Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Beloved Shakespeare! England’s dearest fame!

  Dead is the breast that swells not at thy name!

  Whether thine Ariel skim the seas along,

  Floating on wings etherial as his song —

  Lear rave amid the tempest — or Macbeth

  Question the hags of hell on midnight heath —

  Immortal Shakespeare! still, thy lips impart

  The noblest comment on the human heart.

  And as fair Eve, in Eden newly placed,

  Gazed on her form, in limpid waters traced,

  And stretch’d her gentle arms, with pleased surprise,

  To meet the image of her own bright eyes —

  So Nature, on thy magic page, surveys

  Her sportive graces, and untutored ways!

  Wondering, the soft reflection doth she see,

  Then laughing owns she loves herself in thee!

  Shun not the haunts of crowded cities then;

  Nor e’er, as man, forget to study men!

  What though the tumult of the town intrude

  On the deep silence, and the lofty mood;

  ‘Twill make thy human sympathies rejoice,

  To hear the music of a human voice —

  To watch strange brows by various reason wrought,

  To claim the interchange of thought with thought;

  T’ associate mind with mind, for Mind’s own weal,

  As steel is ever sharpen’d best by steel.

  T’ impassion’d bards, the scenic world is dear, —

  But Nature’s glorious masterpiece is here!

  All poetry is beauty, but exprest

  In inward essence, not in outward vest.

  Hence lovely scenes, reflective poets find,

  Awake their lovelier images in Mind:

  Nor doth the pictur’d earth, the bard invite,

  The lake of azure, or the heav’n of light,

  But that his swelling breast arouses there,

  Something less visible, and much more fair!

  There is a music in the landscape round, —

  A silent voice, that speaks without a sound —

  A witching spirit, that reposing near,

  Breathes to the heart, but comes not to the ear!

  These softly steal, his kindling soul t’ embrace,

  And natural beauty, gild with moral grace.

  Think not, when summer breezes tell their tale,

  The poet’s thoughts are with the summer gale;

  Think not his Fancy builds her elfin dream

  On painted floweret, or on sighing stream:

  No single objects cause his raptured starts,

  For Mind is narrow’d, not inspir’d by parts;

  But o’er the scene the poet’s spirit broods,

  To warm the thoughts that form his noblest moods;

  Peopling his solitude with faëry play,

  And beckoning shapes that whisper him away, —

  While lilied fields, and hedge-row blossoms white,

  And hills, and glittering streams, are full in sight —

  The forests wave, the joyous sun beguiles,

  And all the poetry of Nature smiles!

  Such poetry is formed by Mind, and not

  By scenic grace of one peculiar spot.

  The artist lingers in the moon-lit glade,

  And light and shade, with him, are — light and shade.

  The philosophic chymist wandering there,

  Dreams of the soil, and nature of the air.

  The rustic marks the young herbs’ fresh’ning hue,

  And only thinks — his scythe may soon pass through!

  None “muse on nature with a Poet’s eye,”

  None read, but Poets, Nature’s poetry!

  Its characters are trac’d in mystic hand,

  And all may gaze, but few can understand.

  Nor here alone the Poet’s dwelling rear,

  Though Beauty’s voice perchance is sweetest here!

  Bind not his footsteps to the sylvan scene,

  To heathy banks, fair woods, and valleys green,

  When Mind is all his own! her dear impress

  Shall throw a magic o’er the wilderness,

  As o’er the blossoming vale, and aye recall

  Its shadowy plane, and silver waterfall,

  Or sleepy crystal pool, reposing by,

  To give the earth a picture of the sky!

  Such, gazed on by the spirit, are, I ween,

  Lovelier than ever prototype was seen;

  For Fancy teacheth Memory’s hand to trace

  Nature’s ideal form in Nature’s place.

  In every theme by lofty Poet sung,

  The thought should seem to speak, and not the tongue.

  When godlike Milton lifts th’ exalted song,

  The subject bears the burning words along —

  Resounds the march of Thought, th’ o’erflowing line,

  Full cadence, solemn pause, and strength divine!

  When Horace chats his neighbour’s faults away,

  The sportive measures, like his muse, are gay;

  For once Good-humour Satire’s by-way took,

  And all his soul is laughing in his book!

  On moral Pope’s didactic page is found,

  Sound rul’d by sense, and sense made clear by sound;

  The power to reason, and the taste to please,

  While, as the subject varies in degrees,

  He stoops with dignity, and soars with ease.

  Hence let our Poets, with discerning glance,

  Forbear to imitate the stage of France.

  What though Corneille arouse the thrilling chords,

  And walk with Genius o’er th’inspirëd boards;

  What though his rival bring, with calmer grace,

  The classic unities of time and place, —

  All polish, and all eloquence— ‘twere mean

  To leave the path of Nature for Racine;

  When Nero’s parent, ‘midst her woe, defines

  The wrong that tortures — in two hundred lines:

  Or when Orestes, madden’d by his crime,

  Forgets life, joy, and every thing — but rhyme.

