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A FAIKY KRIUE FKOM ItaLV, WITH S.M 



Was coming through the vin 



ELt.S OF OLEANDERS IN HER HAIR, 



ES TO TOUCH HIS HAND. Pag^e 28-. 



Aurora Leigh 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH NUMEROUS NEW 
ILL US TR A TIONS 



Frederick C. Gordon 




NEW YORK 

FREDEIUCK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MDCCCXCII 



■x? 



I 



.h 



Copyright, 1892 
By FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 



CONTENTS 



AURORA LEIGH: 
First Book, 
Second Book, 
Third Book, 
Fourth Book, 
Fifth Book, 
Sixth Book, 
Seventh Book, 
Eighth Book, 
Ninth Book, 

A DRAMA OF EXILE. 

THE SERAPHIM, 

PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
of ^schylus. 



From the Greek 



3 

30 
64 
96 
128 
162 
196 
230 
263 
289 
353 

-.81 



AURORA LEIGH 



FIRST BOOK. 



Of writing many books there is no end ; 

And I. who liave written much in prose and verse 

For others' uses, wiU write now for mine,— 

Will write my story for my better self, 

As when you paint your portrait for a friend, 

Who keeps it in a drawer, and looks at_ it 

Long- after he has ceased to love you, just 

To hold together what he was and is. 

I, writing thus, am still what men call young •. 

I'have not so far left the coasts of life 

To travel inland, that I cannot hear 

That murmur of the outer Infinite 

Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep 

When wondered at for smiling ; not so far, 

But still I catch my mother at her post 

Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 

" Hush, hush, here's too much noise !" while her sweet eyes 

Leap forward, taking part against her word 

In the child's riot. Still I sit, and feel 

My father's slow hand, when she had left us both, 

Stroke out my childish curls across his knee, 

And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew 

He liked it better than a better jest) 

Inquire how many golden scudi went 

To make such ringlets. O my father's hand. 

Stroke heavilv, heavily, the poor hair down. 

Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee ! 

I'm still too young, too young, to sit alone. 



Aurora Leigh. 



frail ; 



I write, IVIy mother was a Florentine, 
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me 
When scarcely I was four years old ; my lite 
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp 
Which went out therefore. She was weak and 
She could not bear the joy of giving life ; 
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss 
Had left a longer weight upon my lips, 
It might have steadied the uneasy breath, 
And reconciled and fraternized my soul 
With the new order. As it was, indeed, 
I felt a mother- want about the world, 
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb 
Left out at night in shutting up the fold, — 
As restless as a nest-deserted bird 

Grown chill through something being away, though what 
It knows not. 1, Aurora Leigh, was born 
To make my father sadder, and myself 
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
The way to rear up children (to be just) ; 
They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
And stringing pretty 
words that make 




And kissing full sense 

words ; 
WHiich things are \ 




As RESTLESS AS A NEST- 
DESERTED HIKD. 



no sense, 
into empty 

corals to 
cut life up- 
on, 
Although such trifles: 
children learn by such. 
Love's holy earnest in a pretty 

play. 

And get not over-early solem- 
nized. 
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, 



Love's Divine, 
Which burns and hurts not,— not a single bloom,- 
Become aware and unafraid of love. 
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as well, — 
Mine did, I know, — but still with heavier brains, 
And wills more consciously responsible. 
And not as wisely, since less foolishly: 
So mothers have God's license to be missed. 



Aurora Leigh. 



My father was an austere Englishman, 

Who, after a dry Hfetime spent at home 

In college-learnmg, law, and parish talk. 

Was flooded with a passion unaware. 

His whole provisioned and complacent past 

Drowned out from him that moment. As he stood 

In Florence, where he had come to spend a month. 

And note the secret of Da Vinci's drains. 

He musing somewhat absently perhaps 

Some English question . . , whether men should pay 

The unpopular but necessary tax 

With left or right hand — in the alien sun 

In that great square of the Santissima 

There drifted past him, (scarcely marked enough 

To move his comfortable island scorn) 

A train of priestly banners, cross and psalm, 

The white- veiled, rose-crowned maidens holding up 

Tall tapers, weighty for such wrists, aslant 

To the blue luminous tremor of the air. 

And letting drop the white wax as they went 

To eat the bishop's wafer at the church ; 

From which long trail of chanting priests and girls 

A face flashed like a cymbal on his face. 

And shook with silent clangor brain and heart. 

Transfiguring him to music. Thus, even thus. 

He, too, received his sacramental gift 

With eucharistic meanings ; for he loved. 

And thus beloved, she died. I've heard it said 

That but to see him, in the first surprise 

Of widower and father, nursing me, 

Unmothered little child of four years old,^ 

His large man's hands afraid to touch my curls. 

As if the gold would tarnish, his grave lips 

Contriving such a miserable smile 

As if he knew needs must, or I should die, 

And yet 'twas hard, — would almost make the stones 

Cry out for pity. There's a verse he set 

In Santa Croce to her memory, — 

" Weep for an infant too young to weep much 

When death removed this mother," — stops the mirth 

To-day on women's faces when they walk. 

With rosy children hanging on their gowns. 

Under the cloister to escape the sun 



Aurora Leiirh. 



That scorches in the piazza. After which 

He left our Florence, and made haste to hide 

Himself, his prattling child, and silent grief, 

Among the mountains above Pelago ; 

Because unmothered babes, he thought, had need 

Of mother-nature more than others use, 

And Pan's white goats, with udders warm, and full 

Of mystic contemplations, come to feed 

Poor milkless lips of orphans like his own. 

Such scholar-scraps he talked, I've heard from friends 

For even prosaic men who wear grief long 

Will get to wear it as a hat aside 

With a flower stuck in't. Father, then, and child, 

We lived among the mountains many years, 

God's silence on the outside of the house. 

And we who did not speak too loud within, 

And old Assunta to make up the fire, 

Crossing herself whene'er a sudden flame 

Which lightened from the firewood made alive 

That picture of my mother on the wall. 

The painter drew it after she was dead ; 

And when the face was finished, throat and hands, 

Her cameriera carried him, in hate 

Of the English-fashioned shroud, the last brocade 

She dressed in at the Pitti, " He should paint 

No sadder thing than that," she swore, " to wrong 

Her poor signora." Therefore very strange 

The effect was. I, a little child, would crouch 

For hours upon the floor, with knees drawn up. 

And gaze across them, half in terror, half 

In adoration, at the picture there, — 

That swan-like supernatural white life 

Just sailing upward from the red stiff silk 

Which seemed to have no part in it, nor power 

To keep it from quite breaking out of bounds. 

For hours I sate and stared. Assunta's awe 

And my poor father's melancholy eyes 

Still pointed that way. That way went my thoughts 

When wandering beyond sight. And as I grew 

In years, I mixed, confused, unconsciously, 

W^hatever I last read, or heard, or dreamed, — 

Abhorrent, admirable, beautiful, 

Pathetical, or ghastly, or grotesque,— 



Aurora Leigh. 



With still that face . . . which did not therefore change, 

But kept the mystic level of all forms, 

Hates, fears, and admirations— was by turns 

Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, and sprite ; 

A dauntless Muse who eyes a dreadful Fate ; 

A loving Psyche who loses sight of Love ; 

A still Medusa with mild milky brows. 

All curdled and all clothed upon with snakes 

Whose slime falls fast as sweat will ; or anon 

Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed with swords 

Where the Babe sucked ; or Lamia in her first 

Moonlighted pallor, ere she shrunk and blinked, 

And shuddering wriggled down to the unclean ; 

Or my own mother, leaving her last smile 

In her last kiss upon the baby-mouth 

My father pushed down on the bed for that ; 

Or my dead mother, without smile or kiss, 

Buried at Florence. All which images, 

Concentred on the picture, glassed themselves 

Before my meditative childhood, as 

The incoherencies of change and death 

Are represented fully, mixed and merged. 

In the smooth fair mystery of perpetual life. 

And while I stared away my childish wits 

Upon my mother's picture, (ah, poor child !) 

My father, who through love had suddenly 

Thrown off the old conventions, broken loose 

From chin-bands of the soul, like Lazarus, 

Yet had no time to learn to talk and walk. 

Or grow anew familiar with the sun ; 

Who had reached to freedom, not to action, lived, 

But lived as one entranced, with thoughts, not aims ; 

Whom love had unmade from a common man. 

But not completed to an uncommon man, — 

My father taught me what he had learnt the best 

Before he died, and left me, — grief and love. 

And seeing we had books among the hills. 

Strong words of counselling souls confederate 

With vocal pines and waters, out of books 

He taught me all the ignorance of men. 

And how God laughs in heaven when any man 

Says, " Here I'm learned ; this I understand ; 

In that I am never caught at fault or doubt." 



Aurora Leigh. 



He sent the schools to school, demonstrating 
A fool will pass for such through one mistake, 
While a philosopher will pass for such 
Through said mistakes being ventured in the gross 
And heaped up to a system. 



They tell me, my dear father. Broader brows 
Howbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth 
Of delicate features,^ — paler, near as grave ; 
But then my mother's smile breaks up the whole, 
And makes it better sometimes than itself. 



I am like, 



So nine full years our days were hid with God 

Among his mountains, I was just thirteen, 

Still growing like the plants from unseen roots 

In tongue-tied springs, and suddenly awoke 

To full life and life's needs and agonies, 

With an intense, strong, struggling heart, beside 

A stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp on death. 

Makes awful lightning. His last word was, " Love — 

Love, my child, love, love ! " — (then he had done with grief) 

" Love, my child." Ere I 
answered, he was gone. 

And none was left to love in 
all the world. 



There ended childhood. 

What succeeded next 
I recollect, as, after fevers, 

men 
Thread back the passage of 

delirium. 
Missing the turn still, baffled 

by the door ; 
Smooth, endless days, 

notched here and there 

with knives, 
A weary, wormy darkness, 

spurred i' the flank 
With flame, that it should eat 

and end itself 
Like some tormented scor- 
pion. Then at last 




I WAS jrsT 



1 do remember clearlv how there came 



Aurora Leij^/i. 



A stranger with authority, not right 

(I thought not), who commanded, caught me up 

From old Assunta's neck ; how with a shriek 

She let me go, while I, with ears too full 

Of my father's silence to shriek back a word, 

In all a child's astonishment at grief, 

Stared at the wharf-edge where she stood and moaned. 

My poor Assunta, where she stood and moaned ! 

The white walls, the blue hills, my Italy, 

Drawn backward from the shuddering steamer-deck. 

Like one in anger drawing back her skirts 

Which suppliants catch at. Then the bitter sea 

Inexorably pushed between us both. 

And, sweeping up the ship with my despair, 

Threw us out as a pasture to the stars. 

Ten nights and days we voyaged on the deep ; 

Ten nights and days without the common face 

Of any day or night ; the moon and sun 

Cut off from the green reconciling earth, 

To starve into a blind ferocity. 

And glare unnatural ; the very sky 

(Dropping its bell-net down upon the sea 

As if no human heart should 'scape alive), 

Bedraggled with the desolating salt, 

Until it seemed no more that holy heaven 

To which my father went. All new and strange , 

The universe turned stranger, for a child. 

Then land ! — then England ! oh, the frosty cliffs 

Looked cold upon me. Could I find a home 

Among those mean red houses through the fog.-* 

And when I heard my father's language first 

From alien lips which had no kiss for mine, 

I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, then wept ; 

And some one near me said the child was mad 

Through much sea-sickness. The train swept us on. 

Was this my father's England ? the great isle } 

The ground seemed cut up from the fellowship 

Of verdure, field from field, as man from man: 

The skies themselves looked low and positive. 

As almost you could touch them with a hand. 

And dared to do it, they were so far off 

From God's celestial crystals ; all things blurred 



Aurora Lei^h. 



And dull and vague. Did Shakespeare and his mates 
Absorb the light here ? Not a hill or stone 
V/ith heart to strike a radiant color up, 
Or active outline on the indifferent air. 

I think I see my father's sister stand 

Upon the hall-step of her country-house 

To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm, 

Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight 

As if for taming accidental thoughts 

From possible pulses ; brown hair pricked with gray 

By frigid use of life (she was not old, 

Although my father's elder by a year) ; 

A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines , 

A close mild mouth, a little soured about 

The ends, through speaking unrequited loves 

Or, peradventure, niggardly half-truths ; 

Eyes of no color — once they might have smiled, 

But never, never, have forgot themselves 

In smiling ; cheeks in which was yet a rose 

Of perished summers, like a rose in a book. 

Kept more for ruth than pleasure — if past bloom, 

Past fading also. 

She had lived, we'll say 
A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, 
A quiet life, v/hich was not life at all, 
(But that, she had not lived enough to know), 
Between the vicar and the county squires. 
The lord -lieutenant looking down sometimes 
From the empyrean to assure their souls 
Against chance vulgarisms, and, in the abyss, 
The apothecary looked on once a year 
To prove their soundness of humility. 
The poor-club exercised her Christian gifts 
Of knitting stockings, stitching petticoats, 
Because we are of one flesh, after all, 
And need one flannel (with a proper sense 
Of difference in the quality) ; and still 
The book-club, guarded from your modern trick 
Of shaking dangerous questions from the crease, 
Preserved her intellectual. She had lived 
A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage, 
Accounting that to leap from perch to perch 
Was act and joy enough for any bird. 



Aurora Leij^/i. 



Dear Heaven, how silly are the things that live 
In thickets, and eat berries ! 

I, alas! 
A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought to her cage, 
And she was there to meet me. Very kind. 
Bring the clean water, give out the fresh seed. 

She stood upon the steps to welcome me. 

Calm, in black garb. I clung about her neck : 

Young babes, who catch at every shred of wool 

To draw the new light closer, catch and cling 

Less blindly. In my ears my father's word 

Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in shells, — 

" Love, love, my child." She, black there with my grief 

Might feel my love : she was his sister once. 

I clung to her. A moment she seemed moved, 

Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me to cling, 

And drew me feebly through the hall into 

The room she sate in. There, with some strange spasm 

Of pain and passion, she w^rung loose my hands 

Imperiously, and held me at arm's-length. 

And with two gray-steel naked-bladed eyes 

Searched through my face,— ay, stabbed it through and 

through. 
Through brows and cheeks and chin, as if to tind 
A wicked murderer in my innocent face. 
If not here, there perhaps. Then, drawing breath, 
She struggled for her ordinary calm, 
And missed it rather ; told me not to shrink. 
As if she had told me not to lie or swear, 
" She loved my father, and would love me too 
As long as I deserved it." Very kind. 

I understood her meaning afterward : 

She thought to find my mother in my face. 

And questioned it for'that. For she, my aunt, 

Had loved my father truly, as she could. 

And hated with the gall of gentle souls 

My Tuscan mother, who had fooled away 

A wise man from wise courses, a good man 

From obvious duties, and depriving her. 

His sister, of the household precedence. 

Had wronged his tenants, robbed his native land, 

And made him mad, alike by life and death. 



lo Aurora Leigh. 



In love and sorrow. She had pored for years 

What sort of woman could be suitable 

To her sort of hate, to entertain it with, 

And so her very curiosity 

Became hate too, and all the idealism 

She ever used in life was used for hate. 

Till hate, so nourished, did exceed at last 

The love from which it grew in strength and heat, 

And wrinkled her smooth conscience with a sense 

Of disputable virtue (say not sin) 

When Christian doctrine was enforced at church. 

And thus my father's sister was to me 

My mother's hater. From that day she did 

Her duty to me (I appreciate it 

In her own word as spoken to herself). 

