Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere;
You pine among your halls and towers; The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd.
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light brigade!
Noble six hundred.
We were two daughters of one race;
She was the fairest in the face;
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
They were together, and she fell,
Therefore revenge became me well.
O, the Earl was fair to see!
She died; she went to burning flame;
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
Whole weeks and months, and early and late,
To win his love I lay in wait;
O, the Earl was fair to see!
I made a feast; I bade him come;
I won his love, I brought him home.
The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head.
O, the Earl was fair to see!
He had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. -Ibid.
That neither God nor man can well forgive. -Ibid.
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants;
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay.
Woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse; could we make her as the man,
Sweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference.
Yet in the long years liker must they grow.
The man be more of woman, she of man;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth nor fail in childward care,
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind;
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music into noble words.
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