to speak?—not one! not one!
Unto which ten thousand ages travel, and are seen no more—
Of the multitudes who've parted—of the myriad loved who've gone,
Is there, from that shore of silence, none to speak?—not one! not one!
Will it be Forgiven? Tell me! Will the angels intercede
For a spirit thus afflicted—cast, abandon'd, like a weed!
Will a tear be dropp'd in pity, washing out this act of shame?
Will the holy hand of Mercy write forgiveness to my name?
For a spirit thus afflicted—cast, abandon'd, like a weed!
Will a tear be dropp'd in pity, washing out this act of shame?
Will the holy hand of Mercy write forgiveness to my name?
Thus I raved—thus hoped—my reason wander'd wildly in its woe!
Long—how long I stood inactive,—moments?—hours?—I do not know;
But at last my ears were ringing with a dizzy, hissing din,—
And my soul seem'd sinking—sinking,—lower, lower—in its sin!
Long—how long I stood inactive,—moments?—hours?—I do not know;
But at last my ears were ringing with a dizzy, hissing din,—
And my soul seem'd sinking—sinking,—lower, lower—in its sin!
31
Oh! the suffocating horror,—dragging me as with a chain;
Oh! those dizzy dreadful waters,—shrieking, screaming through my brain;—
Muffled echoes—dim and drowning—heard I, choking 'mid the strife,—
But the grasp of Death grew fainter, and a dream came over life!
Oh! those dizzy dreadful waters,—shrieking, screaming through my brain;—
Muffled echoes—dim and drowning—heard I, choking 'mid the strife,—
But the grasp of Death grew fainter, and a dream came over life!
LETTER SIXTH. JUNE.
In the inner world of spirit dwells a second life,—a breath
Lent us by the lips of angels to recal us out of death!
In that world we act and utter things we cannot all explain,
But whate'er hath passed in Spirit must on Earth be passed again.
Lent us by the lips of angels to recal us out of death!
In that world we act and utter things we cannot all explain,
But whate'er hath passed in Spirit must on Earth be passed again.
32
We hear things we well remember to have heard in dreams—and see
The same place and the same people,—we could tell what next will be:
As from such a world of marvels I awoke, and looked around,
All things seem'd as robed in rainbows,—door and ceiling, wall and ground.
The same place and the same people,—we could tell what next will be:
As from such a world of marvels I awoke, and looked around,
All things seem'd as robed in rainbows,—door and ceiling, wall and ground.
Back my soul return'd bewilder'd,—wandering in a dreamy maze;
Never painter wrought such wonders as whereon mine eyes did gaze;
And these pictures of my fancy took on sight and brain such hold,
That, awake, I still perceived them, glowing on the curtain's fold,
Never painter wrought such wonders as whereon mine eyes did gaze;
And these pictures of my fancy took on sight and brain such hold,
That, awake, I still perceived them, glowing on the curtain's fold,
Then they mingled in each other—died away like angel-wings,
And, from out the rose-like vapour, one by one came household things;
One pale object—dim and distant—cost me many an anxious look,
Till the mist cleared off, and show'd me some one bending o'er a book.
And, from out the rose-like vapour, one by one came household things;
One pale object—dim and distant—cost me many an anxious look,
Till the mist cleared off, and show'd me some one bending o'er a book.
33
Clearer still—I saw a lady, plainly vestured—old and grey,
Lofty statured, finely featured,—form'd as if of nobler clay!
And I heard her reading, slowly, words with holy comfort rife,
From His lips who died that others might have everlasting life!
Lofty statured, finely featured,—form'd as if of nobler clay!
And I heard her reading, slowly, words with holy comfort rife,
From His lips who died that others might have everlasting life!
Swift as lightning through my spirit all at once the Past arose!
Shriek'd again the demon waters—howling round like hellish foes;
All my misery—all my madness—sprang in broader light to view,
Till I cried, “Forgive me heaven!—help me—teach me what to do.”
Shriek'd again the demon waters—howling round like hellish foes;
All my misery—all my madness—sprang in broader light to view,
Till I cried, “Forgive me heaven!—help me—teach me what to do.”
Sweetly as a babe is lifted to its mother's soothing breast—
Softly, as a mother presses, were my aching temples pressed!
And a gentle whisper heard I,—“Let thy soul to Jesus pray,
Ne'er to Him came one in sorrow he e'er turned in tears away!”
Softly, as a mother presses, were my aching temples pressed!
And a gentle whisper heard I,—“Let thy soul to Jesus pray,
Ne'er to Him came one in sorrow he e'er turned in tears away!”
