Чарльз Диккенс - A House to Let

IX.
Her heart, her life, her future,
Her genius, only meant
Another thing to give him,
And be therewith content.

To-day, what words had stirr’d her,
Her soul could not forget?
What dream had fill’d her spirit
With strange and wild regret?

X.
To leave him for another:
Could it indeed be so?
Could it have cost such anguish
To bid this vision go?

Was this her faith? Was Herbert
The second in her heart?
Did it need all this struggle
To bid a dream depart?

XI.
And yet, within her spirit
A far-off land was seen;
A home, which might have held her;
A love, which might have been;

And Life: not the mere being
Of daily ebb and flow,
But Life itself had claim’d her,
And she had let it go!

XII.
Within her heart there echo’d
Again the well-known tune
That promised this bright future,
And ask’d her for its own:

Then words of sorrow, broken
By half-reproachful pain;
And then a farewell, spoken
In words of cold disdain.

XIII.
Where now was the stern purpose
That nerved her soul so long?
Whence came the words she utter’d,
So hard, so cold, so strong?

What right had she to banish
A hope that God had given?
Why must she choose earth’s portion,
And turn aside from Heaven?

XIV.
To-day! Was it this morning?
If this long, fearful strife
Was but the work of hours,
What would be years of life?

Why did a cruel Heaven
For such great suffering call?
And why—O, still more cruel!—
Must her own words do all?

XV.
Did she repent? O Sorrow!
Why do we linger still
To take thy loving message,
And do thy gentle will?

See, her tears fall more slowly;
The passionate murmurs cease,
And back upon her spirit
Flow strength, and love, and peace.

XVI.
The fire burns more brightly,
The rain has passed away,
Herbert will see no shadow
Upon his home to-day;

Only that Bertha greets him
With doubly tender care,
Kissing a fonder blessing
Down on his golden hair.

I.
The studio is deserted,
Palette and brush laid by,
The sketch rests on the easel,
The paint is scarcely dry;

And Silence—who seems always
Within her depths to bear
The next sound that will utter—
Now holds a dumb despair.

II.
So Bertha feels it: listening
With breathless, stony fear,
Waiting the dreadful summons
Each minute brings more near:

When the young life, now ebbing,
Shall fail, and pass away
Into that mighty shadow
Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.
But why—when the sick chamber
Is on the upper floor—
Why dares not Bertha enter
Within the close-shut door?

If he—her all—her Brother,
Lies dying in that gloom,
What strange mysterious power
Has sent her from the room?

IV.
It is not one week’s anguish
That can have changed her so;
Joy has not died here lately,
Struck down by one quick blow;

But cruel months have needed
Their long relentless chain,
To teach that shrinking manner
Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.
The struggle was scarce over
Last Christmas Eve had brought:
The fibres still were quivering
Of the one wounded thought,

When Herbert—who, unconscious,
Had guessed no inward strife—
Bade her, in pride and pleasure,
Welcome his fair young wife.

VI.
Bade her rejoice, and smiling,
Although his eyes were dim,
Thank’d God he thus could pay her
The care she gave to him.

This fresh bright life would bring her
A new and joyous fate—
O Bertha, check the murmur
That cries, Too late! too late!

VII.
Too late! Could she have known it
A few short weeks before,
That his life was completed,
And needing hers no more,

She might—O sad repining!
What “might have been,” forget;
“It was not,” should suffice us
To stifle vain regret.

VIII.
He needed her no longer,
Each day it grew more plain;
First with a startled wonder,
Then with a wondering pain.

Love: why, his wife best gave it;
Comfort: durst Bertha speak?
Counsel: when quick resentment
Flush’d on the young wife’s cheek.

IX.
No more long talks by firelight
Of childish times long past,
And dreams of future greatness
Which he must reach at last;

Dreams, where her purer instinct
With truth unerring told
Where was the worthless gilding,
And where refinèd gold.

X.
Slowly, but surely ever,
Dora’s poor jealous pride,
Which she call’d love for Herbert,
Drove Bertha from his side;

And, spite of nervous effort
To share their alter’d life,
She felt a check to Herbert,
A burden to his wife.

XI.
This was the least; for Bertha
Fear’d, dreaded, knew at length,
How much his nature owed her
Of truth, and power, and strength;

And watch’d the daily failing
Of all his nobler part:
Low aims, weak purpose, telling
In lower, weaker art.

XII.
And now, when he is dying,
The last words she could hear
Must not be hers, but given
The bride of one short year.

The last care is another’s;
The last prayer must not be
The one they learnt together
Beside their mother’s knee.

XIII.
Summon’d at last: she kisses
The clay-cold stiffening hand;
And, reading pleading efforts
To make her understand,

Answers, with solemn promise,
In clear but trembling tone,
To Dora’s life henceforward
She will devote her own.

XIV.
Now all is over. Bertha
Dares not remain to weep,
But soothes the frightened Dora
Into a sobbing sleep.

The poor weak child will need her:
O, who can dare complain,
When God sends a new Duty
To comfort each new Pain!

I.
The House is all deserted
In the dim evening gloom,
Only one figure passes
Slowly from room to room;

And, pausing at each doorway,
Seems gathering up again
Within her heart the relics
Of bygone joy and pain.

II.
There is an earnest longing
In those who onward gaze,
Looking with weary patience
Towards the coming days.

There is a deeper longing,
More sad, more strong, more keen:
Those know it who look backward,
And yearn for what has been.