Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Page 39
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 —