34
Ever—ever—like a mother, comforting with words divine—
Cheering—soothing—leading nearer my lost soul to God's own shrine;
Till at last, with spirt humbled, slow my trembling prayer was given,
And I said—“Forgive thy servant! Pardon mine offences, Heaven!
Cheering—soothing—leading nearer my lost soul to God's own shrine;
Till at last, with spirt humbled, slow my trembling prayer was given,
And I said—“Forgive thy servant! Pardon mine offences, Heaven!
“Thou, who bore affliction meekly,—how can I thy pity claim?—
Pray for comfort, peace, or pardon, and not hide my head in shame?
Pain! there is no pang in nature—not a darker pain can live,
Than the pain that we, unthinking, to our wretched selves can give.
Pray for comfort, peace, or pardon, and not hide my head in shame?
Pain! there is no pang in nature—not a darker pain can live,
Than the pain that we, unthinking, to our wretched selves can give.
“Temper! Passion!—they but end in fruitless sorrow and disgrace,—
Wound affection—warp the reason—darken life—deform the face.
Temper! Temper! God of Mercy, cleanse me from that scorpion foe,
Guide me to mine own salvation! Lift me from a thrall so low!”
Wound affection—warp the reason—darken life—deform the face.
Temper! Temper! God of Mercy, cleanse me from that scorpion foe,
Guide me to mine own salvation! Lift me from a thrall so low!”
35
Ever with some word of scripture,—writ to solace hopeless grief,—
With a touching look of kindness, gave she to my fears relief;
Ever—ever—like a mother, calmed she still my soul's alarms,
Till at length, outworn, I slumbered, pillowed in her pitying arms.
With a touching look of kindness, gave she to my fears relief;
Ever—ever—like a mother, calmed she still my soul's alarms,
Till at length, outworn, I slumbered, pillowed in her pitying arms.
LETTER SEVENTH.
Sweet to watch the fair Spring going, all her golden ringlets blowing,
To the maying, to the mowing, laughing, singing on her way;
Sweet to list the streamlet welling, by some lonely cottage-dwelling,
And to find our bosom swelling with a gladness born of May.
To the maying, to the mowing, laughing, singing on her way;
Sweet to list the streamlet welling, by some lonely cottage-dwelling,
And to find our bosom swelling with a gladness born of May.
36
If the spirit be not wholly lost to what is good and holy,
Wrapp'd in evil fancies solely, Spring can win us to rejoice;
If God made his creatures brothers, surely then the joy of others,—
Pleasure, though it be another's, yet should be a welcome voice.
Wrapp'd in evil fancies solely, Spring can win us to rejoice;
If God made his creatures brothers, surely then the joy of others,—
Pleasure, though it be another's, yet should be a welcome voice.
Oh! to watch, with grateful feeling, God through nature still appealing,
Still His agency revealing through the smallest flower that grows;
'Tis to make existence dearer,—'tis to make the future clearer,—
'Tis to bring God's presence nearer, when the heart thus grateful glows!
Still His agency revealing through the smallest flower that grows;
'Tis to make existence dearer,—'tis to make the future clearer,—
'Tis to bring God's presence nearer, when the heart thus grateful glows!
See, the air is full of brightness, and my bosom feels its lightness,
Lost the pressure, lost the tightness, which each morning saw increase;
For I've own'd my sin's commission, with a deep, devout contrition,
And I bow to God's decision, and await His time in peace.
Lost the pressure, lost the tightness, which each morning saw increase;
For I've own'd my sin's commission, with a deep, devout contrition,
And I bow to God's decision, and await His time in peace.
37
Now, e'en Winter, stern and hoary, would come to me with a glory,
Telling me the self-same story,—God is here, in white array;
And the boughs, bereft and broken, would convey the same blest token
God to future time hath spoken,—and again shall we have May.
Telling me the self-same story,—God is here, in white array;
And the boughs, bereft and broken, would convey the same blest token
God to future time hath spoken,—and again shall we have May.
Quick are we to take objection,—quick to find out imperfection,—
Would to Heaven the heart's election of the Good as quick might be;
But the heart is late in turning,—slow, reluctant, dull in learning
That, while Darkness we're discerning, there is Light we will not see.
Would to Heaven the heart's election of the Good as quick might be;
But the heart is late in turning,—slow, reluctant, dull in learning
That, while Darkness we're discerning, there is Light we will not see.
