Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Page 69
A SUPPLICATION FOR LOVE.
HYMN I.
“The Lord Jesus, although gone to the Father, and we see Him no more, is still present with His Church; and in His heavenly glory expends upon her as intense a love, as in the agony of the garden, and the crucifixion of the tree. Those eyes that wept, still gaze upon her.”
— Recalled words of an extempore Discourse, preached at Sidmouth, 1833.
God , namèd Love, whose fount Thou art,
Thy crownless Church before Thee stands,
With too much hating in her heart,
And too much striving in her hands!
O loving Lord! O slain for love!
Thy blood upon Thy garments came —
Inwrap their folds our brows above,
Before we tell Thee all our shame!
“Love as I loved you,” was the sound
That on Thy lips expiring sate!
Sweet words, in bitter strivings drowned!
We hated as the worldly hate.
The spear that pierced for love Thy side,
We dared for wrathful use to crave;
And with our cruel noise denied
Its silence to Thy blood-red grave!
Ah, blood! that speaketh more of love
Than Abel’s — could we speak like Cain,
And grieve and scare that holy Dove,
The parting love-gift of the Slain?
Yet, Lord, Thy wrongèd love fulfil!
Thy Church, though fallen, before Thee stands —
Behold, the voice is Jacob’s still,
Albeit the hands are Esau’s hands!
Hast Thou no tears, like those besprent
Upon Thy Zion’s ancient part?
No moving looks, like those which sent
Their softness through a traitor’s heart?
No touching tale of anguish dear;
Whereby like children we may creep,
All trembling, to each other near,
And view each other’s face, and weep?
Oh, move us — Thou hast power to move —
One in the one Beloved to be!
Teach us the heights and depths of love —
Give Thine — that we may love like Thee!
THE MEDIATOR.
HYMN II.
“As the greatest of all sacrifices was required, we may be assured that no other would have sufficed.”
— Boyd’s Essay on the Atonement .
How high Thou art! our songs can own
No music Thou couldst stoop to hear!
But still the Son’s expiring groan
Is vocal in the Father’s ear.
How pure Thou art! our hands are dyed
With curses, red with murder’s hue —
But He hath stretched His hands to hide
The sins that pierced them from Thy view.
How strong Thou art! we tremble lest
The thunders of Thine arm be moved —
But He is lying on Thy breast,
And Thou must clasp Thy best Beloved!
How kind Thou art! Thou didst not choose
To joy in Him for ever so;
But that embrace Thou wilt not loose
For vengeance, didst for love forego!
High God, and pure, and strong, and kind!
The low, the foul, the feeble, spare!
Thy brightness in His face we find —
Behold our darkness only there !
THE WEEPING SAVIOUR.
HYMN III.
“ —— — tell
Whether His countenance can thee affright,
Tears in His eyes quench the amazing light.”
— Donne.
When Jesus’ friend had ceased to be,
Still Jesus’ heart its friendship kept —
“Where have ye laid him?”— “Come and see!”
But ere His eyes could see, they wept.
Lord! not in sepulchres alone,
Corruption’s worm is rank and free;
The shroud of death our bosoms own —
The shades of sorrow! Come and see!
Come, Lord! God’s image cannot shine
Where sin’s funereal darkness lowers —
Come! turn those weeping eyes of Thine
Upon these sinning souls of ours!
And let those eyes, with shepherd care,
Their moving watch above us keep;
Till love the strength of sorrow wear,
And as Thou weepedst, we may weep!
For surely we may weep to know,
So dark and deep our spirit’s stain;
That had Thy blood refused to flow,
Thy very tears had flowed in vain.
Sonnets from the Portuguese
Barrett Browning’s1844 volume Poems made her one of the most popular writers of the time, inspiring Robert Browning to write to her, telling her how much he admired her work. He declared, “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett”, praising their “fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought”. Robert and Elizabeth agreed to meet on 20 May 1845 in her rooms in her father’s house, beginning one of the most famous courtships in literature. Elizabeth had produced a large amount of work and had been writing long before Robert Browning had been a published poet. However, he was to be a great influence on her writing and two of Barrett Browning’s most famous works were produced shortly after she met him, Sonnets from the Portuguese and Aurora Leigh.
Written from 1845 to 1846, Sonnets from the Portuguese was first published in 1850 and is composed of 44 love sonnets that chronicle the period leading up to her 1846 marriage to Browning. The collection was commercially successful and won much acclaim from critics, remaining among Barrett Browning’s most popular works today. She was initially hesitant to publish the poems, feeling that they were too personal for public reading. However, her husband insisted that they were the best sequence of English-language sonnets since Shakespeare’s and urged her to publish the sonnet sequence. Therefore, she decided to publish them as pretended translations of foreign sonnets, for reasons of anonymity. She chose Portuguese as the language due to her admiration of Camões and Les Lettres portugaises.
Sonnets from the Portuguese contains one of the most famous lines of English literature, which begins Sonnet 43, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” The poem is a beautiful and heartfelt poetic declaration of the poet’s boundless love for her husband and has since become one of the most anthologised poems in literary history.
The courtship and marriage between Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett was carried out secretly as she and her siblings were convinced that their father would disapprove. Six years his elder and an invalid, she could not believe that the vigorous and worldly Robert Browning really loved her as much as he professed. After a private marriage at St. Marylebone Parish Church, they honeymooned in Paris. Browning then imitated his hero Shelley by spiriting his wife off to Italy, in September 1846, which became their home almost continuously until her death. Elizabeth’s loyal nurse, Wilson, who witnessed the marriage, accompanied the couple to Italy.
Robert Browning, close to the time of publishing this poetry collection
CONTENTS
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
But only three in all God’s universe
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
The face of all the world is changed, I think
What can I give thee back, O liberal
Can it be right to give what I can give?
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And therefore if to love can be desert
Indeed this very love which is my boast
And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
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Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
And yet, because thou overcomest so
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
I never gave a lock of hair away
The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandise
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
Say over again, and yet once over again
When our two souls stand up erect and strong
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead
Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife
A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
I lived with visions for my company
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
I think of thee! — my thoughts do twine and bud
The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer thee
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
When we met first and loved, I did not build
Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace
Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
I thank all who have loved me in their hearts
My future will not copy fair my past —
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
I.
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, —
“Guess now who holds thee?”— “Death,” I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang,— “Not Death, but Love.”
II.
But only three in all God’s universe
But only three in all God’s universe
Have heard this word thou hast said, — Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us ... that was God, ... and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee, — that if I had died,
The deathweights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. “Nay” is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.
III.
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew, —
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
IV.
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there’s a voice within
That weeps ... as thou must sing ... alone, aloof.
V.
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up, ... those laurels on thine head,
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go.
VI.
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore —
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
VII.
The face of all the world is changed, I think
The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this ... this lute and song ... loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because thy name moves right in what they say.
VIII.
What can I give thee back, O liberal
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold, — but very poor instead
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! let it serve to trample on.
IX.
Can it be right to give what I can give?
Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love — which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.
X.
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee ... mark!... I love thee — in thy sight