Her duty in large measure, well pressed out, 

But measured always. She was generous, bland, 

More courteous than was tender, gave me still 

The first place, as if fearful that God's saints 

Would look down suddenly and say. " Herein 

You missed a point, I think, through lack of love." 

Alas ! a mother never is afraid 

Of speaking angrily to any child. 

Since love, she knows, is justified of love. 

And I — I was a good child, on the whole, 

A meek and manageable child. Why not .^ 

I did not live to have the faults of life. 

There seemed more true life in my father's grave 

Than in all England. Since f/iat threw me off 

Who fain would cleave (his latest will, they say. 

Consigned me to his land), I only thought 

Of lying quiet there, where I was thrown 

Like seaweed on the rocks, and suffering her 

To prick me to a pattern with her pin. 

Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf. 

And dry out from my drowned anatomy 

The last sea-salt left in me. 

So it was. 
I broke the copious curls upon my head 
In braids, because she liked smooth-ordered hair. 
I left off saying my sweet Tuscan words 
Which still at any stirring of the. heart 



Aurora Leigh. 



Came up to float across the English phrase 

As lilies {Bene or Che che), because 

She liked my father's child to speak his tongue. 

I learnt the collects and the catechism, 

The creeds, from Athanasius back to Nice, 

The Articles, the Tracts against the times 

(By no means Buonaventure's " Prick of Love "), 

And various popular synopses of 

Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, 

Because she liked instructed piety. 

I learnt my complement of classic f^rcnch 

(Kept pure of Balzac and neologism) 

And German also, since she liked a range 

Of liberal education, — tongues, not books. 

I learnt a little algebra, a little 

Of the mathematics, brushed with extreme flounce 

The circle of the sciences, because 

She misliked women who are frivolous. 

I learnt the royal genealogies 

Of Oviedo, the internal laws 

Of the Burmese Empire, by how many feet 

Mount Chimborazo outsoars Teneriffe, 

What navigable river joins itself 

To Lara, and what census of the year five 

Was taken at Klagenfurt, because she liked 

A general insight into useful facts. 

I learnt much music, such as would have been 

As quite impossible in Johnson's day 

As still it might be wished, fine sleights of hand 

And unimagined fingering, shuf^ing off 

The hearer's soul through hurricanes of notes 

To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew . . . costumes 

From French engravings, nereids neatly draped 

(With smirks of simmering godship). I washed in 

Landscapes from nature (rather say, washed out). 

I danced the polka and Cellarius, 

Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax, 

Because she liked accomplishments in girls. 

I read a score of books on womanhood. 

To prove, if women do not think at all. 

They may teach thinking (to a maiden-aunt. 

Or else the author), — books that boldly assert 

Their right of comprehending husband's talk 

When not too deep, and even of answering 



12 Aurora Lei}^h. 



With pretty " may it please you," or " so it is ; " 

Their rapid insiglu and fine aptitude, 

Particular worth and general missionariness, 

As long as they keep quiet by the firf^, 

And never say " no " when the world says " ay," 

For that is fatal ; their angelic reach 

Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn, 

And fatten household sinners ; their, in brief. 

Potential faculty in every thing 

Of abdicting power in it : she owned 

She liked a woman to be womanly, 

And English women, she thanked God, and sighed 

(Some people always sigh in thanking God), 

Were models to the universe. And last 

I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not like 

To see me wear the night with empty hands, 

A-doing nothing. So my shepherdess 

Was something, after all (the pastoral saints 

Be praised for't), leaning lovelorn, with pink eyes 

To match her shoes, when I mistook the silks, 

Her head uncrushed by that round weight of hat 

So strangely similar to the tortoise-shell 

Which slew the tragic poet. 

By the way. 
The works of women are symbolical. 
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, 
Producing what .^ A pair of slippers, sir, 
To put on when you're weary, or a stool 
To stumble over, and vex you ..." Curse that stool I " 
Or else, at best, a cushion, where you lean 
And sleep, and dream of something we are not, 
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas I 
This hurts most, this, — that after all we are paid 
The worth of our work, perhaps. 

In looking down 
Those years of education (to return) 
I wonder if Brinvilliers suffered more 
In the water-torture . . . flood succeeding flood 
To drench the incapable throat, and split the veins , . . 
Than I did. Certain of your feebler souls 
Go out in cuch a process ; many pine 
To a sick, inodorous light ; my own endured : 
1 had relations in the Unseen, and drew 
The elemental nutriment and heat 



Aurora Leigh. 13 



From nature, as earth feels the sun at nights, 

Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark 

I kept the life thrust on me, on the outside 

Of the inner life, with all its ample room 

For heart and lungs, for will and intellect, 

Inviolable by conventions. God, 

I thank thee for that grace of thine ! 



At first 



I felt no life which was not patience ; did 

The thing she bade me, without heed to a thing 

Beyond it ; sate in just the chair she placed. 

With back against the window, to exclude 

The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn. 

Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods 

To bring the house a message, — ay, and walked 

Demurely in her carpeted low rooms. 

As if 1 should not, barkening my own steps, 

Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books ; 

Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh ; 

Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors. 

And heard them whisper, when I changed a cup 

(I blushed for joy at that), — " The Italian child, 

For all her blue eyes and her quiet ways. 

Thrives ill in England. She is paler yet 

Than when we came the last time : she will die." 

" Will die." My cousin Romney Leigh blushed too. 

With sudden anger, and approaching me. 

Said low between his teeth, " You're wicked now ! 

You wish to die and leave the world a-dusk 

For others, with your naughty light blown out } " 

I looked into his face defyingly. 

He might have known, that, being what I was, 

'Twas natural to like to get away 

As far as dead folk can ; and then, indeed. 

Some people make no trouble when they die. 

He turned and went abruptly, slammed the door, 

And shut his dog out. 

Romney, Romney Leigh. 
I have not named my cousin hitherto, 
And yet I used him as a sort of friend ; 
My elder by few years, but cold and shy 
And absent . . . tender, when he thought of it, 
Which scarcely was imperative, grave betimes. 



Aurora Lcii^/i. 



As well as early master of Leigh Hall, 

Whereof the nightmare sate upon his youth 

Repressing all its seasonable delights, 

And agonizing with a ghastly sense 

Of universal hideous want and wrong 

To incriminate possession. When he came 

From college to the country, very oft 

He crossed the hill on visits to my aunt, 

With gifts of blue grapes from the hothouses, 

A book in one hand, — mere statistics (if 

I chanced to lift the cover), count of all 

The goats whose beards grow sprouting down toward hell 

Against God's separative judgment-hour. 

And she, — she almost loved him ; even allowed 

That sometimes he should seem to sigh my way : 

It made him easier to be pitiful, 

And sighing was his gift. So, undisturbed 

At whiles, she let him shut my music up. 

And push my needles down, and lead me out 

To see in that south angle of the house 

The figs grow black as if by a Tuscan rock, 

On some light pretext. She would turn her head 

At other moments, go to fetch a thing, 

And leave me breath enough to speak with him. 

For his sake : it was simple. 

Sometimes too 
He would have saved me utterly, it seemed, 
He stood and looked so. 

Once he stood so near 
He dropped a sudden hand upon my head 
Bent down on woman's work, as soft as rain ; 
But then I rose, and shook it off as fire, — 
The stranger's touch that took my father's place. 
Yet dared seem soft. 

1 used him for a friend 
Before I ever knew him for a friend. 
'Twas better, 'twas worse also, afterward : 
We came so close, we saw our differences 
Too intimately. Always Romney Leigh 
Was looking for the worms, I for the gods. 
A godlike nature his ; the gods look down, 
Incurious of themselves ; and certainly 
'Tis well I should remember, how, those days, 
I was a worm too, and he looked on me. 



Aurora Leigh. 15 



A little by his act perhaps, yet more 

By something in me, surely not my will, 

I did not die ; but slowly, as one in swoon, 

To whom life creeps back in the fonri of death. 

With a sense of separation, a blind pain 

Of blank obstruction, and a roar i' the ears 

Of visionary chariots which retreat 

As earth grows clearer . . . slowly, by degrees, 

I woke, rose up . . . where was I ? in the world ; 

For uses therefore I must count worth while. 

I had a little chamber in the house. 

As green as any privet-hedge a bird 

Might choose to build in, though the nest itself 

Could show but dead-brown sticks and straws. The walls 

Were green ; the carpet was pure green ; the straight 

Small bed was curtained greenly ; and the folds 

Hung green about the window, which let in 

The outdoor world with all its greenery. 

You could not push your head out, and escape 

A dash of dawn-dew from the honey-suckle, 

But so you were baptized into the grace 

And privilege of seeing. . . . 

First the lime 
(I had enough there, of the lime, be sure : 
My morning-dream was often hummed away 
By the bees in it) ; past the lime the lawn, 
Which, after sweeping broadly round the house, 
Went trickling through the shrubberies in a stream 
Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself 
Among the acacias, over which you saw 
The irregular line of elms by the deep lane 
Which stopped the grounds, and dammed the overflow 
Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
The lane was ; sunk so deep, no foreign tramp, 
Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales, 
Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's lodge 
Dispensed such odors, though his stick, well crooked, 
Might reach the lowest trail of blossoming brier 
Which dipped upon the wall.- Behind the elms. 
And through their tops, you saw the folded hills 
Striped up and down with hedges (burly oaks 
Projecting from the line to show themselves), 
Through which my cousin Romney's chimneys smoked. 



1 6 Aurora Leis:h. 



As still as when a silent mouth in frost 

Breathes, showing where the woodlands hid Leigh Hall ; 

While, far above, a jut of table-land, 

A promontory without water, stretched. 

You could not catch it if the days were thick, 

Or took it for a cloud ; but, otherwise. 

The vigorous sun would catch it up at eve. 

And use it for an anvil till he had tilled 

The shelves of heaven with burning thunderbolts, 

Protesting against night and darkness ; then, 

When all his setting trouble was resolved 

To a trance of passive glory, you might see 

In apparition on the golden sky, 

(Alas, my Giotto's background !) the sheep run 

Along the fine clear outline, small as mice 

That run along a witch's scarlet thread. 

Not a grand nature ; not my chestnut woods 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs 
To the precipices ; not my headlong leaps 
Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear 
In leaping through the palpitating pines. 
Like a white soul tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it ; not, indeed, 
My multitudinous mountains, sitting in 
The magic circle, with the mutual touch 
Electric, panting from their full deep hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, and waiting for 
Communion and commission. Italy 
Is one thing, England one. 

On English ground 
You understand the letter, — ere the fall 
How Adam lived in a garden. All the fields 
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay-like ; 
The hills are crumpled plains, the plains parterres; 
The trees round, woolly, ready to be clipped ; 
And if you seek for any wilderness. 
You find at best a park. A nature tamed, 
And grown domestic like a barn-door fowl, 
Which does not awe you with its claws and beak. 
Nor tempt you to an eyry too high up, 
But which in cackling sets you thinking of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in the pause 
Of finer meditation. 



Aurora Leigh. 



17 




Ok waters that 
cry out for jov 

OK FEAR. 



A place for 
The moon 

And swept my 
foolish 

The sun came, 
lift this light 

Against the lime- 
not look ? 

I make the birds 



Rather say, 

A sweet familiar nature, stealing 
in 

As a dog might, or child, to 
touch your hand, 

Or pluck your gown, and humbly 
mind you so 

Of presence and affection, excel- 
lent 

For inner uses, from the things 
without. 

could not be unthankful, I who 
was 
Entreated thus, and holpen. In 
the room 
I speak of, ere the house was 

well awake. 
And also after it was well 

asleep, 
1 sate alone, and drew the 
blessing in 

Of "all that nature. 
• _ With a gradual 

step, 
A stir among the 
leaves, a 
breath, a 
5^-4^: ray. 

-!;. It came in 

" '- ' softly, 

while the angels 
made 

it beside me. 
came, 

chamber clean of 
thoughts, 
saying, " Shall 1 

tree, and you will 

ng : listen !— but, for you, 



God never hears your voice, excepting when 
You lie upon the bed at nights, and weep." 



1 8 Aurora Leiirh 



Then something moved me. Then I wakened up, 

More slowly than 1 verily write now ; 

But wholly, at last, 1 wakened, opened wide 

The window^ and my soul, and let the airs 

And outdoor sights sweep gradual gospels in, 

Regenerating what I was. O Life ! 

How oft we throw it off, and think, " Enough, 

Enough of life in so much ! — here's a cause 

For rapture ; herein v^e must break with Life, 

Or be ourselves unworthy ; here we are wronged, 

Maimed, spoiled for aspiration : farewell, Life I " 

And so, as froward babes, we hide our eyes 

And think all ended. Then Life calls to us 

In some transformed, apocalyptic voice. 

Above us, or below us, or around : 

Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or Love's, 

Tricking ourselves, because we are more ashamed 

To own our compensations than our griefs : 

Still Life's voice ; still we make our peace with Life. 

And I, so young then, was not sullen. Soon 
I used to get up early just to sit 
And watch the morning quicken in the gray. 
And hear the silence open like a flower, 
Leaf after leaf, and stroke with listless hand 
The woodbine through the window, till at last 
I came to do it with a sort of love. 
At foolish unaware : whereat I smiled, 
A melancholy smile, to catch myself 
Smiling for joy. 

Capacity for joy- 
Admits temptation. It seemed, next, worth while 
To dodge the sharp sword set against my life. 
To slip down-stairs through all the sleepy house. 
As mute as any dream there, and escape. 
As a soul from the body, out of doors. 
Glide through the shrubberies, drop into the lane, 
And wander on the hills an hour or two. 
Then back again, before the house should stir. 

Or else I sate on in my chamber green, 
And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayed 
My prayers without the vicar ; read my books, 
Without considering whether they were ht 



Aurora Leigh. 19 



To do me good. Mark there. We get no good 
By being ungenerous, even to a book, 
And calculating profits,— so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth,— 
Tis then we get the right good from a book. 

I read much. What my father taught before 

From many a volume, love re-emphasized 

Upon the selfsame pages: Theophrast 

Grew tender with the memory of his eyes. 

And y^lian made mine wet. The trick of Greek 

And Latin he had taught me, as he would 

Have taught me wrestling, or the game of fives, 

If such he had known,— most like a shipwrecked man, 

Who heaps his single platter with goats' cheese 

And scarlet berries ; or like any man 

Who loves but one, and so gives all at once, 

Because he has it, rather than because 

He counts it worthy. Thus my father gave ; 

And thus, as did the women formerly 

By young Achilles, when they pinned a veil 

Across the boy's audacious front, and swept 

With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks, 

He wrapt his little daughter in his large 

Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no. 

But after I had read for memory 

I read for hope. The path my father's foot 

Had trod me out (which suddenly broke off 

What time he dropped the wallet of the flesh 

And passed) alone I carried on, and set 

My child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwood. 

To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 

Ah babe i' the wood, without a brother-babe ! 

My own self-pity, like the redbreast bird, 

Flies back to cover all that past with leaves. 

Sublimest danger, over which none weeps. 
When any young wayfaring soul goes forth 
Alone, unconscious of the perilous road. 
The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes, 



/ 




20 X Aurora Leigh. 



To ihrust hi^wn way, he an alien, through 

The w-p^l^/^f books ! Ah, you ! — you think it fir 

You clap hands — " A fair day ! "—you cheer hi 

As if the worst could happen were to rest 

Too long beside a fountain. Yet behold. 

Behold ! — the world of books is still the w^orld, 

And w^orldlings in it are less merciful 

And more puissant. For the wicked there 

Are winged like angels ; every knife that strikesV 

Is edged from elemental fire to assail 

A spiritual life ; the beautiful seems right 

By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong 

Because of weakness ; power is justified. 