  While thus to character and nature, true,

  Still keep the harmony of verse in view;

  Yet not in changeless concord, — it should be

  Though graceful, nervous, — musical, though free;

  Not clogg’d by useless drapery, not beset

  By the superfluous word, or epithet,

  Wherein Conception only dies in state,

  As Draco, smother’d by the garments’ weight —

  But join, Amphion-like, (whose magic fire

  Won the deep music of the Maian lyre,

  To call Boeotia’s city from the ground,)

  The just in structure, with the sweet in sound.

  Nor this the whole — the poet’s classic strain

  May flow in smoothest numbers, yet in vain;

  And Taste may please, and Fancy sport awhile,

  And yet Aonia’s muse refuse to smile!

  For lo! her heavenly lips these words reveal —

  ‘The sage may coldly think , the bard must feel !

  And if his writings, to his heart untrue,

  Would ape the fervent throb it never knew;

  If generous deeds, and Virtue’s noblest part,

  And Freedom’s voice, could never warm that heart;

  If Interest tax’d the produce of the brain,

  And fetter’d Genius follow’d in her train,

  Weeping as each unwilling word she spoke, —

  Then hush the lute — its master string is broke!

  In vain, the skilful hand may linger o’er —

  Concord is dead, and music speaks no more!’

  There are, and have been such — they were forgot

  If shame could veil their page, if tears could blot!

  There are, and have been, whose dishonour’d lay


  Aspired t’ enrapture that the world might — pay!

  Whose life was one long bribe, oft counted o’er, —

  Brib’d to think on, and brib’d to think no more;

  Brib’d to laugh, weep, nor ask the reason why;

  Brib’d to tell truth, and brib’d to gild a lie!

  Oh Man! for this, the sensual left behind,

  We boast our empire o’er the vast of Mind?

  Oh Mind! reported valueless, till sold,

  Thought dross till metamorphos’d into gold

  By Midas’ touch — breath’st thou immortal verse

  To throw a ducat in an empty purse —

  To walk the market at a belman’s cry,

  For knaves to sell, and wond’ring fools to buy?

  Can Heav’n-born bards, undone by lucre’s lust,

  Crouch thus, like Heav’n-born ministers, to dust?

  Alas! to dust indeed — yet wherefore blame?

  They keep their profits, though they lose their fame.

  Leave to the dross they seek, the grovelling throng,

  And swell with nobler aim th’ Aonian song!

  Enough for thee uninfluenc’d and unhir’d,

  If Truth reward the strain herself inspir’d!

  Enough for thee, if grateful Man commend,

  If Genius love, and Virtue call thee friend!

  Enough for thee, to wake th’ exalted mood,

  Reprove the erring, and confirm the good;

  Excite the tender smile, the generous tear,

  Or rouse the thought to loftiest Nature dear,

  Which rapturous greets amidst the fervent line,

  Thy name, O Freedom! glorious Hellas, thine!

  I love my own dear land — it doth rejoice

  The soul, to stretch my arms, and lift my voice,

  To tell her of my love! I love her green

  And bowery woods, her hills in mossy sheen,

  Her silver running waters — there’s no spot

  In all her dwelling, which my breast loves not —

  No place not heart-enchanted! Sunnier skies,

  And calmer waves, may meet another’s eyes;

  I love the sullen mist, the stormy sea,

  The winds of rushing strength which, like the land, are free!

  Such is my love — yet turning thus to thee,

  Oh Græcia! I must hail with hardly less

  Of joy, and pride, and deepening tenderness,

  And feelings wild, I know not to controul,

  My other country — country of my soul!

  For so, to me, thou art! my lips have sung

  Of thee with childhood’s lisp, and harp unstrung!

  In thee, my Fancy’s pleasant walks have been,

  Telling her tales, while Memory wept between!

  And now for thee I joy, with heart beguiled,

  As if a dying friend looked up, and smiled.

  Lo! o’er Ægæa’s waves, the shout hath ris’n!

  Lo! Hope hath burst the fetters of her prison!

  And Glory sounds the trump along the shore,

  And Freedom walks where Freedom walk’d before!

  Ipsara glimmers with heroic light,

  Redd’ning the waves that lash her flaming height;

  And Ægypt hurries from that dark blue sea!

  Lo! o’er the cliffs of fam’d Thermopylæ,

  And voiceful Marathon, the wild winds sweep,

  Bearing this message to the brave who sleep —

  ‘They come! they come! with their embattled shock,

  From Pelion’s steep, and Paros’ foam-dash’d rock!

  They come from Tempe’s vale, and Helicon’s spring,

  And proud Eurotas’ banks, the river king!

  They come from Leuctra, from the waves that kiss

  Athena — from the shores of Salamis;

  From Sparta, Thebes, Euboea’s hills of blue —

  To live with Hellas — or to sleep with you!’

  Smile — smile, beloved land! and though no lay

  From Doric pipe, may charm thy glades today —

  Though dear Ionic music murmur not

  Adown the vale — its echo all forgot!

