# Edwin Morris; or, the Lake

O Me, my pleasant rambles by the lake,  My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year,  My one Oasis in the dust and drouth  Of city life! I was a sketcher then:  See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,  Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built  When men knew how to build, upon a rock,  With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock:  And here, new-comers in an ancient hold,  New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires,  Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimnied bulk  Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers.  O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake  With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull  The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
 But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,  Long-learned names of agaric, moss and fern,
 Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks,  Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim,  Who read me rhymes elaborately good,  His own—I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd  All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail.  And once I ask'd him of his early life,  And his first passion; and he answer'd me;  And well his words became him: was he not  A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence  Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke.
 "My love for Nature is as old as I;  But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that,  And three rich sennights more, my love for her.  My love for Nature and my love for her,  Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew,
 Twin-sisters differently beautiful.  To some full music rose and sank the sun,  And some full music seem'd to move and change  With all the varied changes of the dark,  And either twilight and the day between;  For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again  Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet  To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe."
 Or this or something like to this he spoke.  Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull,  "I take it, God made the woman for the man,  And for the good and increase of the world,  A pretty face is well, and this is well,  To have a dame indoors, that trims us up,  And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways  Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed  Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff.  I say, God made the woman for the man,  And for the good and increase of the world."
 "Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too low:  But I have sudden touches, and can run  My faith beyond my practice into his:  Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill,  I do not hear the bells upon my cap,  I scarce hear other music: yet say on.  What should one give to light on such a dream?"  I ask'd him half-sardonically.  "Give? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light  Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek;  "I would have hid her needle in my heart,  To save her little finger from a scratch  No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear  Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth  The experience of the wise. I went and came;  Her voice fled always thro' the summer land;  I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days!  The flower of each, those moments when we met,  The crown of all, we met to part no more."
 Were not his words delicious, I a beast  To take them as I did? but something jarr'd;  Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd  A touch of something false, some self-conceit,  Or over-smoothness: howsoe'er it was,  He scarcely hit my humour, and I said:—
 "Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone  Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me,  As in the Latin song I learnt at school,  Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left?
 But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein:  I have I think—Heaven knows—as much within;  Have or should have, but for a thought or two,  That like a purple beech among the greens  Looks out of place: 'tis from no want in her:  It is my shyness, or my self-distrust,  Or something of a wayward modern mind  Dissecting passion. Time will set me right."
 So spoke I knowing not the things that were.  Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull:  "God made the woman for the use of man,  And for the good and increase of the world".  And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we paused  About the windings of the marge to hear  The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms  And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left  The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran  By ripply shallows of the lisping lake,  Delighted with the freshness and the sound.  But, when the bracken rusted on their crags,  My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him  That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk,  The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles.
 'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more:  She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit,
 The close "Your Letty, only yours"; and this  Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn  Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran  My craft aground, and heard with beating heart  The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel;  And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved,  Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers:
 Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she,  She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed  In some new planet: a silent cousin stole  Upon us and departed: "Leave," she cried,  "O leave me!" "Never, dearest, never: here  I brave the worst:" and while we stood like fools  Embracing, all at once a score of pugs  And poodles yell'd within, and out they came  Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. "What, with him!  "Go" (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) "him!"  I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen "Him!"  Again with hands of wild rejection "Go!—  Girl, get you in!" She went—and in one month
 They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds,  To lands in Kent and messuages in York,  And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile  And educated whisker. But for me,  They set an ancient creditor to work:  It seems I broke a close with force and arms:  There came a mystic token from the king  To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy!  I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd:  Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below:  I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm;  So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen  Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear.  Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago  I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed,  It may be, for her own dear sake but this,  She seems a part of those fresh days to me;  For in the dust and drouth of London life  She moves among my visions of the lake,  While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then  While the gold-lily blows, and overhead  The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag.