The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. It's weary work enforcing love On one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowlihead Of ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes Of Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas! Then wait the mood In which a woman may be woo'd Whose thoughts and habits are too high For honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allow The suit that you could proffer now. Her equal yoke would sit with ease; It might, with wearing, even please, (Not with a better word to move The loyal wrath of present love); She would not mope when you were gay, For want of knowing aught to say; Nor vex you with unhandsome waste Of thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed; Nor reckon small things duties small, And your fine sense fantastical; Nor would she bring you up a brood Of strangers bound to you by blood, Boys of a meaner moral race, Girls with their mother's evil grace. But not her chance to sometimes find Her critic past his judgment kind; Nor, unaccustom'd to respect, Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect, Confirm you selfish and morose, And slowly, by contagion, gross; But, glad and able to receive The honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justify Expectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incur Compulsion to keep up with her. XII. FROM FREDERICK. Your letter, Mother, bears the date Of six months back, and comes too late. My Love, past all conceiving lost, A change seem'd good, at any cost, From lonely, stupid, silent grief, Vain, objectless, beyond relief, And, like a sea-fog, settled dense On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. I grew so idle, so despised Myself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on shore, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'd For such slight came,--if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the light Of English headlands in the sun,-- That soon I deem'd 'twere better done To lay this poor, complaining wraith Of unreciprocated faith: And so, with heart still bleeding quick. But strengthen'd by the comfort sick Of knowing that _She_ could not care, I turn'd away from my despair, And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane,-- A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And look'd as if she pitied me,-- How glad and thankful I should be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo. Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what I meant to have proposed. And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gain Is very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing not My faith towards--I know not what! As to the ether is the air, Is her good to Honoria's fair; One place is full of both, yet each Lies quite beyond the other's reach And recognition. If you say,