Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Read online

  From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad

  With keeping blythe Dan Phoebus company; —

  And throws him on the grass, though half afraid;

  First glancing round, lest tempests should be nigh;

  And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips,

  And shapes their beauty into sound, and calls

  On all the petall’d flowers that sit beneath

  In hiding-places from the rain and snow,

  To loosen the hard soil, and leave their cold

  Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him.

  They straightway hear his voice —

  A thought did come,

  And press from out my soul the heathen dream.

  Mine eyes were purgëd. Straightway did I bind

  Round me the garment of my strength, and heard

  Nature’s death-shrieking — the hereafter cry,

  When he o’ the lion voice, the rainbow-crown’d,

  Shall stand upon the mountains and the sea,

  And swear by earth, by heaven’s throne, and Him

  Who sitteth on the throne, there shall be time

  No more, no more! Then, veil’d Eternity

  Shall straight unveil her awful countenance

  Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place

  Of seasons, years, and ages. Aye and aye

  Shall be the time of day. The wrinkled heav’n

  Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white

  With an exterminating light: the wind,

  Unchainëd from the poles, nor having charge

  Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail

  Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death.

  Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale

  Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by

  From out her ancient place, and leave — a void.

  Yet haply by that void the saints redeem’d

  May sometimes stray; when memory of sin

  Ghost-like shall rise upon their holy souls;

  And on their lips shall lie the name of earth

  In paleness and in silentness; until

  Each looking on his brother, face to face,

  And bursting into sudden happy tears,

  (The only tears undried) shall murmur— ‘Christ!’

  THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.

  They spoke unto me from the silent ground,

  They look’d unto me from the pictured wall:

  The echo of my footstep was a sound

  Like to the echo of their own footfall,

  What time their living feet were in the hall.

  I breathed where they had breathed — and where they brought

  Their souls to moralize on glory’s pall,

  I walk’d with silence in a cloud of thought:

  So, what they erst had learn’d, I mine own spirit taught.

  Ay! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold

  The likeness of their flesh! They, the great dead,

  Stood still upon the canvass, while I told

  The glorious memories to their ashes wed.

  There, I beheld the Sidneys: — he, who bled

  Freely for freedom’s sake, bore gallantly

  His soul upon his brow; — he, whose lute said

  Sweet music to the land, meseem’d to be

  Dreaming with that pale face, of love and Arcadie.

  Mine heart had shrinëd these. And therefore past

  Were these, and such as these, in mine heart’s pride,

  Which deem’d death, glory’s other name. At last

  I stay’d my pilgrim feet, and paused beside

  A picture, which the shadows half did hide.

  The form was a fair woman’s form; the brow

  Brightly between the clustering curls espied:

  The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so

  As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go.

  And rested there the lips, so warm and loving,

  That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess:

  Only they had been much too bright, if moving,

  To stay by their own will, all motionless.

  One outstretch’d hand its marble seal ‘gan press

  On roses which look’d fading; while the eyes,

  Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness,

  Seem’d busy with their flow’ry destinies,

  Drawing, for ladye’s heart, some moral quaint and wise.

  She perish’d like her roses. I did look

  On her, as she did look on them — to sigh!

  Alas, alas! that the fair-written book

  Of her sweet face, should be in death laid by,

  As any blotted scroll! Its cruelty

  Poison’d a heart most gentle-pulsed of all,

  And turn’d it unto song, therein to die:

  For grief’s stern tension maketh musical,

  Unless the strain’d string break or ere the music fall.

  Worship of Waller’s heart! no dream of thine

  Reveal’d unto thee, that the lowly one,

  Who sate enshadow’d near thy beauty’s shine,

  Should, when the light was out, the life was done,

  Record thy name with those by Memory won

  From Time’s eternal burial. I am woo’d

  By wholesome thoughts this sad thought hath begun;

  For mind is strengthen’d when awhile subdued,

  As he who touch’d the earth, and rose with power renew’d.

  TO A POET’S CHILD.

  A far harp swept the sea above;

  A far voice said thy name in love:

  Then silence on the harp was cast;

  The voice was chain’d — the love went last!

  And as I heard the melodie,

  Sweet-voicëd Fancy spake of thee:

  And as the silence o’er it came,

  Mine heart, in silence, sigh’d thy name.

