Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress and Other Poems

by Christina Rossetti

  Then my mother's, given for me

  To the nurse who nursed

  My mother in her misery,

  That so quite certainly

  Some one might know me, who . . .

  Then she was silent, and I too.

  I hate when people come:

  The women speak and stare

  And mean to be so civil.

  This one will stroke my hair,

  That one will pat my cheek

  And praise my Lady's kindness,

  Expecting me to speak;

  I like the proud ones best

  Who sit as struck with blindness,

  As if I wasn't there.

  But if any gentleman

  Is staying at the Hall

  (Though few come prying here),

  My Lady seems to fear

  Some downright dreadful evil,

  And makes me keep my room

  As closely as she can:

  So I hate when people come,

  It is so troublesome.

  In spite of all her care,

  Sometimes to keep alive

  I sometimes do contrive

  To get out in the grounds

  For a whiff of wholesome air,

  Under the rose you know:

  It's charming to break bounds,

  Stolen waters are sweet,

  And what's the good of feet

  If for days they mustn't go?

  Give me a longer tether,

  Or I may break from it.

  Now I have eyes and ears

  And just some little wit:

  'Almost my lady's child;'

  I recollect she smiled,

  Sighed and blushed together;

  Then her story of the ring

  Sounds not improbable,

  She told it me so well

  It seemed the actual thing:—

  Oh, keep your counsel close,

  But I guess under the rose,

  In long past summer weather

  When the world was blossoming,

  And the rose upon its thorn:

  I guess not who he was

  Flawed honour like a glass,

  And made my life forlorn,

  But my Mother, Mother, Mother,

  Oh, I know her from all other.

  My Lady, you might trust

  Your daughter with your fame.

  Trust me, I would not shame

  Our honourable name,

  For I have noble blood

  Though I was bred in dust

  And brought up in the mud.

  I will not press my claim,

  Just leave me where you will:

  But you might trust your daughter,

  For blood is thicker than water

  And you're my mother still.

  So my Lady holds her own

  With condescending grace,

  And fills her lofty place

  With an untroubled face

  As a queen may fill a throne.

  While I could hint a tale—

  (But then I am her child)—

  Would make her quail;

  Would set her in the dust,

  Lorn with no comforter,

  Her glorious hair defiled

  And ashes on her cheek:

  The decent world would thrust

  Its finger out at her,

  Not much displeased I think

  To make a nine days' stir;

  The decent world would sink

  Its voice to speak of her.

  Now this is what I mean

  To do, no more, no less:

  Never to speak, or show

  Bare sign of what I know.

  Let the blot pass unseen;

  Yea, let her never guess

  I hold the tangled clue

  She huddles out of view.

  Friend, servant, almost child,

  So be it and nothing more

  On this side of the grave.

  Mother, in Paradise,

  You'll see with clearer eyes;

  Perhaps in this world even

  When you are like to die

  And face to face with Heaven

  You'll drop for once the lie:

  But you must drop the mask, not I.

  My Lady promises

  Two hundred pounds with me

  Whenever I may wed

  A man she can approve:

  And since besides her bounty

  I'm fairest in the county

  (For so I've heard it said,

  Though I don't vouch for this),

  Her promised pounds may move

  Some honest man to see

  My virtues and my beauties;

  Perhaps the rising grazier,

  Or temperance publican,

  May claim my wifely duties.

  Meanwhile I wait their leisure

  And grace-bestowing pleasure,

  I wait the happy man;

  But if I hold my head

  And pitch my expectations

  Just higher than their level,

  They must fall back on patience:

  I may not mean to wed,

  Yet I'll be civil.

  Now sometimes in a dream

  My heart goes out of me

  To build and scheme,

  Till I sob after things that seem

  So pleasant in a dream:

  A home such as I see

  My blessed neighbours live in

  With father and with mother,

  All proud of one another,

  Named by one common name

  From baby in the bud

  To full-blown workman father;

  It's little short of Heaven.

