Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


  A rain of dew till, wetted so,

  The child who held the branch let go

  And it swang backward with a flow

  Of faster drippings. Then I knew

  The children laughed; but the laugh flew

  From its own chirrup as might do

  A frightened song-bird; and a child

  Who seemed the chief said very mild,

  “Hush! keep this morning undefiled.”

  His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres,

  His soul upon his brow appears

  In waiting for more holy years.

  I called the child to me, and said,

  “What are your palms for?” “To be spread,”

  He answered, “on a poet dead.

  “The poet died last month, and now

  The world which had been somewhat slow

  In honouring his living brow,

  “Commands the palms; they must be strown

  On his new marble very soon,

  In a procession of the town.”

  I sighed and said, “Did he foresee

  Any such honour?” “Verily

  I cannot tell you,” answered he.

  “But this I know, I fain would lay

  My own head down, another day,

  As he did, — with the fame away.

  “A lily, a friend’s hand had plucked,

  Lay by his death-bed, which he looked

  As deep down as a bee had sucked,

  “Then, turning to the lattice, gazed

  O’er hill and river and upraised

  His eyes illumined and amazed

  “With the world’s beauty, up to God,

  Re-offering on their iris broad

  The images of things bestowed

  “By the chief Poet. ‘God!’ he cried,

  ‘Be praised for anguish which has tried,

  For beauty which has satisfied:

  “‘For this world’s presence half within

  And half without me — thought and scene —

  This sense of Being and Having Been.

  “‘I thank Thee that my soul hath room

  For Thy grand world: both guests may come —

  Beauty, to soul — Body, to tomb.

  “‘I am content to be so weak:

  Put strength into the words I speak,

  And I am strong in what I seek.

  “‘I am content to be so bare

  Before the archers, everywhere

  My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

  “‘I laid my soul before Thy feet

  That images of fair and sweet

  Should walk to other men on it.

  “‘I am content to feel the step

  Of each pure image: let those keep

  To mandragore who care to sleep.

  “‘I am content to touch the brink

  Of the other goblet and I think

  My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

  “‘Because my portion was assigned

  Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind,

  And I am blessed to my mind.

  “‘Gifted for giving, I receive

  The maythorn and its scent outgive:

  I grieve not that I once did grieve.

  “‘In my large joy of sight and touch

  Beyond what others count for such,

  I am content to suffer much.

  “‘I know — is all the mourner saith,

  Knowledge by suffering entereth,

  And Life is perfected by Death.’”

  The child spake nobly: strange to hear,

  His infantine soft accents clear

  Charged with high meanings, did appear;

  And fair to see, his form and face

  Winged out with whiteness and pure grace

  From the green darkness of the place.

  Behind his head a palm-tree grew;

  An orient beam which pierced it through

  Transversely on his forehead drew

  The figure of a palm-branch brown

  Traced on its brightness up and down

  In fine fair lines, — a shadow-crown:

  Guido might paint his angels so —

  A little angel, taught to go

  With holy words to saints below —

  Such innocence of action yet

  Significance of object met

  In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

  And all the children, the whole band,

  Did round in rosy reverence stand,

  Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

  “And so he died,” I whispered. “Nay,

  Not so,” the childish voice did say,

  “That poet turned him first to pray

  “In silence, and God heard the rest

  ‘Twixt the sun’s footsteps down the west.

  Then he called one who loved him best,

  “Yea, he called softly through the room

  (His voice was weak yet tender)— ‘Come,’

  He said, ‘come nearer! Let the bloom

  “‘Of Life grow over, undenied,

  This bridge of Death, which is not wide —

  I shall be soon at the other side.

  “‘Come, kiss me!’ So the one in truth

  Who loved him best, — in love, not ruth,

  Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth:

  “And in that kiss of love was won

  Life’s manumission. All was done:

  The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone.

  “But in the former, confluent kiss,

  The same was sealed, I think, by His,

  To words of truth and uprightness.”

  The child’s voice trembled, his lips shook

  Like a rose leaning o’er a brook,

  Which vibrates though it is not struck.

  “And who,” I asked, a little moved

  Yet curious-eyed, “was this that loved

  And kissed him last, as it behoved?”

