Volume 5 — From The Month. Rhoda. A Devonshire Eclogue.

"I am declined Into the vale of years; yet that's not much."—Othello. It was the deep midsummer; the calm lake Lay shining in the sun; the glittering ripples, That scarce bare record of the wind's light wings, Reached not the shore, where, shadowed by huge oaks, The clear still water blended with the land In undistinguished union. All was still, Save where at little distance a bright spring Leapt out from a fern-coroneted rock, And ran with cheerful prattle its short course (Making the silence deeper for its noise) To quiet slumber in the quiet lake. Down to the margin of the water, slow Pacing along the shadow-dappled grass Into the trees' green twilight, steadfastly The while his eyes bent down upon the ground, Sir Richard Conway came. No longer young; A statesman of repute; in council wise; Of bitter speech, but not unkindly heart; Of stately presence still. He in his youth Had wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair, So gentle, and so good that when she died His heart and love died too, and in her grave Lay down, and he came forth a stricken man.

But this was long ago: his children grew; He watched them, but they never saw his heart; They dreamed not of the proud man's tenderness, But went into the highway of the world, And left him to his utter loneliness. Years passed: sometimes his solitary heart Sent out a cry of agony for love; But no one heard—he sternly stifled it: Treading his path with dignity, he lived In pride and honor, and he lived alone. He prayed for love, and in his autumn days Love came upon him; but in such a sort As, if a man had told him it would come, He would have laughed in scorn. But so it is; God gives us our desire, and sends withal Sharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit. Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhood Who were all fair, lived hard by the great house, Near to the lake; the daughter of a pair Not rich, yet blessed with slender competence. And sometimes in the park, or in the house, Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meet Sir Richard, who to such as her showed ever A gracious kindness, and would give to her A friendly greeting, sometimes with a word Of question of her needs or her desires, Followed by such slight interchange of talk As might befit such meetings—nothing more. Indeed he could not fail, as time wore on, To note that with each year she lovelier grew: A pale and delicate fairy, exquisite As some rare picture, with pathetic eyes Veiled underneath long lashes; their shy glance Seemed to reveal a soul whose tender depths Were unprofaned by any earthly thought. Nor was it seeming only: she was good; And fenced her beauty with simplicity, Meek sense, and modest wisdom.

This he saw— He could not choose but see it; and he felt, When she was near, as if some soothing strain Breathed round him; and his secret soul was swayed With unseen power, as sways the billowy corn Swept by the warm caresses of the wind. He knew what this portended. All in vain The proud man struggled with his heart: he loved, And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vain He strove to turn away from her fair face; He only gazed more tenderly: in vain Strove to speak coldly when he met her; still His deep voice trembled, as his heart beat fast, And from his eyes looked out his yearning soul. Of all this conflict Rhoda saw but little; The less, belike, for conflict of her own: Mysterious longings kindled by his voice; Shy pleasure in his presence; constant thought (Half reverence, half compassion, tender always) Of this grave, courteous, noble, lonely man, Who looked so great, so sorrowful, but still With many a mute yet clearly speaking sign Sued for her love with sad humility. These things she never uttered to her heart; And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringly She put them by, and simply went her way. But he could fight no longer; and to-day He waited by the water, for he knew Rhoda would pass that way, and he resolved To tell her all his secret, and to learn His future from her lips, whether they spoke Hope or despair. He had not waited long, When through the park, along the trembling lake, Into the oaks' soft shadows, Rhoda came; So bright, so fresh, so beautiful, she seemed To bring a golden light into the gloom. Sir Richard trembled, and his breath came quick, His pulse throbbed wildly, and his eyes grew dim; Yet, mastered by his iron will, his words Came calmly forth to greet her: at the sound, Surprised to find him here, she started back, Then murmuring something hurriedly, went on. He gently staid her, saying in tenderest tones: "One moment, Rhoda—one—could you but know—" She looked into his face with wondering eyes, Then bashfully withdrew them; for she knew At once his secret from his pleading voice And his dark eyes' ineffable tenderness. "I did not mean to startle you," he said; "Nay, do not tremble; could you see my soul, The tempest there would make your own show calm. Oh! stay—forgive me when the heart beats fast. The tongue is slow—I love you! Fewest words Are best for such confession. Can you love?"

But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heard Except the gurgling of the silver spring, When thus in saddest accents he resumed: "Rhoda, you see in me a man sore smitten, Whose youth and spring were buried long ago— One who has had no summer in his heart, Whose autumn days are lonely, and who prayed (Till you relumed the sunshine of his life) For the swift-closing winter of the grave. Long have I kept my secret to myself— From no mean shame, my girl; for well I know, Were you my wife, mine were the gain, not yours; But silver hairs blend ill with waving gold, Nor would I bring a blight upon your life. Why have I spoken? 'Twas a selfish thought To share with you the burden of my gloom, O'ershadowing your young years—an idle dream That one so old and desolate as I Could stir the heart of blessed youthfulness. There—you have heard my secret. Pity me: I know you will not mock me. So, farewell! Go, Rhoda, with my blessing on your head! I to my loveless life return alone, Forlorn, but uncomplaining." He turned to go, But Rhoda, who had heard him to this word, Could now endure no more; she caught his arm, She gazed at him with fond eyes full of tears. "Oh! not alone!" she said "we go together; If a poor girl like me—" She said no more, But turned and hid her face upon his heart. He clasped her, looking thankfully to heaven, Then stooped and kissed her: "Rhoda, my own wife, Bear with me for my love!" The trees stood still, Yielding no faintest whispering. They came forth Out of the solemn grove into the sun; The soft blue sky had not one film of cloud; And as they walked in silence, they could hear Far off the happy stockdove's brooding note. And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife. Once more the old house brightened; stately rooms Rang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth: And still as years went on, Sir Richard wore Always an air of serious cheerfulness; While baby voices gladdened all the place, And Rhoda's lovely face was never sad. Let the grim rock give forth a living stream, And still boon nature crowns its ruggedness With flowers and fairy grasses.

Near the park Towers up a tract of granite; the huge hills Bear on their broad flanks right into the mists Vast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze. It is the home of rivers, and the haunt Of great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blasts Far-stretching squadrons, with colossal stride Marching from peak to peak, or lying down Upon the granite beds that crown the heights. Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moors Have some strange fascination; and I own That, like a strong man's sweetness, to myself Pent in the smoky city, worn with toil, When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiled Over those wide waste uplands, or when mists Fill the great vales like lakes, then break and roll Slow lingering up the hills as living things, Then do they stir and lift the soul; and then Their colors, and their rainbows, and their clouds, And their fierce winds, and desolate liberty, Seem endless beauty and untold delight. So was it with Sir Richard: from the park And from the cares of state he often went With Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hours There face to face with nature—far away From all the din and fume of human life, From paltry cares and interests, that corrupt Or keep the soul in chains. They may be seen On a great hill, on cloudless summer days, Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds, Gazing on that magnificent region, spread In majesty below them: teeming plains And wood-clothed gorges of the hills in front; Behind them sea-like ridges of bare moor, Some in brown shade, some white with blazing light; Above, enormous rocks piled up in play By giants; all around, authentic relics Of those drear ages, when half-naked men Roamed these dim regions, waging doubtful war With wolves and bears; and on the horizon's verge The pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit, Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by side Their hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed down In thankful adoration, scarce recalled From musings deep and tender, by the shouts Of two fair children playing at their feet. October, 1866.