Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  Mary, all life and spirits, hastened to introduce the new-comers to Maude; who, perfectly unembarrassed, bowed and uttered little speeches with the manner of a practised woman of the world; while the genuine, unobstrusive courtesy of Agnes did more towards making their guests comfortable than the eager good nature of her sister, or the correct breeding of her cousin.

  At length the preliminaries were all accomplished, every one having found a seat, or being otherwise satisfactorily disposed of. The elders of the party were grouped here and there talking and looking on: the very small children were accommodated in an adjoining apartment with a gigantic Noah’s ark: and the rest of the young people being at liberty to amuse themselves as fancy might prompt, a general appeal was made to Miss Foster for some game, novel, entertaining, and ingenious; or, as some of the more diffident hinted, easy.

  “I really know nothing new,” said Maude: “you must have played at Proverbs, What’s my thought like? How do you like it? and Magic music: — or stay, there is one thing we can try: — bouts-rimés.”

  “What?” asked Mary.

  u Bouts-rimes it is very easy. Some one gives rhymes, mamma can do that, and then every one fills them up as they think fit. A sonnet is the best form to select; but, if you wish, we could try eight, or even four lines.”

  “But I am certain I could not make a couplet,” said Mary, laughing. “Of course you would get on capitally, and Agnes might manage very well, and Magdalen can do anything; but it is quite beyond me: do pray think of something more suited to my capacity.”

  “Indeed I have nothing else to propose. This is very much better than mere common games; but if you will not try it, that ends the matter” : and Maude leaned back in her chair.

  “I hope” — began Mary; but Agnes interposed:

  “Suppose some of us attempt bouts-rimés, and you meanwhile can settle what we shall do afterwards. Who is ready to test her poetical powers? — What, no one? — Oh, Magdalen, pray join Maude and me.”

  This proposal met with universal approbation, and the three girls retreated to a side table; Mary, who supplied the rhymes, exacting a promise that only one sonnet should be composed. Before the next game was fixed upon, the three following productions were submitted for judgment to the discerning public. The first was by Agnes.

  Would that I were a turnip white,

  Or raven black,

  Or miserable hack Dragging a cab from left to right;

  Or would I were the showman of a sight, Or weary donkey with a laden back,

  Or racer in a sack,

  Or freezing traveller on an Alpine’ height;

  Or would I were straw-catching as I drown,

  (A wretched landsman I, who cannot swim),

  Or watching a lone vessel sink,

  Rather than writing:

  I would change my pink

  Gauze for a hideous yellow satin gown

  With deep-cut scolloped edges and a rim.

  “Indeed I had no idea of the sacrifice you were making,” observed Maude; you did it with such heroic equanimity. Might I, however, venture to hint that my sympathy with your sorrows would have been greater, had they been expressed in metre?”

  “There’s gratitude for you,” cried Agnes gaily: “What have you to expect, Magdalen?” and she went on to read her friend’s sonnet:

  I fancy the good fairies dressed in white,

  Glancing like moonbeams through the shadows black;

  Without much work to do for king or hack.

  Training perhaps some twisted branch aright;

  Or sweeping faded autumn leaves from sight,

  To foster embryo life; or binding back

  Stray tendrils; or in ample bean-pod sack

  Bringing wild honey from the rocky height;

  Or fishing for a fly lest it should drown;

  Or teaching water-lily heads to swim,

  Fearful that sudden rain might make them sink;

  Or dyeing the pale rose a warmer pink;

  Or wrapping lilies in their leafy gown,

  Yet letting the white peep beyond the rim. —

  “Well, Maude?”

  “Well, Agnes; Miss Ellis is too kind to feel gratified at hearing that her verses make me tremble for my own: but such as they are, listen:

  “Some ladies dress in muslin full and white,

  Some gentlemen in cloth succinct and black;

  Some patronise a dog-cart, some a hack,

  Some think a painted clarence only right.

  Youth is not always such a pleasing sight,

  Witness a man with tassels on his back;

  Or woman in a great-coat like a sack

  Towering above her sex with horrid height.

  If all the world were water fit to drown

  There are some whom you would not

  teach to swim, Rather enjoying if you saw them sink;

  Certain old ladies dressed in girlish pink,

  With roses and geraniums on their gowns: —

  Go to the Basin, poke them o’er the rim.

  “What a very odd sonnet said Mary after a slight pause: but surely men don’t wear tassels.”

  Her cousin smiled: “You must allow for poetical licence; and I have literally seen a man in Regent Street wearing a sort of hooded cloak with one tassel. Of course every one will understand the basin to mean the one in St. James’s Park.”

  “With these explanations your, sonnet is comprehensible,” said Mary: and Magdalen added with unaffected pleasure: “And without them it was by far the best of the three.”

