Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Read online

  In a snow paleness and snow silentness,

  With eyes unquenchable, whereon did press

  A little, their white lids, so taught to lie,

  By weights of frequent tears wept secretly.

  Her hands were clasp’d and raised — the lamp did fling

  A glory on her brow’s meek suffering.

  Beautiful form of woman! seeming made

  Alone to shine in mirrors, there to braid

  The hair and zone the waist — to garland flowers —

  To walk like sunshine through the orange bowers —

  To strike her land’s guitar — and often see

  In other eyes how lovely hers must be —

  Grew she acquaint with anguish? Did she sever

  For ever from the one she loved for ever,

  To dwell among the strangers? Ay! and she,

  Who shone most brightly in that festive glee,

  Sate down in this despair most patiently.

  Some hearts are Niobes! In grief’s down-sweeping,

  They turn to very stone from over-weeping,

  And after, feel no more. Hers did remain

  In life, which is the power of feeling pain,

  Till pain consumed the life so call’d below.

  She heard that he was dead! — she ask’d not how —

  For he was dead! She wail’d not o’er his urn,

  For he was dead — and in her hands, should burn

  His vestal flame of honor radiantly.

  Sighing would dim its light — she did not sigh.

  She only died. They laid her in the ground,

  Whereon th’unloving tread, and accents sound

  Which are not of her Spain. She left behind,

  For those among the strangers who were kind

  Unto the poor heart-broken, her dark hair.

  It once was gauded out with jewels rare;

  It swept her dying pillow — it doth lie

  Beside me, (thank the giver) droopingly,

  And very long and bright! Its tale doth go

  Half to the dumb grave, half to life-time woe,

  Making the heart of man, if manly, ring

  Like Dodonæan brass, with echoing.

  TO VICTOIRE, ON HER MARRIAGE.

  Victoire! I knew thee in thy land,

  Where I was strange to all:

  I heard thee; and were strange to me

  The words thy lips let fall.

  I loved thee — for the Babel curse

  Was meant not for the heart:

  I parted from thee, in such way

  As those who love may part.

  And now a change hath come to us,

  A sea doth rush between!

  I do not know if we can be

  Again as we have been.

  I sit down in mine English land,

  Mine English hearth beside;

  And thou, to one I never knew,

  Art plighted for a bride.

  It will not wrong thy present joy,

  With by-gone days to wend;

  Nor wrongeth it mine English hearth,

  To love my Gallic friend.

  Bind, bind the wreath! the slender ring

  Thy wedded finger press!

  May he who calls thy love his own,

  Call so thine happiness!

  Be he Terpander to thine heart,

  And string fresh strings of gold,

  Which may out-give new melodies,

  But never mar the old!

  And though I clasp no more thy hand

  In my hand, and rejoice —

  And though I see thy face no more,

  And hear no more thy voice —

  Farewell, farewell! — let thought of me

  Visit thine heart! There is

  In mine the very selfish prayer

  That prayeth for thy bliss!

  TO A BOY.

  When my last song was said for thee,

  Thy golden hair swept, long and free,

  Around thee; and a dove-like tone

  Was on thy voice — or Nature’s own:

  And every phrase and word of thine

  Went out in lispings infantine!

  Thy small steps faltering round our hearth —

  Thine een out-peering in their mirth —

  Blue een! that, like thine heart, seem’d given

  To be, for ever, full of heaven!

  Wert thou, in sooth, made up of glee,

  When my last song was said for thee?

  And now more years are finishëd, —

  For thee another song is said.

  Thy voice hath lost its cooing tone;

  The lisping of thy words is gone:

  Thy step treads firm — thine hair not flings

  Round thee its length of golden rings —

  Departed, like all lovely things!

  Yet art thou still made up of glee,

  When my now song is said for thee.

  Wisely and well responded they,

  Who cut thy golden hair away,

  What time I made the bootless prayer,

  That they should pause awhile, and spare.

  They said, ‘its sheen did less agree

  With boyhood than with infancy.’

  And thus I know it aye must be.

  Before the revel noise is done,

  The revel lamps pale one by one.

  Ay! Nature loveth not to bring

  Crown’d victims to life’s labouring.

  The mirth-effulgent eye appears

  Less sparkling — to make room for tears:

  After the heart’s quick throbs depart,

  We lose the gladness of the heart:

  And, after we have lost awhile

  The rose o’ the lip, we lose its smile;

  As Beauty could not bear to press

  Near the death-pyre of Happiness.

  This seemeth but a sombre dream?

  It hath more pleasant thoughts than seem.

  The older a young tree doth grow,

  The deeper shade it sheds below;

  But makes the grass more green — the air

  More fresh, than had the sun been there.

