Xxxiii

(Your husband holds you fast, Will have you listen, learn your character at last!) "Do I say?--like her mixed unrest and discontent, Reproachfulness and scorn, with that submission blent So strangely, in the face, by sad smiles and gay tears,-- Quiescence which attacks, rebellion which endears,-- Say? 'As you loved me once, could you but love me now! Years probably have graved their passage on my brow, Lips turn more rarely red, eyes sparkle less than erst; Such tribute body pays to time; but, unamerced, The soul retains, nay, boasts old treasure multiplied. Though dew-prime flee,--mature at noonday, love defied Chance, the wind, change, the rain: love strenuous all the more For storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore, Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain: While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again. Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might go To grace another's ground: and then--the hopes we know, The fears we keep in mind!--when, ours to arbitrate, Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate. Then, O the knotty point--white-night's work to revolve-- What meant that smile, that sigh? Not Solon's self could solve! Then, O the deep surmise what one word might express, And if what seemed her "No" may not have meant her "Yes!" Then, such annoy, for cause--calm welcome, such acquist Of rapture if, refused her arm, hand touched her wrist! Now, what 's a smile to you? Poor candle that lights up The decent household gloom which sends you out to sup. A tear? worse! warns that health requires you keep aloof From nuptial chamber, since rain penetrates the roof! Soul, body got and gained, inalienably safe Your own, become despised; more worth has any waif Or stray from neighbor's pale: pouch that,--'t is pleasure, pride, Novelty, property, and larceny beside! Preposterous thought! to find no value fixed in things, To covet all you see, hear, dream of, till fate brings About that, what you want, you gain; then follows change. Give you the sun to keep, forthwith must fancy range: A goodly lamp, no doubt,--yet might you catch her hair And capture, as she frisks, the fen-fire dancing there! What do I say? at least a meteor 's half in heaven; Provided filth but shine, my husband hankers even After putridity that 's phosphorescent, cribs The rustic's tallow-rush, makes spoil of urchins' squibs, In short, prefers to me--chaste, temperate, serene-- What sputters green and blue, this fizgig called Fifine!'"