Fringilla: Some Tales in Verse, Richard Doddridge Blackmore [best feel good books .TXT] 📗

recovering
The unaccustomed toil of Spring,
Why slept not Eve, their Queen?

III

Upon a smooth fern-mantled stone
She sat, and watched the wicket-gate,
Not timid in her woman's throne,
Nor lonely in her sinless state,
Though all alone;

For having spread her simple board
With grapes, and peaches, milk, and flowers,
She strewed sweet mastic o'er the sward,
And waited through the bridal hours
Step of her lord.

Such innocence around her breathed,
And freshness of young nature's play,
The sensitive plant shrank not away,
And cactus' swords were sheathed.

IV

The vision of her beauty fell,
Like music on a moonlit place,
Or trembles of a silver bell,
Or memories of a sacred face,
Too dear to tell:

The grace that wandered free of laws,
The look that lit the heart's confession,
Had never dreamed how fair it was;
Nor guessed that purity's expression
Is beauty's cause:

No more that unenquiring heart
Perused the sweet home of her breast,
Than turtle-doves unline their nest
To scan the outer part

V

Although, in all that garden fair,
Whate'er delight abode, or grew,
Flowers, and trees, and balmy air,
Fountains, and birds, and heaven blue
Beyond compare:

In her their various charms had met,
And grown more varied by combining,
As budded plants do give and get,
Each inmate doubling while resigning
His several debt:

And yet she nursed one joy, above
Her thousand charms, nor bora of them,
But blooming on a single stem--
Her true faith in her love.

VI

And though, before she heard his foot,
The moon had climbed the homestead palm,
Flinging to her the shadowed fruit,
And tree-frogs ceased to break the calm,
And birds were mute,

With sudden transport ever new,
She blushed, and sprang from forth the bower,
Her eyes, as bright as moon-lit dew,
Her bosom glad as snow-veiled flower,
When sun shines through;

He, with a natural dignity
Untaught self-consciousness by harm,
Sustained her with his manly arm,
And smiled upon her glee.

VII

Next day, when early evening shone
Along the walks of Paradise,
Strewing with gold the hills, her throne,
Embarrassing the winds with spice
(Too rich a loan),

Fair Eve was in her bower of ease,
A cool arcade of fruit and flowers,

From North and East enclasped by trees,
But open to the Western showers,
And Southern breeze.

Here followed she her gardening trade,
Her favourites' simple needs attending,
And singing soft, above them bending,
A song herself had made.

VIII

In evening's calm, she walked between
The tints and shades of rich delight,
While overhead came, arching green,
Many a shrub and parasite,
To crown their Queen;

There laughed the joy of the rose, among
Myrtle and Iris, heaven's eye,
Magnole, with cups of moonlight hung,
And Fuchsia's sunny chandlery,
And coral tongue;

And where the shy brook fluttered through,
Nepenthe held her chalice leaf
(Undrained as yet by human grief),
And broad Nymphaea grew.

IX

But where the path bent towards the wood,
Across it hung a sombre screen,
The deadly night-shade, leaden-hued;
And there behind it, darkly seen,
A Being stood:

The form, if any form it had,
Was likest to a nightly vision
In mantle of amazement clad,
A terror-sense, without precision,
Of something bad.

A tremble chilled the forest shade,
A roving lion turned and fled,
The birds cowered home in hush of dread;
But Eve was not afraid.

X

She stood before him, sweetly bold,
To keep him from her garden shrine,
With hair that fell, a shower of gold,
Around her figure's snowy line
And rosy mould:

He (with a re-awakened sense
Of goodness, long for ever lost,
And angel beauty's pure defence)
Shrank back, unable to accost
Such innocence:

But envy soon scoffed down his shame;
And with a smile, designed for fawning,
But like hell's daybreak sickly dawning,
His crafty accents came.

XI

"Sweet ignorance, 'tis sad and hard
To break thy fond confiding spell;
And my soft heart hath such regard
For thine, that I will never tell
What may be spared."

He turned aside, o'erwhelmed with pain,
And drew a sigh of deep compassion:
She trembled, flushed, and gazed again,
And prayed him quick, in woman's fashion,
To speak it plain:

"Then, if thou must be taught to grieve,
And scorn the guile thou hast adored--
The man who calls himself thy lord,
Where goes he, every eve?"

XII

"Nay, then," she cried, "if that be all,
I care not what thou hast to say;
The guile that lurks therein is small--
My husband but retires to pray,
At evening call."

"To pray? Oh yes, and on his knees
May-hap to find a lovely being:
Devotions so devout as these
Are best at night, with no one seeing,
Among the trees."

She blushed as deep as modesty,
Then glancing back as bright as cride,
"What woman can he find,' she cried,
"In all the world, but me?"

XIII

He laughed with a superior sneer,
Enough to shake e'en woman's faith;
"Wilt thou believe me, simple dear,
If I am able now," he saith,
"To show her here?"

She cried aloud with gladsome heart,
"Be that