  And thus our human life is found,

  Albeit a darkness gather round:

  For patient virtues, that their light

  May shine to all men, want the night:

  And holy Peace, unused to cope,

  Sits meekly at the tomb of Hope,

  Saying that ‘she is risen!’

  Then I

  Will sorrow not at destiny, —

  Though from thine eyes, and from thine heart,

  The glory of their light depart;

  Though on thy voice, and on thy brow,

  Should come a fiercer change than now;

  Though thou no more be made of glee,

  When my next song is said for thee.

  REMONSTRANCE.

  Oh say not it is vain to weep

  That deafen’d bier above;

  Where genius has made room for death,

  And life is past from love;

  That tears can never his bright looks

  And tender words restore:

  I know it is most vain to weep —

  And therefore, weep the more!

  Oh say not I shall cease to weep

  When years have wither’d by;

  That ever I shall speak of joy,

  As if he could reply;

  That ever mine unquivering lips

  Shall name the name he bore:

  I know that I may cease to weep,

  And therefore weep the more!

  Say, Time, who slew mine happiness,

  Will leave to me my woe;

  And woe’s own stony strength shall chain

  These tears’ impassion’d flow:

  Or say, that these, my ceaseless tears,

  May life to death restore;

  For then my soul were wept away,

  And I should weep no more!

 
REPLY.

  To weep awhile beside the bier,

  Whereon his ashes lie,

  Is well! — I know that rains must fall

  When clouds are in the sky:

  I know, to die — to part , will cloud

  The brightest spirit o’er;

  And yet, wouldst thou for ever weep,

  When he can weep no more?

  Fix not thy sight, so long and fast,

  Upon the shroud’s despair;

  Look upward unto Zion’s hill,

  For death was also there!

  And think, ‘The death, the scourge, the scorn,

  My sinless Saviour bore —

  The curse — the pang, too deep for tears —

  That I should weep no more!’

  EPITAPH.

  Beauty , who softly walkest all thy days,

  In silken garment to the tunes of praise; —

  Lover, whose dreamings by the green-bank’d river,

  Where once she wander’d, fain would last for ever; —

  King, whom the nations scan, adoring scan,

  And shout ‘a god,’ when sin hath mark’d thee man; —

  Bard, on whose brow the Hyblan dew remains,

  Albeit the fever burneth in the veins; —

  Hero, whose sword in tyrant’s blood is hot; —

  Sceptic, who doubting, wouldst be doubted not; —

  Man, whosoe’er thou art, whate’er thy trust; —

  Respect thyself in me; — thou treadest dust .

  THE IMAGE OF GOD.

  “I am God, and there is none like me.”

  Isaiah xlvi. 9.

  “Christ, who is the image of God.”

  2 Cor. iv. 4.

  Thou! art thou like to God?

  (I ask’d this question of the glorious sun)

  Thou high unwearied one,

  Whose course in heat, and light, and life is run?

  Eagles may view thy face — clouds can assuage

  Thy fiery wrath — the sage

  Can mete thy stature — thou shalt fade with age,

  Thou art not like to God.

  Thou! art thou like to God?

  (I ask’d this question of the bounteous earth)

  Oh thou, who givest birth

  To forms of beauty and to sounds of mirth?

  In all thy glory works the worm decay —

  Thy golden harvests stay

  For seed and toil — thy power shall pass away.

  Thou art not like to God.

  Thou! art thou like to God?

  (I ask’d this question of my deathless soul)

  Oh thou, whose musings roll

  Above the thunder, o’er creation’s whole?

  Thou art not. Sin, and shame, and agony

  Within thy deepness lie:

  They utter forth their voice in thee, and cry

  ‘ Thou art not like to God.’

  Then art Thou like to God;

  Thou, who didst bear the sin, and shame, and woe —

  O Thou, whose sweat did flow —

  Whose tears did gush — whose brow was dead and low?

  No grief is like thy grief; no heart can prove

  Love like unto thy love;

  And none, save only Thou, — below, above, —

  Oh God, is like to God!

  THE APPEAL.

  Children of our England! stand

  On the shores that girt our land;

  The ægis of whose cloud-white rock

  Braveth Time’s own battle shock.

  Look above the wide, wide world;

  Where the northern blasts have furl’d

  Their numbëd wings amid the snows,

  Mutt’ring in a forced repose —

  Or where the madden’d sun on high

  Shakes his torch athwart the sky,

  Till within their prison sere,

  Chainëd earthquakes groan for fear!

  Look above the wide, wide world,

  Where a gauntlet Sin hath hurl’d

  To astonied Life; and where

  Death’s gladiatorial smile doth glare,

  On making the arena bare.

