In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly, these passions of the earth,
They perish where they had their birth;
But love is indestructible:
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppress'd,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she loved in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears-
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?
Matthew Arnold says:— "What people do in middle life, without a wife and children to turn to, I cannot imagine; for I think the affections must be sadly checked and chilled, even in the best men, by their intercourse with people such as one usually finds them in the world. I do not mean that one does not meet with good and sensible people, but then their minds are set, and our minds are set, and they will not, in mature age, grow into each other; but with a home filled with those whom we entirely love and sympathize with, and with some old friends to whom one can open one's heart fully from time to time, the world's society has rather a bracing influence to make one shake off one's dreams of delight."
Dr. Blacklock, a blind poet, wrote, just a century ago, "a compliment and tribute of affection to the tender assiduity of an excellent wife," which, under the circumstances, is as touching as it is felicitous :—
ODE TO AURORA ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY.
Of Time and Nature eldest born,
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd Morn!
Emerge, in purest dress array'd,
And chase from heaven night's envious shade;
That I once more may pleased survey,
And hail Melissa's natal day.
Of Time and Nature eldest born,
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd Morn!
In order at the eastern gate
The Hours to draw thy chariot wait;
Whilst Zephyr on his balmy wings
Mild Nature's fragrant tribute brings,
With odours sweet to strew thy way,
And grace the bland revolving day.
But, as thou lead'st the radiant sphere
That gilds its birth and marks the year;
And as his stronger glories rise,
Diffused around the expanded skies,
Till clothed with beams serenely bright,
All heaven's vast concave flames with light;
So when through life's protracted day
Melissa still pursues her way,
Her virtues with thy splendour vie,
Increasing to the mental eye;
Though less conspicuous, not less dear:
Long may they Bion's prospect cheer.
So shall his heart no more repine,
Blest with her rays, though robb'd of thine.
Samuel Bishop, in the last century, wrote some excellent verses in praise of his wife :—
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO
HER BIRTHDAY, WITH A RING.
"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed"-
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring! for what?
To wed thee o'er again? why not?
With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appear'd.
If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now
To justify a double vow.
Here, then, to-day—with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth and plighted mine-
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed till death us part
Thy riper virtues to thy heart;
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues whose progressive claim
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.
And why? they show me every hour
Honour's high thought, affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound judgment's sentence,
And teach me all things-but repentance.
The father of the celebrated Charlotte Brontë (authoress of "Jane Eyre," who died in her 39th year) addressed a birthday poem (the best piece in a published collection of his verses) to his wife Maria. This is one stanza :
Then let the vernal landscape's ample bound
That gaily smiles around,
With all the sweets it richly spreads abroad
To our own Father and redeeming God,
Progressively endear
Whate'er we do, whate'er we say.
Let pure religion bear the sovereign sway;
So shall each rolling year,
Crown'd with thy birthday, solid joys impart,
And gently soothe our undivided heart.
And when our spring of life is done
And sets our summer sun;
When time shall blot from memory's view
These humble lines address'd to you;
And e'en the fields and pleasant cot
Where once we lived shall be forgot;
Convey'd to brightest realms above,
And wrapt in purest, warmest love,
Where sin, and death, and changes ne'er annoy,
We'll taste of endless bliss without alloy.
There are few anniversary poems more charming than this by Allan Cunningham:—
THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.
love's like the steadfast sun
O'er streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears;
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain;
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.
Even while I muse, I see thee sit,
In maiden bloom and matron wit—
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree
We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon,
Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew
When looks were fond and words were few.
Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free—
They come, my love, they come from thee.
Oh! when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
"Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine—
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean
While rivers flow and woods are green.,
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