Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Page 68
VII.
Count what feelings used to move me!
Can this love assort with those?
Thou, who art so far above me,
Wilt thou stoop so, for repose?
Is it true that thou canst love me?
VIII.
Do not blame me if I doubt thee.
I can call love by its name
When thine arm is wrapt about me;
But even love seems not the same,
When I sit alone, without thee.
IX.
In thy clear eyes I descried
Many a proof of love, to-day;
But to-night, those unbelied
Speechful eyes being gone away,
There’s the proof to seek, beside.
X.
Dost thou love me, my Beloved?
Only thou canst answer yes!
And, thou gone, the proof’s disproved,
And the cry rings answerless —
Dost thou love me, my Beloved?
QUESTION AND ANSWER.
I.
Love you seek for, presupposes
Summer heat and sunny glow.
Tell me, do you find moss-roses
Budding, blooming in the snow?
Snow might kill the rose-tree’s root —
Shake it quickly from your foot,
Lest it harm you as you go.
II.
From the ivy where it dapples
A grey ruin, stone by stone,
Do you look for grapes or apples,
Or for sad green leaves alone?
Pluck the leaves off, two or three —
Keep them for morality
When you shall be safe and gone.
INCLUSIONS.
I.
Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.
II.
Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.
III.
Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul? —
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.
INSUFFICIENCY.
I.
There is no one beside thee and no one above thee,
Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings!
And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,
For none can express thee though all should approve thee.
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.
II.
Say, what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not — love me not! let me retrieve thee.
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.
THE LITTLE FRIEND.
WRITTEN IN THE BOOK WHICH SHE MADE AND SENT TO ME.
The book thou givest, dear as such,
Shall bear thy dearer name;
And many a word the leaves shall touch,
For thee who form’dst the same!
And on them, many a thought shall grow
‘Neath memory’s rain and sun,
Of thee, glad child, who dost not know
That thought and pain are one!
Yes! thoughts of thee, who satest oft,
A while since, at my side —
So wild to tame, — to move so soft,
So very hard to chide:
The childish vision at thine heart,
The lesson on the knee;
The wandering looks which would depart,
Like gulls, across the sea!
The laughter, which no half-belief
In wrath could all suppress:
The falling tears, which looked like grief,
And were but gentleness:
The fancies sent, for bliss, abroad,
As Eden’s were not done —
Mistaking still the cherub’s sword
For shining of the sun!
The sportive speech with wisdom in’t —
The question strange and bold —
The childish fingers in the print
Of God’s creative hold:
The praying words in whispers said,
The sin with sobs confest;
The leaning of the young meek head
Upon the Saviour’s breast!
The gentle consciousness of praise,
With hues that went and came;
The brighter blush, a word could raise,
Were that — a father’s name!
The shadow on thy smile for each
That on his face could fall!
So quick hath love been, thee to teach,
What soon it teacheth all.
Sit still as erst beside his feet!
The future days are dim, —
But those will seem to thee most sweet
Which keep thee nearest him !
Sit at his feet in quiet mirth,
And let him see arise
A clearer sun and greener earth
Within thy loving eyes! —
Ah, loving eyes! that used to lift
Your childhood to my face —
That leave a memory on the gift
I look on in your place —
May bright-eyed hosts your guardians be
From all but thankful tears, —
While, brightly as you turn on me
Ye meet th’ advancing years!
THE STUDENT.
“ My midnight lamp is weary as my soul,
And, being unimmortal, has gone out.
And now alone yon moony lamp of heaven,
Which God lit and not man, illuminates
These volumes, others wrote in weariness
As I have read them; and this cheek and brow,
Whose paleness, burnèd in with heats of thought,
Would make an angel smile to see how ill
Clay thrust from Paradise consorts with mind —
If angels could, like men, smile bitterly.
