Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The HandEbenezer Jones (18201860)
L
With basely timid mind,
Because by some betray’d,
Denouncing human-kind;
I heard the lonely wind,
And wickedly did mourn
I could not share its loneliness,
And all things human scorn.
I cursèd as they fell;
And bitterer the sneers
I strove not to repel:
With blindly mutter’d yell,
I cried unto mine heart,—
‘Thou shalt beat the world in falsehood,
And stab it ere we part.’
As one who seeks a knife;
When startlingly did crave
To quell that hand’s wild strife
Some other hand; all rife
With kindness, clasp’d it hard
On mine, quick frequent claspings
That would not be debarr’d.
To the creature of the hand;
And no sound did it raise,
Its nature to disband
Of mystery; vast, and grand,
The moors around me spread,
And I thought, some angel message
Perchance their God may have sped.
So full of earnest prayer,
While o’er it fell a tress
Of cool, soft, human hair,
I fear’d not;—I did dare
Turn round, ’twas Hannah there!
O! to no one out of heaven
Could I what pass’d declare.
Through all that blessèd day;
And we drank its waters pure,
And felt the world away;
In many a dell we lay,
And we twined flower-crowns bright;
And I fed her with moor-berries
And bless’d her glad eye-light.
That saved me many stings,
Was oft a silent sayer
Of countless loving things;—
I’ll ring it all with rings,
Each ring a jewell’d band;
For heaven shouldn’t purchase
That little sister hand.