No More Learning

"
Thus spoke she, and on heaven her grateful eye
Devoutly fix'd, but while her rose-lips lie
Chain'd in cold silence, I renew'd my theme:
"Lightning and storm, red battle, age, disease,
Backs, prisons, poison, famine,--make not these
Death, even to the bravest, bitter seem? "
She answer'd: "I deny not that the strife
Is great and sore which waits on parting life,
And then of death eternal the sharp dread!
But if the soul with hope from heaven be fed,
And haply in itself the heart have grief,
What then is death? Its brief sigh brings relief:
Already I approach'd my final goal,
My strength was failing, on the wing my soul,
When thus a low sad-whisper by my side,
'O miserable! who, to vain life tied,
Counts every hour and deems each hour a day,
By land or ocean, to himself a prey,
Where'er he wanders, who one form pursues,
Indulges one desire, one dream renews,
Thought, speech, sense, feeling, there for ever bound! '
It ceased, and to the spot whence came the sound
I turn'd my languid eyes, and her beheld,
Your love who check'd, my pity who impell'd;
I recognised her by that voice and air,
So often which had chased my spirit's gloom,
Now calm and wise, as courteous then and fail.
But e'en to you when dearest, in the bloom
Of joyous youth and beauty's rosy prime.
Theme of much thought, and muse of many a rhyme,
Believe me, life to me was far less sweet
Than thus a merciful mild death to meet,
The blessed hope, to mortals rarely given:
And such joy smooth'd my path from earth to heaven,
As from long exile to sweet home I turn'd,
While but for you alone my soul with pity yearn'd. "
"But tell me, lady," said I, "by that true
And loyal faith, on earth well known to you
Now better known before the Omniscient's face,
If in your breast the thought e'er found a place
Love prompted, my long martyrdom to cheer,
Though virtue follow'd still her fair emprize.
For ah! oft written in those sweetest eyes,
Dear anger, dear disdain, and pardon dear,
Long o'er my wishes doubts and shadows cast. "
Scarce from my lips the venturous speech had pass'd,
When o'er her fair face its old sun-smile beam'd,
My sinking virtue which so oft redeem'd,
And with a tender sigh she answer'd: "Never
Can or did aught from you my firm heart sever:
But as, to our young fame, no other way,
Direct and plain, of mutual safety lay,
I temper'd with cold looks your raging flame:
So fondest mothers wayward children tame.
How often have I said, 'It me behoves
To act discreetly, for he burns, not loves!
Who hopes and fears, ill plays discretion's part!
He must not in my face detect my heart;'
'Twas this, which, as a rein the generous horse,
Slack'd your hot haste, and shaped your proper course.
Often, while Love my struggling heart consumed,
Has anger tinged my cheek, my eyes illumed,
For Love in me could reason ne'er subdue;
But ever if I saw you sorrow-spent,
Instant my fondest looks on you were bent,
Myself from shame, from death redeeming you;
Or, if the flame of passion blazed too high,
My greeting changed, with short speech and cold eye
My sorrow moved you or my terror shook.
That these the arts I used, the way I took,
Smiles varying scorn as sunshine follows rain,
You know, and well have sung in many a deathless strain
Again and oft, as saw I sunk in grief
Those tearful eyes, I said, 'Without relief,
Surely and swift he marches to his grave,'
And, at the thought, the fitting help I gave. '
But if I saw you wild and passion spurr'd,
Prompt with the curb, your boldness I deterr'd;
Thus cold and kind, pale, blushing, gloomy, gay,
Safe have I led you through the dangerous way,
And, as my labour, great my joy at last. "
Trembling, I answer'd, and my tears flow'd fast,
"Lady, could I the blessed thought believe,
My faithful love would full reward receive. "
"O man of little faith! "--her fairest cheek,
E'en as she spoke, a warm blush 'gan to streak--
"Why should I say it, were it less than true?
If you on earth were pleasant in my view
I need not ask; enough it pleased to see
The best love of that true heart fix'd on me;
Well too your genius pleased me, and the fame
Which, far and wide, it shower'd upon my name;
Your Love had blame in its excess alone,
And wanted prudence; while you sought to tell,
By act and air, what long I knew and well,
To the whole world your secret heart was shown;
Thence was the coldness which your hopes distress'd,
For such our sympathy in all the rest,
As is alone where Love keeps honour's law.
Since in your bosom first its birth I saw,
One fire our heart has equally inflamed,
Except that I conceal'd it, you proclaim'd;
And louder as your cry for mercy swell'd,
Terror and shame my silence more compell'd,
That men my great desire should little think;
But ah! concealment makes not sorrow less,
Complaint embitters not the mind's distress,
Feeling with fiction cannot swell and shrink,
But surely then at least the veil was raised,
You only present when your verse I praised,
And whispering sang, 'Love dares not more to say. '
Yours was my heart, though turn'd my eyes away;
Grieve you, as cruel, that their grace was such,
As kept the little, gave the good and much;
Yet oft and openly as they withdrew,
Far oftener furtively they dwelt on you,
For pity thus, what prudence robb'd, return'd;
And ever so their tranquil lights had burn'd,
Save that I fear'd those dear and dangerous eyes
Might then the secret of my soul surprise.
But one thing more, that, ere our parley cease,
Memory may shrine my words, as treasures sweet,
And this our parting give your spirit peace.
In all things else my fortune was complete,
In this alone some cause had I to mourn
That first I saw the light in humble earth,
And still, in sooth, it grieves that I was born
Far from the flowery nest where you had birth;
Yet fair to me the land where your love bless'd;
Haply that heart, which I alone possess'd,
Elsewhere had others loved, myself unseen,
And I, now voiced by fame, had there inglorious been. "
"Ah, no! " I cried, "howe'er the spheres might roll,
Wherever born, immutable and whole,
In life, in death, my great love had been yours. "
"Enough," she smiled, "its fame for aye endures,
And all my own! but pleasure has such power,
Too little have we reck'd the growing hour;
Behold!