I know not how, dear heart, I came to love you as I do,—
Too much, I fear, for one who feels the value of his soul;
And mother's choice, you know, was set on Hannah, not on you,—
And mother had a calm, wise way of judging, on the whole.
Though Hannah is by some few years my elder, that they say
Gives promise of a prudent home; and Hannah is no doubt
A rare God-fearing woman, one who treads the narrow way,
And cares not what the heathen world are striving for without.
You have a great example in your sister, and indeed,
I give you justice, you have tried to profit by that light,
But then you love, and where you love, you cling like any weed,—
I fear it is to pleasure me you chiefly do the right.
You've tried to keep in check the wayward nature of your hair,
Which fain would wanton into curl for other eyes than mine;
But, smoothing it away, have laid the blue-veined temples bare,
Whereon some naughty golden rings still break away and shine.
And so the master's son must stop to tell you as you pass,
You put it back to show your ear of rosy-tinted pearl;
I told him that his weapon was the jaw-bone of an ass—
Not used upon the Philistines, but turned against a girl!
The kerchief that on Hannah's neck sets down without a fold,
Takes quite another curve on yours, but you are not to blame
If beauty in its nature has a something almost bold;—
I would you were more homely, while I loved you still the same!
And now I'm on the subject, Ruth, I'll speak out all my mind:
Two months ago, when Janet Byrne lay dying on her bed,
And Hannah (such a gift of prayer as her's where shall you find?)
Improved on the occasion till the dying child was dead.
Then in the midst,—when Hannah urged that each one should put up
A cry that in this death his soul should hear a special call,—

I saw you rise and steal towards Jane (not dead yet) with a cup,
Her feeble call for water you had heard above it all.
My spirit was so lifted up with Hannah's fervent prayer,
I thought you were an angel come to take the child away;
You sat there, with your tender eyes and glory of bright hair,
Which fell upon your shoulders,—as an angel's haply may.
Jane's head upon your bosom, and her little hands in yours,
Your living sigh gone forth to meet the infant's dying breath,—
A trance of bliss came over me,—such blessedness ensures
The narrow way we walk in,—that I envied her her death!
But you, my Ruth, what thoughts were yours as low you laid her head?
Your eyes were dry, but in your smile a watery radiance shone
I fear that in that moment—by that orphan child's death-bed—
It was her crown you thought of, all too heedless of your own.
I would not blame a loving heart nor yet an angel face,
I only say that one like you 'tis hard to judge aright;
The work I take for nature's is too like the work of grace;—
The darker ground of Hannah's mind throws up a clearer light.
Her words so gracious when in prayer, are only gracious then,
And faith in her is strong enough without a prop to stand;
She owns no carnal bonds, and only loves the souls of men;—
Such shining lights as Hannah are the saving of the land!
It is not safe for Christian folk to be too good or fair;
A spirit like a blood-stained sword, just hidden by a sheath—
A sheath like that you wot of—is less like to be a snare;
The thoughts must still be humbled by the filthiness beneath.
My own awakening, too, I own was never of the best;
The roots of this vile will of mine were set so deep in love;
I loved the stars, the creeping things, and God with all the rest,
And long before I turned within, I dared to look above.
So much the more it did behove the sharer of my life
To show a clearer calling. Were it better we should part?
No! there's a feeling here with which to call another wife
Were breaking of a law—far worse than breaking of a heart.
Well, well, some needs must walk in light, some follow in the shade;
Some hold their course triumphant, others totter to the goal;
I humbly sue for guidance, but, dear Ruth, I am afraid
I could not break your tender heart,—no, not to save my soul.