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“ 'T is not your work, but Love's. Love, | Yet this is also true, that, long before unperceived,
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name A more ideal Artist he than all, My heart was like a prophet to my heart, Came, drew your pencil from you, made And told me I should love. A crowd of those eyes
hopes, Darker than darkest pansies, and that That sought to sow themselves like hair
winged seeds, More Black than ashbuds in the front of Born out of everything I heard and saw, March.”
| Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; And Juliet answer'd laughing, “Go and And vague desires, like fitful blasts of see
balm The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after To one that travels quickly, made the air that,
| Of Life delicious, and all kinds of You scarce can fail to match his master
| That verged upon them, sweeter than the And up we rose, and on the spur we dream Went.
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. morn. News from the humming city comes to it | And sure this orbit of the memory folds In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; For ever in itself the day we went And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you To see her. All the land in flowery hear
squares, The windy clanging of the minster clock; | Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Although between it and the garden lies Smelt of the coming summer, as one A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad large cloud stream,
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the was pure oar,
| Up to the Sun, and May from verge to Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
verge, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge | And May with me from head to heel. Crown'd with the minster-towers.
And now, The fields between As tho''t were yesterday, as tho' it were Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd The hour just flown, that morn with all kine,
its sound, And all about the large lime feathers low, (For those old Mays had thrice the life The lime a summer home of murmurous of these,) wings.
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to In that still place she, hoarded in herself,
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathGrew, seldom seen : not less among us way, stood, lived
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field, Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not And lowing to his fellows. From the heard
woods Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Came voices of the well-contented doves. Where was he,
The lark could scarce get out his notes So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
for joy, At such a distance from his youth in grief, But shook his song together as he near'd That, having seen, forgot? The common His happy home, the ground. To left mouth,
and right, So gross to express delight, in praise of The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; her
| The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, The redcap whistled; and the nightingale And Beauty such a mistress of the world. Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said Would play with flying forms and images, to me,
“Alear how the bushes echo! by my life, | But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have These birds have joyful thoughts. Think d anced you they sing
The greensward into greener circles, dipt, Like poets, from the vanity of song? land mix'd with shadows of the common Or have they any sense of why they sing? | ground ! And would they praise the heavens for But the full day dwelt on her brows, and what they have ?”
sunn'd And I made answer, “ Were there noth- Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, ing else
And doubled his own warmth against her For which to praise the heavens but only lips, love,
And on the bounteous wave of such a That only love were cause enough for breast praise."
As never pencil drew. Half light, half Lightly he laugh’d, as one that read shade, my thought,
She stood, a sight to make an old man And on we went ; but ere an hour had young pass'd,
So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the a Rose North;
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Down which a well-worn pathway courted Nor heard us come, nor from her tenus
dance turu'd To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; Into the world without; tillclose at hand, This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk | And almost ere I knew mine own intent, Thro' crowded lilac - ambush trimly This murmur broke the stillness of that pruned ;
air And one warm gust, full-fed with per- / Which brooded round about her: fume, blew
“Ah, one rose, Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. One rose, but one, by those fair fingers The garden stretches southward. In the cull'd, midst
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.
Less exquisite than thine." The garden-glasses shone, and momently
She look'd : but all The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver Suffused with blushes — neither selflights.
possess'a “Eustace,” I said, “this wonder keeps Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and the house."
that, He nodded, but a moment afterwards Divided in a graceful quiet-paused, He cried, “ Look! look!” Before he And dropt the branch she held, and turnceased I turn'd,
ing, wound And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer That, flowering high, the last night's gale came, had caught,
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And blown across the walk. One arm And moved away, and left me, statuealoft --
like, Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the, In act to render thanks. shape
I, that whole day, Holding the bush, to fix it back, shestood. Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there A single streain of all her soft brown hair Till every daisy slept, and Love's white Pourd on one side : the shadow of the
Bean'd thro’ the thicken'd cedar in the Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering dusk. Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist - So home we went, and all the livelong Ah, happy shade - and still went waver
way ing down,
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.
“Now," said he, “will you climb the Like one that never can be wholly known, top of Art.
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought You cannot fail but work in hues to dim
an hour The Titianic Flora. Will you match For Eustace, when I heard his deep “I My Juliet? you, not you, -- the Master, will,” Love,
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to A more ideal Artist he than all.” So home I went, but could not sleep From thence thro' all the worlds : but I for joy,
rose up Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Full of his bliss, and following her dark Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd And shaping faithful record of the glance The wicket-gate, and found her standing That graced the giving - such a noise of
There sat we down upon a garden Swarm’d in the golden present, such a mound, voice
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, Call’d to me from the years to come, and Between us, in the circle of his arms such
| Enwound us both; and over many a range A length of bright horizon rimm'd the Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, dark.
| Across a hazy glimmer of the west, And all that night I heard the watchman Reveald their shining windows : from peal
them clash'd The sliding season : all that night I heard The bells ; we listen'd; with the time we The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy play'd ;
We spoke of other things ; we coursed The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, about O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, The subject most at heart, more near and Distilling odors on me as they went
near, To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all,
The central wish, until we settled there. Made this night thus. Henceforward Then, in that time and place, I spoke squall nor storm
to her, Could keep me from that Eden where she Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, dwelt.
| Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, Dutch love
| A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, And in that time and place she answer'd To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and me, cream
| And in the compass of three little words, Served in the weeping elm ; and more and More musical than ever came in one, more
The silver fragments of a broken voice, A word could bring the color to my cheek; | Made me most happy, faltering, “I am A thought would fill my eyes with happy thine." dew ; .