  “I,” softly said the child; and then

  “I,” said he louder, once again:

  “His son, my rank is among men:

  “And now that men exalt his name

  I come to gather palms with them,

  That holy love may hallow fame.

  “He did not die alone, nor should

  His memory live so, ‘mid these rude

  World-praisers — a worse solitude.

  “Me, a voice calleth to that tomb

  Where these are strewing branch and bloom

  Saying, ‘Come nearer:’ and I come.

  “Glory to God!” resumed he,

  And his eyes smiled for victory

  O’er their own tears which I could see

  Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin —

  “That poet now has entered in

  The place of rest which is not sin.

  “And while he rests, his songs in troops

  Walk up and down our earthly slopes,

  Companioned by diviner hopes.”

  “But thou,” I murmured to engage

  The child’s speech farther— “hast an age

  Too tender for this orphanage.”

  “Glory to God — to God!” he saith:

  “KNOWLEDGE BY SUFFERING ENTERETH

  AND LIFE IS PERFECTED BY DEATH.”

  THE POET’S VOW

  O be wiser thou,

  Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.

  WORDSWORTH.

  THE POET’S VOW.

  PART THE FIRST.

  SHOWING WHEREFORE THE VOW WAS MADE.

  I.

  Eve is a twofold mystery;

  The stillness Earth doth keep,

  The motion wherewith human hearts

  Do each to either leap

  As if all souls between the poles

  Felt “Parting comes in sleep.”

  II.

  The rowers lift their oars to view

  Each other in the sea;

  The landsmen watch the
rocking boats

  In a pleasant company;

  While up the hill go gladlier still

  Dear friends by two and three.

  III.

  The peasant’s wife hath looked without

  Her cottage door and smiled,

  For there the peasant drops his spade

  To clasp his youngest child

  Which hath no speech, but its hand can reach

  And stroke his forehead mild.

  IV.

  A poet sate that eventide

  Within his hall alone,

  As silent as its ancient lords

  In the coffined place of stone,

  When the bat hath shrunk from the praying monk,

  And the praying monk is gone.

  V.

  Nor wore the dead a stiller face

  Beneath the cerement’s roll:

  His lips refusing out in words

  Their mystic thoughts to dole,

  His steadfast eye burnt inwardly,

  As burning out his soul.

  VI.

  You would not think that brow could e’er

  Ungentle moods express,

  Yet seemed it, in this troubled world,

  Too calm for gentleness,

  When the very star that shines from far

  Shines trembling ne’ertheless.

  VII.

  It lacked, all need, the softening light

  Which other brows supply:

  We should conjoin the scathed trunks

  Of our humanity,

  That each leafless spray entwining may

  Look softer ‘gainst the sky.

  VIII.

  None gazed within the poet’s face,

  The poet gazed in none;

  He threw a lonely shadow straight

  Before the moon and sun,

  Affronting nature’s heaven-dwelling creatures

  With wrong to nature done:

  IX.

  Because this poet daringly,

  — The nature at his heart,

  And that quick tune along his veins

  He could not change by art, —

  Had vowed his blood of brotherhood

  To a stagnant place apart.

  X.

  He did not vow in fear, or wrath,

  Or grief’s fantastic whim,

  But, weights and shows of sensual things

  Too closely crossing him,

  On his soul’s eyelid the pressure slid

  And made its vision dim.

  XI.

  And darkening in the dark he strove

  ‘Twixt earth and sea and sky

  To lose in shadow, wave and cloud,

  His brother’s haunting cry:

  The winds were welcome as they swept,

  God’s five-day work he would accept,

  But let the rest go by.

  XII.

  He cried, “O touching, patient Earth

  That weepest in thy glee,

  Whom God created very good,

  And very mournful, we!

  Thy voice of moan doth reach His throne,

  As Abel’s rose from thee.

  XIII.

  “Poor crystal sky with stars astray!

  Mad winds that howling go

  From east to west! perplexed seas

  That stagger from their blow!

  O motion wild! O wave defiled!

  Our curse hath made you so.

  XIV.

  ‘We! and our curse! do I partake

  The desiccating sin?

  Have I the apple at my lips?

  The money-lust within?

  Do I human stand with the wounding hand,

  To the blasting heart akin?

  XV.

  “Thou solemn pathos of all things

  For solemn joy designed!

  Behold, submissive to your cause,

  A holy wrath I find

  And, for your sake, the bondage break

  That knits me to my kind.

  XVI.

  “Hear me forswear man’s sympathies,

  His pleasant yea and no,

  His riot on the piteous earth

  Whereon his thistles grow,

  His changing love — with stars above,

  His pride — with graves below.

  XVII.

  “Hear me forswear his roof by night,

  His bread and salt by day,

  His talkings at the wood-fire hearth,

  His greetings by the way,

  His answering looks, his systemed books,

  All man, for aye and aye.

  XVIII.

  “That so my purged, once human heart,

  From all the human rent,

  May gather strength to pledge and drink

  Your wine of wonderment,

  While you pardon me all blessingly

  The woe mine Adam sent.

  XIX.

  “And I shall feel your unseen looks

  Innumerous, constant, deep

  And soft as haunted Adam once,

  Though sadder, round me creep, —

  As slumbering men have mystic ken

  Of watchers on their sleep.

  XX.

  “And ever, when I lift my brow

  At evening to the sun,

  No voice of woman or of child

  Recording ‘Day is done.’

  Your silences shall a love express,

  More deep than such an one.”

  PART THE SECOND.

  SHOWING TO WHOM THE VOW WAS DECLARED.

  I.

  The poet’s vow was inly sworn,

  The poet’s vow was told.

  He shared among his crowding friends

  The silver and the gold,

  They clasping bland his gift, — his hand

  In a somewhat slacker hold.

  II.

  They wended forth, the crowding friends,

  With farewells smooth and kind.

  They wended forth, the solaced friends,

  And left but twain behind:

  One loved him true as brothers do,

  And one was Rosalind.

  III.

  He said, “My friends have wended forth

  With farewells smooth and kind;

  Mine oldest friend, my plighted bride,

  Ye need not stay behind:

  Friend, wed my fair bride for my sake,

  And let my lands ancestral make

  A dower for Rosalind.

  IV.

  “And when beside your wassail board

  Ye bless your social lot,

  I charge you that the giver be

  In all his gifts forgot,

  Or alone of all his words recall

  The last, — Lament me not.”

  V.

  She looked upon him silently

  With her large, doubting eyes,

  Like a child that never knew but love

  Whom words of wrath surprise,

  Till the rose did break from either cheek

  And the sudden tears did rise.

  VI.

  She looked upon him mournfully,

  While her large eyes were grown

  Yet larger with the steady tears,

  Till, all his purpose known,

  She turned slow, as she would go —

  The tears were shaken down.

  VII.

  She turned slow, as she would go,

  Then quickly turned again,

  And gazing in his face to seek

  Some little touch of pain,

  “I thought,” she said, — but shook her head, —

  She tried that speech in vain.

  VIII.

  “I thought — but I am half a child

  And very sage art thou —

  The teachings of the heaven and earth

  Should keep us soft and low:

  They have drawn my tears in early years,

  Or ere I wept — as now.

  IX.

  “But n
ow that in thy face I read

  Their cruel homily,

  Before their beauty I would fain

  Untouched, unsoftened be, —

  If I indeed could look on even

  The senseless, loveless earth and heaven

  As thou canst look on me!

  X.

  “And couldest thou as coldly view

  Thy childhood’s far abode,

  Where little feet kept time with thine

  Along the dewy sod,

  And thy mother’s look from holy book

  Rose like a thought of God?

  XI.

  “O brother, — called so, ere her last

  Betrothing words were said!

  O fellow-watcher in her room,

  With hushed voice and tread!

  Rememberest thou how, hand in hand

  O friend, O lover, we did stand,

  And knew that she was dead?

  XII.

  “I will not live Sir Roland’s bride,

  That dower I will not hold;

  I tread below my feet that go,

  These parchments bought and sold:

  The tears I weep are mine to keep,

  And worthier than thy gold.”

  XIII.

  The poet and Sir Roland stood

  Alone, each turned to each,

  Till Roland brake the silence left

  By that soft-throbbing speech —

 

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