Though armed against St. Michael ; many ^rown 

Covers bald foreheads. In the book-world, true, 

There's no lack, neither, of God's saints and kings. 

That shake the ashes of the grave aside 

From their calm locks, and, undiscomfited. 

Look steadfast truths against Time's changing mask. 

True, many a prophet teaches in the roads ; 

True, many a seer pulls down the flaming heavens 

Upon his own head in strong martyrdom 

In order to light men a moment's space. 

But stay ! Who judges } Who distinguishes 

'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at first sight. 

And leaves King Saul precisely at the sin, 

To serve King David } Who discerns at once 

The sound of the trumpets, when the trumpets blow 

For Alaric as well as Charlemagne } 

Who judges wizards, and can tell true seers 

From conjurers? The child, there? Would you leave 

That child to wander in a battle-field. 

And push his innocent smile against the guns? 

Or even in a catacomb, his torch 

Grown ragged in the fluttering air, and a) 

The dark a-mutter round him ? not a child. 



,/ 



I read books bad and good,— some bad and good 
At once (good aims not always make good books • 
Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils 
In digging vineyards even); books that prove 
God's being so definitely, that man's doubt 
Grows self-defined the other side the line. 
Made atheist by suggestion ; moral books. 



Aurora Leigh. 21 



Exasperating to license ; genial books ; 
Discounting from the human dignity; 
And merry books, which set you weeping when 
The sun shines ; ay, and melancholy books, 
Which make you laugh that any one should weep 
In this disjointed life for one wrong more. 

The world of books is still the world, I write ; 
And both worlds have God's providence, thank God, 
To keep and hearten. With some struggle, indeed. 
Among the breakers, some hard swimming through 
The deeps, I lost breath in my soul sometimes. 
And cried, " God save me, if there's any God ! " 
But, even so, God saved me, and, being dashed 
From error on to error, every turn 
Still brought me nearer to the central truth. 

I thought so. All this anguish in the thick 

Of men's opinions . . , press and counterpress, 

Now up, now down, now underfoot, and now 

Emergent ... all the best of it, perhaps, 

But throws you back upon a noble trust 

And use of your own instinct, — merely proves 

Pure reason stronger than bare inference 

At strongest. Try it,— fix against heaven's wall 

The scaling-ladders of school logic, mount 

Step by step ! — sight goes faster ; that still ray 

Which strikes out from you, how, you cannot tell. 

And why, you know not, (did you eliminate, 

That such as you indeed should analyze ?) 

Goes straight and fast as light, and high as God. 

The cygnet finds the water ; but the man 
Is born in ignorance of his element, 
And feels out, blind at first, disorganized 
By sin i' the blood, his spirit-insight dulled 
And crossed by his sensations. Presently 
He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes, 
When, mark, be reverent, be obedient, 
For such dumb motions of imperfect life 
Are oracles of vital Deity, 
Attesting the Hereafter. Let who says 
" The soul's a clean white paper," rather say, 
A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph, 



2 2 Aurora Leigh. 



Defiled, erased, and covered by a monk's, — 
The apocalypse, by a Longus ! poring on 
Which obscene text, we may discern, perhaps, 
Some fair, fine trace of what was written once. 
Some upstroke of an alpha and omega 
Expressing the old scripture. 

Books, books, books ! 
I had found the secret of a garret-room, 
Piled high with cases in my father's name. 
Piled high, packed large, where, creeping in and out 
Among the giant fossils of my past. 
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs 
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there 
At this or that box, pulling through the gap 
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy. 
The first book first. And how I felt it beat 
Under my pillow in the morning's dark, 
An hour before the sun would let me read ! 
My books ! At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 
Have reached and pricked her heart, and throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal gates 
And towers of observation, clears herself 
To elemental freedom — thus, my soul, 
At poetry's divine first finger- touch. 
Let go conventions, and sprang up surprised, 
Convicted of the great eternuies 
Before two worlds. 

What's this, Aurora Leigh, 
You write so of the poets, and not laugh ? 
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after dark, 
Exaggerators of the sun and moon. 
And soothsayers in a tea-cup ? 



I write so 



Of the only truth-tellers now left to God, 

The only speakers of essential truth. 

Opposed to relative, comparative. 

And temporal truths ; the only holders by 

His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms ; 

The only teachers who instruct mankind. 

From just a shadow on a charnel-wall. 

To find man's veritable stature out 



Aurora Leigh. 23 



Erect, sublime, — the measure of a man ; 

And that's the measure of an angel, says 

The apostle. Ay, and while your common men 

Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, reap, dine. 

And dust the flaunty carpets of the world 

For kings to walk on, or our president. 

The poet suddenly will catch them up 

With his voice like a thunder, — " This is soul. 

This is life, this word is being said in heaven. 

Here's God down on us ! what are you about ? " 

How all those workers start amid their work. 

Look round, look up, and feel, a moment's space. 

That carpet-dusting, though a pretty trade. 

Is not the imperative labor, after all ! 

j\Iy own best poets, am I one with you. 

That thus I love you, — or but one through love ? 

Does all this smell of thyme about iny feet 

Conclude my visit to your holy hill 

In personal presence, or but testify 

The rustling of your vesture through my dreams 

With influent odors ? When my joy and pain. 

My thought and aspiration, like the stops 

Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb, 

Unless melodious, do you play on me, 

My pipers ? — and if, sooth, you did not blow, 

Would no sound come ? or is the music mine. 

As a man's voice or breath is called his own. 

Inbreathed by the Life-breather? There's a doubt 

For cloudy seasons ! 

But the sun was high 
When first I felt my pulses set themselves 
For concord ; when the rhythmic turbulence 
Of blood and brain swept outward upon words. 
As wind upon the alders, blanching them 
By turning up their under-natures till 
They trembled in dilation. O delight 
And triumph of the poet, who would say 
A man's mere "yes," a woman's common " no." 
A little human hope of that or this. 
And says the word so that it burns you through 
With a special revelation, shakes the heart 
Of all the men and women in the world. 
As if one came back from the dead, and spoke, 



2 4 Aurora Leigh. 



With eyes too happy, a familiar thing 

Become divine i' the utterance ! while for him 

The poet, speaker, he expands with joy ; 

The palpitating angel in his tiesh 

I'hrills inly with consenting fellowship 

To those innumerous spirits who sun themselves 

Outside of time. 

O life ! O poetry, 
— Which means life in life : cognizant of life 
Beyond this blood-beat, passionate for truth 
Beyond these senses .'—poetry, my life. 
My eagle, with both grappling feet still hot 
From Zeus's thunder, who hast ravished me 
Away from all the shepherds, sheep, and dogs, 
And set me in the Olympian roar and round 
Of luminous faces for a cup-bearer. 
To keep the mouths of all the godheads moist 
F'or everlasting laughters, — I myself 
Half drunk across the beaker with their eyes ! 
How those gods look ! 

Enough so, Ganymede, 
We shall not bear above a round or two. 
We drop the golden cup at Here's foot. 
And swoon back to the earth, and find ourselves. 
Face down among the pine-cones, cold with dew, 
While the dogs bark, and many a shepherd scoffs. 
" What's now come to the youth ? " Such ups and downs 
Have poets. 

Am I such indeed ? The name 
Is royal, and to sign it like a queen 
Is what I dare not, — though some royal blood 
Would seem to tingle in me now and then. 
With sense of power and ache, — with imposthumes 
And manias usual to the race. Howbeit 
I dare not : 'tis too easy to go mad 
And ape a Bourbon in a crown of straws: 
The thing's too common. 

Many fervent souls 
Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike steel on steel. 
If steel had offered, in a restless heat 
Of doing something. Many tender souls 
Have strung their losses on a rhyming thread, 
As children, cowslips : the more pains they take. 
The work more withers. Young men, ay, and maids, 



Aurora Leigh. 25 



Too often sow their wild oats in tame verse, 
Before they sit down under their own vine, 
And live for use. Alas ! near all the birds 
Will sing at dawn ; and yet we do not take 
The chaffering swallow for the holy lark. 

In those days, though, 1 never analyzed, 

Not even myself. Analysis comes late. 

You catch a sight of Nature earliest 

In full front sun-face, and your eyelids wink 

And drop before the wonder of 't : you miss 

The form, through seeing the light. 1 lived those days, 

And wrote because I lived — unlicensed else; 

My heart beat in my brain. Life's violent flood 

Abolished bounds ; and which my neighbor's field, 

Which mine, what mattered ? It is thus in youth. 

We play at leap-frog over the god Term ; 

The love within us and the love without 

Are mixed, confounded : if we are loved, or love, 

We scarce distinguish. Thus with other power; 

Being acted on and acting seem the same. 

In that first onrush of life's chariot-wheels. 

We know not if the forests move, or we. 

And so, like most young poets, in a flush 
0{ individual life I poured myself 
Along the veins of others, and achieved 
Mere lifeless imitations of live verse, 
And made the living answer for the dead, 
Profaning nature. " Touch not, do not taste. 
Nor handle," — we're too legal, who write young: 
We beat the phorminx till we hurt our thumbs. 
As if still ignorant of counterpoint ; 
We call the Muse, — " O Muse, benignant Muse I "— 
As if we had seen her purple-braided head. 
With the eyes in it, start between the boughs 
y\s often as a stag's. What make-believe, 
With so much earnest! what effete results 
From virile efforts I what cold wire-drawn odes, 
From such white heats ! — bucolics, where the cows 
Would scare the writer if they splashed the mud 
In lashing off the flies ; didactics, driven 
Against the heels of what the master said ; 
And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps 



26 Aurora Leigh. 



A babe might blow between two straining cheeks 
Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh ; 
And elegiac griefs, and songs of love, 
Like cast-off nosegays picked up on the road, 
The worse for being warm : all these things, writ 
On happy mornings, with a morning heart, 
That leaps for love, is active for resolve, 
Weak for art only. Oft the ancient forms 
Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young blood. 
The wine-skins, now and then a little warped, 
Will crack even, as the new wfne gurgles in. 
Spare the old bottles I Spill not the new wine. 

By Keats's soul, the man who never stepped 
In gradual progress like another man. 
But, turning grandly on his central self, 
Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years. 
And died, not young (the life of a long life 
Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a tear 
Upon the world's cold cheek to make it burn 
Forever), — by that strong excepted soul 
I count it strange and hard to understand 
That nearly all young poets should write old ; 
That Pope was sexagenary at sixteen. 
And beardless Byron academical, 
And so with others. It may be, perhaps. 
Such have not settled long and deep enough 
In trance to attain to clairvoyance ; and still 
The memory mixes with the vision, spoils. 
And works it turbid. 

Or perhaps, again. 
In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx, 
The melancholy desert must sweep round. 
Behind you as before. 

For me, I wrote 
False poems, like the rest, and thought them true 
Because myself was true in writing them. 
I, perad venture, have writ true ones since 
With less complacence. 

But I could not hide 
My quickening inner life from those at watch. 
They saw a light at a window now and then 
They had not set there : who had set it there ? 
My father's sister started when she caught 



Aurora Leigh. 27 



My soul agaze in my eyes. She could not say 

I had no business with a sort of soul ; 

But plainly she objected, and demurred 

That souls were dangerous things to carry straight 

Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world. 

She said sometimes, " Aurora, have you done 

Your task this morning } have you read that book } 

And are you ready for the crochet here .-' " — 

As if she said, " I know there's something wrong ; 

I know I have not ground you down enough 

To flatten and bake you to a wholesome crust, 

For household uses and proprieties. 

Before the rain has got into my barn, 

And set the grains a-sprouting. What, you're green 

With outdoor impudence .'' you almost grow .^ " 

To which I answ^ered, " Would she hear my task, 

And verify my abstract of the book } 

Or should I sit down to the crochet-work } 

Was such her pleasure ? " Then I sate and teased 

The patient needle till it spilt the thread. 

Which oozed off from it in meandering lace 

From hour to hour. I was not therefore sad ; 

My soul was singing at a work apart. 

Behind the wall of sense, as safe from harm 

As sings the lark when sucked up out of sight 

In vortices of glory and blue air. 

And so, through forced work and spontaneous work, 

The inner life informed the outer life. 

Reduced the irregular blood to a settled rhythm. 

Made cool the forehead with fresh-sprinkling dreams. 

And rounding to the spheric soul the thin. 

Pined body, struck a color up the cheeks. 

Though somewhat faint. I clinched my brows across 

My blue eyes, greatening in the looking-glass, 

And said, " We'll live, Aurora I we'll be strong. 

The dogs are on us ; but we will not die." 

Whoever lives true life will love true love. 
I learnt to love that England. Very oft, 
Before the day was born, or otherwise 
Through secret windijigs of the afternoons, 
I threw my hunters off, and plunged myself 
Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag 



28 



Aurora Leiirh. 




.^c'.f 



1^> 






^,-^^Will take the wa- 
ters, shiver- 
ing with the 
fear 
And passion of 
the course. 
And when at 
last 
Escaped, so many 
a green slope 
built on slope 
Betwixt me and 
the enemy's 
house behind, 
1 dared to rest, or wander in a rest 
Made sweeter for the step upon the grass, 
And view the ground's most gentle 

dimplement 
(As if God's finger touched, but did not 

press, 
In making England) ; such an up-and- 
down 
Of verdure, nothing too much up or 

down, 
A ripple of land ; such little hills the sky 
Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheat- 
fields climb ; 
Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises, 
Fed full of noises by invisible streams ; 
And open pastures where you scarcely tell 
White daisies from white dew ; at intervals 
The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing out 
Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade, — 
I thought my father's land was worthy too 
Of being my Shakespeare's. 

Very oft alone. 
Unlicensed ; not un frequently with leave 
To walk the third with Romney and his friend 
The rising painter, Vincent Carrington, 
Whom men judge hardly as bee-bonneted, 
Because he holds that, paint a body well, 
You paint a soul by implication, like 
The grand first Master. Pleasant walks ; for if 
He said, " When I was last in Italy," 



^ 



And open pastures 

where you scarcely 

tell white daisies 

from white dew. 



Aurora Leigh. 29 



It sounded as an instrument that's played 
Too far off for the tune, and yet it's fine 

To listen. 

Ofter we walked only two, 

If cousin Romney pleased to walk with me. 

We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced. 

We were not lovers, nor even friends well matched : 

Say, rather, scholars upon different tracks. 

And thinkers disagreed,— he, overfull 

Of what is, and I, haply, overbold 

For what might be. 

But then the thrushes sang. 
And shook my pulses and the elm's new leaves ; 
At which I turned, and held my finger up, 
And bade him mark, that howsoe'er the world 
Went ill, as he related, certainly 
The thrushes still sang^ in it. At the word 
His brow would soften ; and he bore with me 
In melancholy patience, not unkind. 
While, breaking into voluble ecstasy, 
I flattered all the beauteous country round. 
As poets use,— the skies, the clouds, the fields. 
The happy violets hiding from the roads 
The primroses run down to, carrying gold ; 
The tangled hedgerow^s, where the cows push out 
Impatient horns and tolerant churning mouths 
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs; hedgerows all alive 
With birds and gnats, and large white butterflies 
Which look as if the Mayflower had caught life, 
And palpitated forth upon the wind ; 
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist ; 
Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills ; 
And cattle grazing in the watered vales ; 
And cottage-chimneys smoking from the woods ; 
And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere,^ 
Confused with smell of orchards. " See ! " I said, 
"And see ! is not God with us on the earth ? 
And shall we put him down by aught we do ? 
Who says there's nothing for the poor and vile 
Save poverty and wickedness ? Behold ! " 
And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped. 
And clapped my hands and called all very fair. 

