Which is the failure of material force;
And each death brings its judgment after it,
And resurrection also. I shall die;
And if you see me after, I shall be
Another Eucharis from that you knew.
There is a sentence haunting me,—the words
In which that writer to the Hebrews speaks
Of Isaac and his father;-how he felt
That God could even raise him from the dead,
'Whence also he received him in a figure;'
So, in a figure, I shall shortly die.
Do you remember how the dear white roads
Cross over Thornton Common? How from one
You see the other nearing you, until
They join just by the horse-pond? So my life
Is drawing toward another, which itself
Draws toward mine, and in the point they meet,—
The moment when my infant shall be born,
I see my death; for ever after that
I shall live only in another's life;
My darling's life will be the great high-road,
Mine but the cross-road, falling into it.
But O, that resurrection and that day
Of judgment after, when in that new life
I shall behold my every sin remembered,
My virtues, if indeed there be such things,
Rewarded;-how I look for it, yet fear it!
O mother, think of me this Christmas Day,
And pray for blessings which I dare not ask.
Yet have I many blessings; these two chief,-
My husband and my mother. You must not
Be vexed that I too answer what you wrote
In confidence to him; I write myself
To give you more assurance of his faith
To you, to truth, and, last of all, to me.
He was for some days cloudy, ere he saw
That faith to you was want of faith to me,
And that the exercise of faith to me
Was highest faith to you.
To show your letter to me, nor the one
You sent enclosed; for some days he refused,
And much I fear I taxed his quietude
By waywardness, but that is over now.
Three days ago he showed me them, and said
He could not think a matter which involved
Our very life, should be concealed from me;
And he was right. My ever dearest mother,
How kind of you to see him as he is;
One whom a hint of injury to any
Vexes so deeply; one whose tenderness
To me at all times, more than ever now,
I had not dreamt a man could ever feel.
As for your friend (her name you have cut off,
But I can guess it) I could speak of her
More strongly than politely; how dare she
Call Leonard by such names, and that to you?
I could speak so; but then, as said her friend
The grave Archdeacon, 'We are taught on some
To have compassion;' and, besides, I thank her
For pointing out an error into which
We have too easily fallen.
That I have always doubted whether that
We did was right,—to compromise our trust
(Even for your sake, mother, which alone
Led me to do so) by deceiving those
Who might, and would, have cast reproach on us
In their misunderstanding. This your friend,
Or her friend, rather, points most clearly out,
And you may tell them how we thank them for it;—
We, though at present Leonard has his doubts
Whether my strength will bear so great a strain
As may result from full acknowledgment.
I have not any; and I mean at once
To take some steps to let the world be taught
How small respect we have for its esteem,
How great a trust in God and in ourselves.
And this I must do quickly, for my death--
Death in a figure-draws each day more near,
And could I face the dreadful judgment day
After my resurrection, if this sin
This great black sin of looking back again, Of trusting God so far, yet trusting not
In all-if this great sin should come to light In my new life, and make my heaven hell? But let me but repent it while I live
And who can tell to what a wondrous height
My new life may attain? O mother dear,
Now that I stand in prospect to become
Myself a mother, I can better read
My own life's history; for I was born,
So you have told me, at a time when you
Had lost all hope of any peace on earth.
Can I not glory in your suffering now,
And think that through my heritage of faith
Some yet still purer life shall bless the earth,
Whose children yet again shall be the light
Of many generations? This I feel,
And think of Gertrude; it was not her fault
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