All the health that Life can send us,—all that Fortune's self can lend us,
Fail to please us;—to offend us it takes little, space or speech!—
Surely there needs something righting, to avert this constant blighting
Of the spirit's free delighting in the joys within its reach!
Fail to please us;—to offend us it takes little, space or speech!—
Surely there needs something righting, to avert this constant blighting
Of the spirit's free delighting in the joys within its reach!
38
Surely there is something needing?—Nature lacks some little weeding,
Which permits us, thus unheeding, every blessing to pass by;
Yet, at every small vexation, every trifling innovation,
Quarrels with its adverse station, and doth nothing but decry.
Which permits us, thus unheeding, every blessing to pass by;
Yet, at every small vexation, every trifling innovation,
Quarrels with its adverse station, and doth nothing but decry.
See me, Bertha, half-reclining,—garden flowers around me twining,—
And the clear warm sunlight shining, as if gold was rife as rust;—
As if that for which men toil for, was not worth this constant coil for,
As if gold was but a foil for things no better than the dust.
And the clear warm sunlight shining, as if gold was rife as rust;—
As if that for which men toil for, was not worth this constant coil for,
As if gold was but a foil for things no better than the dust.
Where the golden moss is creeping, where the mountain lambs are leaping,
There's a low white cottage peeping with a green porch at the side;
Half-way down the woody dingle in stands, beautiful and single,
Like a home just dropp'd from heaven, where the happy may reside.
There's a low white cottage peeping with a green porch at the side;
Half-way down the woody dingle in stands, beautiful and single,
Like a home just dropp'd from heaven, where the happy may reside.
39
And an angel truly dwells there,—one, who God's own precept tells there,
And her love all things excels there, that are lovely to the eye;
For she liveth but to gladden those Affliction comes to sadden,
And wherever there is sorrow her dear hand is ever nigh!
And her love all things excels there, that are lovely to the eye;
For she liveth but to gladden those Affliction comes to sadden,
And wherever there is sorrow her dear hand is ever nigh!
She has lent my soul reliance,—she has given Doubt defiance,
Taught me man's and Heaven's alliance,—taught me holier steps to trace,—
Shown me hopes that Faith erected,—joys on which I'd ne'er reflected,
And my soul feels less dejected gazing on her heavenly face.
Taught me man's and Heaven's alliance,—taught me holier steps to trace,—
Shown me hopes that Faith erected,—joys on which I'd ne'er reflected,
And my soul feels less dejected gazing on her heavenly face.
40
LETTER EIGHTH.
Strange, strange things have hover'd near me,—things that dwell by haunted streams,—
Shadows of a world unenter'd, save by feet that move in dreams;
How to image forth their brightness,—in what language to explain
Half the wonders of my dreaming, know I not,—the task seems vain.
Shadows of a world unenter'd, save by feet that move in dreams;
How to image forth their brightness,—in what language to explain
Half the wonders of my dreaming, know I not,—the task seems vain.
In my dream I saw a circle, wide and high,—a ring of light;
In the midst a blank,—a darkness,—darkness painful to the sight:
Suddenly a host of monsters filled with glare the vacant span,
Hideous forms in quick succession, on they came, till, last, came Man.
In the midst a blank,—a darkness,—darkness painful to the sight:
Suddenly a host of monsters filled with glare the vacant span,
Hideous forms in quick succession, on they came, till, last, came Man.
41
Still beginning with the meanest, lowest of the human race,
Step by step the forms grew grander, till there rose a kingly face:
Prophets, saints, apostles, angels, 'midst the glorious circle trod,
Till in rapturous hope I fancied the next vision might be God!
Step by step the forms grew grander, till there rose a kingly face:
Prophets, saints, apostles, angels, 'midst the glorious circle trod,
Till in rapturous hope I fancied the next vision might be God!
But the circle vanish'd quickly,—and methought I stood alone,
At the foot of mighty columns, bearing high in heaven a throne!
Looking round for steps to reach it, straight an ocean bounded free,
Whose vast shores were all of silver,—and the steps were on that sea.
At the foot of mighty columns, bearing high in heaven a throne!
Looking round for steps to reach it, straight an ocean bounded free,
Whose vast shores were all of silver,—and the steps were on that sea.
Dimly, in the silv'ry distance, seem'd a boat to heave and toss;
Eagerly I hurried towards it,—enter'd in,—and row'd across!
Reach'd the wondrous steps in transport; eager, eager to ascend,
Hours I climb'd them,—crept and mounted,—'till I thought they ne'er would end.
Eagerly I hurried towards it,—enter'd in,—and row'd across!