In the beginning, when God called all good. 



30 Aurora Leigh. 



Even then, was evil near us, it is writ ; 
But we indeed who call things good and fair, 
The evil is upon us while we speak : 
Deliver us from evil, let us pray. 



SECOND BOOK. 



Times followed one another. Came a morn 

I stood upon the brink of twenty years, 

And looked before and after, as I stood 

Woman and artist, either incomplete, 

Both credulous of completion. There I held 

The whole creation in my little cup. 

And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank 

" Good health to you and me, sweet neighbor mine, 

And all these peoples." 

I was glad that day 
The June was in me, with its multitudes 
Of nightingales all singing in the dark. 
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split. . 
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God, 
So glad,'l could not choose be very wise. 
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull 
My childhood backward in a childish jest 
To see the face of 't once more, and farewell ! 
In which fantastic mood 1 bounded forth 
At early morning, would not wait so long 
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings. 
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn 
With my gown m the dew, took will and way 
Among 'the acacias of the shrubberies, 
To fly my fancies in the open air. 
And keep my birthday till my aunt awoke 
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on 
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves, 
" The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned 
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone ; 
And so with me it must be, unless I prove 
Unworthy of the grand adversity ; 
And certainly I would not fail so much. 



Aurora Leigh. 3' 



What, therefore, if 1 crown myself to-day 

In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it 

Before my brows be numbed as Dante's own 

To all the tender pricking of such leaves? 

Such leaves ! what leaves ? " „ ^ , , u i 

1 pulled the branches down 

To choose from. , . , , . 

" Not the bay ! I choose no bay, 

(The fates deny us if we are overbold) 
Nor myrtle, which means chiefly love ; and love 
Is something awful, which one dares not touch 
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains 
The point of passionate fragrance ; and hard by 
This guelder-rose, at far too slight a beck 
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples. 

Ah, there's my choice, that ivy on the wall, 
That headlong iw ! not a leaf will grow 

i^ut thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, smooth leaves, 

Serrated like my vines, and half as green. 

I like such ivy, bold to leap a height 

'Twas strong to climb ; as good to grow on graves 

As twist about a thyrsus ; pretty too, 

(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb. 

Thus speaking to myself, half singing it, 
Because some thoughts are fashioned like a bell. 
To ring with once being touched, I drew a wreath 
Drenched, blinding me with dew, across my brow, 
And, fastening it behind so, turning, faced 

My public ! — cousin Romney— with a mouth 
Twice graver than his eyes. 

I stood there fixed. 

My arms up, like the caryatid, sole 

Of some abolished temple, helplessly 

Persistent in a gesture which derides 

A former purpose. Yet my blush was flame, 

As if from flax, not stone. . 

" Aurora Leigh, 

The earliest of Auroras ! " , , j 

Hand stretched out 

I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp a hand, 
Indifferent to the sort of palm. The tide 
Had caught me at my pastime, writing down 
My foolish name too near upon the sea, 



32 



Aurora Leigk. 




Not a leaf will gkovv iu.t thinking ov a wreath. 



Aurora Leigh. 33 



Which drowned me with a blush as foolish. " You. 

My cousin ! " ^^^ ^^^^.^^ ^j^^ ^^^ .^ ^i, eyes, 

And dropped upon his Hps, a cold dead weight. 

For just a moment, " Here's a book 1 found ; 

No name writ on it-poems, by the form , 

Some Greek upon the margm ; lady s Greek 

Without the accents. Read it ? Not a word. 

I saw at once the thing had witchcraft in t, 

Whereof the reading calls up dangerous spirits . 

I rather bring it to the witch. ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ 

You found it •• . . . ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^y ^j^e stream 

That beech leans down into, of which you said 
The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart, 

And pines for waters." ,, ^^^^_^^ ^^^^ „ 

"Thanks \.o you 
My cousin, that I have seen you not too much 
Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the rest. 
To be a woman also." ^^,.^^ ^ ^^^^^^^ 

The smile rose in his eyes again, and touched 

The ivy on my forehead, hght as air. 

1 answered gravely, " Poets needs must be, 

Or men and women, more s the pity. ^^ ^^^ 

But men, and still less women, happily, 

Scarce n;ed be poets. Keep to the green wreath, 

Since even dreaming of the stone and bron e 

Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and dehles 

TheV^ean white morning dresses. ^^ ^^ ^^^ .^^^^ 

Because I love the beautiful I must 

Love pleasure chiefly, and be overcharged 

For ease and whiteness ! well, you know the woild, 

And only miss your cousin : tis not much 

Bnr learn this- I would rather take my part 

Witi God's dead, who afford to walk in white. 

Yet spread his glory, than keep quiet here, 

And gather up my feet from even a step. 

For fear to soil my gown in so much dust 

1 choose to walk at all risks. Here, if heads 



34 Aurora Leigh. 



That hold a rhythmic thought must ache perforce, 
For my part I choose headaches, — and to-day's my birth- 
day." 

" Dear Aurora, choose instead 
To cure them. You have balsams." 

" I perceive. 
The headache is too noble for my sex. 
You think the heartache would sound decenter, 
Since that's the woman's special, proper ache. 
And altogether tolerable, except 
To a woman." 

Saying which, I loosed my wreath. 
And swinging it beside me as I walked, 
Half petulant, half playful, as we walked, 
I sent a sidelong look to find his thought, 
As falcon set on falconer's finger may, 
With sidelong head, and startled, braving eye. 
Which means, " You'll see, you'll see ! I'll soon take flight. 
You shall not hinder.'' He, as shaking out 
His hand, and answering, " Fly, then," did not speak, 
Except by such a gesture. Silently 
We paced, until, just coming into sight 
Of the house-windows, he abruptly caught 
At one end of the swinging wreath, and said, 
" Aurora ! " There I stopped short, breath and all. 

" Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by 

This game of head and heart. Life means, be sure. 

Both heart and head, — both active, both complete, 

And both in earnest. Men and women make 

The world, as head and heart make human life. 

Work, man, work, woman, since there's work to do 

In this beleaguered earth for head and heart ; 

And thought can never do the work of love : 

But work for ends, I mean for uses, not 

For such sleek fringes (do you call them ends, 

Still less God's glory ?) as we sew ourselves 

Upon the velvet of those baldaquins 

Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book of yours 

I have not read a page of ; but I toss 

A rose up— it falls calyx down, you see ! 

The chances are, that being a woman, young 

And pure, with such a pair of large, calm eyes. 

You write as well . . . and ill . . . upon the whole, 



Aurora Lci^h. 



35 



As other women. If as well, what then ? 

If even a little better . . . still, what then ? 

We want the best in art now, or no art. 

The time is done for facile settings-up 

Of minnow-gods, nymphs here, and tritons there : 

The polytheists have gone out in God, 

That unity of bests. No best, no God ! 

And so with art, we say. Give art's divine, 

Direct, indubitable, real as grief. 

Or, leave us to the grief, we grow ourselves 

Divine by overcoming with mere hope 

And most prosaic patience. You, you are young 

As Eve with nature's daybreak on her face ; 

But this same world you are come to, dearest coz, 

Has done with keeping birthdays, saves her wreaths 

To hang upon her ruins, and forgets 

To rhyme the cry with which she still beats back 

Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her down 

To the empty grave of Christ. The world's hard pressed : 

The sweat of labor in the early curse 

Has (turning acrid in six thousand years) 

Become the sweat of torture. Who has time. 

An hour's time . . . think ! — to sit upon a bank, 

And hear the cymbal tinkle in white hands .> 

When Egypt's slain, I say, let Miriam sing! — 

Before — where's Moses ? " 

" Ah, exactly that. 
Where's Moses } Is a Moses to be found } 
You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes. 
While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet concede. 
Such sounding brass has done some actual good 
(The application in a woman's hand. 
If that were credible, being scarcely spoilt), 
In colonizing beehives." 

" There it is ! 
You play beside a death-bed like a child. 
Yet measure to yourself a prophet's place 
To teach the living. None of all these things 
Can women understand. You generalize, 
Oh, nothing,— not even grief ! "Your quick-breathed hearts, 
So sympathetic to the personal pang. 
Close on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up 
A whole life at each wound, incapable 
Of deepening, widening a large lap of life 



36 Aurora Leigh. 



To hold the world-full woe. The human race 

To you means such a child, or such a man, 

You saw one morning waiting in the cold 

Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up 

A few such cases, and when strong sometimes 

Will write of factories and of slaves, as if 

Your father were a negro, and your son 

A spinner in the mills. All's yours and you. 

All colored with your blood, or otherwise 

Just nothing to you. Why, I call you hard 

To general suffering. Here's the world half-blind 

With intellectual light, half-brutalized 

With civilization, having caught the plague 

In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and west 

Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain 

And sin too ! . . . does one woman of you all 

(You who weep easily) grow pale to see 

This tiger shake his cage .'' Does one of you 

Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls, 

And pine and die, because of the great sum 

Of universal anguish } Show me a tear 

Wet as Cordelia's in eyes bright as yours, 

Because the world is mad. You cannot count 

That you should weep for this account, not you ! 

You weep for what you know. A red-haired child 

Sick in a fever, if you touch him once. 

Though but so little as with a finger-tip. 

Will set you weeping ; but a. million sick . . . 

You could as soon weep for the rule of three 

Or compound fractions. Therefore this same world 

Uncomprehended by you, must remain 

Uninfluenced by you. W^omen as you are, 

Mere women, personal and passionate, 

You give us doating mothers, and perfect wives, 

Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints : 

We get no Christ from you, and verily 

We shall not get a poet, in my mind." 



" With which conclusion you conclude " . 

That you, Aurora, with the large live brow 
And steady eyelids, cannot condescend 
To play at art, as children play at swords. 
To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired 



But this : 



Aurora Leisrh. 



37 



Because true action is impossible. 

You never can be satisfied with praise 

Which men give women when they judge a book 

Not as mere work, but as mere woman's work, 

Expressing the comparative respect, 

Which means the absokite scorn. ' O, excellent ! 

What grace, what facile turns, what fluent sweeps, 

What delicate discernment . . . almost thought ! 

The book does honor to the sex, we hold. 

Among our female authors we make room 

For this fair writer, and congratulate 

The country that produces in these times 

Such women, competent to ' . . . spell." 

" Stop there," 
I answered, burning through his thread of talk 
With a quick flame of emotion, — " you have read 
My soul, if not my book, and argue well. 
I would not condescend ... we will not say 
To such a kind of praise (a worthless end 
Is praise of all kinds), but to such a use 
Of holy art and golden life. I am young. 
And peradventure weak — you tell me so- 
Through being a woman. And for all the rest, 
Take thanks for justice. I would rather dance 
At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies dropped 
Their gingerbread for joy, than shift the types 
For tolerable verse, intolerable 
To men who act and suffer. Better far 
Pursue a frivolous trade by serious means, 
Than a sublime art frivolously." 

"You 
Choose nobler work than either, O moist eyes, 
And hurrying lips, and heaving heart ! We are young, 
Aurora, you and I. The world, — look round.— 
The world we're come to late is swollen hard 
With perished generations and their sins : 
The civilizer's spade grinds horribly 
On dead men's bones, and cannot turn up soil 
That's otherwise than fetid. All success 
Proves partial failure ; all advance implies 
What's left behind ; all triumph, something crushed 
At the chariot-wheels ; all government, some wrong ; 
And rich men make the poor, who curse the rich. 
Who agonize together, rich and poor. 



38 Aurora Leigh. 



Under and over, in the social spasm 

And crisis of the ages. Here's an age 

That makes its own vocation ; here we have stepped 

Across the bonds of time ; here's nought to see, 

But just the rich man and just Lazarus, 

And both in torments with a mediate gulf, 

Though not, a hint of Abraham's bosom. Who, 

Being man, Aurora, carl stand calmly by 

And view these things, and never tease his soul 

f'or some great cure } No physic for this grief, 

In all the earth and heavens too.^ " 

" You believe 
In God. for your part .^ — ay ? that He who makes 
Can make good things from ill things, best from worst. 
As men plant tulips upon dunghills when 
They wish them finest ? " 

" True. A death-heat is 
The same as life-heat, to be accurate; 
And in all nature is no death at all, 
As men account of death, so long as God 
Stands witnessing for life perpetually. 
By being just God. That's abstract truth, I know, 
Philosophy, or sympathy with God ; 
But I, I sympathize with man, not God, 
(I think I was a man for chiefly this,) 
And, when I stand beside a dying bed, 
'Tis death to me. Observe : it had not much 
Consoled the race of mastodons to know, 
Before they went to fossil, that anon 
Their place would quicken with the elephant : 
They were not elephants, but mastodons ; 
And I, a man, as men are now, and not 
As men may be hereafter, feel with men 
In the agonizing present." 

" Is it so," 
I said, " my cousin ? Is the world so bad, 
While I hear nothing of it through the trees } 
The world was always evil,— but so bad } " 

" So bad. Aurora. Dear, my soul is gray 
With poring over the long sum of ill ; 
So much for vice, so much for discontent. 
So much for the necessities of power. 
So much for the connivances of fear. 



Aurora Leigh. 39 



Coherent in statistical despairs 

With such a total of distracted life . , . 

To see it down in figures on a page, 

Plain, silent, clear, as God sees through the earth 

The sense of all the graves, — that's terrible 

For one who is not God, and cannot right 

The wrong he looks on. May I choose indeed 

But vow away my years, my means, my aims, 

Among the helpers, if there's any help' 

In such a social strait? The common blood 

That swings along my veins is strong enough 

To draw me to this duty." 

Then I spoke : 
" I have not stood long on the strand of life, 
And these salt waters have had scarcely time 
To creep so high up as to wet my feet ; 
I cannot judge these tides — I shall, perhaps. 
A woman's always younger than a man 
At equal years, because she is disallowed 
Maturing by the outdoor sun and air. 
And kept in long-clothes past the age to walk. 
Ah, well ! I know you men judge otherwise. 
You think a woman ripens as a peach. 
In the cheeks, chiefly. Pass it to me now : 
I'm young in age, and younger still, I think, 
As a woman. But a child may say amen 
To a bishop's prayer, and feel the way it goes. 
And I, incapable to loose the knot 
Of social questions, can approve, applaud 
August compassion. Christian thoughts that shoot 
Beyond the vulgar white of personal aims. 
Accept my reverence." 

There he glowed on me 
With all his face and eyes. " No other help } " 
Said he, " no more than so ? " 

" What help ? " I asked. 
" You'd scorn my help, as Nature's self, you say. 
Has scorned to put her music in my mouth, 
Because a woman's. Do you now turn round 
And ask for what a woman cannot give ? " 

" For what she only can, I turn and ask," 
He answered, catching up my hands in his. 
And dropping on me from his high-eaved brow 



40 Aurora Leigh. 



The full weight of his soul. " I ask for love, 
And that, she can ; for life in fellowship 
Through bitter duties, that, I know she can ; 
For wifehood — will she ? " 

" Now," I said, " may God 
Be witness 'twixt us two I " and with the word, 
Meseemed I floated into a sudden light 
Above his stature, — " am I proved too weak 
To stand alone, yet strong enough to bear 
Such leaners on my shoulder? poor to think, 
Yet rich enough to sympathize with thought ? 
Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can. 
Yet competent to love, like hiini ? " 



Perhaps I darkened, as the lighthouse will 
That turns upon the sea. " It's always so. 
Any thing does for a wife." 



