The Pre-Raphaelites- From Rossetti to Ruskin

by Dinah Roe

  Grew her affection, as the child increased

  In wisdom and in stature with his years,

  That many mothers wondered, saying: ‘These

  20 Our little ones claim in our hearts a place

  The next to God; but Mary’s tenderness

  Grows almost into reverence for her child.

  Is he not of herself? I’ the temple when

  Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes,

  25 As though God only heard her prayer through him.

  Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know

  That out of Galilee no prophet comes.’

  But all their children made the boy their friend.

  Three cottages that overlooked the sea

  30 Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth.

  Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs,

  Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red,

  Layer upon layer built up against the sky.

  In front a row of sloping meadows lay,

  35 Parted by narrow streams, that rose above,

  Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below

  Into deep channels widening to the sea.

  Within the humblest of these three abodes

  Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child.

  40 A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew,

  With many blossoms, on their cottage front;

  And o’er the gable warmed by the South

  A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves

  Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung

  45 Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit.

  And, like the wreathed shadows and deep glows

  Which the sun spreads from some old oriel

  Upon the marble Altar and the gold

  Of God’s own Tabernacle, where he dwells

  50 For ever, so the blossoms and the vine,

  On Jesus’ home climbing above the roof,

  Traced intricate their windings all about

  The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests

  Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen.

  55 And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed

  Between the gable-window and the eaves,

  Where two white turtle doves (a gift of love

  From Mary’s kinsman Zachary to her child)

  Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear

  60 The ever dying sound of falling waves.

  And so it came to pass, one Summer morn,

  The mother dove first brought her fledgeling out

  To see the sun. It was her only one,

  And she had breasted it through three long weeks

  65 With patient instinct till it broke the shell;

  And she had nursed it with all tender care,

  Another three, and watched the white down grow

  Into full feather, till it left her nest.

  And now it stood outside its narrow home,

  70 With tremulous wings let loose and blinking eyes;

  While, hovering near, the old dove often tried

  By many lures to tempt it to the ground,

  That they might feed from Jesus’ hand, who stood

  Watching them from below. The timid bird

  75 At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings,

  Brushed the light vine-leaves as it fluttered down.

  Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice

  Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop

  On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled

  80 About the sunken talons as it died.

  Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child

  Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped

  His broad arched wings, and, darting to a cleft

  I’ the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey.

  85 And Jesus heard the mother’s anguished cry,

  Weak like the distant sob of some lost child,

  Who in his terror runs from path to path,

  Doubtful alike of all; so did the dove,

  As though death-stricken, beat about the air;

  90 Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head

  Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there,

  Brooding upon her loss, and did not move

  All through that day.

  And the child Jesus wept,

  95 And, sitting by her, covered up his face:

  Until a cloud, alone between the earth

  And sun, passed with its shadow over him.

  Then Jesus for a moment looked above;

  And a few drops of rain fell on his brow,

  100 Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream,

  Or dim foreboding of some future ill.

  Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl

  Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers,

  Which in her lap she sorted orderly,

  105 As little children do at Easter-time

  To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise.

  Then Jesus’ covered face she gently raised,

  Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek,

  And tried with soothing words to comfort him;

  110 He from his eyes spoke thanks.

  But still the tears,

  Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop,

  Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not

  Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o’er his woe.

  THOMAS WOOLNER

  My Beautiful Lady

  I love my lady; she is very fair;

  Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair:

  Her spirit sits aloof, and high,

  Altho’ it looks thro’ her soft eye

  5 Sweetly and tenderly.

  As a young forest, when the wind drives thro’,

  My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.

