Part 89 (1/2)

For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight I nothing had to do, but look and write.

4 How sadly parted are those words; since I Must now be writing, but no more can look!

Yet in my heart thy precious memory, So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, Truly transcribed, thy character shall s.h.i.+ne; Nor shall thy death devour what was divine.

5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear What you alone profoundly will resent: A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, And sing among the winged choir above.

6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day Had made his progress, and in every inn Whose golden signs through all his radiant way So high are hung, as often lodged been, Since in the sacred knot this n.o.ble she Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me.

7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that We straight were sweetly lost in one another.

Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, They in one concord blended are together: For nothing now our life but music was; Her soul the treble made, and mine the base.

8 How at the needless question would she smile, When asked what she desired or counted fit?

Still bidding me examine mine own will, And read the surest answer ready writ.

So centred was her heart in mine, that she Would own no wish, if first not wished by me.

9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by That standard her content resolved to measure.

By this rare art of sweetness did she prove That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love.

10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held If I were sad alone; her share, alas!

And more than so, in all my sorrows' field She duly reaped: and here alone she was Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much!

11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: She never was perplexed to hear her lace Accused for six months' old, when first put on: She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, Intelligence with fas.h.i.+ons to maintain.

12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, Nor at her gla.s.s's strict tribunal brought Each plait to scrupulous examination: Ashamed she was that t.i.tan's coach about Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pa.s.s Through all the petty stages of her dress.

13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight In needless sallies; none but civil care Of friendly correspondence could invite Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she Might make her own in tender sympathy.

14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, Home was the region of her liberty.

Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: Home was her less enc.u.mbered scene, though there Angels and G.o.ds she knew spectators were.

15 This weaned her heart from things below, And kindled it with strong desire to gain Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain From begging, yet with humble resignation, To be dismissed from her mortal station.

16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, And languished with most serene content!

No paroxysms could make her once complain, Nor suffered she her patience to be spent Before her life; contriving thus to yield To her disease, and yet not lose the field.

17 This trying furnace wasted day by day (What she herself had always counted dross) Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, That of the goodly fabric nothing was Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined Together were her body and her mind.

18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- Released the longing soul: no ejulation Tolled her knell; no dying agony Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fas.h.i.+on In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die.

19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight Of thine not s.n.a.t.c.h thee from thy wonted nest: Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite Of any death--here in this faithful breast.

Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine.

20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I Have on my other Psyche fixed here; Since her ideal beauties signify The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be But to enhance and more ill.u.s.trate thee.