I paused : 



Aurora dear. 



And dearly honored," he pressed in at once 

With eager utterance, " you translate me ill. 

I do not contradict my thought of you. 

Which is most reverent, with another thought 

Found less so. If your sex is weak for art, 

(And I who said so did but honor you 

By using truth in courtship,) it is strong 

For life and duty. Place your fecund heart 

In mine, and let us blossom for the world 

That wants love's color in the gray of time. 

My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, ay. 

Since all my talk can only set you where 

You look dow^n coldly on the arena-heaps 

Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct. 

The judgment-angel scarce would find his way 

Through such a heap of generalized distress 

To the individual man with lips and eyes, 

Much less Aurora. Ah, my sweet, come down. 

And hand in hand we'll go where yours shall touch 

These victims one by one, till, one by one, 

The formless, nameless trunk of every man 

Shall seem to wear a head with hair you know, 

And every woman catch your mother's face 

To melt you into passion." 

*' I am a girl," 
I answered slowly : " you do well to name 



Aurora Leigh. 



My mother's face. Though far too early, alas ! 
God's hand did interpose 'tvvixt it and me, 
I know so much of love as used to shine 
In that face and another; just so much, 
No more, indeed, at all. I have not seen 
So much love since, I pray you pardon me. 
As answers even to make a marriage with 
In this cold land of England. What you love 
Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause : 
You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir ; 
A wife to help your ends, in her no end. 
Your cause is noble, your ends excellent ; 
But I, being most unworthy of these and that, 
Do otherwise conceive of love. Farewell I " 

" Farewell, Aurora ? you reject me thus ? " 
He said. 

" Sir, you were married long ago. 
You have a wife already whom you love, — 
Your social theory. Bless you both, I say. 
For my part, I am scarcely meek enough 
To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse. 
Do I look a Hagar, think you } " 

" So you jest." 
" Nay, so I speak in earnest," I replied. 
" You treat of marriage too much like, at least, 
A chief apostle : you would bear with you 
A wife ... a sister . . . shall we speak it out .^— 
A sister of charity." 

" Then must it be, 
Indeed, farewell ? And was I so far wrong 
In hope and in illusion, when I took 
The woman to be nobler than the man. 
Yourself the noblest woman in the use 
And comprehension of what love is, — love 
That generates the likeness of itself 
Through all heroic duties ? so far wrong 
In saying bluntly, venturing truth on love, 
' Come, human creature, love and work with me,' 
Instead of, ' Lady, thou art wondrous fair, 
And, where the Graces walk before, the Muse 
Will follow at the lightning of their eyes. 
And where the Muse walks, lovers need to creep : 
Turn round and love me, or I die of love ? ' " 



42 Aurora Leigh 



With quiet indignation I broke in, 

" You misconceive the question like a man, 

Who sees a woman as the complement 

Of his sex merely. You forget too much 

That every creature, female as the male, 

Stands single in responsible act and thought 

As also in birth and death. Whoever says 

To a loyal woman, ' Love and work with me,' 

Will get fair answers, if the work and love, 

Being good themselves, are good for her, — the best 

She was born for. Women of a softer mood. 

Surprised by men when scarcely awake to life, 

Will sometimes only hear the first word, love, 

And catch up with it any kind of work, 

Indifferent, so that dear love go with it. 

I do not blame such women, though for love 

They pick much oakum : earth's fanatics make 

Too frequently heaven's saints. But mc your work 

Is not the best for, nor your love the best, 

Nor able to commend the kind of work 

For love's sake merely. Ah I you force me, sir. 

To be over-bold in speaking of myself : 

I, too, have my vocation, — work to do, 

The heavens and earth have set me since I changed 

My father's face for theirs, and, though your world 

W^ere twice as wretched as you represent, 

Most serious work, most necessary work 

As any of the economists'. Reform, 

Make trade a Christian possibility, 

And individual right no general wrong. 

Wipe out earth's furrows of the thine and mine. 

And leave one green for men to play at bowls, 

With innings for them all ! . . . what then, indeed. 

If mortals are not greater by the head 

Than any of their prosperities ? what then. 

Unless the artist keep up open roads 

Betwixt the seen and unseen, bursting through 

The best of your conventions with his best. 

The speakable, imaginable best 

God bids him speak, to prove what lies beyond 

Both speech and imagination ? A starved man 

Exceeds a fat beast : we'll not barter, sir. 

The beautiful for barley. And, even so, 

I hold you will not compass your poor ends 



Aurora Leigh. 43 



Of barley-feeding and material ease 

Without a poet's individualism 

To work your universal. It takes a soul 

To move a body : it takes a high-souled man 

To move the masses even to a cleaner sty : 

It takes the ideal to blow a hair's-breadth off 

The dust of the actual. Ah ! your Fouriers failed, 

Because not poets enough to understand 

That life develops from within. For me. 

Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say. 

Of work like this: perhaps a woman's soul 

Aspires, and not creates : yet we aspire, 

And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir, 

And if 1 fail . . , why, burn me up my straw 

Like other false works. I'll not ask for grace: 

Your scorn is better, cousin Romney. I 

Who love my art would never wish it lower 

To suit my stature, I may love my art. 

You'll grant that even a woman may love art, 

Seeing that to waste true love on any thing 

Is womanly, past question." 



I retain 



The very last word which I said that day, 

As you the creaking of the door, years past, 

Which let upon you such disabling news 

You ever after have been graver. He, 

His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth, 

Were fiery points on which my words were caught, 

Transfixed forever in my memory 

For his sake, not their own. And yet I know 

I did not love him . . . nor he me . . . that's sure 

And what I said is unrepented of, 

As truth is always. Yet ... a princely man— 

If hard to me, heroic for himself. 

He bears down on me through the slanting years, 

The stronger for the distance. If he had loved. 

Ay, lov^ed me, with that retributive face, . . . 

I might have been a common woman now. 

And happier, less known, and less left alone. 

Perhaps a better woman, after all. 

With chubby children hanging on my neck 

To keep me low and wise. Ah me I the vines 

That bear such fruit are proud to stoop with it. 

The palm stands upright m a realm of sand. 



44 Aurora Leigh. 



And I, who spoke the truth then, stand upright, 

Still worthy of having spoken out the truth, 

By being content I spoke it, though it set 

Him there, me here. Oh, woman's vile remorse, 

To hanker after a mere name, a show, 

A supposition, a potential love ! 

Does every man who names love in our lives 

Become a power for that ? Is love's true thing 

So much best to us, that what personates love 

Is next best ? A potential love forsooth ! 

I'm not so vile. No, no ! He cleaves, I think, 

This man, this image, chiefly for the wrong 

And shock he gave my life in finding me 

Precisely where the devil of my youth 

Had set me on those mountain peaks of hope, 

All glittering with the dawn-dew, all erect, 

And famished for the noon, exclaiming, while 

I looked for empire and much tribute, " Come, 

I have some worthy work for thee below. 

Come, sweep my barns, and keep my hospitals, 

And I will pay thee with a current coin 

Which men give women." 

As we spoke, the grass 
Was trod in haste beside us, and my aunt. 
With smile distorted by the sun, — face, voice, 
As much at issue with the summer-day 
As if you brought a candle out of doors, — 
Broke in with, " Romney, here ! — My child, entreat 
Your cousin to the house and have your talk, 
If girls must talk upon their birthdays. Come." 

He answered for me calmly, with pale lips 
That seemed to motion for a smile in vain. 
" The talk is ended, madam, where we stand. 
Your brother's daughter has dismissed me here ; 
And all my answer can be better said 
Beneath the trees than wrong by such a word 
Your house's hospitalities. Farewell." 

With that he vanished. I could hear his heel 
Ring bluntly in the lane as down he leapt 
The short way from us. Then a measured speech 
Withdrew me. " What means this, Aurora Leigh .■* 
My brother's daughter has dismissed my guests .-' " 



Aurora Leis:h. 



'S'^' 45 



The lion in me felt the keeper's voice 
Through all its quivering dewlaps : I was quelled 
Before her, meekened to the child she knew : 
I prayed her pardon, said " I had little thought 
To give dismissal to a guest of hers 
In letting go a friend of mine who came 
To take me into service as a wife, — 
No more than that, indeed." 

" No more, no more? 
Pray Heaven," she answered, " that 

I was not mad. 
I could not mean to tell her to her face 
That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife, 
And I refused him ? " 

" Did he ask } " I said. 
" I think he rather stooped to take me up 
For certain uses which he found to do 
For something called a wife. He never asked." 

" What stuff ! " she answered. " Are they queens, these 

girls ? 
They must have mantles stitched with twenty silks, 
Spread out upon the ground, before they'll step 
One footstep for the noblest lover born." 

" But I am born," I said with firmness, ' I, 
To walk another way than his, dear aunt." 

" You walk, you walk ! A babe at thirteen months 
Will walk as well as you," she cried in haste. 
" Without a steadying finger. Why, you child, 
God help you ! you are groping in the dark. 
For all this sunlight. You suppose, perhaps. 
That you, sole offspring of an opulent man, 
Are rich, and free to choose a way to walk.'* 
You think, and it's a reasonable thought. 
That I, beside, being well to do in life. 
Will leave my handful in my niece's hand 
When death shall paralyze these fingers ? Pray, 
Pray, child, albeit 1 know you love me not. 
As if you loved me, that I may not die ; 
For when I die and leave you, out you go, 
(Unless I make room for you in my grave,) 
Unhoused, unfed, my dear, poor brother's lamb, 



46 Aurora Leigh. 



(Ah, heaven 1 that pains ) without a right to crop 

A single blade of grass beneath these trees, 

Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the lawn, 

Unfed, unfolded. Ah, my brother, here's 

The fruit you planted in your foreign loves ! 

Ay, there's the fruit he planted I Never look 

Astonished at me with your mother's eyes, 

For it was they who set you where you are. 

An undowered orphan. Child, your father's choice 

Of that said mother disinherited 

His daughter, his and hers. Men do not think 

Of sons and daughters when they fall in love, 

So much more than of sisters : otherwise 

He would have paused to ponder what he did, 

And shrunk before that clause in the entail 

Excluding offspring by a foreign wife, 

(The clause set up a hundred years ago 

By a Leigh who wedded a French dancing-girl. 

And had his heart danced over in return ; ) 

But this man shrank at nothing, never thought 

Of you, Aurora, any more than me. 

Your mother must have been a pretty thing. 

For all the coarse Italian blacks and browns. 

To make a good man, which my brother was, 

Unchary of the duties to his house ; 

But so it fell indeed. Our cousin Vane, 

Vane Leigh, the father of this Romney, wrote, 

Directly on your birth, to Italy : 

' I ask your baby-daughter for my son, 

In whom the entail now merges by the law, 

Betroth her to us out of love, instead 

Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose 

By love or law from henceforth : ' so he wrote. 

A generous cousin was my cousin Vane. 

Remember how he drew you to his knee 

The year you came here, just before he died, 

And hollowed out his hands to hold your cheeks, 

And wished them redder : you remember Vane .'' 

And now his son. who represents our house. 

And holds the fiefs and manors in his place. 

To whom reverts my pittance when I die, 

(Except a few books and a pair of shawls) — 

The boy is generous like him, and prepared 

To carry out his kindest word and thought 



Aurora Leigh. 47 



To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine youn,«- man 
Is Romney Leigh, although the sun of youth 
Has shone too straight upon his brain, 1 know. 
And fevered him with dreams of doing good 
To good-for-nothing people. But a wife 
Will put all right, and stroke his temples cool 
With healthy touches," . . . 

I broke in at that. 
I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe 
Till then ; but then I raised it, and it fell 
In broken words like these, — " No need to wait : 
The dream of doing good to . . . me, at least, 
Is ended without waiting for a wife 
To cool the fever for him. We've escaped 
That danger — thank Heaven for it." 

" You," she cried, 
" Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk 
An hour long to you, I instruct you how 
You cannot eat, or drink, or stand, or sit. 
Or even die, like any decent wretch 
In all this unroofed and unfurnished world, 
Without your cousin, and you still maintain 
There's room 'twixt him and you for flirting fans, 
And running knots in eyebrows ? You must have 
A pattern lover sighing on his knee ? 
You do not count enough a noble heart 
(Above book-patterns) which this very morn 
Unclosed itself in two dear father's names 
To embrace your orphaned life .-* Fie, fie ! But stay, 
I write a word, and counteract this sin." 

She would have turned to leave me, but I clung. 
" Oh, sweet my father's sister, hear my word 
Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well, 
And cousin Romney well, and I well too. 
In casting back with all my strength and will 
The good they meant me. O my God, my God ! 
God meant me good, too, when he hindered me 
From saying 'yes ' this morning. If you write 
A word, it shall be ' no.' I say no, no ! 
I tie up ' no ' upon his altar-horns 
Quite out of reach of perjury ! At least 
My soul is not a pauper : I can live 
At least my soul's life, without alms from men ; 



48 Aurora Leigh, 



And if it must be in heaven instead of earth, 
Let heaven look to it : I am not afraid." 

She seized my hand with both hers, strained them fast, 

And drew her probing- and unscrupulous eyes 

Right through me, body and heart. " Yet, foolish sweet, 

You love this man. I've watched you when he came. 

And when he went, and when we've talked of him. 

I am not old for nothing ; I can tell 

The weather-signs of love : you love this man." 

Girls blush sometimes because they are alive, 
Half wishing they were dead to save the shame. 
The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow : 
They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, 
And flare up bodily, wings and all. What then } 
Who's sorry for a gnat ... or girl ? 

I blushed. 
I feel the brand upon my forehead now 
Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men may feel 
The felon's iron, say, and scorn the mark 
Of what they are not. Most illogical, 
Irrational nature of our womanhood. 
That blushes one way, feels another way. 
And prays, perhaps, another. After all, 
W^e cannot be the equal of the male. 
Who rules his blood a little. 

For although 
I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man. 
And her incisive smile, accrediting 
That treason of false witness in my blush. 
Did bow me downward like a swathe of grass 
Below its level that struck me, I attest 
The conscious skies and all their daily suns, 
I think I loved him not, — nor then, nor since, 
Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmaster. 
Being busy in the woods } much less, being poor, 
The overseer of the parish ? Do we keep 
Our love to pay our debts with ? 

White and cold 
I grew next moment. As my blood recoiled 
From that imputed ignominy, I made 
My heart great with it. Then, at last, I spoke. 
Spoke veritable words, but passionate. 



Au7'ora Leizh. 



49 




We may call against the lighted windows of thy fair June heaven. 



5© Aurora Leigh. 



Too passionate perhaps . . . ground up with sobs 

To shapeless endings. She let fall my hands 

And took her smile off in sedate disgust, 

As peradventure she had touched a snake, — • 

A dead snake, mind ! — and, turning round, replied, 

" We'll leave Italian manners, if you please. 

1 think you had an English father, child. 

And ought to find it possible to speak 

A quiet 'yes ' or ' no,' like English girls. 

Without convulsions. In another month 

We'll take another answer, — no, or yes." 

With that, she left me in the garden-walk. 

I had a father ! yes, but long ago, — 

How long it seemed that moment! Oh, how far. 

How far and safe, God, dost thou keep thy saints, 

When once gone from us ! We may call against 

The lighted windows of thy fair June heaven. 

Where all the souls are happy, and not one. 

Not even my father, look from work or play 

To ask, "Who is it that cries after us 

Below there, in the dusk.'*" Yet formerly 

He turned his face upon me quick enough. 

If I said, "Father." Now I might cry loud : 

The little lark reached higher with his song 

Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone. 

Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on earth, 

I stood there in the garden, and looked up 

The deaf blue sky that brings the roses out 

On such June mornings. 

You who keep account 
Of crisis and transition in this life. 
Set down the first time Nature says plain "no" 
To some " yes " in you, and walks over you 
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. W^e all begin 
By singing with the birds, and running fast 
With June days, hand in hand ; but once, for all. 
The birds must sing against us, and the sun 
Strike down upon us like as friend's sword caught 
By an enemy to slay us, while we read 
The dear name on the blade which bites at us ! 
That's bitter and convincing. After that. 
We seldom doubt that something in the large. 
Smooth order of creation, though no more 
Than haply a man's footstep, has gone wrong. 



Aurora Leigh. 51 



Some tears fell down my cheeks, and then I smiled, 

As those smile who have no face in the world 

To smile back to them. I had lost a friend 

In Romney Leigh. The thing was sure, — a friend 

Who had looked at me most gently now and then, 

And spoken of my favorite books, " our books," 

With such a voice ! Well, voice and look were now 

More utterly shut out from me, I felt. 

Than even my father's. Romney now was turned 

To a benefactor, to a generous man, 

Who had tied himself to marry . . . me, instead 

Of such a woman, with low timorous lids 

He lifted with a sudden word one day. 

And left, perhaps, for my sake. Ah, self-tied 

By a contract, male Iphigenia bound 

At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change, 

(But loose him, they'll not change,) he well might seem 

A little cold and dominant in love ; 

He had a right to be dogmatical, 

This poor, good Romney. Love to him was made 

A simple law-clause. If I married him, 

I should not dare to call my soul my own 

Which so he had bought and paid for : every thought 

And every heart-beat down there in the bill ; 

Not one found honestly deductible 

From any use that pleased him ! He might cut 

My body into coins to give away 

Among his other paupers : change my sons. 

While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes 

Or piteous foundlings ; might unquestioned set 

My right hand teaching in the ragged schools. 

My left hand washing in the public baths. 

What time my angel of the Ideal stretched 

Both his to me in vain. I could not claim 

The poor right of a mouse in a trap to squeal, 

And take so much as pity from myself. 

Farewell, good Romney ! if I loved you even. 

I could but ill afford to let you be 

So generous to me. Farewell, friend, since friend 

Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a word 

So heavily overladen. And, since help 

Must come to me from those who love me not, 

Farewell, all helpers : I must help myself, 



^2 Aurora Leigh. 



And am alone from henceforth. Then I stooped 

And Ufted the soiled garland from the earth, 

And set it on my head as bitterly 

As when the Spanish monarch crowned the bones 

Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve 

That crown still, in the drawer there : 'twas the first ; 

The rest are like it, those Olympian crowns 

We run for till we lose sight of the sun 

In the dust of the racing chariots. 

After that. 
Before the evening fell, I had a note. 
Which ran,—" Aurora, sweet Chaldai^an, you read 
My meaning backward, Uke your eastern books. 
While I am from the west, dear. Read me now 
A httle plainer. Did you hate me quite 
But yesterday } I loved you for my part ; 
I love you. If I spoke untenderly 
This morning, my beloved, pardon it. 
And comprehend me that I loved you so 
I set you on the level of my soul. 
And overwashed you with the bitter brine 
Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, my Hower, 
Be planted out of reach of any such. 
And lean the side you please with all your leaves. 
Write woman's verses and dream woman's dreams ; 
But let me feel your perfume in my home 
To make my sabbath after working-days. 
Bloom out your youth beside me ; be my wife." 

I wrote in answer : " We Chaldasans discern 

Still further than we read. I know your heart, 

And shut it like the holy book it is. 

Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore upon 

Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, you're right, 

I did not surely hate you yesterday ; 

And yet I do not love you enough to-day 

To wed you, cousin Romney, Take this word. 

And let it stop you as a generous man 

From speaking further. You may tease, indeed, 

And blow about my feelings, or my leaves ; 

And here's my aunt will help 3'ou with east winds. 

And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting me : 

But certain flowers grow near as deep as trees : 

And, cousin, you'll not move my root, not you, 



Aurora Leigh. 53 



With all your confluent storms. Then let me grow 
Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way. 
This flower has never as much to say to you 
As the antique tomb which said to travellers, ' Pause, 
' Sisfe, viator: " Ending thus, I sighed. 

The next week passed in silence, so the next, 

And several after : Romney did not come, 

Nor my aunt chide me. 1 lived on and on. 

As if my heart were kept beneath a glass. 

And everybodv stood, all eyes and ears 

To see and hear it tick. 1 could not sit. 

Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it down. 

Nor sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch 

And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks 

Still cleaving to me, like the sucking asp 

To Cleopatra's breast, persistently 

Through the intermittent pantings. Being observed 

When observation is not sympathy 

Is just being tortured. If she said a word, .^ 

A " thank you," or an " if it please you, dear, 

She meant a commination, or at best 

An exorcism against the devildom 

Which plainly held me. So with all the house. 

Susannah could not stand and twist my hair. 

Without such glancing at the looking-glass 

To see my face there, that she missed the plait. 

And John— I never sent my plate for soup, 

Or did not send it, but the foolish John 

Resolved the problem, 'twixt his napkined thumbs, 

Of what was signified by taking soup. 

Or choosing mackerel. Neighbors who dropped in 

On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong, 

Smiled admonition, sate uneasily, 

And talked with measured, emphasized reserve. 

Of parish news, like doctors to the sick, 

Wa-ien not called in,— as if, with leave to speak. 

They might say something. Nay, the very dog 

Would watch me from his sun-patch on the floor, 

In alternation with the large black fly 

Not yet in reach of snapping. So I lived. 

A Roman died so,— smeared with honey, teased 
By insects, stared to torture by the noon ; 



54 



Aurora Leigh. 



And many patient souls 'neath English roofs 
Have died like Romans. 1, in looking back, 
Wish only now I had borne the plague of all 
With meeker spirits than were rife at Rome. 

For on the sixth week the dead sea broke up, 
Dashed suddenly through beneath the heel of Him 




There I sate, and wished that morning-truce of God wollu 

LAST till E\E. 

Who stands upon the sea and earth, and swears 

Time shall be nevermore. The clock struck nme 

That morning too ; no lark was out of tune ; 

The hidden farms among the hills breathed straight 

Their smoke toward heaven ; the lime-tree scarcely stirred 

Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless sky, 

Though still the July air came floating through 

The woodbine at my window, in and out, 

With touches of the out-door country news 

For a bending forehead. There I sate, and wished 

That morning-truce of God would last till eve. 

Or longer. " Sleep," I thought, "late sleepers; sleep. 

And spare me yet the burden of your eyes." 

Then suddenly a single ghastly shriek 



Aurora Leigh. 55 

Tore upward from the bottom of the house. 
Like one who wakens in a grave, and shrieks, 
The still house seemed to shriek itself alive. 
And shudder through its passages and stairs, 
With slam of doors and clash of bells. I sprang, 
I stood up in the middle of the room, 
And there confronted at my chamber-door 
A white face, — shivering, ineffectual lips. 
" Come, come ! " they tried to utter, and I went. 
As if a ghost had drawn me at the point 
Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark, 
I went with reeling footsteps down the stair, 
Nor asked a question. 

There she sate, my aunt, 

Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed. 

Whose pillow had no dint. She had used no bed 

For that night's sleeping, yet slept well. My God ! 

The dumb derision of that gray, peaked face 

Concluded something grave against the sun. 

Which filled the chamber with its July burst, 

When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant 

Of who sate open-eyed behind her. There 

She sate ... it sate . . . we said " she " yesterday . . . 

And held a letter with unbroken seal. 

As Susan gave it to her hand last night. 

All night she had held it. If its news referred 

To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch 

She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such worthless odds ; 

Nor, though the stars were suns, and overburned 

Their spheric limitations, swallowing up 

Like wax the azure spaces, could they force 

Those open eyes to wink once. What last sight 

Had left them blank and flat so, drawing out 

The faculty of vision from the roots. 

As nothing more, worth seeing, remained behind ? 

Were those the eyes that watched me, worried me } 

That dogged me up and down the hours and days, 

A beatenr breathless, miserable soul ? 

And did I pray, a half-hour back, but so. 

To escape the burden of those eyes . . . those eyes . 

" Sleep late," I said.— Why now, indeed, they sleep. 

God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, 

And thrusts the tiling we have prayed for m our face. 



56 Aurora Leigh. 



A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every wish 
Is like a prayer, with God. 



I had my wish, 



To read and meditate the thing I would. 

To fashion all my life upon my thought, 

And marry, or not marry. Henceforth none 

Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper me. 

Full ground-room in this desert newly made. 

For Babylon or Balbec, when the breath. 

Now choked with sand, returns for building towns. 

The heir came over on the funeral day. 

And we two cousins met before the dead 

With two pale faces. Was it death, or life, 

That moved us ? When the will was read and done, 

The official guests and witnesses withdrawn, 

We rose up, in a silence almost hard, 

And looked at one another. Then I said, 

" Farewell, my cousin." 

But he touched, just touched 
My hatstrings tied for going (at the door 
The carriage stood to take me), and said low. 
His voice a little unsteady through his smile, 
''Siste, viator y 

" Is there time," 1 asked, 
" In these last days of railroads, to stop short, 
Like Csesar's chariot (weighing half a ton,) 
On the Appian road, for morals ? " 

" There is time," 
He answered grave, " for necessary words. 
Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph 
On man or act, my cousin. We have read 
A will which gives you all the personal goods 
And funded moneys of your aunt." 

" I thank 
Her memory for it. With three hundred pounds. 
We buy in England, even, clear standing-room 
To stand and work in. Only two hours since 
I fancied I was poor." 

" And, cousin, still 
You're richer than you fancy. The will says, 
T/i?'ee himdred pounds, and arty other sum 
Of which the said testatrix dies possessed. 
I say she died possessed of other sums." 



Aurora Leigh. 57 



" Dear Romney, need we chronicle the pence ? 
I'm richer than I thought: that's evident. 
Enough so." 

" Listen, rather. You've to do 
With business and a cousin," he resumed ; 
" And both, I fear, need patience. Here's the fact. 
The other sum (there is another sum. 
Unspecified in any will which dates 
After possession, yet bequeathed as much 
And clearly as those said three hundred pounds) 
Is thirty thousand. You will have it paid _^ 

When ? . . . where? My duty troubles you with words. 

He struck the iron when the bar was hot : 
No wonder if my eyes sent out some sparks. 
" Pause there ! I thank you. You are delicate 
In glozing gifts ; but I, who share your blood, 
Am rather made for giving, like yourself, 
Than taking, like your pensioners. Farewell." 

He stopped me with a gesture of calm pride. 

" A Leigh," he said, " gives largesse, and gives love, 

But glozes never : if a Leigh could gloze. 

He would not do it, moreover, to a Leigh, 

With blood trained up along nine centuries 

To hound and hate a lie from eyes like yours. 

And now we'll make the rest as clear. Your aunt 

Possessed these moneys." 

" You will make it clear, 

My cousin, as the honor of us both. 

Or one of us speaks vainly. That's not I. 

My aunt possessed this sum— inherited 

From whom, and when ? Bring documents, prove dates." 

" Why, now indeed you throw your bonnet off 
As if you had time left for a logarithm ! 
The faith's the want. Dear cousin, give me faith, 
And you shall walk this road with silken shoes. 
As clean as any lady of our house 
Supposed the proudest. Oh, I comprehend 
The whole position from your point of sight. 
I oust you from your father's halls and lands, 
And make you poor by getting rich— that's law ; 
Considering which, in common circumstance 



58 Aurora Leigh. 



You would not scruple to accept from me 
Some compensation, some sufficiency 
Of income— that were justice ; but, alas ! 
I love you— that's mere nature ; you reject 
My love — that's nature also ; and at once 
You cannot, from a suitor disallowed, 
A hand thrown back, as mine is, into yours, 
Receiv^e a doit, a farthing, — not for the world ! 
That's woman's etiquette, and obviously 
Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and right, 
Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see, 
The case as you conceive it ; leave you room 
To sweep your ample skirts of womanhood, 
While, standing humbly squeezed against the wall, 
I own myself excluded from being just. 
Restrained from paying indubitable debts, 
Because denied from giving you my soul. 
That's my misfortune. I submit to it 
As if, in some more reasonable age, 
' Twould not be less inevitable. Enough. 
You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman, 
To keep your honor, as you count it, pure. 
Your scruples ( just as if I thought them wise) 
Safe, and inviolate from gifts of mine." 

I answered mild but earnest : " I believe 

In no one's honor which another keeps. 

Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, myself, 

My truth and my religion, I depute 

No father, though I had one this side death. 

Nor brother, though I had twenty, much less you. 

Though twice my cousin, and once Romney Leigh, 

To keep my honor pure. You face to-day 

A man who wants instruction, mark me, not 

A woman who wants protection. As to a man, 

Show manhood, speak out plainly, be precise 

With facts and dates. My aunt inherited 

This sum, you say "— 

" I said she died possessed 
Of this, dear cousin." 

" Not by heritage. 
Thank you : we're getting to the facts at last. 
Perhaps she played at commerce with a ship 
Which came in heavy with Australian gold .'' 



Aurora Lei^h 



'^'''- 59 



Or touched a lottery with her finger-end, 
Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap 
Some old Rhine tower or principality ? 
Perhaps she had to do with a marine 
Sub-transatlantic railroad which prepays 
As well as presupposes ? or perhaps 
Some stale ancestral debt was afterpaid 
By a hundred years, and took her by surprise? 
You shake your head, my cousin : 1 guess ill." 

" You need not guess, Aurora, nor deride : 
The truth is not afraid of hurting you. 
You'll find no cause in all your scruples, why 
Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift 
'Twixt her and me." 

" I thought so— ah ! a gift." 



" You naturally thought so," he resumed. 
" A very natural gift." 



A gift, a gift 



Her individual life being stranded high 

Above all want, approaching opulence, 

Too haughty was she to accept a gift 

Without some ultimate aim. Ah, ah, I see ! — 

A gift intended plainly for her heirs. 

And so accepted . . .' if accepted . . . ah, 

Indeed that might be : I am snared perhaps 

Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon you. 

If thus you have caught me with a cruel springe ? " 

He answered gently, " Need you tremble and pant 
Like a netted lioness ? Is 't my fault, mine. 
That you're a grand wild creature of the woods. 
And hate the stall built for you ? Any way. 
Though triply netted, need you glare at me ? 
I do not hold the cords of such a net : 
You're free from me, Aurora." 

" Now may God 
Deliver me from this strait ! This gift of yours 
Was tendered . . . when .^ accepted . . . when .^ " I asked. 
" A month ... a fortnight since ? Six weeks ago 
It was not tendered : by a word she dropped 
I know it was not tendered nor received. 
When was it ? Bring your dates." 



6o Aurora Leis^h. 



" What matters when ? 
A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year, 
Secured the gift, maintains the heritage 
Inviolable with law. As easy pluck 
The golden stars from heaven's embroidered stole 
To pin them on the gray side of this earth, 
As make you poor again, thank God I " 

" Not poor 
Nor clean again from henceforth, you thank God ? 
Well, sir — I ask you ... I insist at need . . . 
Vouchsafe the special date, the special date." 

" The day before her death-day," he replied, 

" The gift was in her hands. We'll find that deed, 

And certify that date to you." 