“Yet, must my brow be paler! I have vowed
To clip it with the crown which cannot fade,
When it is faded. Not in vain ye cry,
O glorious voices that survive the tongues
From whence was drawn your separate sovereignty —
For I would reign beside you! I would melt
The golden treasures of my health and life
Into that name! My lips are vowed apart
From cheerful words; mine ears, from pleasant sounds;
Mine eyes, from sights God made so beautiful, —
My feet, from wanderings under shady trees;
Mine hands, from clasping of dear-loving friends, —
My very heart, from feelings which move soft!
Vowed am I from the day’s delightsomeness,
And dreams of night! and when the house is dumb
In sleep, which is the pause ‘twixt life and life,
I live and waken thus; and pluck away
Slumber’s sleek poppies from my painèd lids —
Goading my mind with thongs wrought by herself,
To toil and struggle along this mountain-path
Which hath no mountain-airs; until she sweat
Like Adam’s brow, and gasp, and rend away
In agony, her garment of the flesh!”
And so his midnight lamp was lit anew,
And burned till morning. But his lamp of life
Till morning burned not! He was found embraced,
Close, cold, and stiff, by Death’s compelling sleep;
His breast and brow supported o
n a page
Charàctered over with a praise of fame ,
Of its divineness and beatitude —
Words which had often caused that heart to throb,
That cheek to burn; though silent lay they now,
Without a single beating in the pulse,
And all the fever gone!
I saw a bay
Spring verdant from a newly-fashioned grave.
The grass upon the grave was verdanter,
That being watered by the eyes of One
Who bore not to look up toward the tree!
Others looked on it — some, with passing glance,
Because the light wind stirrèd in its leaves;
And some, with sudden lighting of the soul
In admiration’s ecstasy! — Ay! some
Did wag their heads like oracles, and say,
“‘Tis very well!” — but none rememberèd
The heart which housed the root, except that One .
Whose sight was lost in weeping!
Is it thus,
Ambition, idol of the intellect?
Shall we drink aconite, alone to use
Thy golden bowl? and sleep ourselves to death —
To dream thy visions about life? O Power
That art a very feebleness! — before
Thy clayey feet we bend our knees of clay,
And round thy senseless brow bind diadems
With paralytic hands, and shout “a god,”
With voices mortal hoarse! Who can discern
Th’ infirmities they share in? Being blind,
We cannot see thy blindness: being weak,
We cannot feel thy weakness: being low,
We cannot mete thy baseness: being unwise,
We cannot understand thy idiocy!
STANZAS: I MAY SING; BUT MINSTREL’S SINGING.
I may sing; but minstrel’s singing
Ever ceaseth with his playing.
I may smile; but time is bringing
Thoughts for smiles to wear away in.
I may view thee, mutely loving;
But shall view thee so in dying!
I may sigh; but life’s removing,
And with breathing endeth sighing!
Be it so!
When no song of mine comes near thee,
Will its memory fail to soften?
When no smile of mine can cheer thee,
Will thy smile be used as often?
When my looks the darkness boundeth,
Will thine own be lighted after?
When my sigh no longer soundeth,
Wilt thou list another’s laughter?
Be it so!
THE YOUNG QUEEN.
“This awful responsibility is imposed upon me so suddenly and at so early a period of my life, that I should feel myself utterly oppressed by the burden, were I not sustained by the hope that Divine Providence, which has called me to this work, will give me strength for the performance of it.”
The Queen’s Declaration in Council.
The shroud is yet unspread
To wrap our crownèd dead;
His soul hath scarcely hearkened for the thrilling word of doom;
And Death, that makes serene
Ev’n brows where crowns have been,
Hath scarcely time to meeten his for silence of the tomb.
St. Paul’s king-dirging note
The city’s heart hath smote —
The city’s heart is struck with thought more solemn than the tone!
A shadow sweeps apace
Before the nation’s face,
Confusing in a shapeless blot the sepulchre and throne.
The palace sounds with wail —
The courtly dames are pale —
A widow o’er the purple bows, and weeps its splendour dim:
And we who hold the boon,
A king for freedom won,
Do feel eternity rise up between our thanks and him.
And while all things express
All glory’s nothingness,
A royal maiden treadeth firm where that departed trod!
The deathly scented crown
Weighs her shining ringlets down;
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God.
