The Angel in the House
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CANTO XII
Husband and Wife
PRELUDES
IThe Married LoverWhy, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit’s vestal graceProvokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kissThe Queen’s hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness,Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglectTo dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect,Thus she with happy favour feeds Allegiance from a love so highThat thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by;Because, although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be,Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me ’tis by courtesy;Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt,But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattain’d desert;Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask,Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask;Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrineSacred to Heaven; because, in short, She’s not and never can be mine.IIThe AmaranthFeasts satiate; stars distress with height; Friendship means well, but misses reach,And wearies in its best delight, Vex’d with the vanities of speech;Too long regarded, roses even Afflict the mind with fond unrest;And to converse direct within Heaven Is oft a labour in the breast;Whate’er the up-looking soul admires, Whate’er the senses’ banquet be,Fatigues at last with vain desires, Or sickens by satiety;But truly my delight was more In her to whom I’m bound for ayeYesterday than the day before And more to-day than yesterday.HUSBAND AND WIFE
1I, while the shop-girl fitted on The sand-shoes, look’d where, down the bay,The sea glow’d with a shrouded sun. ‘I’m ready, Felix; will you pay?’That was my first expense for this Sweet Stranger, now my three days’ Wife.How light the touches are that kiss The music from the chords of life!2Her feet, by half-a-mile of sea, In spotless sand left shapely prints;With agates, then, she loaded me; (The lapidary call’d them flints);Then, at her wish, I hail’d a boat, To take her to the ships-of-war,At anchor, each a lazy mote Black in the brilliance, miles from shore.3The morning breeze the canvas fill’d, Lifting us o’er the bright-ridged gulf,And every lurch my darling thrill’d With light fear smiling at itself;And, dashing past the Arrogant, Asleep upon the restless waveAfter its cruise in the Levant, We reach’d the Wolf, and signal gaveFor help to board; within caution meet, My bride was placed within the chair,The red flag wrapp’d about her feet, And so swung laughing through the air.4‘Look, Love,’ she said, ‘there’s Frederick Graham, My cousin, whom you met, you know,’And seeing us, the brave man came, And made his frank and courteous bow,And gave my hand a sailor’s shake, And said, ‘You ask’d me to the Hurst:I never thought my luck would make Your wife and you my guests the first.’And Honor, cruel, ‘Nor did we: Have you not lately changed your ship?’‘Yes: I’m Commander, now,’ said he, With a slight quiver of the lip.We saw the vessel, shown with pride; Took luncheon; I must eat his salt!Parting he said, (I fear my bride Found him unselfish to a fault),His wish, he saw, had come to pass, (And so, indeed, her face express’d),That that should be, whatever ’twas, Which made his Cousin happiest.We left him looking from above; Rich bankrupt! for he could affordTo say most proudly that his love Was virtue and its own reward.But others loved as well as he, (Thought I, half-anger’d), and if fate,Unfair, had only fashion’d me As hapless, I had been as great.5As souls, ambitious, but low-born, If raised past hope by luck or wit,All pride of place will proudly scorn, And live as they’d been used to it,So we two wore our strange estate: Familiar, unaffected, free,We talk’d, until the dusk grew late, Of this and that; but, after tea,As doubtful if a lot so sweet As ours was ours in very sooth,Like children, to promote conceit, We feign’d that it was not the truth;And she assumed the maiden coy, And I adored remorseless charms,And then we clapp’d our hands for joy, And ran into each others arms.THE EPILOGUE
I‘Ah, dearest Wife, a fresh-lit fire Sends forth to heaven great shows of fume,And watchers, far away, admire; But when the flames their power assume,The more they burn the less they show, The clouds no longer smirch the sky,And then the flames intensest glow When far-off watchers think they die.The fumes of early love my verse Has figured—’ ‘You must paint the flame!’’Twould merit the Promethean curse! But now, Sweet, for your praise and blame.’‘You speak too boldly; veils are due To women’s feelings.’ ‘Fear not this!Women will vow I say not true, And men believe thine lips they kiss.’I did not call you “Dear” or “Love,” ‘I think, till after Frank was born.’‘That fault I cannot well remove; The rhymes’—but Frank now blew his horn,And Walter bark’d, on hands and knees, At Baby in the mignonette,And all made, full-cry, for the trees Where Felix and his Wife were set.Again disturb’d, (crickets have cares!) True to their annual use they rose,To offer thanks at Evening Prayers In three times sacred Sarum Close.2Passing, they left a gift of wine At Widow Neale’s. Her daughter said:‘O, Ma’am, she’s sinking! For a sign, She cried just now, of him that’s dead,“Mary, he’s somewhere close above, Weeping and wailing his dead wife,With forceful prayers and fatal love Conjuring me to come to life.A spirit is terrible though dear! It comes by night, and sucks my breath,And draws me with desire and fear.” Ah, Ma’am, she’ll soon be his in death!’3Vaughan, when his kind Wife’s eyes were dry, Said, ‘This thought crosses me, my Dove;If Heaven should proffer, when we die, Some unconceiv’d, superior love,How take the exchange without despair, Without worse folly how refuse?’But she, who, wise as she was fair, For subtle doubts had simple clues,Said, ‘Custom sanctifies, and faith Is more than joy: ah, how desireIn any heaven a different path, Though, found at first, it had been higher?Yet love makes death a dreadful thought! Felix, at what a price we live!’But present pleasures soon forgot The future’s dread alternative;For, as became the festal time, He cheer’d her heart with tender praise,And speeches wanting only rhyme To make them like his winged lays.He discommended girlhood. ‘What For sweetness like the ten-years’ wife,Whose customary love is not Her passion, or her play, but life?With beauties so maturely fair, Affecting, mild, and manifold,May girlish charms mo more compare Than apples green with apples gold.Ah, still unpraised Honoria, Heaven, When you into my arms it gave,Left nought hereafter to be given But grace to feel the good I have.’4Her own and manhood’s modesty Made dumb her love, but, on their road,His hand in hers felt soft reply, And like rejoinder found bestow’d;And, when the carriage set them down, ‘How strange,’ said he, ‘’twould seem to meet,When pacing, as we now this town, A Florence or a Lisbon Street,That Laura or that Catherine, who, In the remote, romantic years,From Petrarch or Camoens drew Their songs and their immortal tears!’But here their converse had its end; For, crossing the Cathedral Lawn,There came an ancient college-friend, Who, introduced to Mrs. Vaughan,Lifted his hat, and bow’d and smiled. And fill’d her kind large eyes with joy,By patting on the cheek her child, With, ‘Is he yours, this handsome boy?’