As one 
Who has climbed a mountain-height, and carried up 
His own heart climbing, panting, in his throat 
With the toil of the ascent, takes breath at last. 
Looks back in triumph, so I stood and looked. 
" Dear cousin Romney, we have reached the top 
Of this steep question, and may rest, I think. 
But first, I pray you pardon that the shock 
And surge of natural feeling and event 
Has made me oblivious of acquainting you 
That this — this letter (unread, mark, still sealed) 
Was found infolded in the poor dead hand. 
That spirit of hers had gone beyond the address, 
Which could not find her, though you wrote it clear. 
1 know your writing, Romney, — recognize 
The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep 
Of the G. Now listen. Let us understand : 
You will not find that famous deed of gift. 
Unless you find it in the letter here, 

Which, not being mine, I give you back. Refuse ^ 

To take the letter.^ Well, then, you and I, 
As writer and as heiress, open it ' 
Together, by your leave. Exactly so : 
The words in which the noble offering's made 
Are nobler still, my cousin ; and I own 
The proudest and most delicate heart alive. 
Distracted from the measure of the gift 
By such a grace in giving, might accept 
Your largesse, without thinking any more 



Aurora Leisrh. 6i 



Of the burthen of it than King Solomon 
Considered, when he wore his holy ring- 
Charactered over with the ineffable spell, 
How many carats of tine gold made up 
Its money-value. So Leigh gives to Leigh ! 
'Or rather might have given, observe, — for that's 
The point we come to. Here's a proof of gift ; 
But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy. 
But. rather, disproof. Death's black dust, being blown, 
Infiltrated through every secret fold 
Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate. 
Dried up forever the fresh-written ink. 
Annulled the gift, disutilized the grace, 




^ - 






It fluttered from my hands. 



And left these fragments." 

As I spoke, I tore 
The paper up and down, and down and up. 
And crosswise, till it fluttered from my hands, 
As forest-leaves, stripped suddenly, and rapt 
By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again, — 
Drop slow, and strew the melancholy ground 
Before the amazed hills . . . why so, indeed, 



62 Aurora Leigh. 



I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large 
In the type of the image, and exaggerate 
A small thing with a great thing, topping it ; 
But then I'm thinking how his eyes looked, his, 
With what despondent and surprised reproach ! 
I think the tears were in them as he looked ; 
I think the manly mouth just trembled. Then 
He broke the silence. 

" I may ask, perhaps, 
Although no stranger . . . only Romney Leigh, 
Which means still less . . . than Vincent Carrington, 
Your plcns in going hence, and where you go. 
This cannot be a secret.' 

" All my life 
Is open to 3'ou, cousin. I go hence 
To London, to the gathering-place of souls. 
To live mine straight out, vocally, in books ; 
Harmoniously for others, if indeed 
A woman's soul, like man's, be wide enough 
To carry the whole octave (that's to prove) ; 
Or, if I fail, still purely for myself. 
Pray God be with me, Romney." 

" Ah, poor child ! 
Who fight against the mother's 'tiring hand. 
And choose the headsman's. May God change his world 
For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven, 
And juster than I have found you." 

But I paused. 
" And you, my cousin } " 

" I," he said — " you ask .'* 
You care to ask } Well, girls have curious minds. 
And fain would know the end of everything. 
Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. For me, 
Aurora, I've my work : you know my work ; 
And, having missed this year some personal hope, 
I must beware the rather that I miss 
No reasonable duty. While you sing 
Your happy pastorals of the meads and trees, 
Bethink you that I go to impress and prove 
On stified brains and deafened ears, stunned deaf. 
Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings itself, 
And needs no mediate poet, lute, or voice 
To make it vocal. While you ask of men 
Your audience, I may get their leave, perhaps. 



Aurora Leigh. 63 

For hungry orphans to say audibly, 

' We're hungry, see ; ' for beaten and bullied wives 

To hold their unweaned babies up in sight, 

Whom orphanage would better ; and for all 

To speak and claim their portion ... by no means 

Of the soil . . . but of the sweat in tilling it ; 

Since this is nowadays turned privilege. 

To have onlv God's curse on us, and not man's. 

Such work I'have for doing, elbow-deep 

In social problems, as you tie your rhymes, 

To draw my uses to cohere with needs, 

And bring the uneven world back to its round, 

Or, failing so much, fill up. bridge at least 

To smoother issues, some abysmal cracks 

And feuds of earth intestine heats have made 

To keep men separate, using sorry shifts 

Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools. 

And other practical stuff of partial good 

You lovers of the beautiful and whole 

Despise by svstem." 

" / despise ? The scorn 

Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such 
Through scorning nothing. You decry them for 
The good of beauty sung and taught by them ; 
While they respect your practical partial good 
As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu ! 
When God helps all the workers for his world. 
The singers shall have help of him, not last." 

He smiled as men smile when they will not speak 
Because of something bitter in the thought ; 
And still I feel his melancholy eyes 
Look judgment on me. It is seven years since. 
I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn 
Has made them so far-reaching : judge it. ye 
Who have had to do with pity more than love. 
And scorn than hatred. I am used, since then 
To other ways from equal men. But so. 
Even so, we let go hands, my cousin and I, 
And in between us rushed the torrent world 
To blanch our faces like divided rocks, 
And bar forever mutual sight and touch. 
Except through swirl of spray and all that roar. 



64 Aurora Lcigfi. 



THIRD BOOK. 

" To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself, 
And goest where thou wouldest : presently 
Others shall gird thee," said the Lord, " to go 
Where thou would'st not." He spoke to Peter thus, 
To signify the death which he should die 
When crucified head downward. 

If he spoke 
To Peter then, he speaks to us the same. 
The word suits many different martyrdoms. 
And signifies a multiform of death. 
Although we scarcely die apostles, we, 
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth. 

For 'tis not in mere death that men die most ; 
And, after our first girding of the loins 
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery 
To run up hill and meet the rising sun. 
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool. 
While others gird us with the violent bands 
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms. 
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up 
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts, 
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world. 
Yet he can pluck us from that shameful cross. 
God, set our feet low and our forehead high, 
And show us how a man was made to walk ! 

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed: 

The room does very well. I have to write 

Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away: 

Your steps, forever buzzing in the room. 

Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters ! Throw them down 

At once, as I must have them, to be sure, 

Whether I bid you never bring me such 

At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse : 

You choose to bring them, as I choose, perhaps, 

To throw them in the fire. Now get to bed. 

And dream, if possible, I am not cross. 

Why, what a pettish, petty thing I grow !— 
A mere, mere woman, a mere fiaccid nerve. 



Aurora Leigh. 65 



A kerchief left out all night in the rain. 
Turned soft so, — overtasked and overstrained 
And overlived in this close London life. 
And yet I should be stronger. 

Never burn 
Your letters, poor Aurora ; for they stare 
With red seals from the table, saying each, 
" Here's something that you know not." Out, alas ! 
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise, 
Or even straighter and more consequent, 
Since yesterday at this time ; yet, again, 
If but one angel spoke from Ararat, 
I should be very sorry not to hear : 
So open all the letters, let me read. 
Blanche Ord, the writer in the " Lady's Fan," 
Requests my judgment on . . . that, afterwards. 
Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak, 
And signs, " Elisha to you." Pringle Sharpe 
Presents his work on " Social Conduct," craves 
A little money for his pressing debts . . . 
From me, who scarce have money for my needs; 
Art's fiery chariot which we journey in 
Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes. 
Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward. 
Here's Rudgely knows it, editor and scribe: 
He's " forced to marry where his heart is not. 
Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart." 
Ah — lost it because no one picked it up : 
That's really loss (and passable imprudence). 
My critic Hammond flattens prettily. 
And wants another volume like the last. 
My critic Bel fair wants another book 
Entirely diffsrent, which will sell, (and live ?) 
A striking book, yet not a startling book. 
The public blames originalities, 
(You must not pump spring-water unawares 
Upon a gracious public full of nerves :) 
Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox. 
As easy reading as the dog-eared page 
That's fingered by said public fifty years. 
Since first taught spelling by its grandmother, 
And yet a revelation in some sort : 
That's hard, my critic Belfair. So — what next ? 
JMy critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts. 



66 Aurora Leigh. 



" Call a man John, a woman Joan," says he 

" And do not prate so of humaiiities : " 

Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes. 

My critic Jobson recommends more mirth. 

Because a cheerful genius suits the times, 

And all true poets laugh unquenchably 

Like Shakspeare and the gods. That's very hard. 

The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare , Dante smiled 

With such a needy heart on two pale lips. 

We cry, "Weep, rather, Dante." Poems are 

Men, if true poems ; and who dares exclaim 

At any man's door, " Here, 'tis understood 

The thunder fell last week and killed a wife, 

And -scared a sickly husband : what of that .'* 

Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands, 

Because a cheerful genius suits the times ? 

None says so to the man ; and why, indeed. 

Should any to the poem ? A ninth seal ; 

The apocalypse is drawing to a close. 

Ha — this from Vincent Carrington, — " Dear friend, 

I want good counsel. Will you lend me wings 

To raise me to the subject in a sketch 

I'll bring to-morrow — may I ? — at eleven .'* 

A poet's only born to turn to use. 

So save you ! for the world . . . and Carrington." 

(Writ after.) " Have you heard of Romney Leigh, 

Beyond what's said of him in newspapers. 

His phalansteries there, his speeches here. 

His pamphlets, pleas, and statements everywhere ? 

He dropped ///£' long ago ; but no one drops 

A golden apple, though, indeed, one day 

You hinted that, but jested. Well, at least 

You know Lord Howe, who sees him . . . whom he sees, 

Andjou see, and I hate to see, — for Howe 

Stands high upon the brink of theories. 

Observes the swimmers, and cries, ' Very fine !' 

But keeps dry linen equally, — unlike 

That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange it is. 

Such sudden madness seizing a young man 

To make earth over again, while I'm content 

To make the pictures. Let me bring the sketch : 

A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot. 

Both arms aflame to meet her wishing Jove 

Halfwav, and burn him faster down ; the face 



Aurora Leish. 



67 




The loose locks all glowing with the anticipated gold. 

And breasts upturned and straining, the loose locks 

All glowing with the anticipated gold. 

Or here's another on the self-same theme. 

She lies here, flat upon her prison-floor, 

The long hair swathed about her to the heel 

Like wet seaweed. You dimly see her through 

The glittering haze of that prodigious rain, 

Half blotted out of nature by a love 

As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either sketch. 

I think, myself, the second indicates 

More passion." 

Surely. Self is put away, 
And calm with abdication. She is Jove, 
And no more Danae — greater thus. Perhaps 
The painter symbolizes unaware 
Two states of the recipient artist-soul, 
One, forward, personal, wanting reverence, 
Because aspiring only. We'll be calm. 
And know, that, when indeed our Joves come down, 
We all turn stiller than we have ever been. 



Kind Vincent Carrington. I'll let him come. 

He talks of Florence, and may say a word 

Of something as it chanced seven years ago, — 

A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird. 

In those green country walks, in that good time 

When certainly I was so miserable . . . 

I seem to have missed a blessing ever since. 

The music soars within the little lark, 

And the lark soars. It is not thus with men. 



68 Aurora Leigh. 



We do not make our places with our strains, 
Content, while they rise, to remain behind 
Alone on earth, instead of so in heaven. 
No matter : I bear on my broken tale. 

When Romney Leig-h and I had parted thus, 

I took a chamber up three flights of stairs 

Not far from being as steep as some larks climb, 

And there, in a certain house in Kensington, 

Three years I lived and worked. Get leave to work 

In this 'world— 'tis the best you get at all ; 

For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts 

Than men in benediction. God says, " Sweat 

For foreheads : " men say, " Crowns." And so we are 

crowned. 
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel 
Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work, get work ! 
Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get. 

Serene, and unafraid of solitude. 

I worked the short days out, and watched the sun 

On lurid morns or monstrous afternoons 

(Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass. 

With fixed unflickering outline of dead heat. 

From which the blood of wretches pent inside 

Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the air) 

Push out through fog with his dilated disk. 

And startle the slant roofs and chimney-pots 

With splashes of fierce color. Or I saw 

Fog only — the great tawny weltering fog — 

Involve the passive city, strangle it 

Alive, and draw it off into the void, — 

Spires, bridges, streets, and squares,— as if a sponge 

Had wiped out London, or as noon and night 

Had clapped together, and utterly struck out 

The intermediate time, undoing themselves 

In the act. Your city poets see such things 

Not despicable. Mountains of the south. 

When, drunk and mad with elemental wines 

They rend the seamless mist, and stand up bare, 

Make fewer singers, haply. No one sings. 

Descending Sinai : on Parnassus-mount 

You take a mule to climb, and not a muse. 

Except in fable and figure : forests chant 



Aurora Leigh. 69 



Their anthems to themselves, and leave you diunb. 

But sit in London at the day's decline, 

And view the city perish in the mist 

Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep Red Sea, 

The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the host. 

Sucked down and choked to silence — then, surprised 

By a sudden sense of vision and of tune, 

You feel as conquerors, though you did not fight ; 

And you and Israel's other singing girls. 

Ay. Miriam with them, sing the song you choose. 

I worked with patience, which means almost power, 

I did some excellent things indifferently, 

Some bad things excellently. Both were praised. 

The latter loudest. And by such a time 

That I myself had set them down as sins 

Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week by week 

Arrived some letter through the sedulous post, 

Like these Lve read, and yet dissimilar. 

With pretty maiden seals, — initials twined 

Of lilies, or a heart marked Etnily, 

(Convicting Emily of being all heart ;) 

Or rarer tokens from young bachelors, 

Who wrote from college with the same goosequill. 

Suppose, they had just been plucked of, and a snatch 

From Horace, " Collegisse juvat," set 

Upon the first page. Many a letter, signed 

Or unsigned, showing the writers at eighteen 

Had lived too long, although a muse should help 

Their dawn by holding candles, — compliments 

To smile or sigh at. Such could pass with me 

No more than coins from Moscow circulate 

At Paris : would ten roubles buy a tag 

Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a sou ? 

I smiled that all this youth should love me, sighed 

That such a love could scarcely raise them up 

To love what was more worthy than myself ; 

Then sighed again, again, less generously, 

To think the very love they lavished so 

Proved me inferior. The strong loved me not, 

And he . . . my cousin Romney . . . did not write. 

I felt the silent finger of his scorn 

Prick every bubble of my frivolous fame 

As my breath blew it, and resolve it back 



yo Aurora Leigh. 



To the air it came from. Oh, I justified 
The measure he had taken of my height : 
The thing was plain — he was not wrong a line ; 
I played at art, made thrusts with a toy-sword. 
Amused the lads and maidens. 

Came a sigh 
Deep, hoarse with resolution, — I would work 
To better ends, or play in earnest. " Heavens, 
I think I should be almost popular 
If this went on I " — I ripped my verses up, 
And found no blood upon the rapier's point ; 
The heart in them was just an embryo's heart. 
Which never yet had beat, that it should die ; 
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life ; 
Mere tones, inorganized to any tune. 

And yet I felt it in me where it burnt. 

Like those hot hre-seeds of creation held 

In Jove's clinched palm before the worlds were sown ; 

But I — I was not Juno even ! my hand 

Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's ill ; 

And when I yearned to loose a finger — lo. 

The nerve revolted. 'Tis the same even now : 

This hand may never haply open large. 

Before the spark is quenched, or the palm charred, 

To prove tb.e power not else than by the pain. 

It burnt, it burns — my whole life burnt with it; 
And light, not sunlight and not torchlight, flashed 
My steps out through the slow and difficult road. 
I had grown distrustful of too forward springs. 
The season's books in drear significance 
Of morals, dropping round me. Lively books } 
The ash has livelier verdure than the yew ; 
And yet the yews green longer, and alone 
Found worthy of the holy Christmas time : 
We'll plant more yews if possible, albeit 
We plant the gtaveyards with them. 

