Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Read online

  Marry your pleasures to your woes;

  And think life’s green well worth its rose!

  No sorrow will your heart betide,

  Without a comfort by its side;

  The sun may sleep in his sea-bed,

  But you have starlight overhead.

  Trust not to Joy! the rose of June,

  When opened wide, will wither soon;

  Italian days without twilight

  Will turn them suddenly to night.

  Joy, most changeful of all things,

  Flits away on rainbow wings;

  And when they look the gayest, know,

  It is that they are spread to go!

  THE DREAM.

  A FRAGMENT.

  I had a dream! — my spirit was unbound

  From the dark iron of its dungeon, clay,

  And rode the steeds of Time; — my thoughts had sound,

  And spoke without a word, — I went away

  Among the buried ages, and did lay

  The pulses of my heart beneath the touch

  Of the rude minstrel Time, that he should play

  Thereon, a melody which might seem such

  As musing spirits love — mournful, but not too much!

  I had a dream — and there mine eyes did see

  The shadows of past deeds like present things —

  The sepulchres of Greece and Hespery,

  Ægyptus, and old landes, gave up their kings,

  Their prophets, saints, and minstrels, whose lute-strings

  Keep a long echo — yea, the dead, white bones

  Did stand up by the house whereto Death clings,

  And dressed themselves in life, speaking of thrones,

  And fame, and power, and beauty, in familiar tones!

  I went back further still, for I beheld

  What time the earth was one fair Paradise —

  And over such bright meads the waters welled,

  I wot the rainbow was content to rise

  Upon the earth, when absent from the skies!

  And there were tall trees that I never knew,

  Whereon sate nameless birds in merry guise,

  Folding their radiant wings, as the flowers do,

  When summer nights send sleep down with the dew.

  Anon there came a change — a terrible motion,

  That made all living things grow pale and shake!

  The dark Heavens bowed themselves unto the ocean,

  Like a strong man in strife — Ocean did take

  His flight across the mountains; and the lake

  Was lashed into a sea where the winds ride —

  Earth was no more, for in her merrymake

  She had forgot her God — Sin claimed his bride,

  And with his vampire breath sucked out her life’s fair tide!

  Life went back to her nostrils, and she raised

  Her spirit from the waters once again —

  The lovely sights, on which I erst had gazed,

  Were not — though she was beautiful as when

  The Grecian called her “Beauty” — sinful men

  Walked i’ the track of the waters, and felt bold —

  Yea, they looked up to Heaven in calm disdain,

  As if no eye had seen its vault unfold

  Darkness, and fear, and death! — as if a tale were told!

  And ages fled away within my dream;

  And still Sin made the heart his dwelling-place,

  Eclipsing Heaven from men; but it would seem

  That two or three dared commune face to face,

  And speak of the soul’s life, of hope, and grace —

  Anon there rose such sounds as angels breathe —

  For a God came to die, bringing down peace —

  “Pan was not ;” and the darkness that did wreathe

  The earth, past from the soul — Life came by death!

  RIGA’S LAST SONG.

  I have looked my last on my native land,

  And over these strings I throw my hand,

  To say in the death-hour’s minstrelsy,

  Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!

  I have looked my last on my native shore;

  I shall tread my country’s plains no more;

  But my last thought is of her fame;

  But my last breath speaketh her name!

  And though these lips shall soon be still,

  They may now obey the spirit’s will;

  Though the dust be fettered, the spirit is free —

  Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!

  I go to death — but I leave behind

  The stirrings of Freedom’s mighty mind;

  Her voice shall arise from plain to sky,

  Her steps shall tread where my ashes lie!

  I looked on the mountains of proud Souli,

  And the mountains they seemed to look on me;

  I spoke my thought on Marathon’s plain,

  And Marathon seemed to speak again!

  And as I journeyed on my way,

  I saw an infant group at play;

  One shouted aloud in his childish glee,

  And showed me the heights of Thermopylæ!

  I gazed on peasants hurrying by, —

  The dark Greek pride crouched in their eye;

  So I swear in my death-hour’s minstrelsy,

  Hellas, my country! thou shalt be free!

  No more! — I dash my lyre on the ground —

  I tear its strings from their home of sound —

  For the music of slaves shall never keep

  Where the hand of a freeman was wont to sweep!

  And I bend my brows above the block,

  Silently waiting the swift death shock;

  For these lips shall speak what becomes the free —

  Or — Hellas, my country! farewell to thee!

  He bowed his head with a Patriot’s pride,

  And his dead trunk fell the mute lyre beside!

  The soul of each had past away —

  Soundless the strings — breathless the clay!

  THE VISION OF FAME.

  Did ye ever sit on summer noon,

  Half musing and half asleep,

  When ye smile in such a dreamy way,

  Ye know not if ye weep —

  When the little flowers are thick beneath,

  And the welkin blue above;

  When there is not a sound but the cattle’s low,

  And the voice of the woodland dove?

  A while ago and I dreamëd thus —

  I mused on ancient story, —

  For the heart like a minstrel of old doth seem,

  It delighteth to sing of glory.

  What time I saw before me stand,

  A bright and lofty One;

  A golden lute was in her hand,

  And her brow drooped thereon.

  But the brow that drooped was raisëd soon,

  Shewing its royal sheen —

  It was, I guessed, no human brow,

  Though pleasant to human een.

  And this brow of peerless majesty,

  With its whiteness did enshroud

  Two eyes, that, darkly mystical,

  ‘Gan look up at a cloud.

  Like to the hair of Bereníce,

  Fetch’d from its house of light,

  Was the hair which wreathed her shadowless form —

  And Fame the ladye hight!

  But as she wended on to me,

  My heart’s deep fear was chidden;

  For she called up the sprite of Melody,

  Which in her lute lay hidden.

  When ye speak to well-belovëd ones,

  Your voice is tender and low:

  The wires methought did love her touch —

  For they did answer so.

  And her lips in such a quiet way

  Gave the chant soft and long, —

  You might have thought she only breathed,

  And that her breath was song: —


  “When Death shrouds thy memory,

  Love is no shrine —

  The dear eyes that weep for thee,

  Soon sleep like thine!

  The wail murmured over thee,

  Fainteth away;

  And the heart which kept love for thee,

  Turns into clay!

  “But would’st thou remembered be,

  Make me thy vow;

  This verse that flows gushingly,

  Telleth thee how —

  Linking thy hand in mine,

  Listen to me,

  So not a thought of thine

  Dieth with thee —

  “Rifle thy pulsing heart

  Of the gift, love made;

  Bid thine eye’s light depart;

  Let thy cheek fade!

  Give me the slumber deep,

  Which night-long seems;

  Give me the joys that creep

  Into thy dreams!

  “Give me thy youthful years,

  Merriest that fly —

  So the word, spoke in tears ,

  Liveth for aye!

  So thy sepulchral stone,

  Nations may raise —

  What time thy soul hath known

  The worth of praise! “

  She did not sing this chant to me,

  Though I was sitting by;

  But I listened to it with chainëd breath,

  That had no power to sigh.

  And ever as the chant went on,

  Its measure changed to wail;

  And ever as the lips sang on,

  Her face did grow more pale.

  Paler and paler — till anon

  A fear came o’er my soul;

  For the flesh curled up from her bones,

  Like to a blasted scroll!

  Ay! silently it dropped away,

  Before my wondering sight —

  There was only a bleachëd skeleton,

  Where erst was ladye bright!

  But still the vacant sockets gleamed

  With supernatural fires —

  But still the boney hands did ring

  Against the shuddering wires!

  Alas, alas! I wended home,

  With a sorrow and a shame —

  Is Fame the rest of our poor hearts?

  Woe’s me! for this is FAME!

  THE TEMPEST.

  A FRAGMENT.

  “Mors erat ante oculos.”

  — Lucan , lib. ix.

  . . . . . .

  The forest made my home — the voiceful streams

  My minstrel throng: the everlasting hills, —

  Which marry with the firmament, and cry

  Unto the brazen thunder, ‘Come away,

  Come from thy secret place, and try our strength,’ —

  Enwrapp’d me with their solemn arms. Here, light

  Grew pale as darkness, scarëd by the shade

  O’ the forest Titans. Here, in piny state,

  Reign’d Night, the Æthiopian queen, and crown’d

  The charmëd brow of Solitude, her spouse.

  . . . . . .

  A sign was on creation. You beheld

  All things encolour’d in a sulph’rous hue,

  As day were sick with fear. The haggard clouds

  O’erhung the utter lifelessness of air;

  The top boughs of the forest all aghast,

  Stared in the face of Heav’n; the deep-mouth’d wind,

  That hath a voice to bay the armëd sea,

  Fled with a low cry like a beaten hound;

  And only that askance the shadows, flew

  Some open-beakëd birds in wilderment,

  Naught stirr’d abroad. All dumb did Nature seem,

  In expectation of the coming storm.

  It came in power. You soon might hear afar

  The footsteps of the martial thunder sound

  Over the mountain battlements; the sky

  Being deep-stain’d with hues fantastical,

  Red like to blood, and yellow like to fire,

  And black like plumes at funerals; overhead

  You might behold the lightning faintly gleam

  Amid the clouds which thrill and gape aside,

  And straight again shut up their solemn jaws,

  As if to interpose between Heaven’s wrath

  And Earth’s despair. Interposition brief!

