Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  And woven gold to catch her looks turned maidenly to ground,

  Yet may the bride-veil hide from her a little of that state,

  While loving hopes for retinues about her sweetness wait.

  She vows to love who vowed to rule — (the chosen at her side)

  Let none say, God preserve the queen! but rather, Bless the bride!

  None blow the trump, none bend the knee, none violate the dream

  Wherein no monarch but a wife she to herself may seem.

  Or if ye say, Preserve the queen! oh, breathe it inward low —

  She is a woman , and beloved ! and ‘tis enough but so.

  Count it enough, thou noble prince who tak’st her by the hand

  And claimest for thy lady-love our lady of the land!

  And since, Prince Albert, men have called thy spirit high and rare,

  And true to truth and brave for truth as some at Augsburg were,

  We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts and by thy poet-mind

  Which not by glory and degree takes measure of mankind,

  Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring,

  And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing.

  IV.

  And now, upon our queen’s last vow what blessings shall we pray?

  None straitened to a shallow crown will suit our lips to-day:

  Behold, they must be free as love, they must be broad as free,

  Even to the borders of heaven’s light and earth’s humanity.

  Long live she! — send up loyal shouts, and true hearts pray between, —

  “The blessings happy peasants have, be thine, O crownèd queen!”

  CROWNED AND BURIED.

  I

  Napoleon! — years ago, and that great word

  Compàct of human breath in hate and dread

  And exultation, skied us overhead —

  An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword

  Scathing the cedars of the world, — drawn down

  In burnings, by the metal of a crown.

  II

  Napoleon! — nations, while they cursed that name,

  Shook at their own curse; and while others bore

  Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before,

  Brass-fronted legions justified its fame;

  And dying men on trampled battle-sods

  Near their last silence uttered it for God’s.

  III

  Napoleon! — sages, with high foreheads drooped,

  Did use it for a problem; children small

  Leapt up to greet it, as at manhood’s call;

  Priests blessed it from their altars overstooped

  By meek-eyed Christs; and widows with a moan

  Spake it, when questioned why they sat alone.

  IV

  That name consumed the silence of the snows

  In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid;

  The mimic eagles dared what Nature’s did,

  And over-rushed her mountainous repose

  In search of eyries: and the Egyptian river

  Mingled the same word with its grand “For ever.”

  V

  That name was shouted near the pyramidal

  Nilotic tombs, whose mummied habitants,

  Packed to humanity’s significance,

  Motioned it back with stillness, — shouts as idle

  As hireling artists’ work of myrrh and spice

  Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies.

  VI

  The world’s face changed to hear it; kingly men

  Came down in chidden babes’ bewilderment

  From autocratic places, each content

  With sprinkled ashes for anointing: then

  The people laughed or wondered for the nonce,

  To see one throne a composite of thrones.

  VII

  Napoleon! — even the torrid vastitude

  Of India felt in throbbings of the air

  That name which scattered by disastrous blare

  All Europe’s bound-lines, — drawn afresh in blood.

  Napoleon! — from the Russias west to Spain:

  And Austria trembled till ye heard her chain.

  VIII

  And Germany was ‘ware; and Italy

  Oblivious of old fames — her laurel-locked,

  High-ghosted Cæsars passing uninvoked —

  Did crumble her own ruins with her knee,

  To serve a newer: ay! but Frenchmen cast

  A future from them nobler than their past:

  IX

  For verily though France augustly rose

  With that raised name , and did assume by such

  The purple of the world, none gave so much

  As she in purchase — to speak plain, in loss —

  Whose hands, toward freedom stretched, dropped paralysed

  To wield a sword or fit an undersized

  X

  King’s crown to a great man’s head. And though along

  Her Paris’ streets did float on frequent streams

  Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled dreams

  Dreamt right by genius in a world gone wrong, —

  No dream of all so won was fair to see

  As the lost vision of her liberty.

  XI

  Napoleon!— ‘twas a high name lifted high:

  It met at last God’s thunder sent to clear

  Our compassing and covering atmosphere

  And open a clear sight beyond the sky

  Of supreme empire; this of earth’s was done —

  And kings crept out again to feel the sun.

