Читать книгу Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough - Arthur Hugh Clough - Страница 35

Eve. Oh, Adam, I am comforted indeed;

Where is he? O my little one!

My heart is in the garden as of old,

And Paradise come back.

Adam. My love,

Blessed be this good day to thee indeed;

Blessed the balm of joy unto thy soul.

A sad unskilful nurse was I to thee;

But nature teaches mothers, I perceive.

Eve. But you, my husband, you meantime, I feel,

Join not your perfect spirit in my joy.

No; your spirit mixes not, I feel, with mine.

Adam. Alas! sweet love, for many a weary day,

You and not I have borne this heavy weight:

How can I, should I, might I feel your bliss,

Now heaviness is changed to glory? Long,

In long and unparticipated pangs,

Your heart hath known its own great bitterness:

How should, in this its jubilant release,

A stranger intermeddle with its joy?

Eve. My husband, there is more in it than this;

Nay, you are surely, positively sad.

Adam. What if I was (and yet I think I am not),

’Twere but the silly and contrarious mood

Of one whose sympathies refuse to mix

In aught not felt immediate from himself.

But of a truth,

Your joy is greater—mine seems therefore none.

Eve. Nay, neither this I think nor that is true.

Evermore still you love to cheat me, Adam:

You hide from me your thoughts like evil beasts

Most foolishly; for I, thus left to guess,

Catch at all hints, and where perchance one is,

People the forest with a hundred ills,

Each worse perhaps a hundred times than it.

No; you have got some fearful thoughts—no, no;

Look not in that way on my baby, Adam—

You do it hurt; you shall not!

Adam. Hear me, Eve,

If hear you will—and speak I think I must—

Hear me.

What is it I would say? I think—

And yet I must—so hear me, mother blest,

That sittest with thy nursling at thy heart,

Hope not too greatly, neither fear for him,

Feeling on thy breast his small compressing lips,

And glorying in the gift they draw from thee;

Hope not too greatly in thyself and him.

And hear me, O young mother—I must speak.

This child is born of us, and therefore like us;

Is born of us, and therefore is as we;

Is born of us, and therefore is not pure;

Earthy as well as godlike; bound to strive—

Not doubtfully I augur from the past—

Through the same straits of anguish and of doubt,

’Mid the same storms of terror and alarm,

To the calm ocean which he yet shall reach,

He or himself or in his sons hereafter,

Of consummated consciousness of self.

The selfsame stuff which wrought in us to grief

Runs in his veins; and what to work in him?

What shape of unsuspected deep disguise,

Transcending our experience, our best cares

Baffling, evading all preventive thought,

Will the old mischief choose, I wonder, here?

O born to human trouble! also born—

Else wherefore born—to some diviner lot,

Live, and may chance treat thee no worse than us

There, I have done: the dangerous stuff is out;

My mind is freed. And now, my gentle Eve,

Forgive thy foolish spouse, and let me set

A father’s kiss upon these budding lips,

A husband’s on the mother’s—the full flower.

There, there; and so, my own and only wife,

Believe me, my worst thought is now to learn

How best and most to serve this child and thee.

This child is born of us, and therefore like us—

Most true, mine own; and if a man like me

Externally, internally I trust

Most like to thee, the better of the twain.

Is born of us, and therefore is not pure—

Did I say that? I know not what I said;

It was a foolish humour; but, indeed,

Whatever you may think, I have not learnt

The trick of deep suppression, e’en the skill

To sort my thoughts and sift my words enough.

Not pure, indeed!—And if it is not pure,

What is? Ah, well! but most I look to the days

When these small arms, with pliant thews filled out.

Shall at my side break up the fruitful glebe,

And aid the cheery labours of the year—

Aid, or, in feebler wearier years, replace,

And leave me longer hours for home and love.