Shall I cease here? Is this enough to Love trebled life within me, and with each say The year increased.
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, The daughters of the year, By its own energy fulfill'd itself, One after one, thro' that still garden Merged in completion? Would you learn
pass'd ; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower How passion rose thro' circumstantial Danced into light, and died into the shade; grades And each in passing touch'd with some Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed new grace
I had not stayed so long to tell you all, Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by But while I mused came Memory with day,
Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 1
DORA. And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,
With farmer Allan at the farm abode And with a flying finger swept my lips, William and Dora. William was his son, And spake, “Be wise : not easily forgiven And she his niece. He often look'd at Are those, who, setting wide the doors them, that bar
And often thought, “ I'll make them man The secret bridal chambers of the heart, and wite." Let in the day.” Here, then, my words Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, have end.
And yearn'l towards William ; but the Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare. youth, because wells
He had been always with herin the house, Of that which came between, more sweet | Thought not of Dora. than each,
Then there came a day In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves When Allan call'd his son, and said, That tremble round a nightingale — in “My son : sighs
I married late, but I would wish to see Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter. My grandchild on my knees before I die : ance,
And I have set my heart upon a match. Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I Now therefore look to Dora : she is well not tell
To look to: thrifty too beyond her age. Of difference, reconcilement, pledges She is my brother's daughter : he and I given,
Had once hard words, and parted, and he And vows, where there was never need | died of vows,
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I breil And kisses, where the heart on one wild His daughter Dora : take her for your leap
wife ; Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above For I have wish'd this marriage, night The heavens between their fairy fleeces and day,
For many years." But William answerd Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting short: stars ;
“I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, Or while the balmy glooming, crescent. I will not marry Dora.” Then the old
man Spread the light haze along the river. Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, shores,
and said : And in the hollows; or as once we met “You will not, boy! you dare to answer Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain
thus! Night slid down one long stream of sigh- | But in my time a father's word was law, ing wind,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. Consider, William : take a month to But this whole hour your eyes have
think, been intent
| And let me have an answer to my wish ; On that veil'd picture - veil'd, for what Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall it holds
pack, May not be dwelt on by the common day. And never more darken my doors again.” This prelude las prepared thee. Raise But William answer'd madly; bit his thy soul;
lips, Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : And broke away. The more he look'd at
her Is come to raise the veil.
The less he liked her; and his ways were Behold her there,
harsh ; As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, | But Dora bore them meekly. Then before My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, The month was out he left his father's The darling of my manhood, and, alas! | house, Now the most blessed memory of mine And hired himself to work within the agre.
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and And Dora would have risen and gone to wed
him, A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers Then, when the bells were ringing, reap'd, Allan call'd
And the sun féll, and all the land was dark. His niece and said : “My girl, I love you But when the morrow came, she rose well;
and took But if you speak with him that was my son, The child once more, and sat upon the Or change a word with her he calls his mound; wife,
And made a little wreath of all the flowers My home is none of yours. My will is That grew about, and tied it round his law.”
hat And Dora promised, being meek. She To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. thought,
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field “It cannot be : my uncle's mind will He spied her, and he left his men at work, change!"
And came and said : “Where were you And days went on, and there was born yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you To William ; then distresses came on him ; doing here?" And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him And answer'd softly, “This is William's not.
child !” But Dora stored what little she could “And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not save,
Forbid you, Dora ?” Dora said again : And sent it them by stealth, nor did they “Do with me as you will, but take the know
child Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized And bless him for the sake of him that's On William, and in harvest time he died. gone!”
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And Allan said, “I see it is a trick And look'd with tears upon her boy, and Got up betwixt you and the woman there. thought
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! Hard things of Dora. Dora came and You knew my word was law, and yet you said:
dared “I have obey'd my uncle until now, To slight it. Well, for I will take the And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me boy; This evil came on William at the first. Butgo you hence, and never see me more.” But, Mary, for the sake of him that'sgone, So saying, he took the boy, that cried And for your sake, the woman that he aloud chose,
| And struggled hard. The wreath of And for this orphan, I am come to you : flowers fell You know there has not been for these At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, five years
And the boy's cry came to her from the So full a harvest : let me take the boy,
field, And I will set him in my uncle's eye More and more distant. She bow'd down Among the wheat ; that when his heart her head, is glad
Remembering the day when first she came, Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, | And all the things that had been. She And bless him for the sake of him that's bow'd down
And wept in secret; and the reapers And Dora took the child, and went her way
And the sun fell, and all the land was Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound dark. That was unsown, where many poppies | Then Dora went to Mary's house, and grew.
stood Far off the farmer came into the field Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy And spied her not; for none of all his men Was not with Dora. She broke ont in Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ;