Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  ‘Since ever by symbols and bright degrees

  Art, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord’s knees,’

  Said the North to the South. 15

  ‘Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer,’

  Said the South to the North,

  ‘That stand in the dark on the lowest stair,

  While affirming of God, “He is certainly there,”’

  Said the South to the North. 20

  III

  ‘Yet O, for the skies that are softer and higher!’

  Sigh’d the North to the South;

  ‘For the flowers that blaze, and the trees that aspire,

  And the insects made of a song or a fire!’

  Sigh’d the North to the South. 25

  ‘And O, for a seer to discern the same!’

  Sigh’d the South to the North;

  ‘For a poet’s tongue of baptismal flame,

  To call the tree or the flower by its name!’

  Sigh’d the South to the North. 30

  IV

  The North sent therefore a man of men

  As a grace to the South;

  And thus to Rome came Andersen.

  — ‘Alas, but must you take him again?’

  Said the South to the North. 35

  TRANSLATIONS.

  PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRITUS.

  THE CYCLOPS.

  (Idyll XI.)

  AND so an easier life our Cyclops drew,

  The ancient Polyphemus, who in youth

  Loved Galatea while the manhood grew

  Adown his cheeks and darkened round his mouth.

  No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses;

  Love made him mad: the whole world was neglected,

  The very sheep went backward to their closes

  From out the fair green pastures, self-directed.

  And singing Galatea, thus, he wore

  The sunrise down along the weedy shore,

  And pined alone, and felt the cruel wound

  Beneath his heart, which Cypris’ arrow bore,

  With a deep pang; but, so, the cure was found;

  And sitting on a lofty rock he cast

  His eyes upon the sea, and sang at last: —

  “O whitest Galatea, can it be

  That thou shouldst spurn me off who love thee so?

  More white than curds, my girl, thou art to see,

  More meek than lambs, more full of leaping glee

  Than kids, and brighter than the early glow

  On grapes that swell to ripen, — sour like thee!

  Thou comest to me with the fragrant sleep,

  And with the fragrant sleep thou goest from me;

  Thou fliest.. fliest, as a frightened sheep

  Plies the grey wolf! — yet Love did overcome me,

  So long; — I loved thee, maiden, first of all

  When down the hills (my mother fast beside thee)

  I saw thee stray to pluck the summer-fall

  Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to guide thee:

  And since my eyes have seen thee, they can leave thee

  No more, from that day’s light! But thou.. by Zeus,

  Thou wilt not care for that, to let it grieve thee!

  I know thee, fair one, why thou springest loose

  From my arm round thee. Why? I tell thee, Dear!

  One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudging road

  Straight through my ample front, from ear to ear, —

  One eye rolls underneath; and yawning, broad

  Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too near.

  Yet.. ho, ho! — I, — whatever I appear, —

  Do feed a thousand oxen! When I have done,

  I milk the cows, and drink the milk that’s best!

  I lack no cheese, while summer keeps the sun;

  And after, in the cold, it’s ready prest!

  And then, I know to sing, as there is none

  Of all the Cyclops can,.. a song of thee,

  Sweet apple of my soul, on love’s fair tree,

  And of myself who love thee.. till the West

  Forgets the light, and all but I have rest.

  I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does,

  And all in fawn; and four tame whelps of bears.

  Come to me, Sweet! thou shalt have all of those

  In change for love! I will not halve the shares.

  Leave the blue sea, with pure white arms extended

  To the dry shore; and, in my cave’s recess,

  Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight ended, —

  For here be laurels, spiral cypresses,

  Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves enfold

  Most luscious grapes; and here is water cold,

  The wooded Ætna pours down through the trees

  From the white snows, — which gods were scarce too bold

  To drink in turn with nectar. Who with these

  Would choose the salt wave of the lukewarm seas?

  Nay, look on me! If I am hairy and rough,

  I have an oak’s heart in me; there’s a fire

  In these grey ashes which burns hot enough;

  And when I burn for thee, I grudge the pyre

  No fuel.. not my soul, nor this one eye, —

  Most precious thing I have, because thereby

  I see thee, Fairest! Out, alas! I wish

  My mother had borne me finnëd like a fish,

  That I might plunge down in the ocean near thee,

  And kiss thy glittering hand between the weeds,

  If still thy face were turned; and I would bear thee

  Each lily white, and poppy fair that bleeds

  Its red heart down its leaves! — one gift, for hours

  Of summer,.. one, for winter; since, to cheer thee,

  I could not bring at once all kinds of flowers.

  Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn to swim,

  If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I wis, —

  That I may know how sweet a thing it is

  To live down with you, in the Deep and Dim!

  Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean,

  And having come, forget again to go!

  As I, who sing out here my heart’s emotion,

  Could sit for ever. Come up from below!

  Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk my kine, —

  Come, press my cheese, distrain my whey and curd!

  Ah, mother! she alone.. that mother of mine..

  Did wrong me sore! I blame her! — Not a word

  Of kindly intercession did she address

  Thine ear with for my sake; and nevertheless

  She saw me wasting, wasting, day by day!

  Both head and feet were aching, I will say,

  All sick for grief, as I myself was sick!

  O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou sent

  Thy soul on fluttering wings? If thou wert bent

  On turning bowls, or pulling green and thick

  The sprouts to give thy lambkins, — thou wouldst make thee

  A wiser Cyclops than for what we take thee.

  Milk dry the present! Why pursue too quick

  That future which is fugitive aright?

  Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find, —

  Or else a maiden fairer and more kind;

  For many girls do call me through the night,

  And, as they call, do laugh out silverly.

  I, too, am something in the world, I see!”

  While thus the Cyclops love and lambs did fold,

  Ease came with song, he could not buy with gold.

  PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS.

  PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID.

  (Metamorph., Lib. IV.)

  THEN Psyche, weak in body and soul, put on

  The cruelty of Fate, in place of strength:

  She raised the lamp to see what should be done,

  And seized the steel, and was a man at length

  In courage, though a woman! Yes, but when

&n
bsp; The light fell on the bed whereby she stood

  To view the c beast’ that lay there, — certes, then,

  She saw the gentlest, sweetest beast in wood —

  Even Cupid’s self, the beauteous god! more beauteous

  For that sweet sleep across his eyelids dim!

  The light, the lady carried as she viewed,

  Did blush for pleasure as it lighted him,

  The dagger trembled from its aim un duteous;

  And she.. oh, she — amazed and soul-distraught,

  And fainting in her whiteness like a veil,

  Slid down upon her knees, and, shuddering, thought

  To hide — though in her heart — the dagger pale!

  She would have done it, but her hands did fail

  To hold the guilty steel, they shivered so, —

  And feeble, exhausted, unawares she took

  To gazing on the god, — till, look by look,

  Her eyes with larger life did fill and glow.

  She saw his golden head alight with curls, —

  She might have guessed their brightness in the dark

  By that ambrosial smell of heavenly mark!

  She saw the milky brow, more pure than pearls,

  The purple of the cheeks, divinely sundered

  By the globed ringlets, as they glided free,

  Some back, some forwards, — all so radiantly,

  That, as she watched them there, she never wondered

  To see the lamplight, where it touched them, tremble

  On the god’s shoulders, too, she marked his wings

  Shine faintly at the edges and resemble

  A flower that’s near to blow. The poet sings

  And lover sighs, that Love is fugitive;

  And certes, though these pinions lay reposing,

  The feathers on them seemed to stir and live

  As if by instinct, closing and unclosing.

  Meantime the god’s fair body slumbered deep,

  All worthy of Venus, in his shining sleep;

  “While at the bed’s foot lay the quiver, bow,

  And darts, — his arms of godhead. Psyche gazed

  With eyes that drank the wonders in, — said,— “Lo,

  Be these my husband’s arms?” — and straightway raised

  An arrow from the quiver-case, and tried

  Its point against her finger, — trembling till

  She pushed it in too deeply (foolish bride!)

  And made her blood some dewdrops small distil,

  And learnt to love Love, of her own goodwill.

  PSYCHE WAFTED BY ZEPHYRUS.

  (Metamorph., Lib. IV.)

  WHILE Psyche wept upon the rock forsaken,

  Alone, despairing, dreading, — gradually

  By Zephyrus she was enwrapt and taken

  Still trembling, — like the lilies planted high, —

  Through all her fair white limbs. Her vesture spread,

  Her very bosom eddying with surprise, —

  He drew her slowly from the mountain-head,

  And bore her down the valleys with wet eyes,

  And laid her in the lap of a green dell

  As soft with grass and flowers as any nest,

  With trees beside her, and a limpid well:

  Yet Love was not far off from all that Rest.

  PSYCHE AND PAN.

  (Metamorph., Lib. V.)

  THE gentle River, in her Cupid’s honour,

  Because he used to warm the very wave,

  Did ripple aside, instead of closing on her,

  And cast up Psyche, with a refluence brave,

  Upon the flowery bank, — all sad and sinning.

  Then Pan, the rural god, by chance was leaning

  Along the brow of waters as they wound,

  Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank to ground,

  And teaching, without knowledge of the meaning,

  To run her voice in music after his

  Down many a shifting note; (the goats around,

  In wandering pasture and most leaping bliss,

  Drawn on to crop the river’s flowery hair.)

  And as the hoary god beheld her there,

  The poor, worn, fainting Psyche! — knowing all

  The grief she suffered, he did gently call

  Her name, and softly comfort her despair: —

  “O wise, fair lady, I am rough and rude,

  And yet experienced through my weary age!

  And if I read aright, as soothsayer should,

  Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrimage,

  Thy paleness, deep as snow we cannot see

  The roses through, — thy sighs of quick returning,

  Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two souls in mourning, —

  Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bitterly!

  But hear me: rush no more to a headlong fall:

  Seek no more deaths! leave wail, lay sorrow down,

  And pray the sovran god; and use withal

  Such prayer as best may suit a tender youth,

  Well-pleased to bend to flatteries from thy mouth

  And feel them stir the myrtle of his crown.”

  — So spake the shepherd-god; and answer none

  Gave Psyche in return: but silently

  She did him homage with a bended knee,

  And took the onward path. —

  PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES.

  (Metamorph., Lib. VI.)

  THEN mother Ceres from afar beheld her,

  While Psyche touched, with reverent fingers meek,

  The temple’s scythes; and with a cry compelled her: —

  “O wretched Psyche, Venus roams to seek

  Thy wandering footsteps round the weary earth,

  Anxious and maddened, and adjures thee forth

  To accept the imputed pang, and let her wreak

  Full vengeance with full force of deity!

  Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple here,

  Touching my scythes, assuming my degree,

  And daring to have thoughts that are not fear!”

  — But Psyche clung to her feet, and as they moved

  Rained tears along their track, tear, dropped on tear,

  And drew the dust on in her trailing locks,

  And still, with passionate prayer, the charge disproved

  “Now, by thy right hand’s gathering from the shocks

  Of golden corn, — and by thy gladsome rites

  Of harvest, — and thy consecrated sights

  Shut safe and mute in chests, — and by the course

  Of thy slave-dragons, — and the driving force

  Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes profound, —

  By thy swift chariot, — by thy steadfast ground, —

  By all those nuptial torches that departed

  With thy lost daughter, — and by those that shone

  Back with her, when she came again glad-hearted, —

  And by all other mysteries which are done

  In silence at Eleusis, — I beseech thee,

  O Ceres, take some pity, and abstain

  From giving to my soul extremer pain

  Who am the wretched Psyche! Let me teach thee

  A little mercy, and have thy leave to spend

  A few days only in thy garnered corn,

  Until that wrathful goddess, at the end,

  Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer borne, —

  Or till, alas! — this faintness at my breast

  Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend

  From life-long woe a breath-time hour of rest!”

  — But Ceres answered, “I am moved indeed

  By prayers so moist with tears, and would defend

  The poor beseecher from more utter need:

  But where old oaths, anterior ties, commend,

  I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend,

  As Venus is to me. Depart with speed!”

  PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE.

  (Metam
orph., Lib. VI.)

  BUT sovran Jove’s rapacious Bird, the regal

  High percher on the lightning, the great eagle

  Drove down with rushing wings; and, — thinking how,

  By Cupid’s help, he bore from Ida’s brow

  A cup-boy for his master, — he inclined

  To yield, in just return, an influence kind;

  The god being honoured in his lady’s woe.

  And thus the Bird wheeled downward from the track,

  Gods follow gods in, to the level low

  Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack.

  — “Now fie, thou simple girl!” the Bird began;

  “For if thou think to steal and carry back

  A drop of holiest stream that ever ran,

  No simpler thought, methinks, were found in man.

  What! know’st thou not these Stygian waters be

  Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on earth,

  Men swear by gods, and by the thunder’s worth,

  Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth

  Their oaths by Styx’s flowing majesty?

  And yet, one little urnful, I agree

  To grant thy need!” Whereat, all hastily,

  He takes it, fills it from the willing wave,

  And bears it in his beak, incarnadined

  By the last Titan-prey he screamed to have;

  And, striking calmly out, against the wind,

  Vast wings on each side, — there, where Psyche stands,

  He drops the urn down in her lifted hands.

  PSYCHE AND CERBERUS.

  (Metamorph., Lib. VI.)

  A MIGHTY dog with three colossal necks,

  And heads in grand proportion; vast as fear,

  With jaws that bark the thunder out that breaks

  In most innocuous dread for ghosts anear,

  Who are safe in death from sorrow: he reclines

  Across the threshold of queen Proserpine’s

  Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, for Pluto’s spouse,

  Doth guard the entrance of the empty house.

  When Psyche threw the cake to him, once amain

  He howled up wildly from his hunger-pain,

  And was still, after. —

  PSYCHE AND PROSERPINE.

  (Metamorph., Lib. VI.)

  THEN Psyche entered in to Proserpine