  Darkness is gathering out her mighty pall

  Above us, and the pent-up rain is loosed,

  Down trampling in its fierce delirium.

  Was not my spirit gladden’d, as with wine,

  To hear the iron rain, and view the mark

  Of battle on the banner of the clouds?

  Did I not hearken for the battle-cry,

  And rush along the bowing woods to meet

  The riding Tempest — skyey cataracts

  Hissing around him with rebellion vain?

  Yea! and I lifted up my glorying voice

  In an ‘All hail;’ when, wildly resonant,

  As brazen chariots rushing from the war,

  As passion’d waters gushing from the rock,

  As thousand crashëd woods, the thunder cried:

  And at his cry the forest tops were shook

  As by the woodman’s axe; and far and near

  Stagger’d the mountains with a mutter’d dread.

  All hail unto the lightning! hurriedly

  His lurid arms are glaring through the air,

  Making the face of heav’n to show like hell!

  Let him go breathe his sulphur stench about,

  And, pale with death’s own mission, lord the storm!

  Again the gleam — the glare: I turn’d to hail

  Death’s mission: at my feet there lay the dead!

  The dead — the dead lay there! I could not view

  (For Night espoused the storm, and made all dark)

  Its features, but the lightning in his course

  Shiver’d above a white and corpse-like heap,

  Stretch’d in the path, as if to show his prey,

  And have a triumph ere he pass’d. Then I

  Crouch’d down upon the ground, and groped about

  Until I touch’d that thing of flesh, rain-drench’d,

  And chill, and soft. Nathless, I did refrain

  My soul from natural horror! I did lift

  The heavy head, half-bedded in the clay,

  Unto my knee; and pass’d my fingers o’er

  The wet face, touching every lineament,

  Until I found the brow; and chafed its chill,

  To know if life yet linger’d in its pulse.

  And while I was so busied, there did leap

  From out the entrails of the firmament,

  The lightning, who his white unblenching breath

  Blew in the dead man’s face, discov’ring it

  As by a staring day. I knew that face —

  His, who did hate me — his, whom I did hate!

  I shrunk not — spake not — sprang not from the ground!

  But felt my lips shake without cry or breath,

  And mine heart wrestle in my breast to still

  The tossing of its pulses; and a cold,

  Instead of living blood, o’ercreep my brow.

  Albeit such darkness brooded all around,

  I had dread knowledge that the open eyes

  Of that dead man were glaring up to mine,

  With their unwinking, unexpressive stare;

  And mine I could not shut nor turn away.

  The man was my familiar. I had borne

  Those eyes to scowl on me their living hate,

  Better than I could bear their deadliness:

  I had endured the curses of those lips,

  Far better than their silence. Oh constrain’d

  And awful silence! — awful peace of death!

  There is an answer to all questioning,

  That one word — death . Our bitterness can throw

&n
bsp; No look upon the face of death, and live.

  The burning thoughts that erst my soul illumed,

  Were quench’d at once; as tapers in a pit

  Wherein the vapour-witches weirdly reign

  In charge of darkness. Farewell all the past!

  It was out-blotted from my memory’s eyes,

  When clay’s cold silence pleaded for its sin.

  Farewell the elemental war! farewell

  The clashing of the shielded clouds — the cry

  Of scathëd echoes! I no longer knew

  Silence from sound, but wander’d far away

  Into the deep Eleusis of mine heart,

  To learn its secret things. When armëd foes

  Meet on one deck with impulse violent,

  The vessel quakes thro’ all her oaken ribs,

  And shivers in the sea; so with mine heart:

  For there had battled in her solitudes,

  Contrary spirits; sympathy with power,

  And stooping unto power; — the energy

  And passiveness, — the thunder and the death!

  Within me was a nameless thought: it closed

  The Janus of my soul on echoing hinge,

  And said ‘Peace!’ with a voice like War’s. I bow’d,

  And trembled at its voice: it gave a key,

  Empower’d to open out all mysteries

  Of soul and flesh; of man, who doth begin,

  But endeth not; of life, and after life .

  . . . . . .

  Day came at last: her light show’d gray and sad,

  As hatch’d by tempest, and could scarce prevail

  Over the shaggy forest to imprint

  Its outline on the sky — expressionless,

  Almost sans shadow as sans radiance:

  An idiocy of light. I waken’d from

  My deep unslumb’ring dream, but utter’d naught.

  My living I uncoupled from the dead,

  And look’d out, ‘mid the swart and sluggish air,

  For place to make a grave. A mighty tree

  Above me, his gigantic arms outstretch’d,

  Poising the clouds. A thousand mutter’d spells