Reach'd the wondrous steps in transport; eager, eager to ascend,
Hours I climb'd them,—crept and mounted,—'till I thought they ne'er would end.
42
When the last high step was vanquished, mountain-tops appear'd afar;
And the throne shone proud above them, glittering heaven-ward like a star.
And a crowd of people pass'd me, saying,—“Back!—climb as you will,—
Struggle—toil—aspire for ever—'tis a throne beyond you still!”
And the throne shone proud above them, glittering heaven-ward like a star.
And a crowd of people pass'd me, saying,—“Back!—climb as you will,—
Struggle—toil—aspire for ever—'tis a throne beyond you still!”
Oh! their hopeless faces grieved me; I was tempted to believe
That the throne was but a phantom,—all a vision to deceive!
But a little child came to me, lisping,—“Since you are alone,
Take me,—let us go together,—on together to God's throne!”
That the throne was but a phantom,—all a vision to deceive!
But a little child came to me, lisping,—“Since you are alone,
Take me,—let us go together,—on together to God's throne!”
Then I kiss'd the child, and, swiftly, double strength was in my breast;—
And the sweet child's talk was ever of the angels and the blest!
And methought thy infant wisdom far surpasses all I've heard:
There was music, sweetness, beauty, in each little lisping word.
And the sweet child's talk was ever of the angels and the blest!
And methought thy infant wisdom far surpasses all I've heard:
There was music, sweetness, beauty, in each little lisping word.
43
And its innocence was blissful,—it was like the morning's breath
Unto one whose lips are fainting with a sickness like to death;
But the way grew sharp and flinty,—soon its little feet ran blood,
So I press'd it to my bosom, and climb'd with it as I could.
Unto one whose lips are fainting with a sickness like to death;
But the way grew sharp and flinty,—soon its little feet ran blood,
So I press'd it to my bosom, and climb'd with it as I could.
Oh! the more and more I press'd it, still the happier I became,
Though the path broke stern and rugged, and the heavens were like a flame;
Still the toil was full of sweetness, and the way was full of rest,
Whilst that face, like something holy, brought its comfort to my breast.
Though the path broke stern and rugged, and the heavens were like a flame;
Still the toil was full of sweetness, and the way was full of rest,
Whilst that face, like something holy, brought its comfort to my breast.
Never once my footstep stumbled,—never once I seem'd afraid,
Though deep chasms yawned around us, as for our destruction made.
Once again the top was conquer'd, and a valley met our eyes,
Sparkling thick with gold and jewels, as the stars of frosty skies!
Though deep chasms yawned around us, as for our destruction made.
Once again the top was conquer'd, and a valley met our eyes,
Sparkling thick with gold and jewels, as the stars of frosty skies!
44
Then the path, all undulating, lent at every turn new charms,
So, half lost in happy wonder, I the child put from my arms;
And I ran mid fields of rubies, growing wild as roses there,
Placed the bright gems in my bosom,—wreathed them in my flowing hair.
So, half lost in happy wonder, I the child put from my arms;
And I ran mid fields of rubies, growing wild as roses there,
Placed the bright gems in my bosom,—wreathed them in my flowing hair.
Still the plain spread wide and wider,—beauty took a form divine,—
Never monarch knew my splendour,—thrones were poor to what was mine!
Groups of people saw I kneeling in a temple all of gold,
And they wept and clung unto it, for their hearts to it were sold.
Never monarch knew my splendour,—thrones were poor to what was mine!
Groups of people saw I kneeling in a temple all of gold,
And they wept and clung unto it, for their hearts to it were sold.
As I watch'd, a shuddering feeling ran through every tingling vein,
And the gems grew black and loathsome, as if reptiles strew'd the plain;
Then—the child!—I searched in anguish: he had wander'd far and high,
To a broken cliff, projecting, like a bridge 'tween earth and sky!
And the gems grew black and loathsome, as if reptiles strew'd the plain;
Then—the child!—I searched in anguish: he had wander'd far and high,
To a broken cliff, projecting, like a bridge 'tween earth and sky!
45
And I felt that, speed my utmost,—beckon, caution, or beseech,—
He must fall!—be lost!—oh! horror!—dash'd to death ere I could reach!
Oh! those limbs so frail, so tender,—needing God's supporting care,—
Could it be that he must perish?—was there no protection there?
He must fall!—be lost!—oh! horror!—dash'd to death ere I could reach!
Oh! those limbs so frail, so tender,—needing God's supporting care,—
Could it be that he must perish?—was there no protection there?
