Yet space is given for breath of thought To deeper than this ball of sight It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught. The spirit leaps alight, Doubts not in them is he, The binder of his sheaves, the same, the right: Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought, That there with toil Life climbs the self same Tree, Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped. So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason's growing lopped; Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place, To them are lastingly allied. So may we read, and little find them cold: Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced. Then at new flood of customary morn, A wonder edges the familiar face: Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers. COVENTRY PATMORE SELECTIONS FROM THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE [1854-56.] THE IMPOSSIBILITY [1823-1896] Lo, Love's obey'd by all. 'Tis right And folly laugh our joys away. LOVE'S REALITY I WALK, I trust, with open eyes; I've travell'd half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse; I've lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho' match'd like hand and glove; I've blushed for love's abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song; And love is my reward: for now, When most of dead'ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow, Its odour quickens all my brain. THE LOVER He meets, by heavenly chance express, Which others cannot understand. Her beauty haunts him all the night; Most humble when he most aspires, To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs From her he honours and desires. Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial style Affronts him; he disdains to bask, The pensioner of her priceless smile. He prays for some hard thing to do, To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife. He notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate; How, self-consign'd with lavish will, They ask but love proportionate; Brings down the haughtiest citadel; LOVE A VIRTUE STRONG passions mean weak will, and he No passion but a virtue 'tis. The subtlest senses of the swarm Of wretched things which know not love, The songs I sing, the tale I tell. In which I sing of love. Alack, But darkness shows in heavenly light, Though whiteness, in the dark, is black! The best things that the best believe On noonday's azure permanence; Declare affections nobly fix'd, Of him who would affront its pride! Outbragging Nature's boast the rose. How artless in her very art; How subtle and how fancy-free; To prove, her reasons to persuade; Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract, Though crown'd with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires. THE DEAN I THE Ladies rose. I held the door, And sigh'd, as her departing grace Assured me that she always wore A heart as happy as her face; And, jealous of the winds that blew, I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine, What fortune momently might do To hurt the hope that she'd be mine. II Towards my mark the Dean's talk set: He praised my 'Notes on Abury,' Read when the Association met At Sarum; he was pleased to see I had not stopp'd, as some men had, At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last, He hoped the business was not bad I came about: then the wine pass'd. III A full glass prefaced my reply: I loved his daughter, Honor; I told My estate and prospects; might I try To win her? At my words so bold My sick heart sank. Then he: He gave His glad consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have Only three thousand pounds as yet; More bye and bye. Yes, his good will Should go with me; he would not stir; He and my father in old time still Wish'd I should some day marry her; But God so seldom lets us take Our chosen pathway, when it lies In steps that either mar or make Or alter others' destinies, That, though his blessing and his pray'r Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he Left all to me, his passive share Consent and opportunity. My chance, he hoped, was good: I'd won Some name already; friends and place Appear'd within my reach, but none Her mind and manners would not grace. Girls love to see the men in whom They invest their vanities admired; Mine was a choice I could not rue. We went whither my soul was drawn; And her light-hearted ignorance Of interest in our discourse Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force, As, through the flowery mazes sweet, Fronting the wind that flutter'd blythe, And loved her shape, and kiss'd her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach'd, all mildness and young trust, And ever her chaste and noble air Gave to love's feast its choicest gust, A vague, faint augury of despair. LOVE'S IMMORTALITY How VILELY 'twere to misdeserve The poet's gift of perfect speech, In song to try, with trembling nerve, The limit of its utmost reach, Only to sound the wretched praise The cross-bones of mortality! The Lover's mind, divinely clear: Which maddens him with hope or fear: So trifles serve for his relief, And trifles make him sick and pale; And yet his pleasure and his grief Are both on a majestic scale. The chance, indefinitely small, Of issue infinitely great, Eclipses finite interests all, And has the dignity of fate. LIFE OF LIFE WHAT'S that, which, ere I spake, was gone: That, had the splendour lived a year, And nothing transient be desired; And error from the soul would pass, And leave the senses pure and strong As sunbeams. But the best, alas, Has neither memory nor tongue! THE REVELATION AN idle poet, here and there, Looks round him; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair, Is duller than a witling's jest. Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids, and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget; but, either way, That and the Child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day. THE SPIRIT'S EPOCHS NoT in the crisis of events, Are life's delight and depth reveal'd. That went before, or was postponed; The night Death took our lamp away Was not the night on which we groan'd. I drew my bride, beneath the moon, GOING TO CHURCH (4) THENCEFORTH, and through that pray'r, I trod A path with no suspicions dim, I loved her in the name of God, And for the ray she was of Him; I ought to admire much more, not less; The mystery of loveliness, Which made an altar of her face, Was not of the flesh, though that was fair, But a most pure and living light Without a name, by which the rare And virtuous spirit flamed to sight. If oft, in love, effect lack'd cause And cause effect, 'twere vain to soar Reasons to seek for that which was Reason itself, or something more. My joy was no idolatry Upon the ends of the vile earth bent, For when I loved her most then I Most yearn'd for more divine content. That other doubt, which, like a ghost, In the brain's darkness haunted me, Was thus resolved; Him loved I most, But her I loved most sensibly. Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd No selfish thought, or earthly smirch; And forth I went, in peace, and proud To take my passion into Church; Grateful and glad to think that all Such doubts would seem entirely vain To her whose nature's lighter fall Made no divorce of heart from brain. THE ABDICATION TWICE rose, twice died my trembling word; Spake time in music, and we heard The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood, Her pleasure in her power to charm; LOVE'S PERVERSITY And how his great devotion mocks The undevout with paradox? His soul, through scorn of worldly care, And great extremes of sweet and gall, And musing much on all that's fair, Grows witty and fantastical; He sobs his joy and sings his grief, In simply picturing his relief, That 'plaining seems to cure his plight; He makes his sorrow, when there's none; His fancy blows both cold and hot; Next to the wish that she'll be won, His first hope is that she may not; He sues, yet deprecates consent; Would she be captured she must fly; She looks too happy and content, For whose least pleasure he would die. Oh, cruelty, she cannot care For one to whom she's always kind! He says he's nought, but, oh, despair, If he's not Jove to her fond mind! He's jealous if she pets a dove, She must be his with all her soul; Yet 'tis a postulate in love That part is greater than the whole; And all his apprehension's stress, When he's with her, regards her hair, As if his life were only there; Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired, He blames her, though she has no fault, He worships her, the more to exalt But when his paleness shames her rose; His faith's a rock-built citadel, Its sign a flag that each way blows; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes; And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of time and fate. THE FOREIGN LAND A WOMAN is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settled young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd, and prospects fair, Learn of the language, 'How d'ye do,' And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity. THE MARRIED LOVER WHY, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness, Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favour feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds As lowly as a wife can be, Not with her least consent of will, That bright in virgin ether bask; |