  I thought there was one only place,

  Where thou couldst lift thine orphan’d face;

  A little home for prayer and woe; —

  A stone above — a shroud below; —

  That evermore, that stone beside,

  Thy wither’d joys would form thy pride;

  As palm trees, on their south sea bed,

  Make islands with the flowers they shed.

  Child of the Dead! my dream of thee

  Was sad to tell, and dark to see;

  And vain as many a brighter dream;

  Since thou canst sing by Babel’s stream!

  For here, amid the worldly crowd,

  ‘Mid common brows, and laughter loud,

  And hollow words, and feelings sere,

  Child of the Dead! I meet thee here!

  And is thy step so fast and light?

  And is thy smile so gay and bright?

  And canst thou smile, with cheek undim,

  Upon a world that frown’d on him ?

  The minstrel’s harp is on his bier;

  What doth the minstrel’s orphan here?

  The loving moulders in the clay;

  The loved, — she keepeth holyday!

  ‘Tis well! I would not doom thy years

  Of golden prime, to only tears.

  Fair girl! ‘twere better that thine eyes

  Should find a joy in summer skies,

  As if their sun were on thy fate.

  Be happy; strive not to be great;

  And go not, from thy kind apart,

  With lofty soul and stricken heart.

  Think not too deeply: shallow thought,

  Like open rills, is ever sought

  By light and flowers; while fountains deep

  Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.

  Feel not too warmly: lest thou be

  Too like Cyrene’s waters free,

  Which burn at night, when all around

  In darkness and in chill is found.

  Touch not the harp to win the wreath: />
  Its tone is fame, its echo death!

  The wreath may like the laurel grow,

  Yet turns to cypress on the brow!

  And, as a flame springs clear and bright,

  Yet leaveth ashes ‘stead of light;

  So genius (fatal gift)! is doom’d

  To leave the heart it fired, consumed.

  For thee, for thee, thou orphan’d one,

  I make an humble orison!

  Love all the world; and ever dream

  That all are true who truly seem.

  Forget! for, so, ‘twill move thee not,

  Or lightly move; to be forgot!

  Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth;

  Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.

  So, when grief plays her natural part,

  And visiteth thy quiet heart;

  Shall all the clouds of grief be seen

  To show a sky of hope between.

  So, when thy beauty senseless lies,

  No sculptured urn shall o’er thee rise;

  But gentle eyes shall weep at will,

  Such tears as hearts like thine distil.

  MINSTRELSY.

  One asked her once the resun why,

  She hadde delyte in minstrelsie,

  She answerëd on this manére.

  Robert de Brunne.

  For ever, since my childish looks

  Could rest on Nature’s pictured books;

  For ever, since my childish tongue

  Could name the themes our bards have sung;

  So long, the sweetness of their singing

  Hath been to me a rapture bringing!

  Yet ask me not the reason why

  I have delight in minstrelsy.

  I know that much whereof I sing,

  Is shapen but for vanishing;

  I know that summer’s flower and leaf

  And shine and shade are very brief,

  And that the heart they brighten, may,

  Before them all, be sheathed in clay! —

  I do not know the reason why

  I have delight in minstrelsy.

  A few there are, whose smile and praise

  My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:

  But, of those few — Death may impress

  The lips of some with silentness;

  While some may friendship’s faith resign,

  And heed no more a song of mine. —

  Ask not, ask not the reason why

  I have delight in minstrelsy.

  The sweetest song that minstrels sing,

  Will charm not Joy to tarrying;

  The greenest bay that earth can grow,

  Will shelter not in burning woe;

  A thousand voices will not cheer,

  When one is mute that aye is dear! —

  Is there, alas! no reason why

  I have delight in minstrelsy?

  I do not know! The turf is green

  Beneath the rain’s fast-dropping sheen,

  Yet asks not why that deeper hue

  Doth all its tender leaves renew; —

  And I, like-minded, am content,

  While music to my soul is sent,

  To question not the reason why

  I have delight in minstrelsy.

  Years pass — my life with them shall pass:

  And soon, the cricket in the grass

  And summer bird, shall louder sing

  Than she who owns a minstrel’s string.

  Oh then may some, the dear and few,

  Recall her love, whose truth they knew;

  When all forget to question why

  She had delight in minstrelsy!

  TO THE MEMORY OF SIR UVEDALE PRICE, BART.

  Farewell! — a word that human lips bestow

  On all that human hearts delight to know:

  On summer skies, and scenes that change as fast;

  On ocean calms, and faith as fit to last;

  On Life, from Love’s own arms, that breaks away;

  On hopes that blind, and glories that decay!

  And ever thus, ‘farewell, farewell,’ is said,

  As round the hills of lengthening time, we tread;

  As at each step, the winding ways unfold

  Some untried prospect which obscures the old; —

  Perhaps a prospect brightly color’d o’er,

  Yet not with brightness that we loved before;

  And dull and dark the brightest hue appears

  To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.

  Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past,

  And yon supernal summit gain’d at last;

  Where all that gradual change removed, is found

  At once, for ever, as you look around;

  Where every scene by tender eyes survey’d,

  And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spread —

  No tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall,

  But Heaven’s own sunshine lighting, charming all.

  Farewell! — a common word — and yet how drear

  And strange it soundeth as I write it here!

  How strange that thou a place of death shouldst fill,

  Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill!

  And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw,

  Incited Nature brake her tyrant’s law!

  And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,

  Mæonian music tuned her harp anew!

  And mute the lips where Plato’s bee hath roved;

  And motionless the hand that genius moved! —

  Ah friend! thou speakest not! — but still to me

  Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee! —

  Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,

  And waving wood, recall some word of thine:

  Some word, some look, whose living light is o’er —

  And Memory sees what Hope can see no more.

  Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came

  To us, a change, a joy — to thee, a fame!

  Thou spakest once; and every pleasant sight,

  Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,

  Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes

  Of shade and sunshine gleam’d before our eyes.

  Thou spakest twice; and every pleasant sound

  Its ancient silken harmony unwound,

  From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay

  Enclasp’d in hands whose cunning is decay.

  And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met

  And won thee to him! Oh remember’d yet!

  We cannot see , and hearken , and forget!

  My thoughts are far. I think upon the time,

  When Foxley’s purple hills and woods sublime

  Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw

  Thy burning spirit on the vale below,

  To bathe its sense in beauty. Lovely ground!

  There, never more shall step of thine resound!

  There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,

  And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot;

  Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,

  And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.

  For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise

  A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise,

  Upon thy grave, my tuneless harp I lay,

  Nor try to sing what only tears can say.

  So warm and fast the ready waters swell —

  So weak the faltering voice thou knewest well!

  Thy words of kindness calm’d that voice before;

  Now , thoughts of them but make it tremble more;

  And leave its theme to others, and depart

  To dwell within the silence where thou art.

  THE AUTUMN.

  Go , sit upon the lofty hill,

  And turn your eyes around,

  Where waving woods and waters wild

  Do hymn an autumn sound.
r />   The summer sun is faint on them —

  The summer flowers depart —

  Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,

  Except your musing heart.

  How there you sat in summer-time,

  May yet be in your mind;

  And how you heard the green woods sing

  Beneath the freshening wind.

  Though the same wind now blows around,

  You would its blast recall;

  For every breath that stirs the trees,

  Doth cause a leaf to fall.

  Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

  That flesh and dust impart:

  We cannot bear its visitings,

  When change is on the heart.

  Gay words and jests may make us smile,

  When Sorrow is asleep;

  But other things must make us smile,

  When Sorrow bids us weep!

  The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —

  Their presence may be o’er;

  The dearest voice that meets our ear,

  That tone may come no more!

  Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

  Which once refresh’d our mind,

  Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,

  The chilling autumn wind.

  Hear not the wind — view not the woods;

  Look out o’er vale and hill:

  In spring, the sky encircled them —

  The sky is round them still.

  Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —

  Come change — and human fate!

  Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

  Can ne’er be desolate.

  THE DEATH-BED OF TERESA DEL RIEGO.

  — Si fia muta ogni altra cosa, al fine

  Parlerà il mio morire,

  E ti dirà la morte il mio martire.

  Guarini.

  The room was darken’d; but a wan lamp shed

  Its light upon a half-uncurtain’d bed,

  Whereon the widow’d sate. Blackly as death

  Her veiling hair hung round her, and no breath

  Came from her lips to motion it. Between

  Its parted clouds, the calm fair face was seen