  I'd give my gentle blood

  To wash my special shame

  And drown my private grudge;

  I'd toil and moil much rather

  The dingiest cottage drudge

  Whose mother need not blush,

  Than live here like a lady

  And see my Mother flush

  And hear her voice unsteady

  Sometimes, yet never dare

  Ask to share her care.

  Of course the servants sneer

  Behind my back at me;

  Of course the village girls,

  Who envy me my curls

  And gowns and idleness,

  Take comfort in a jeer;

  Of course the ladies guess

  Just so much of my history

  As points the emphatic stress

  With which they laud my Lady;

  The gentlemen who catch

  A casual glimpse of me

  And turn again to see,

  Their valets on the watch

  To speak a word with me,

  All know and sting me wild;

  Till I am almost ready

  To wish that I were dead,

  No faces more to see,

  No more words to be said,

  My Mother safe at last

  Disburdened of her child,

  And the past past.

  'All equal before God'—

  Our Rector has it so,

  And sundry sleepers nod:

  It may be so; I know

  All are not equal here,

  And when the sleepers wake

  They make a difference.

  'All equal in the grave'—

  That shows an obvious sense:

  Yet something which I crave

  Not death itself brings near;

  Now should death half atone

  For all my past; or make

  The name I bear my own?

  I love my dear old Nurse

  Who loved me without gains;

  I love my mistress even,

  Friend, Mother, what you will:

  But I could almost curse

  My Father for his pains;

  And sometimes at my prayer

  Kneeling in sight of Heaven

  I almost curse him still:

  Why did he set his snare

&nbs
p; To catch at unaware

  My Mother's foolish youth;

  Load me with shame that's hers,

  And her with something worse,

  A lifelong lie for truth?

  I think my mind is fixed

  On one point and made up:

  To accept my lot unmixed;

  Never to drug the cup

  But drink it by myself.

  I'll not be wooed for pelf;

  I'll not blot out my shame

  With any man's good name;

  But nameless as I stand,

  My hand is my own hand,

  And nameless as I came

  I go to the dark land.

  'All equal in the grave'—

  I bide my time till then:

  'All equal before God'—

  Today I feel His rod,

  Tomorrow He may save:

  Amen.

  DEVOTIONAL PIECES

  DESPISED AND REJECTED

  MY sun has set, I dwell

  In darkness as a dead man out of sight;

  And none remains, not one, that I should tell

  To him mine evil plight

  This bitter night.

  I will make fast my door

  That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

  'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?

  Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:

  Cease crying, for I will not hear

  Thy cry of hope or fear.

  Others were dear,

  Others forsook me: what art thou indeed

  That I should heed

  Thy lamentable need?

  Hungry should feed,

  Or stranger lodge thee here?

  'Friend, My Feet bleed.

  Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'

  I will not open, trouble me no more.

  Go on thy way footsore,

  I will not rise and open unto thee.

  'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see

  Who stands to plead with thee.

  Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou

  One day entreat My Face

  And howl for grace,

  And I be deaf as thou art now.

  Open to Me.'

  Then I cried out upon him: Cease,

  Leave me in peace:

  Fear not that I should crave

  Aught thou mayst have.

  Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,

  Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.

  What, shall I not be let

  Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

  But all night long that voice spake urgently:

  'Open to Me.'

  Still harping in mine ears:

  'Rise, let Me in.'

  Pleading with tears:

  'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'

  While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:

  'My Feet bleed, see My Face,

  See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,

  My Heart doth bleed for thee,

  Open to Me.'

  So till the break of day:

  Then died away

  That voice, in silence as of sorrow;

  Then footsteps echoing like a sigh

  Passed me by,

  Lingering footsteps slow to pass.

  On the morrow

  I saw upon the grass

  Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door

  The mark of blood for evermore.

  LONG BARREN

  THOU who didst hang upon a barren tree,

  My God, for me;

  Though I till now be barren, now at length,

  Lord, give me strength

  To bring forth fruit to Thee.

  Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn,

  Spitting and scorn;

  Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet now

  Strengthen me Thou

  That better fruit be borne.

  Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots,

  Vine of sweet fruits,

  Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf,

  Of thousands Chief,

  Feed Thou my feeble shoots.

  IF ONLY

  IF I might only love my God and die!

  But now He bids me love Him and live on,

  Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,

  The pleasant half of life has quite gone by.

  My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high;

  And I forget how summer glowed and shone,

  While autumn grips me with its fingers wan,

  And frets me with its fitful windy sigh.

  When autumn passes then must winter numb,

  And winter may not pass a weary while,

  But when it passes spring shall flower again:

  And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile,

  Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane,

  Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.

  DOST THOU NOT CARE?

  I LOVE and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart

  To love and not to love.

  Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart

  Into Thy shrine, which is above,

  Dost thou not love me, Lord, or care

  For this mine ill?—

  I love thee here or there,

  I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.

  Lord, it was well with me in time gone by

  That cometh not again,

  When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?

  I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain

  Now, out of sight and out of heart;

  O Lord, how long?—

  I watch thee as thou art,

  I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.

  'Lie still,' 'be strong,' today; but, Lord, tomorrow,

  What of tomorrow, Lord?

  Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,

  Be living green upon the sward

  Now but a barren grave to me,

  Be joy for sorrow?—

  Did I not die for thee?

  Do I not live for thee? leave Me tomorrow.

  WEARY IN WELL-DOING

  I WOULD have gone; God bade me stay:

  I would have worked; God bade me rest.

  He broke my will from day to day,

  He read my yearnings unexpressed

  And said them nay.

  Now I would stay; God bids me go:

  Now I would rest; God bids me work.

  He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,

  My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk

  And vex it so.

  I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;

  Day after day I plod and moil:

  But, Christ my God, when will it be

  That I may let alone my toil

  And rest with Thee?

  MARTYRS' SONG

  WE meet in joy, though we part in sorrow;

  We part tonight, but we meet tomorrow.

  Be it flood or blood the path that's trod,

  All the same it leads home to God:

  Be it furnace-fire voluminous,

  One like God's Son will walk with us.

  What are these that glow from afar,

  These that lean over the golden bar,

  Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,

  With open arms and hearts of love?

  They the blessed ones gone before,

  They the blessed for evermore.

  Out of great tribulation they went

  Home to their home of Heaven-content;

  Through flood, or blood, or furnace-fire,

  To the rest that fulfils desire.

  What are these that fly as a cloud,

  With flashing heads and faces bowed,

  In their mouths a victorious psalm,

  In their hands a robe and a palm?

  Welcoming angels these that shine,

  Your own angel, and yours, and mine;

  Who have hedged us bot
h day and night

  On the left hand and on the right,

  Who have watched us both night and day

  Because the devil keeps watch to slay.

  Light above light, and Bliss beyond bliss,

  Whom words cannot utter, lo, Who is This?

  As a King with many crowns He stands,

  And our names are graven upon His hands;

  As a Priest, with God-uplifted eyes,

  He offers for us His Sacrifice;

  As the Lamb of God for sinners slain,

  That we too may live He lives again;

  As our Champion behold Him stand,

  Strong to save us, at God's Right Hand.

  God the Father give us grace

  To walk in the light of Jesus' Face.

  God the Son give us a part

  In the hiding-place of Jesus' Heart:

  God the Spirit so hold us up,

  That we may drink of Jesus' cup.

  Death is short and life is long;

  Satan is strong, but Christ more strong.

  At His Word, Who hath led us hither,

  The Red Sea must part hither and thither.

  At His Word, Who goes before us too,

  Jordan must cleave to let us through.

  Yet one pang searching and sore,

  And then Heaven for evermore;

  Yet one moment awful and dark,

  Then safety within the Veil and the Ark;

  Yet one effort by Christ His grace,

  Then Christ forever face to face.

  God the Father we will adore,

  In Jesus' Name, now and evermore:

  God the Son we will love and thank

  In this flood and on the further bank:

  God the Holy Ghost we will praise,

  In Jesus' Name, through endless days:

  God Almighty, God Three in One,

  God Almighty, God alone.