Swift as speeds the homeward eagle, sped my feet;—they sped in vain,—
And I saw him falling—falling!—every fall went through my brain.
And a voice cried,—“Lost for ever!—happiness is thine no more!
For a gaud—a toy—a trinket,—lost what gold can ne'er restore!”
And I saw him falling—falling!—every fall went through my brain.
And a voice cried,—“Lost for ever!—happiness is thine no more!
For a gaud—a toy—a trinket,—lost what gold can ne'er restore!”
Weeping, wailing, crept I to him,—looked upon him with a groan,
While his dying lips still whispered,—“Take me with you to the throne!
Take me—take me—unto Jesus,—only He can heal my pain,
And in happy homes of angels we, with Him, shall walk again!”
While his dying lips still whispered,—“Take me with you to the throne!
Take me—take me—unto Jesus,—only He can heal my pain,
And in happy homes of angels we, with Him, shall walk again!”
46
Oh! great God! I wept,—implor'd thee to forgive me but the past;
But those little lips closed slowly, and those sweet eyes look'd their last!
Look'd!—oh! Nature, who hath sorrow—who affliction like to this?—
From my anguish I was waken'd—kindly waken'd—by a kiss!
But those little lips closed slowly, and those sweet eyes look'd their last!
Look'd!—oh! Nature, who hath sorrow—who affliction like to this?—
From my anguish I was waken'd—kindly waken'd—by a kiss!
And a dear form, bending o'er me, whispered it was time to rise,—
“See,” she said, “the sun hath travell'd more than half way o'er the skies!
Up and haste,—I've that to tell thee which may woo the rose to grow
On that cheek, too often, lately, pallid as the wintry snow.”
“See,” she said, “the sun hath travell'd more than half way o'er the skies!
Up and haste,—I've that to tell thee which may woo the rose to grow
On that cheek, too often, lately, pallid as the wintry snow.”
Thus she left me. Tell me, Bertha, what foretells this dream so wild?—
Are the pure in heart the happy?—and is happiness a child?
Oh! I know not;—yet, before me, smile the lips that smiled in death,—
And the throne?—I would have borne him to that throne with my last breath!
Are the pure in heart the happy?—and is happiness a child?
Oh! I know not;—yet, before me, smile the lips that smiled in death,—
And the throne?—I would have borne him to that throne with my last breath!
47
NINTH, AND LAST, LETTER.
Forth I hasten'd to my Hostess;—in the little room lay spread
Breakfast, near the trellis'd window, where the birds sang overhead;
And the golden air kept playing,—as an infant plays and toys,—
With the thin white summer curtains, keeping up a fluttering noise.
Breakfast, near the trellis'd window, where the birds sang overhead;
And the golden air kept playing,—as an infant plays and toys,—
With the thin white summer curtains, keeping up a fluttering noise.
All around me smiled a welcome: there was beauty in the morn,
Sweetness in the vernal cradle of the infant flowers new born;
And my Hostess,—had you seen her, you had thought some sportive elf
Thus had made her ever restless,—ever smiling to herself!
Sweetness in the vernal cradle of the infant flowers new born;
And my Hostess,—had you seen her, you had thought some sportive elf
Thus had made her ever restless,—ever smiling to herself!
48
Up she rose and kiss'd me, saying, “You were dreaming in your sleep:
Something sad? I thought so, dearest;—well, 'tis sometimes good to weep!
Tears are often sent from heaven,—sent by those who watch the hour;—
Often tears are angel teachers,—full of spiritual power!
Something sad? I thought so, dearest;—well, 'tis sometimes good to weep!
Tears are often sent from heaven,—sent by those who watch the hour;—
Often tears are angel teachers,—full of spiritual power!
Something in that dear face moved me; it was gladsome to behold;
Radiant with restrain'd affection,—glowing with a love untold!
Mute,—and yet how much 'twas speaking;—when, as if too greatly blest,
In her arms she softly took me,—press'd my pale cheek to her breast.
Radiant with restrain'd affection,—glowing with a love untold!
Mute,—and yet how much 'twas speaking;—when, as if too greatly blest,
In her arms she softly took me,—press'd my pale cheek to her breast.
“I have news,” she said, “glad tidings;—some one hath arrived,—is here!
Who, whate'er his many failings,—many trials,—loves you dear:
'Tis,—take courage; hear me, dearest!—When you told me all the Past,
I did,—what my love suggested,—wrote, and brought him here at last.”