  XII

  The kings crept out — the peoples sat at home,

  And finding the long-invocated peace

  (A pall embroidered with worn images

  Of rights divine) too scant to cover doom

  Such as they suffered, cursed the corn that grew

  Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo.

  XIII

  A deep gloom centred in the deep repose;

  The nations stood up mute to count their dead:

  And he who owned the Name which vibrated

  Through silence, — trusting to his noblest foes

  When earth was all too grey for chivalry,

  Died of their mercies ‘mid the desert sea.

  XIV

  O wild Saint Helen! very still she kept him,

  With a green willow for all pyramid,

  Which stirred a little if the low wind did,

  A little more if pilgrims overwept him,

  Disparting the lithe boughs to see the clay

  Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day.

  XV

  Nay, not so long! France kept her old affection

  As deeply as the sepulchre the corse;

  Until, dilated by such love’s remorse

  To a new angel of the resurrection,

  She cried “Behold, thou England! I would have

  The dead, whereof thou wottest, from that grave.”

  XVI

  And England answered in the courtesy

  Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit:

  “Take back thy dead! and when thou buriest it,

  Throw in all former strifes ‘twixt thee and me.”

  Amen, mine England! ‘tis a courteous claim:

  But ask a little room too — for thy shame!

  XVII

  Because it was not well, it was not well,

  Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part

  Among the Oceanides, — that Heart

  To bind and bare and vex with vulture fell.

  I would, my noble England, men might seek

  All crimson stains upon thy breast — not cheek!

  XVIII

  I would that hostile fleets had scarred Torbay,

  Instead of the lone ship which waited moored

  Until thy princely purpose was assured,

  Then left a shadow, not to pass a
way —

  Not for to-night’s moon, nor to-morrow’s sun:

  Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done!

  XIX

  But since it was done, — in sepulchral dust

  We fain would pay back something of our debt

  To France, if not to honour, and forget

  How through much fear we falsified the trust

  Of a fallen foe and exile. We return

  Orestes to Electra — in his urn.

  XX

  A little urn — a little dust inside,

  Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit

  To-day a four-years child might carry it

  Sleek-browed and smiling, “Let the burden ‘bide!”

  Orestes to Electra! — O fair town

  Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down

  XXI

  And run back in the chariot-marks of time,

  When all the people shall come forth to meet

  The passive victor, death-still in the street

  He rode through ‘mid the shouting and bell-chime

  And martial music, under eagles which

  Dyed their rapacious beaks at Austerlitz!

  XXII

  Napoleon! — he hath come again, borne home

  Upon the popular ebbing heart, — a sea

  Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,

  Majestically moaning. Give him room!

  Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn

  And grave-deep, ‘neath the cannon-moulded column!

  XXIII

  There, weapon spent and warrior spent ma rest

  From roar of fields, — provided Jupiter

  Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near

  His bolts! — and this he may: for, dispossessed

  Of any godship lies the godlike arm —

  The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm.

  XXIV

  And yet . . . Napoleon! — the recovered name

  Shakes the old casements of the world; and we

  Look out upon the passing pageantry,

  Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim

  To a French grave, — another kingdom won,

  The last, of few spans — by Napoleon.

  XXV

  Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise — sooth

  But glittered dew-like in the covenanted

  Meridian light. He was a despot — granted!

  But the of his autocratic mouth

  Said yea i’ the people’s French; he magnified

  The image of the freedom he denied:

  XXVI

  And if they asked for rights, he made reply

  “Ye have my glory!” — and so, drawing round them

  His ample purple, glorified and bound them

  In an embrace that seemed identity.

  He ruled them like a tyrant — true! but none

  Were ruled like slaves: each felt Napoleon.

  XXVII

  I do not praise this man: the man was flawed

  For Adam — much more, Christ! — his knee unbent,

  His hand unclean, his aspiration pent

  Within a sword-sweep — pshaw! — but since he had

  The genius to be loved, why, let him have

  The justice to be honoured in his grave.

  XXVIII

  I think this nation’s tears thus poured together,

  Better than shouts. I think this funeral

  Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all.

  I think this grave stronger than thrones. But whether

  The crowned Napoleon or the buried clay

  Be worthier, I discern not: angels may.

  TO FLUSH, MY DOG.