Her thoughts are deep within her:
No outward pageants win her
From memories that in her soul are rolling wave on wave —
Her palace walls enring
The dust that was a king —
And very cold beneath her feet, she feels her father’s grave.
And One, as fair as she,
Can scarce forgotten be, —
Who clasped a little infant dead, for all a kingdom’s worth!
The mournèd, blessèd One,
Who views Jehovah’s throne,
Aye smiling to the angels, that she lost a throne on earth.
Perhaps our youthful Queen
Remembers what has been —
Her childhood’s rest by loving heart, and sport on grassy sod —
Alas! can others wear
A mother’s heart for her?
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God.
Yea! call on God, thou maiden
Of spirit nobly laden,
And leave such happy days behind, for happy-making years!
A nation looks to thee
For steadfast sympathy:
Make room within thy bright clear eyes for all its gathered tears.
And so the grateful isles
Shall give thee back their smiles,
And as thy mother joys in thee, in them shalt thou rejoice;
Rejoice to meekly bow
A somewhat paler brow,
While the King of kings shall bless thee by the British people’s voice!
VICTORIA’S TEARS.
“Hark! the reiterated clangour sounds!
Now murmurs, like the sea or like the storm,
Or like the flames on forests, move and mount
From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll,
Till all the people is one vast applause.”
— Landor’s Gebir .
“ O maiden! heir of kings!
A king has left his place!
The majesty of Death has swept
All other from his face!
And thou upon thy mother’s breast
No longer lean adown,
But take the glory for the rest,
And rule the land that loves thee best!”
She heard, and wept —
She wept, to wear a crown!
They decked her courtly halls;
They reined her hundred steeds;
They shouted at her palace gate,
“A noble Queen succeeds!”
Her name has stirred the mountain’s sleep,
Her praise has filled the town!
And mourners God had stricken deep,
Looked hearkening up, and did not weep.
Alone she wept,
Who wept, to wear a crown!
She saw no purples shine,
For tears had dimmed her eyes;
She only knew her childhood’s flowers
Were happier pageantries!
And while her heralds played the part,
For million shouts to drown —
“God save the Queen” from hill to mart, —
She heard through all her beating heart,
And turned and wept —
She wept, to wear a crown!
God save thee, weeping Queen!
Thou shalt be well beloved!
The tyrant’s sceptre cannot move,
As those pure tears have moved!
The nature in thine eyes we see,
That tyrants cannot own —
The love that guardeth liberties!
Strange blessing on the nation lies,
Whose Sovereign wept —
Yea! wept, to wear its crown!
God bless
thee, weeping Queen,
With blessing more divine!
And fill-with happier love than earth’s,
That tender heart of thine!
That when the thrones of earth shall be
As low as graves brought down;
A piercèd Hand may give to thee
The crown which angels shout to see!
Thou wilt not weep ,
To wear that heavenly crown!
VANITIES.
“From fading things, fond men, lift your desire.”
— Drummond.
Could ye be very blest in hearkening
Youth’s often danced-to melodies —
Hearing it piped, the midnight darkening
Doth come to show the starry skies, —
To freshen garden-flowers, the rain? —
It is in vain, it is in vain!
Could ye be very blest in urging
A captive nation’s strength to thunder
Out into foam, and with its surging
The Xerxean fetters break asunder?
The storm is cruel as the chain! —
It is in vain, it is in vain!
Could ye be very blest in paling
Your brows with studious nights and days,
When like your lamps your life is fading,
And sighs, not breath, are wrought from praise?
Your tombs, not ye, that praise retain —
It is in vain, it is in vain!
Yea! but ye could be very blest,
If some ye nearest love were nearest!
Must they not love when lovèd best?
Must ye not happiest love when dearest?
Alas! how hard to feel again, —
It is in vain, it is in vain!
For those ye love are not unsighing —
They are unchanging least of all:
And ye the loved — ah! no denying,
Will leave your lips beneath the pall,
When passioned ones have o’er it sain
“It is in vain, it is in vain!”