Liber Amoris [8]
me to you; but I am sorry for my own want of power to please. I hear the wind sigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and over to myself two lines of Lord Byron's Tragedy--
"So shalt thou find me ever at thy side Here and hereafter, if the last may be."--
applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see thee again. Perhaps not--for some years at least--till both thou and I are old--and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep to thee, and die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hated by her I loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but a mockery and a dream, I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to have dried up my tears for ever, the day I left you; but as I write this, they stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst. I walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, that come up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but they do not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. As you say, it will one day be colder.--Forgive what I have written above; I did not intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bear the thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault. Has any one called? Do not send any letters that come. I should like you and your mother (if agreeable) to go and see Mr. Kean in Othello, and Miss Stephens in Love in a Village. If you will, I will write to Mr. T----, to send you tickets. Has Mr. P---- called? I think I must send to him for the picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my best beloved. Ah! if you can never be mine, still let me be your proud and happy slave.
H.
TO THE SAME
March, I822.
--You will be glad to learn I have done my work--a volume in less than a month. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and another is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got through this job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I can little afford to lose)--and besides, I am more anxious to do well now, as I wish you to hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon, and hear the birds sing as I told you, and think, if I had you hanging on my arm, and that for life, how happy I should be--happier than I ever hoped to be, or had any conception of till I knew you. "But that can never be"--I hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. Well, let me dream of it sometimes--I am not happy too often, except when that favourite note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth, whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something about Mr. Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious night, when I went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet. Can I forget it for a moment--your sweet modest looks, your infinite propriety of behaviour, all your sweet winning ways--your hesitating about taking my arm as we came out till your mother did--your laughing about nearly losing your cloak--your stepping into the coach without my being able to make the slightest discovery--and oh! my sitting down beside you there, you whom I had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me I had not lessened your pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me your dear hand to press in mine! I thought I was in heaven--that slender exquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as I folded you--yes, you, my own best Sarah, to my bosom, there was, as you say, A TIE BETWEEN US--you did seem to me, for those few short moments, to be mine in all truth and honour and sacredness--Oh! that we could be always so--Do not mock me, for I am a very child in love. I ought to beg pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, but I hope THE LITTLE IMAGE made it up between us, &c.
[To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rolling years of eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be? What am I? Or where have I been?]
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION
I want a hand to
"So shalt thou find me ever at thy side Here and hereafter, if the last may be."--
applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see thee again. Perhaps not--for some years at least--till both thou and I are old--and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep to thee, and die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hated by her I loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but a mockery and a dream, I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to have dried up my tears for ever, the day I left you; but as I write this, they stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst. I walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, that come up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but they do not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. As you say, it will one day be colder.--Forgive what I have written above; I did not intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bear the thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault. Has any one called? Do not send any letters that come. I should like you and your mother (if agreeable) to go and see Mr. Kean in Othello, and Miss Stephens in Love in a Village. If you will, I will write to Mr. T----, to send you tickets. Has Mr. P---- called? I think I must send to him for the picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my best beloved. Ah! if you can never be mine, still let me be your proud and happy slave.
H.
TO THE SAME
March, I822.
--You will be glad to learn I have done my work--a volume in less than a month. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and another is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got through this job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I can little afford to lose)--and besides, I am more anxious to do well now, as I wish you to hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon, and hear the birds sing as I told you, and think, if I had you hanging on my arm, and that for life, how happy I should be--happier than I ever hoped to be, or had any conception of till I knew you. "But that can never be"--I hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. Well, let me dream of it sometimes--I am not happy too often, except when that favourite note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth, whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something about Mr. Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious night, when I went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet. Can I forget it for a moment--your sweet modest looks, your infinite propriety of behaviour, all your sweet winning ways--your hesitating about taking my arm as we came out till your mother did--your laughing about nearly losing your cloak--your stepping into the coach without my being able to make the slightest discovery--and oh! my sitting down beside you there, you whom I had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me I had not lessened your pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me your dear hand to press in mine! I thought I was in heaven--that slender exquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as I folded you--yes, you, my own best Sarah, to my bosom, there was, as you say, A TIE BETWEEN US--you did seem to me, for those few short moments, to be mine in all truth and honour and sacredness--Oh! that we could be always so--Do not mock me, for I am a very child in love. I ought to beg pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, but I hope THE LITTLE IMAGE made it up between us, &c.
[To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rolling years of eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be? What am I? Or where have I been?]
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION
I want a hand to