  I

  Loving friend, the gift of one

  Who her own true faith has run

  Through thy lower nature,

  Be my benediction said

  With my hand upon thy head,

  Gentle fellow-creature!

  II

  Like a lady’s ringlets brown,

  Flow thy silken ears adown

  Either side demurely

  Of thy silver-suited breast

  Shining out from all the rest

  Of thy body purely.

  III

  Darkly brown thy body is,

  Till the sunshine striking this

  Alchemise its dulness,

  When the sleek curls manifold

  Flash all over into gold

  With a burnished fulness.

  IV

  Underneath my stroking hand,

  Startled eyes of hazel bland

  Kindling, growing larger,

  Up thou leapest with a spring,

  Full of prank and curveting,

  Leaping like a charger.

  V

  Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,

  Leap! thy slender feet are bright,

  Canopied in fringes;

  Leap! those tasselled ears of thine

  Flicker strangely, fair and fine

  Down their golden inches.

  VI

  Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,

  Little is’t to such an end

  That I praise thy rareness;

  Other dogs may be thy peers

  Haply in these drooping ears

  And this glossy fairness.

  VII

  But of thee it shall be said,

  This dog watched beside a bed

  Day and night unweary,

  Watched within a curtained room

  Where no sunbeam brake the gloom

  Round the sick and dreary.

  VIII

  Roses, gathered for a vase,

  In that chamber died apace,

  Beam and breeze resigning;

  This dog only, waited on,

  Knowing that when light is gone

  Love remains for shining.

  IX

  Other dogs in thymy dew

  Tracked the hares and followed through

  Sunny moor or meadow;

  This dog only, crept and crept

  Next a languid cheek that slept,

  Sharing in the shadow.

  X

  Other dogs of loyal cheer

  Bounded at the whistle clear,

  Up the woodside hieing;

  This dog only, watched in reach

  Of a faintly uttered speech

  Or a louder sighing.

  XI

  And if one or two quick tears

  Dropped upon his glossy ears

  Or a sigh came double,

  Up he sprang in eager haste,

  Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,

  In a tender trouble.

  XII

  And this dog was satisfied

  If a pale thin hand would glide

  Down his dewlaps sloping, —

  Which he pushed his nose within,

  After, — platforming his chin

  On the palm left open.

  XIII

  This dog, if a friendly voice

  Call him now to blither choice

  Than such chamber-keeping,

  “Come out!” praying from the door, —

  Presseth backward as before,

  Up against me leaping.

  XIV

  Therefore to this dog will I,

  Tenderly not scornfully,

  Render praise and favour:

  With my hand upon his head,

  Is my benediction said

  Therefore and for ever.

  XV

  And because he loves me so,

  Better than his kind will do

  Often man or woman,

  Give I back more love again

  Than dogs often take of men,

  Leaning from my Human.

  XVI

  Blessings on thee, dog of mine,

  Pretty collars make thee fine,

  Sugared milk make fat thee!

  Pleasures wag on in thy tail,

 
Hands of gentle motion fail

  Nevermore, to pat thee!

  XVII

  Downy pillow take thy head,

  Silken coverlid bestead,

  Sunshine help thy sleeping!

  No fly’s buzzing wake thee up,

  No man break thy purple cup

  Set for drinking deep in.

  XVIII

  Whiskered cats arointed flee,

  Sturdy stoppers keep from thee

  Cologne distillations;

  Nuts lie in thy path for stones,

  And thy feast-day macaroons

  Turn to daily rations!

  XIX

  Mock I thee, in wishing weal? —

  Tears are in my eyes to feel

  Thou art made so straitly,

  Blessing needs must straiten too, —

  Little canst thou joy or do,

  Thou who lovest greatly .

  XX

  Yet be blessèd to the height

  Of all good and all delight

  Pervious to thy nature;

  Only loved beyond that line,

  With a love that answers thine,

  Loving fellow-creature!

  THE DESERTED GARDEN.

  I mind me in the days departed,

  How often underneath the sun

  With childish bounds I used to run

  To a garden long deserted.

  The beds and walks were vanished quite;

  And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,

  The greenest grasses Nature laid

  To sanctify her right.

  I called the place my wilderness,