  Yet smile, beloved land! for soon, around,

  Thy silent earth shall utter forth a sound,

  As whilom — and, its pleasant groves among,

  The Grecian voice shall breathe the Grecian song,

  While the exilëd muse shall ‘habit still

  The happy haunts of her Parnassian hill.

  Till then, behold the cold dumb sepulchre —

  The ruin’d column — ocean, earth, and air,

  Man, and his wrongs — thou hast Tyrtæus there!

  And pardon, if across the heaving main,

  Sound the far melody of minstrel strain,

  In wild and fitful gust from England’s shore,

  For his immortal sake, who never more

  Shall tread with living foot, and spirit free,

  Her fields, or breathe her passionate poetry —

  The pilgrim bard, who lived, and died for thee,

  Oh land of Memory! loving thee no less

  Than parent — with the filial tenderness,

  And holy ardour of the Argive son,

  Straining each nerve to bear thy chariot on —

  Till when its wheels the place of glory swept,

  He laid him down before the shrine — and slept.

  So be it! at his cold unconscious bier,

  We fondly sate, and dropp’d the natural tear —

  Yet wept not wisely, for he sank to rest

  On the dear earth his waking thoughts loved best,

  And gently life’s last pulses stole away!

  No Moschus sang a requiem o’er his clay,

  But Greece was sad! and breathed above, below,

  The warrior’s sigh, the silence, and the woe!

  And is this all? Is this the little sum

  For which we toil — to which our glories come?

  Doth History bend her mouldering pages o’er,

  And Science stretch her bulwark from the shore,

  And Sages search the mystic paths of Thought,

  And Poets charm with lays that Genius taught —

  For this? to labour through their little day,

  To weep an hour, then want the tear they pay —

  To ask the urn, their death and life to tell,

  When the dull dust would give that tale as well!

  Man! hast thou seen the gallant vessel sweep,

  Borrowing her moonlight from the jealous deep,

  And gliding with mute foot, and silver wing,

  Over the waters like a soul-mov’d thing?

  Man, hast thou gazed on this — then look’d again,

  And seen no speck on all that desolate main,

  And heard no sound, — except the gurgling cry,

  The winds half stifled in their mockery?

  Woe unto thee! for, thus, thy course is run,

  And, in the fulness of thy noon-day sun,

  The darkness cometh — yea! thou walk’st abroad

  In glory, Child of Mind, Creation’s Lord —

  And wisdom’s music from thy lips hath gush’d!

  Then comes the Selah! and the voice is hush’d,

  And the light past! we seek where thou hast been

  In beauty — but thy beauty is not seen!

  We breathe the air thou breath’dst, we tread the spot

  Thy feet were wont to tread, but find thee not!

  Beyond, sits Darkness with her haggard face,

  Brooding fiend-like above thy burying-place —

  Beneath, let wildest Fancy take her fill!

  Shall we seek on? we shudder, and are still!

  Yet woe not unto thee, thou child of Earth!

  Though moonlight sleep on thy deserted hearth,

  We will not cry ‘Alas!’ above thy clay!

  It was, perchance, thy joyous pride to s
tray

  On Mind’s lone shore, and linger by the way:

  But now thy pilgrim’s staff is laid aside,

  And on thou journeyest o’er the sullen tide,

  To bless thy wearied sight, and glad thine heart

  With all that Mind’s serener skies impart;

  Where Wisdom suns the day no shades destroy,

  And Learning ends in Truth, as hope in joy:

  While we stand mournful on the desert beach,

  And wait, and wish, thy distant bark, to reach,

  And weep to watch it passing from our sight,

  And sound the gun’s salute, and sigh our last ‘good night!’

  And oh! while thus the spirit glides away, —

  Give to the world its memory with its clay!

  Some page our country’s grateful eyes may scan;

  Some useful truth to bless surviving man;

  Some name to honest bosoms justly dear;

  Some grave t’ exalt the thought, and claim the tear;

  So when the pilgrim Sun is travelling o’er

  The last blue hill, to gild a distant shore,

  He leaves a freshness in the evening scene,

  That tells Creation where his steps have been!

  TO MY FATHER ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

  “Causa fuit Pater his.”

  Hor.

  Amidst the days of pleasant mirth,

  That throw their halo round our earth;

  Amidst the tender thoughts that rise

  To call bright tears to happy eyes;

  Amidst the silken words that move

  To syllable the names we love;

  There glides no day of gentle bliss,

  More soothing to the heart than this!

  No thoughts of fondness e’er appear

  More fond, than those I write of here!

  No name can e’er on tablet shine,

  My father! more belov’d than thine !

  ‘Tis sweet, adown the shady past,

  A lingering look of love to cast —

  Back th’ enchanted world to call,

  That beamed around us first of all;

  And walk with Memory fondly o’er

  The paths, where Hope had been before —

  Sweet to receive the sylphic sound

  That breathes in tenderness around,

  Repeating to the listening ear

  The names that made our childhood dear —

  For parted Joy, like Echo, kind,

  Will leave her dulcet voice behind,

  To tell, amidst the magic air,

  How oft she smiled and lingered there.