  Altho’ her beauty has such power,

  Her soul is like the simple flower

  10 Trembling beneath a shower.

  As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings,

  The bloom around her fancied presence flings,

  I feast and wile her absence, by

  Pressing her choice hand passionately –

  15 Imagining her sigh.

  My lady’s voice, altho’ so very mild,

  Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;

  My lady’s touch, however slight,

  Moves all my senses with its might,

  20 Like to a sudden flight.

  A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips

  Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips, –

  In vigilance, not more intense

  Than I; when her word’s gentle sense

  25 Makes full-eyed my suspense.

  Her mention of a thing – august or poor,

  Makes it seem nobler than it was before:

  As where the sun strikes, life will gush,

  And what is pale receive a flush,

  30 Rich hues – a richer blush.

  My lady’s name, if I hear strangers use, –

  Not meaning her – seems like a lax misuse.

  I love none but my lady’s name;

  Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,

  35 So blank, so very tame.

  My lady walks as I have seen a swan

  Swim thro’ the water just where the sun shone.

  There ends of willow branches ride,

  Quivering with the current’s glide,

  40 By the deep river-side.

  Whene’er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;

  As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird

  At each pant shows some fiery hue,

  Burns gold, intensest green or blue:

  45 The same, yet ever new.

  What time she walketh under flowering May,

  I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,

  ‘O lady with the sunlit hair!

 
; ‘Stay, and drink our odorous air –

  50 ‘The incense that we bear:

  ‘Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;

  ‘Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.’

  If trees could be broken-hearted,

  I am sure that the green sap smarted,

  55 When my lady parted.

  This is why I thought weeds were beautiful; –

  Because one day I saw my lady pull

  Some weeds up near a little brook,

  Which home most carefully she took,

  60 Then shut them in a book.

  A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce, –

  A bird escaping from the falcon’s trounce,

  Feels his heart swell as mine, when she

  Stands statelier, expecting me,

  65 Than tall white lilies be.

  The first white flutter of her robe to trace,

  Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,

  Expands my gaze triumphantly:

  Even such his gaze, who sees on high

  70 His flag, for victory.

  We wander forth unconsciously, because

  The azure beauty of the evening draws:

  When sober hues pervade the ground,

  And life in one vast hush seems drowned,

  75 Air stirs so little sound.

  We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray

  With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,

  (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk):

  I’ll lift one with my foot, and talk

  80 About its leaves and stalk.

  Or may be that the prickles of some stem

  Will hold a prisoner her long garment’s hem;

  To disentangle it I kneel,

  Oft wounding more than I can heal;

  85 It makes her laugh, my zeal.

  Then on before a thin-legged robin hops,

  Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops,

  Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh

  We draw, when quickly he will fly

  90 Into a bush close by.

  A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight,

  And wheeling round a birchen tree alight

  Deep in its glittering leaves, until

  They see us, when their swift rise will

  95 Startle a sudden thrill.

  I recollect my lady in a wood,

  Keeping her breath and peering – (firm she stood

  Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe –)

  Into a nest which lay below,

  100 Leaves shadowing her brow.

  I recollect my lady asking me,

  What that sharp tapping in the wood might be?

  I told her blackbirds made it, which,

  For slimy morsels they count rich,

  105 Cracked the snail’s curling niche:

  She made no answer. When we reached the stone

  Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn,

  Close to the margin of a rill;

  ‘The air,’ she said, ‘seems damp and chill,

  110 ‘We’ll go home if you will.’

  ‘Make not my pathway dull so,’ I cried,

  ‘See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed,

  ‘Roll out their splendour: while the breeze

  ‘Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these

  115 ‘Ash saplings move at ease.’

  Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird

  Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred

  The covert birds that startled, sent

  Their music thro’ the air; leaves lent

  120 Their rustling and blent,

  Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled

  So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled.

  She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day’s

  Glory: altho’ she spoke no praise,

  125 I saw much in her gaze.

  Then, flushed with resolution, I told all; –

  The mighty love I bore her, – how would pall

  My very breath of life, if she

  For ever breathed not hers with me; –

  130 Could I a cherub be,

  How, idly hoping to enrich her grace,

  I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space; –

  Then back thro’ the vague distance beat,

  Glowing with joy her smile to meet,

  135 And heap them round her feet.

  Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head,

  Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened:

  (Just then we both heard a church bell)

  O God! It is not right to tell:

  140 But I remember well

  Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole

  Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll

  Of new sensations dimmed her eyes,

  Half closing them in ecstacies,

  145 Turned full against the skies.

  The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round –

  No pressure of my feet upon the ground:

  But even when parted from her, bright

  Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight

  150 The dark was starred with light.

  Of My Lady in Death

  All seems a painted show. I look

  Up thro’ the bloom that’s shed

  By leaves above my head,

  And feel the earnest life forsook

  5 All being, when she died: –

  My heart halts, hot and dried

  As the parched course where once a brook

  Thro’ fresh growth used to flow, –

  Because her past is now

  10 No more than stories in a printed book.

  The grass has grown above that breast,

  Now cold and sadly still,

  My happy face felt thrill: –

  Her mouth’s mere tones so much expressed!

  15 Those lips are now close set, –

  Lips which my own have met;

  Her eyelids by the earth are pressed;

  Damp earth weighs on her eyes;

  Damp earth shuts out the skies.

  20 My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.

  To see her slim perfection sweep,

  Trembling impatiently,

  With eager gaze at me!

  Her feet spared little things that creep: –

  25 ‘We’ve no more right,’ she’d say,

  ‘In this the earth than they.’

  Some remember it but to weep.

  Her hand’s slight weight was such,

  Care lightened with its touch;

  30 My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.

  My day-dreams hovered round her brow;

  Now o’er its perfect forms

  Go softly real worms.

  Stern death, it was a cruel blow,

  35 To cut that sweet girl’s life

  Sharply, as with a knife.

  Cursed life that lets me live and grow,

  Just as a poisonous root,

  From which rank blossoms shoot;

  40 My lady’s laid so very, very low.

  Dread power, grief cries aloud, ‘unjust,’ –

  To let her young life play

  Its easy, natural way;

  Then, with an unexpected thrust,

  45 Strike out the life you lent,

  Just when her feelings blent

  With those around whom she saw trust

  Her willing power to bless,

  For their whole happiness;

  50 My lady moulders into common dust.

  Small birds twitter and peck the weeds

  That wave above her head,

  Shading her lowly bed:

  Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds,

  55 Scattering the downy pride

  Of dandelions, wide:

  Speargrass stoops with watery beads:

  The weight from its fine tips

  Occasionally drips:

&nb
sp; 60 The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds.

  About her window, at the dawn,

  From the vine’s crooked boughs

  Birds chirruped an arouse:

  Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn; –

  65 She’ll not hear them again

  At random strike the pane:

  No more upon the close-cut lawn,

  Her garment’s sun-white hem

  Bend the prim daisy’s stem,

  70 In walking forth to view what flowers are born.

  No more she’ll watch the dark-green rings

  Stained quaintly on the lea,

  To image fairy glee;

  While thro’ dry grass a faint breeze sings,

  75 And swarms of insects revel

  Along the sultry level: –

  No more will watch their brilliant wings,

  Now lightly dip, now soar,

  Then sink, and rise once more.

  80 My lady’s death makes dear these trivial things.

  Within a huge tree’s steady shade,

  When resting from our walk,

  How pleasant was her talk!

  Elegant deer leaped o’er the glade,

  85 Or stood with wide bright eyes,

  Staring a short surprise:

  Outside the shadow cows were laid,

  Chewing with drowsy eye

  Their cuds complacently:

  90 Dim for sunshine drew near a milking-maid.

  Rooks cawed and laboured thro’ the heat;

  Each wing-flap seemed to make

  Their weary bodies ache:

  The swallows, tho’ so very fleet,

  95 Made breathless pauses there

  At something in the air: –

  All disappeared: our pulses beat

  Distincter throbs: then each

  Turned and kissed, without speech, –

  100 She trembling, from her mouth down to her feet.

  My head sank on her bosom’s heave,

  So close to the soft skin

  I heard the life within.

  My forehead felt her coolly breathe,

  105 As with her breath it rose:

  To perfect my repose

  Her two arms clasped my neck. The eve

  Spread silently around,