  Shout aloud the words that show

  Jesus in the sands and snow; —

  Shout aloud the words that free,

  Over the perpetual sea.

  Speak ye. As a breath will sweep

  Avalanche from Alpine steep,

  So the spoken word shall roll

  Fear and darkness from the soul.

  Are ye men, and love not man?

  Love ye, and permit his ban?

  Can ye, dare ye, rend the chain

  Wrought of common joy and pain,

  Clasping with its links of gold,

  Man to man in one strong hold?

  Lo! if the golden links ye sever,

  Ye shall make your heart’s flesh quiver;

  And wheresoe’er the links are reft,

  There, shall be a blood-stain left.

  To earth’s remotest rock repair,

  Ye shall find a vulture there:

  Though for others sorrowing not,

  Your own tears shall still be hot:

  Though ye play a lonely part;

  Though ye bear an iron heart; —

  Woe, like Echetus, still must

  Grind your iron into dust.

  But children of our Britain, ye

  Rend not man’s chain of sympathy;

  To those who sit in woe and night,

  Denying tears and hiding light.

  Ye have stretch’d your hands abroad

  With the Spirit’s sheathless sword:

  Ye have spoken — and the tone

  To earth’s extremest verge hath gone:

  East and west sublime it rolls,

  Echoed by a million souls!

  The wheels of rapid circling years,

  Erst hot with crime, are quench’d in tears.

  Rocky hearts wild waters pour,

  That were chain’d in stone before:

  Bloody hands, that only bare

  Hilted sword, are clasp’d in prayer

  Savage tongues, that wont to fling

  Shouts of war in deathly ring,

  Speak the name which angels sing.

  Dying lips are lit the while

  With a most undying smile,

  Which reposing there, instead

  Of language, when the lips are dead,

  Saith,— ‘No sound of grief or pain,

  Shall haunt us when we move again.’

  Children of our country! brothers

  To the children of all others!

  Shout aloud the words that show

  Jesus in the sands and snow; —

  Shout aloud the words that free,

  Over the perpetual sea!

  IDOLS.

  How weak the gods of this world are —

  And weaker yet their worship made me!

  I have been an idolater

  Of three — and three times they betray’d me.

  Mine oldest worshipping was given

  To natural Beauty, aye residing

  In bowery earth and starry heav’n,

  In ebbing sea, and river gliding.

  But natural Beauty shuts her bosom

  To what the natural feelings tell!

  Albeit I sigh’d, the trees would blossom —

  Albeit I smiled, the blossoms fell.

  Then left I earthly sights, to wander

  Amid a grove of name divine,

  Where bay-reflecting streams meander,

  And Moloch Fame hath rear’d a shrine.

  Not green, but black, is that reflection;

  On rocky beds those waters lie;

  That grove hath chilness and dejection —

  How could I sing? I had to sigh.

  Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,

  To rest and warmth I vow’d my years.

  To rest? how wild my pulse is beating!

  To warmth? ah me! my burning tears.


  Ay! they may burn — though thou be frozen

  By death, and changes wint’ring on!

  Fame — Beauty! — idols madly chosen —

  Were yet of gold; but thou art stone!

  Crumble like stone! my voice no longer

  Shall wail their names, who silent be:

  There is a voice that soundeth stronger —

  ‘My daughter, give thine heart to me .’

  Lord! take mine heart! Oh first and fairest,

  Whom all creation’s ends shall hear;

  Who deathless love in death declarest!

  None else is beauteous — famous — dear!

  HYMN.

  “Lord, I cry unto thee, make haste unto me.”

  — Psalm cxli.

  “The Lord is nigh unto them that call upon him.”

  — Psalm cxlv.

  Since without Thee we do no good,

  And with Thee do no ill,

  Abide with us in weal and woe, —

  In action and in will.

  In weal, — that while our lips confess

  The Lord who ‘gives,’ we may

  Remember, with an humble thought,

  The Lord who ‘takes away.’

  In woe, — that, while to drowning tears

  Our hearts their joys resign,

  We may remember who can turn

  Such water into wine.

  By hours of day, — that when our feet

  O’er hill and valley run,

  We still may think the light of truth

  More welcome than the sun.

  By hours of night, — that when the air

  Its dew and shadow yields,

  We still may hear the voice of God

  In silence of the fields.

  Oh! then sleep comes on us like death,

  All soundless, deaf and deep:

  Lord! teach us so to watch and pray,

  That death may come like sleep.

  Abide with us , abide with us ,

  While flesh and soul agree;

  And when our flesh is only dust,