Victories of Love by Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore I. FROM FREDERICK GRAHAM. Mother, I smile at your alarms!I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice.Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant daysAt Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight;And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so sheThe bloom of life provoked in meAnd, hard till then and selfish, IWas thenceforth nought but sanctityAnd service: life was mere delightIn being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur;Honouring myself no less than her;Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace, Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too.For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriekStartled the light-leaved wood; on highWander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grassThrough which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe;Day was her doing, and the larkHad reason for his song; the darkIn anagram innumerous speltHer name with stars that throbb'd and felt;'Twas the sad summit of delightTo wake and weep for her at night;She turn'd to triumph or to shameThe strife of every childish game;The heart would come into my throatAt rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'dIn her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bredAnxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic skyO'erarching childhood! Far and nighMystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun!What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scopeThe disconcerted heart, affectsThese ceremonies and respects?Why stratagems in everything? We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an