  Maude now exerted herself to amuse the party; and soon proved that ability was not lacking. Game after game was proposed and played at; and her fund seemed inexhaustible, for nothing was thought too nonsensical or too noisy for the occasion. Her good humour and animation were infectious. Miss Stanton incurred forfeits with the blandest smile; Hannah Lindley blushed and dimpled as she had not done for many months; Rosanna never perceived the derangement of her scarf; little Ellen exulted in freedom from schoolroom trammels; the twins guessed each other’s thoughts with marvellous facility; Magdalen laughed aloud; and even Harriet Eyre’s dress looked scarcely too gay for such an entertainment. Well was it for Mrs. Clifton that the strawberries, cream, and tarts had been supplied with no niggard hand: and very meagre was the remnant left when the party broke up at a late hour.

  III

  AGNES and Mary were discussing the pleasures of the preceeding evening as they sat over the unusually late, breakfast, when Maude joined them. Salutations being exchanged and refreshments supplied to the last comer, the conversation was renewed.

  “Who did you think was the prettiest girl in the room last night? our charming selves, of course, excepted,” asked Mary; “Agnes and I cannot agree on this point.”

  “Yes,” said her sister, “we quite agree as to mere prettiness, only I maintain that Magdalen is infinitely more attractive than half the handsome people one sees. There is so much sense in her face, and such sweetness. Besides, her eyes are really beautiful.”

  “Miss Ellis has a characteristic countenance, but she appeared to me very far from the belle of the evening. Rosanna Hunt has much more regular features.”

  “Surely you do n’t think Rosanna prettier than Jane and Alice,” interrupted Mary; “I suppose I never look at those two without fresh pleasure.”

  “They have good fair complexions, eyes, and hair, certainly” ; and Maude glanced rather pointedly at her unconscious cousin: “but to me they have a wax-dollish air which is quite unpleasant. I think one of the handsomest faces in the room was Miss Stanton’s.”

  “But she has such a disagreeable expression,” rejoined Mary hastily: then colouring she half turned tow-, ards her sister, who looked grave, but did not speak.

  A pause ensued; and then Agnes said, “I remember how prejudiced I felt against Miss Stanton when first she came to live here, for her appearance and manners are certainly unattractive: and how ashamed of myself I was when we heard
that last year, through all the bitterly cold weather, she rose at six, though she never has a fire in her room, that she might have time before breakfast to make clothes for some of the poorest people in the village. And in the spring, when the scarlet fever was about, her mother would not let her go near the sick children for fear of contagion; so she saved up all her pocket-money to buy wine and soup and such things for them as they recovered.”

  “I daresay she is very good”; said Maude: “but that does not make her pleasing. Besides, the whole family have that disagreeable expression, and I suppose they are not all paragons. But you have both finished breakfast, and make me ashamed by your diligence. What is that beautiful piece of work?”

  The sisters looked delighted. “I am so glad you like it, dear Maude.

  Mary and I are embroidering a cover for the lectern in our church; but we feared you might think the ground dull.”

  “Not at all; I prefer those quiet shades. Why, how well you do it: is it not very difficult? — Let me see if I understand the devices. There is the cross and the crown of thorns; and those must be the keys of St. Peter, with, of course, the sword of St. Paul. Do the flowers mean anything?”

  “I am the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley,” answered Agnes pointing: “That is balm of Gilead, at least it is what we call so; there are myrrh and hyssop, and that is a palm-branch. The border is to be vine-leaves and grapes; with fig-leaves at the corners, thanks to Mary’s suggestions. Would you like to help us? there is plenty of room at the frame.”

  “No, I should not do it well enough, and have not time to learn, as we go home to-morrow. How I envy you” ; she continued in a low voice, as if speaking rather to herself than to her hearers: “you who live in the country, and are exactly what you appear, and never wish for what you do not possess. I am sick of display and poetry and acting.”

  “You do not act,” replied Agnes warmly; “I never knew a more sincere person. One difference between us is that you are less healthy and far more clever than I am. And this reminds me. Miss Savage begged me to ask you for some verses to put in her album. Would you be so very obliging? Any that you have by you would do.”

  “She can have the sonnet I wrote ‘last night.”

  Agnes hesitated: “I could not well offer her that, because — ”

  “Why, she does not tower. Oh! I suppose she has some reprehensible old lady in her family, and so might feel hurt at my Lynch law. I will find you something else then, before I go.”

  And that evening, when Agnes went to her cousin’s room to help her in packing, Maude consigned to her a neat copy of the following lines:

  She sat and sang alway

  By the green margin of a stream,

  Watching the fishes leap and play

  Beneath the glad sunbeam.

  I sat and wept alway

  Beneath the moon’s most shadowy beam,

  Watching the blossoms of the

  May Weep leaves into the stream.

  I wept for memory;

  She sang for hope that is so fair; —

  My tears were swallowed by the sea;

  Her songs died on the air.

  Part II

  I

  RATHER more than a year had elapsed since Maude parted from her cousins; and now she was expecting their arrival in London every minute: for Mrs. Clifton, unable to leave her young family, had gratefully availed herself of Mrs. Foster’s offer to receive Agnes and Mary during the early winter months, that they might take music and dancing lessons with their cousin.

  At length the rumbling of an approaching cab was heard; then a loud knock and ring. Maude started up; but instead of running out to meet her guests, began poking vigorously at the fire, which soon sent a warm, cheerful light through the apartment, enabling her, when they entered, to discern that Agnes had a more womanly air than at their last meeting, that Mary had outgrown her sister, and that both were remarkably good-looking.

  “First let me show you your room, and then you can settle comfortably to tea; we are not to wait for mamma. She thought you would not mind sleeping together, as our house is so small; and I have done my best to arrange things to your taste, for I know of old you have only one taste between you. Look, my room is next yours, so we can help each other very cosily: only pray do n’t think of unpacking now: there will be plenty of time this evening, and you must be famished: come.”

  But Agnes lingered still, eager to thank her cousin for the good-natured forethought which had robbed her own apartment of flower-vases, and inkstand for the accommodation of her guests. The calls of Mary’s appetite were, however, imperious; and very soon the sisters were snugly settled on a sofa by the fire, while Maude in a neighbouring armchair made tea.

  “How long it seems since my birthday party,” said Mary, as soon as the eatables had in some measure restored her social powers. “Why, Maude, you are grown quite a woman, but you look more delicate than ever, and very thin; do you still write verses?” Then without waiting for a reply: “Those which you gave Miss Savage for her album were very much admired; and Magdalen Ellis wished at the time for an autograph copy, only she had not the courage to trouble you. But perhaps you are not aware that poor Magdalen has done with albums and such like, at least for the present: she has entered on her novitiate in the Sisterhood of Mercy established near our house.”

  “Why poor?” said Maude. “I think she is very happy.”

  “Surely you would not like such a life,” rejoined her cousin: “they have not proper clothes on their beds, and never go out without a thick veil, which must half blind them. All day long they are at prayers, or teaching children, or attending the sick, or making poor things, or something. Is that to your taste?”

  Maude half sighed, and then answered: “You cannot imagine me either fit or inclined for such a life; still, I can perceive that those are very happy who are. When I was preparing for confirmation Mr. Paulson offered me a district; but I did not like the trouble, and mamma thought me too unwell for regularity. I have regretted it since, though: yet I do n’t fancy I ever could have talked to the poor people or done the slightest good. Yes, I continue to write now and then as the humour seizes me; and if Miss Ellis — ”

  “Sister Magdalen,” whispered Agnes.

  “If Sister Magdalen will accept it, I will try and find her something admissible even within convent walls. But let us change the subject. On Thursday we are engaged to tea at Mrs. Strawdy’s. There will be no sort of party, so we need not dress or take any trouble.”

  “Will my aunt go with us?” asked Agnes.

  “No. Poor mamma has been ailing for some time and is by no means strong; so as Mrs. Strawdy is an old schoolfellow of hers, and a most estimable person, she thinks herself justified in consigning you to my guardianship. On Saturday we must go shopping, as Aunt Letty says you are to get your winter things in London; and I can get mine at the same time. On Sunday — or does either of you dislike, cathedral services?”

  Agnes declared they were her delight; and Mary, who had never attended any, expressed great pleasure at the prospect of hearing what her sister preferred to all secular music.

  “Very well,” continued Maude; “we will go to St. Andrew’s then, and you shall be introduced to a perfect service; or at any rate to perhaps the nearest English approach to vocal perfection. But you know you are to be quite at home here; so we have not arranged any particular plans of amusement, but mean to treat you like ourselves. And now it is high time for you to retire. Here, Agnes,” handing to her cousin a folded paper, the result of a rummage in her desk; “will you enclose this to Sister Magdalen, and assure her that my verses are honoured even in my own eyes by her acceptance. You can read them if you like, and Mary too, of course; only please not in my presence.”

  They were as follows:

  Sweet, sweet sound of distant waters falling

  On a parched and thirsty plain;

  Sweet, sweet song of soaring skylark, calling

  On the sun
to shine again;

  Perfume of the rose, only the fresher

  For past fertilizing rain;

  Pearls amid the sea, a hidden treasure

  For some daring hand to gain: —

  Better, dearer than all these

  Is the earth beneath the trees.

  Of a much more priceless worth

  Is the old, brown, common earth.

  Little snow-white lamb, piteously bleating

  For thy mother far away;

  Saddest, sweetest nightingale retreating

  With thy sorrow from the day;

  Weary fawn whom night has overtaken,

  From the herd gone quite astray;

  Dove whose nest was rifled and forsaken

  In the budding month of May: —

  Roost upon the leafy trees,

  Lie on earth and take your ease:

  Death is better far than birth,

  You shall turn again to earth.

  Listen to the never-pausing murmur

  Of the waves that fret the shore;

  See the ancient pine that stands the firmer

  For the storm-shock that it bore;

  And the moon her silver chalice filling

  With light from the great sun’s store;

  And the stars which deck our temple’s ceiling

  As the flowers deck its floor;

  Look and hearken while you may,

  For these things shall pass away:

  All these things shall fail and cease;

  Let us wait the end in peace.

  Let us wait the end in peace; for truly

  That shall cease which was before:

  Let us see our lamps are lighted, duly

  Fed with oil, nor wanting more:

  Let us pray while yet the Lord will hear us,

  For the time is almost o’er;