Who, whate'er his many failings,—many trials,—loves you dear:
'Tis,—take courage; hear me, dearest!—When you told me all the Past,
I did,—what my love suggested,—wrote, and brought him here at last.”
49
“Him?—D'Auverne?—No,—no!—oh! save me, never can I see his face,
Never look for his forgiveness,—I should die in his embrace!”
Then she sooth'd my tears, and beckoned unto one I could not see,
But my heart, in dizzy throbbings, told me who that one must be!
Never look for his forgiveness,—I should die in his embrace!”
Then she sooth'd my tears, and beckoned unto one I could not see,
But my heart, in dizzy throbbings, told me who that one must be!
Near he came, but not in anger,—pale, but with a look so sweet
That his very kindness kill'd me,—and I fainted at his feet;
Had he scorn'd me, I had borne it, knowing all his long annoy;
But his tenderness subdued me, and I swoon'd with sudden joy!
That his very kindness kill'd me,—and I fainted at his feet;
Had he scorn'd me, I had borne it, knowing all his long annoy;
But his tenderness subdued me, and I swoon'd with sudden joy!
Slowly from my swoon returning,—all, as in a dream, was seen,
I was in my own dear dwelling,—back, as ill had never been!
And my husband's arm enclos'd me,—and the past had lost its trace,—
Till I saw its awful writing in that thin, pale, alter'd face!
I was in my own dear dwelling,—back, as ill had never been!
And my husband's arm enclos'd me,—and the past had lost its trace,—
Till I saw its awful writing in that thin, pale, alter'd face!
50
Then he told me all his sorrows, when he found that I had fled;
How he trembled every moment, lest some crowd should bring me dead!
That he wrote unto my parents,—who arrived that very night,—
Straightway parting with the servants, ere transpired my thoughtless flight.
How he trembled every moment, lest some crowd should bring me dead!
That he wrote unto my parents,—who arrived that very night,—
Straightway parting with the servants, ere transpired my thoughtless flight.
Then I learnt, with chilling horror, what aspersion might have done,
That my name, assailed and tainted, might have grown a thing to shun;—
But my husband's tender caution had averted all this ill;
And though I was thus forgetful, he was thoughtful, loving still!
That my name, assailed and tainted, might have grown a thing to shun;—
But my husband's tender caution had averted all this ill;
And though I was thus forgetful, he was thoughtful, loving still!
“Oh!” I cried, “a life's affection ne'er can pay the debt I owe!
God will help me, in his mercy, something of my love to show;
And the Future, like an Angel, with an ever-coming wing,
Shall make Life eternal sweetness,—and our love an endless spring!”
God will help me, in his mercy, something of my love to show;
And the Future, like an Angel, with an ever-coming wing,
Shall make Life eternal sweetness,—and our love an endless spring!”
51
Looking up, I saw that dear one who a mother's heart had shown,
And I said “That I am living's due to thee and God alone!
Due to thee that I am happy,—that I 'scape from out this strife
With a spirit taught submission,—better Christian,—better wife!”
And I said “That I am living's due to thee and God alone!
Due to thee that I am happy,—that I 'scape from out this strife
With a spirit taught submission,—better Christian,—better wife!”
O'er her knee my face I bended,—and she raised her voice in tears
Unto Him, the ever-watching,—Him that sanctified her years!
“Guard her Thou, oh! God!” she murmur'd, “keep her spirit in the right,
May she,—here, on earth, so lovely,—still be lovelier in Thy sight!”
Unto Him, the ever-watching,—Him that sanctified her years!
“Guard her Thou, oh! God!” she murmur'd, “keep her spirit in the right,
May she,—here, on earth, so lovely,—still be lovelier in Thy sight!”
So we wept, in weeping happy that this cup had pass'd away,—
That from out a night of darkness had emerged so sweet a day!
And D'Auverne said,—“Never,—never, can I pay what you have done,
Save, since Laura is your daughter,—you will take me for your son.
That from out a night of darkness had emerged so sweet a day!
And D'Auverne said,—“Never,—never, can I pay what you have done,
Save, since Laura is your daughter,—you will take me for your son.
52
“And we'll watch your years together,—love you with a perfect truth;
Scatter flowers of love around you, bright as e'er adorn'd your youth!
Still increasing in affection till the light of life grows dim,
Till that hour when God shall take us,—call us, one by one, to him!”
Scatter flowers of love around you, bright as e'er adorn'd your youth!
Still increasing in affection till the light of life grows dim,
Till that hour when God shall take us,—call us, one by one, to him!”
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |