The Pre-Raphaelites- From Rossetti to Ruskin

by Dinah Roe

  Wishing worn-out those masters known as old.

  And no man asks of Browning; though indeed

  (As the book travels with me) any fool

  Who would might hear Sordello’s story told.

  St Wagnes’ Eve

  The hop-shop is shut up: the night doth wear.

  Here, early, Collinson this evening fell

  ‘Into the gulfs of sleep’; and Deverell

  Has turned upon the pivot of his chair

  5 The whole of this night long; and Hancock there

  Has laboured to repeat, in accents screechy,

  ‘Guardami ben, ben son, ben son Beatrice’;

  And Bernhard Smith still beamed, serene and square.

  By eight, the coffee was all drunk. At nine

  10 We gave the cat some milk. Our talk did shelve,

  Ere ten, to gasps and stupor. Helpless grief

  Made, towards eleven, my inmost spirit pine,

  Knowing North’s hour. And Hancock, hard on twelve,

  Showed an engraving of his bas-relief.

  NONSENSE VERSES

  There’s an infantine Artist named Hughes –

  Him and his the R.A.’s did refuse:

  At length, though, among

  The lot, one was hung –

  5 But it was himself in a noose.

  There is a young Artist named Jones

  Whose conduct no genius atones:

  His behaviour in life

  Is a pang to the wife

  5 And a plague to the neighbours of Jones.

  There is a young Painter called Jones

  (A cheer here, and hisses, and groans):

  The state of his mind

  Is a shame to mankind,

  5 But a matter of triumph to Jones.

  There’s a combative Artist named Whistler

  Who is, like his own hog-hairs, a bristler:

  A tube of white lead

  And a punch on the head

  5 Offer varied attractions to Whistler.

  A Historical Painter named Brown

  Was in manners and language a clown:

  At epochs of victual

  Both pudden and kittle

  5 Were expressions familiar to Brown.

  There was a young rascal called Nolly

  Whose habits though dirty were jolly;

  And when this book comes

  To be marked with his thumbs

  5 You may know that its owner is Nolly.

  There’s a Scotch correspondent named Scott

  Thinks a penny for postage a lot:

  Books, verses, and letters,

  Too good for his betters,

  5 Cannot screw out an answer from Scott.

  There once was a painter named Scott

  Who seemed to have hair, but had not.

  He seemed too to have sense:

  ’Twas an equal pretence

  5 On the part of the painter named Scott.

  There’s the Irishman Arthur O’Shaughnessy –

  On the chessboard of poets a pawn is he:

  Though a bishop or king

  Would be rather the thing

  5 To the fancy of Arthur O’Shaughnessy.

  There is a poor sneak called Rossetti:

  As a painter with many kicks met he –

  With more as a man –

  But sometimes he ran,

  5 And that saved the rear of Rossetti.

  As a critic, the Poet Buchanan

  Thinks Pseudo much safer than Anon.

  Into Maitland he shrunk,

  But the smell of the skunk

  5 Guides the shuddering nose to Buchanan.

  ELIZABETH SIDDAL

  True Love

  Farewell, Earl Richard,

  Tender and brave;

  Kneeling I kiss

  The dust from thy grave.

  5 Pray for me, Richard,

  Lying alone,

  With hands pleading earnestly,

  All in white stone.

  10 Soon must I leave thee

  This sweet summer tide;

  That other is waiting

  To claim his pale bride.

  Soon I’ll return to thee,

  Hopeful and brave,

  15 When the dead leaves

  Blow over thy grave.

  Then shall they find me

  Close at thy head,

  Watching or fainting,

  20 Sleeping or dead.

  Dead Love

  Oh never weep for love that’s dead,

  Since love is seldom true,

  But changes his fashion from blue to red,

  From brightest red to blue,

  5 And love was born to an early death

  And is so seldom true.

  Then harbour no smile on your loving face

  To win the deepest sigh;

  The fairest words on truest lips

  10 Pass off and surely die;

  And you will stand alone, my dear,

  When wintry winds draw nigh.

  Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,

  For this God has not given:

  15 If the merest dream of love were true,

  Then, sweet, we should be in heaven;

  And this is only earth, my dear,

  Where true love is not given.

  Shepherd Turned Sailor

  Now Christ thee save, thou bonny Shepherd,

  Sailing on the sea;

  Ten thousand souls are sailing there

  But I belong to thee.

  5 If thou art lost then all is lost

  And all is dead to me.

  My love should have a grey head-stone

  And green moss at his feet,

  And clinging grass above his breast

  10 Whereon his lambs could bleat;

  And I should know the span of earth

  Where one day I might sleep.

  Gone

  To touch the glove upon her tender hand,

  To watch the jewel sparkle in her ring,

  Lifted my heart into a sudden song,

  As when the wild birds sing.

  5 To track her shadow on the sunny grass,

  To break her pathway through the darkened wood,

  Filled all my life with trembling and tears

  And silence where I stood.

  I watch the shadows gather round my heart,

  10 I live to know that she is gone –

  Gone, gone for ever, like the tender dove

  That left the ark alone.

  Speechless

  Many a mile o’er land and sea

  Unsummoned my Love returned to me;

  I remember not the words he said,

  But only the trees mourning overhead.

  5 And he came ready to take and bear

  The cross I had carried for many a year:

  But my words came slowly one by one

  From frozen lips that were still and dumb.

  How sounded my words so still and slow

  10 To the great strong heart that loved me so?

  Ah I remember, my God, so well,

  How my brain lay dumb in a frozen spell;

  And I leaned away from my lover’s face

  To watch the dead leaves that were running a race.

  15 I felt the spell that held my breath,

  Bending me down to a living death –

  As if hope lay buried when he had come

  Who knew my sorrows all and some.

  The Lust of the Eyes

  I care not for my Lady’s soul,

  Though I worship before her smile:

  I care not where be my Lady’s goal

  When her beauty shall lose its wile.

  5 Low sit I down at my Lady’s feet,

  Gazing through her wild eyes,

  Smiling to think how my love will fleet

  When their starlike beauty dies.

  I care not if my Lady pray

  10 To our Father which is in Heaven;

  But for joy
my heart’s quick pulses play,

  For to me her love is given.

  Then who shall close my Lady’s eyes,

  And who shall fold her hands?

  15 Will any hearken if she cries

  Up to the unknown lands?

  Worn Out

  Thy strong arms are around me, love,

  My head is on thy breast:

  Though words of comfort come from thee,

  My soul is not at rest:

  5 For I am but a startled thing,

  Nor can I ever be

  Aught save a bird whose broken wing

  Must fly away from thee.

  I cannot give to thee the love

  10 I gave so long ago –

  The love that turned and struck me down

  Amid the blinding snow.

  I can but give a sinking heart

  And weary eyes of pain,

  15 A faded mouth that cannot smile

  And may not laugh again.

  Yet keep thine arms around me, love,

  Until I drop to sleep:

  Then leave me – saying no good-bye,

  20 Lest I might fall and weep.

  At Last

  O mother, open the window wide

  And let the daylight in;

  The hills grow darker to my sight,

  And thoughts begin to swim.

  5 And, mother dear, take my young son

  (Since I was born of thee),

  And care for all his little ways,

  And nurse him on thy knee.

  And, mother, wash my pale, pale hands,

  10 And then bind up my feet;

  My body may no longer rest

  Out of its winding-sheet.

  And, mother dear, take a sapling twig

  And green grass newly mown,

  15 And lay them on my empty bed,

  That my sorrow be not known.

  And, mother, find three berries red

  And pluck them from the stalk,

  And burn them at the first cockcrow,

  20 That my spirit may not walk.

  And, mother dear, break a willow wand,

  And if the sap be even,

  Then save it for my lover’s sake,

  And he’ll know my soul’s in heaven.

  25 And, mother, when the big tears fall

  (And fall, God knows, they may),

  Tell him I died of my great love,

  And my dying heart was gay.

  And, mother dear, when the sun has set,

  35 And the pale church grass waves,

  Then carry me through the dim twilight

  And hide me among the graves.

  Early Death

  Oh grieve not with thy bitter tears

  The life that passes fast:

  The gates of heaven will open wide,

  And take me in at last.

  5 Then sit down meekly at my side,

  And watch my young life flee:

  Then solemn peace of holy death

  Come quickly unto thee.

  But, true love, seek me in the throng

  10 Of spirits floating past;

  And I will take thee by the hands,

  And know thee mine at last.

  He and She and Angels Three

  Ruthless hands have torn her

  From one that loved her well;

  Angels have upborne her,

  Christ her grief to tell.

  5 She shall stand to listen,

  She shall stand and sing,

  Till three winged angels

  Her lover’s soul shall bring.

  He and she and the angels three

  10 Before God’s face shall stand:

  There they shall pray among themselves,

  And sing at His right hand.

  A Silent Wood

  O silent wood, I enter thee

  With a heart so full of misery –

  For all the voices from the trees

  And the ferns that cling about my knees.

  5 In thy darkest shadow let me sit

  When the grey owls about thee flit:

  There I will ask of thee a boon,

  That I may not faint or die or swoon.

  Gazing through the gloom like one

  10 Whose life and hopes are also done,

  Frozen like a thing of stone,

  I sit in thy shadow – but not alone.

  Can God bring back the day when we two stood

  Beneath the clinging trees in that dark wood?

  Love and Hate

  Ope not thy lips, thou foolish one,

  Nor turn to me thy face:

  The blasts of heaven shall strike me down

  Ere I will give thee grace.

  5 Take thou thy shadow from my path,

  Nor turn to me and pray:

  The wild, wild winds thy dirge may sing

  Ere I will bid thee stay.

  Lift up thy false brow from the dust,

  10 Nor wild thine hands entwine

  Among the golden summer-leaves

  To mock the gay sunshine.

  And turn away thy false dark eyes,

  Nor gaze into my face:

  15 Great love I bore thee; now great hate

  Sits grimly in its place.

  All changes pass me like a dream,

  I neither sing nor pray;

  And thou art like the poisonous tree

  20 That stole my life away.

  The Passing of Love

  O God, forgive me that I merged

  My life into a dream of love!

  Will tears of anguish never wash

  The poison from my blood?

  5 Love kept my heart in a song of joy,

  My pulses quivered to the tune;

  The coldest blasts of winter blew

  Upon me like sweet airs in June.

  Love floated on the mists of morn,

  10 And rested on the sunset’s rays;

  He calmed the thunder of the storm,

  And lighted all my ways.

  Love held me joyful through the day,

  And dreaming ever through the night:

  15 No evil thing could come to me,

  My spirit was so light.

  Oh Heaven help my foolish heart

  Which heeded not the passing time

  That dragged my idol from its place

  20 And shattered all its shrine!

  Lord, May I Come?

  Life and night are falling from me,

  Death and day are opening on me.

  Wherever my footsteps come and go

  Life is a stony way of woe.

  5 Lord, have I long to go?

  Hollow hearts are ever near me,

  Soulless eyes have ceased to cheer me:

  Lord, may I come to Thee?

  Life and youth and summer weather

  10 To my heart no joy can gather:

  Lord, lift me from life’s stony way.

  Loved eyes, long closed in death, watch o’er me –

  Holy Death is waiting for me –

  Lord may I come to-day?

  15 My outward life feels sad and still,

  Like lilies in a frozen rill.

  I am gazing upwards to the sun,

  Lord, Lord, remembering my lost one.

  O Lord, remember me!

  20 How is it in the unknown land?

  Do the dead wander hand in hand?

  Do we clasp dead hands, and quiver

  With an endless joy for ever?

  Is the air filled with the sound

  25 Of spirits circling round and round?

  Are there lakes, of endless song,

  To rest our tirèd eyes upon?

  Do tall white angels gaze and wend

  Along the banks where lilies bend?

  30 Lord, we know not how this may be;

  Good Lord, we put our faith in Thee –

  O God, remember me.

  A Year and a Day

  Slow days have passed that make a year,
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  Slow hours that make a day,

  Since I could take my first dear love,

  And kiss him the old way:

  5 Yet the green leaves touch me on the cheek,

  Dear Christ, this month of May

  I lie among the tall green grass

  That bends above my head,

  And covers up my wasted face,

  10 And folds me in its bed

  Tenderly and lovingly

  Like grass above the dead.

  Dim phantoms of an unknown ill

  Float through my tiring brain;

  15 The unformed visions of my life

  Pass by in ghostly train;

  Some pause to touch me on the cheek,

  Some scatter tears like rain.

  The river ever running down

  20 Between its grassy bed,

  The voices of a thousand birds

  That clang above my head,

  Shall bring to me a sadder dream

  When this sad dream is dead.

  25 A silence falls upon my heart,

  And hushes all its pain

  I stretch my hands in the long grass,

  And fall to sleep again,

  There to lie empty of all love,

  30 Like beaten corn of grain.

  WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI

  Her First Season

  He gazed her over, from her eyebrows down

  Even to her feet: he gazed so with the good

  Undoubting faith of fools, much as who should

  Accost God for a comrade. In the brown

  5 Of all her curls he seemed to think the town

  Would make an acquisition; but her hood

  Was not the newest fashion, and his brood

  Of lady-friends might scarce approve her gown.

  If I did smile, ’twas faintly; for my cheeks

  10 Burned, thinking she’d be shown up to be sold,

  And cried about, in the thick jostling run

  Of the loud world, till all the weary weeks