Day and night 
I worked my rhythmic thought, and furrowed up 
Both watch and slumber with long lines of life 
Which did not suit their season. The rose fell 
From either cheek, my eyes globed luminous 
Through orbits of blue shadow, and my pulse 



Aurora Leigh. 71 



Would shudder along the purple veined wrist 

Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set face to face 

With youth's ideal ; and when people came 

And said, " You work too much, you are looking ill," 

I smiled for pity of them who pitied me. 

And thought I should be better soon, perhaps. 

For those ill looks. Observe, " I " means in youth 

Just /, the conscious and eternal soul 

With all its ends, and not the outside life. 

The parcel-man, the doublet of the llesh. 

The so much liver, lung, integument, 

Which make the sum of " I " hereafter, when 

World-talkers talk of doing well or ill. 

/prosper if I gain a step, although 

A nail then pierced my foot : although my brain. 

Embracing any truth, froze paralyzed, 

/prosper : I but change my instrument ; 

I break the spade off, digging deep for gold, 

And catch the mattock up. 

I worked on, 
Through all the bristling fence of nights and days 
Which hedges time in from the eternities 
I struggled, never stopped to note the stakes 
Which hurt me in my course. The midnight oil 
Would stink sometimes; there came some vulgar needs 
I had to live that therefore I might work. 
And, being but poor, I was constrained, for life. 
To work with one hand for the booksellers 
While working with the other for myself 
And art : you swim with feet, as well as hands. 
Or make small way. I apprehended this. 
In England no one lives by verse that lives ; 
And, apprehending, I resolved by prose 
To make a space to sphere my living verse. 
I wrote for cyclopaedias, magazines. 
And weekly papers, holding up my name 
To keep it from the mud. I learnt the use 
Of the editorial " we " in a review. 
As courtly ladies the hne trick of trains. 
And swept it grandly through the open doors. 
As if one could not pass through doors at all, 
Save so encumbered. I wrote tales beside. 
Carved many an article on cherry-stones 
To suit light readers, — something in the lines 



72 



Auro?-a Leizh. 



Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand ; 

But that I'll never vouch for. What you do 

For bread will taste of common grain, not grapes, 

Although you have a vineyard in Champagne, 

Much less in Nephelococcygia, 

As mine was, peradventure. 

Having bread 
For just so many days, just breathing-room 
For body and verse, I stood up straight, and worked 
My veritable work. And as the soul 
Which grows within a child makes the child grow, 
Or as the fiery sap, the touch from God, 
Careering through a tree, dilates the bark. 
And roughs with scale and knob, before it strikes 
The summer-foliage out in a green flame, 
So life, in deepening with me, deepened all 
The course I took, the work I did. Indeed, 
The academic law convinced of sin : 
The critics cried out on the falling off. 
Regretting the first manner. But I felt 
My heart's life throbbing in my verse to show 
It lived, it also — certes incomplete, 
Disordered with all Adam in the blood. 
But even its very tumors, warts, and wens 
Still organized by and implying life. 

A lady called upon me on such a day. 

She had the low voice of your English dames, — 

Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note 

To catch attention, — and their quiet mood, 

As if they lived too high above the earth 

For that to put them out in anything : 

So gentle, because verily so proud ; 

So wary and afraid of hurting you. 

By no means that you are not really vile. 

But that they w^ould not touch you with their foot 

To push you to your place ; so self-possessed. 

Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes 

An effort in iheir presence to speak truth : 

You know the sort of woman, — brilliant stuff. 

And out of nature. " Lady Waldemar." 

She said her name quite simply, as if it meant 

Not much, indeed, but something; took my hands. 

And smiled as if her sm.ile could help my case, 



Aurora Leigh. 73 



And dropped her eyes on me, and let them melt. 
" Is this," she said, " the muse ? " 

" No sibyl, even," 
I answered, " since she fails to guess the cause 
Which taxed you with this visit, madam." 

*' Good," 
She said. " I value what's sincere at once. 
Perhaps, if I had found a literal muse. 
The visit might have taxed me. As it is. 
You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes. 
My fair Aurora, in a frank, good way. 
It comforts me entirely for your fame, 
As well as for the trouble of ascent 
To this Olympus." 

There a silver laugh 
Ran rippling through her quickened little breaths 
The steep stair somewhat justified. 

*' But still 
Your ladyship has left me curious why 
You dared the risk of finding the said muse } " 

" Ah, keep me, notwithstanding, to the point, 

Like any pedant ? Is the blue in eyes 

As awful, as in stockings, after all, 

I wonder, that you'd have my business out 

Before I breathe — exact the epic plunge 

In spite of gasps .^ Well, naturally you think 

I've come here, as the lion-hunters go 

To deserts, to secure you with a trap 

For exhibition in my drawing-rooms 

On zoologic soirees ? not in the least. 

Roar softly at me : I am frivolous, 

I dare say ; I have played at wild-beast shows 

Like other women of my class, — but now 

I meet my lion simply as Androcles 

Met his . . . when at his mercy." 

So, she bent 
Her head as queens may mock, then, lifting up 
Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look, 
Which ruled, and would not spare, not even herself, — 
" I think you have a cousin, — Romney Leigh." 

" You bring a word from h/ml^ " — my eyes leapt up 
To the very height of hers,^^",4 word from /ii'mf" 



74 Aurora Leigh. 



" I bring a word about him actually. 

But first " (she pressed me with her urgent eyes), 

" You do not love him, — you ? " 

" You're frank at least 
In putting questions, madam," I replied. 
" I love my cousin cousinly — no more." 

" I guessed as much. I'm ready to be frank 
In answering also, if you'll question me. 
Or even for something less. You stand outside, 
You artist women, of the common sex ; 
You share not with us, and exceed us so 
Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, your hearts 
Being starved to make your heads : so run the old 
Traditions of you. I can therefore speak 
Without the natural shame which creatures feel, 
When speaking on their level, to their like. 
There's many a papist she, would rather die 
Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on 
To catch the indifferent eye of such a man. 
Who yet would count adulteries on her beads 
At holy Mary's shrine, and never blush, 
Because the saints are so far off we lose 
All modesty before them. Thus to-day. 
'Tis / love Romney Leigh." 

" Forbear ! " I cried. 
" If here's no muse, still less is any saint. 
Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar 
Should make confessions "... 

" That's unkindly said. 
If no friend, w'hat forbids to make a friend 
To join to our confession, ere we have done } 
I love your cousin. If it seems unwise 
To say so, it's still foolisher (we're frank) 
To feel so. My first husband left me young. 
And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough 
To keep my booth in May-fair with the rest 
To happy issues. There are marquises 
Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know, 
And after seven I might consider it, 
For there's some comfort in a marquisate, 
When all's said, — yes, but after the seven years ; 
I now love Romney. You put up your lip 
So like a Leigh ! so like him ! Pardon me, 



Aurora Leigh. 75 



I'm well aware I do not derogate 
In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good, 
The means are excellent ; but the man, the man- 
Heaven help us both,— I am near as mad as he 
In loving such an one." 

She slowly swuug 
Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile. 
As reasonably sorry for herself. 
And thus continued :— 

" Of a truth, ^ Miss Leigh, 
I have not without struggle come to this. 
1 took a master in the German tongue, 
I gamed a little, went to Paris twice ; 
But, after all, this love ! . . . you eat of love, 
And do as vile a thing as if you ate 
Of garlic, which, whatever else you eat. 
Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach 
Reminds you of your onion. Am I coarse ? 
Well, love's coarse, nature's coarse. Ah, there's the rub I 
We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives 
From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows 
From flying over : we're as natural still 
As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly 
In Lyons velvet, we are not for that 
Lay-figures, look you : we have hearts within, — 
Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts. 
As ready for outrageous ends and acts 
As any distressed seamstress of them all 
That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love, 
And other fevers, in the vulgar way. 
Love will not be outwitted by our wit. 
Nor outrun by our equipages : mine 
Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards 
Turned up but Romney Leigh ; my German stopped 
At germane Wertherism ; my Paris rounds 
Returned me from the Champs Elysees just 
A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. I came home 
Uncured, convicted rather to myself 
Of being in love ... in love ! That's coarse, you'll 

say, 
I'm talking garlic." 

Coldly I replied; 
" Apologize for atheism, not love ! 
For me, I do believe in love, and God. 



76 Aurora Leigh. 



I know my cousin ; Lady Waldemar 
I know not : yet 1 say as much as this, — 
Whoever loves him, let her not excuse. 
But cleanse herself, that, loving such a man, 
She may not do it with such unworthy love 
He cannot stoop and take it." 



That is said 



Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, 

Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes 

To keep them back from following the gray flight 

Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear, 

Be kmder with me : let us two be friends. 

I'm a mere woman, — the more weak, perhaps. 

Through being so proud ; you're better ; as for him, 

He's best. Indeed, he builds his goodness up 

So high, it topples down to the other side. 

And makes a sort of badness : there's the worst 

I have to say against your cousin's best. 

And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst, 

For his sake, if not mine." 



Incredulous of confidence like this 
Availing him or you." 



" I own myself 
And I, myself. 



Of being worthy of him with any love : 
In your sense I am not so ; let it pass. 
And yet I save him if I marry him ; 
Let that pass too." 

" Pass, pass ! we play police 
Upon my cousin's life to indicate 
What may or may not pass ? " I cried. " He knows 
What's worthy of him : the choice remains with ////// ; 
And what he chooses, act or wife, I think 
I shall not call unworthy, I, for one." 

" 'Tis somewhat rashly said," she answered slow. 
" Now let's talk reason, though we talk of love. 
Your cousin Romney Leigh's a monster : there, 
The word's out fairly, let me prove the fact. 
We'll take, say, that' most perfect of antiques 
They call the Genius of the Vatican, 
W^hich seems too beauteous to endure itself 
In this mixed world, and fasten it for once 
Upon the torso of the Dancing Faun, 



Aurora Leigh. 77 



(Who might limp, surely, if he did not dance,) 
Instead of Buonarroti's mask ; what then ? 
We show the sort of monster Romney is, 
With godlike virtues and heroic aims 
Subjoined to limping possibilities 
Of mismade human nature. Grant the man 
Twice godlike, twice heroic, still he limps ; 
And here's the point we come to." 



Pardon me 



But, Lady Waldemar, the point's tbe thing 
We never come to." 

" Caustic, insolent 
At need ! I like you," — (there she took my hands) 
" And now, my lioness, help Androcles, 
For all your roaring. Help me ' for myself 
I would not say so, but for him. He limps 
So certainly, he'll fall into the pit 
A week hence, — so I lose him, so he is lost ! 
For when he's fairly married, he a Leigh, 
To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth. 
Starved out in London till her coarse-grained hands 
Are whiter than her morals, even you 
May call his choice unworthy." 

" Married ! lost ! 
He . . . Romney! " 

" Ah, you're moved at last," she said. 
" These monsters, set out in the open sun, 
Of course throw monstrous shadows : those who think 
Awry will scarce act straightly. Who but he ? 
And who but you can wonder ? He has been mad. 
The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man. 
He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen's wits 
With equal scorn of triangles and wine. 
And took no honors, yet was honorable. 
They'll tell you he lost count of Homer's ships 
In Melbourne's poor-bills ; Ashley's factory-bills ; 
Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise. 
For other women, dear, we could not name 
Because we're decent. Well, he had some right 
On his side, probably : men always have. 
Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor 
Who brews your ale exceeds in vital worth 
Dead Csesarwho ' stops bungholes ' in the cask. 
And also, to do good is excellent, 



78 Au?ora Leigh. 



For persons of his income, even to boors. 

I sympathize with all such things. But he 

Went mad upon them . . . madder and more mad 

Yxoxw college times to these, as, going down hill, 

The faster still, the farther. You must know 

Your Leigh by heart : he has sown his black young curls 

With bleaching cares of half a million men 

Already. If you do not starve, or sin, 

You're nothing to him : pay the income-tax. 

And break your heart upon't, he'll scarce be touched ; 

But come upon the parish, qualified 

For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there 

To call you brother, sister, or perhaps 

A tenderer name still. Had I any chance 

With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar, 

And never committed felony } " 

" You speak 
Too bitterly," I said, " for the literal truth." 

" The truth is bitter. Here's a man who looks 

Forever on the ground. You must be low. 

Or else a pictured ceiling overhead. 

Good painting thrown away. For me, I've done 

What women may : we're somewhat limited. 

We modest women ; but I've done my best. 

— How men are perjured when they swear our eyes 

Have meaning in them ! They're just blue or brown. 

They just can drop their lids a little. And yet 

Mine did more ; for I read half Fourier through, 

Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc, 

With various others of his socialists. 

And, if I had been a fathom less in love. 

Had cured myself with gaping. As it was, 

I quoted from them prettily enough. 

Perhaps, to make them sound half rational 

To a saner man than he whene'er we talked, 

(For which I dodged occasion ; ) learnt by heart 

His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere 

LIpon the social question ; heaped r'eports 

Of wicked women and penitentiaries 

On all my tables (with a place for Sue) ; 

And gave my name to swell subscription-lists 

Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven. 

And other possible ends. All things I did. 



Aurora Leigh. 79 



Except the impossible . . . such as wearing gowns 

Provided by the Ten Hours' movement : there 

I stopped — we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile, 

Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'neath the world, 

Let all that noise go on upon his back. 

He would not disconcert or throw me out ; 

'Twas well to see a woman of my class 

With such a dawn of conscience. P'or the heart 

Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up 

To his face, — he merely warmed his feet at it : 

Just deigned to let my carriage stop him short 

In park or street, he leaning on the door 

With news of the committee which sate last 

On pickpockets at suck," 

" You jest, you jest." 

" As martyrs jest, dear (if you read their lives) 
Upon the axe which kills them. When all's done 
By me . . . for him — you'll ask him presently 
The color of my hair : he cannot tell. 
Or answers, ' Dark,' at random ; while, be sure, 
He's absolute on the figure, five or ten, 
Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, 
And I a woman } " 

" Is it reparable, 
Though / were a man ? " 

" I know not. That's to prove. 
But first, this shameful marriage ? " 

" Ay? " I cried, 

" Yesterdav 



" Then really there's a marriage 



I held him fast upon it. ' Mister Leigh,' 
Said I, ' shut up a thing, it makes more noise. 
The boiling town keeps secrets ill : I've known 
Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so : 
You feel Tm not the woman of the world 
The world thinks ; you have borne with me before. 
And used me in your noble work, our work. 
And now you shall not cast me off because 
You're at the difficult point, the Jom. 'Tis true 
Even I can scarce admit the cogency 
Of such a marriage . . . where you do not love, 
(Except the class) yet marry, and throw your name 
Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape 



8o Aurora Leigh. 



To future generations ! 'tis sublime, 

A great example, a true genesis 

Of the opening social era. But take heed : 

This virtuous act must have a patent weight. 

Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, 

Interpret it, and set in the light, 

And do not muftie it in a winter-cloak 

As a vulgar bit of shame, — as if, at best, 

A Leigh had made a misalliance, and blushed 

A Howard should know it.' Then I pressed hun more : 

' He would not choose,' I said, ' that even his kin . . . 

Aurora Leigh, even . , . should conceive his act 

Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At which 

He grew so pale, dear ... to the lips,'! knew 

I had touched him. ' Do you know her,' he inquired, 

' My cousin Aurora? ' — * Yes,' I said, and lied, 

(But truly we all know you by your books) 

And so I offered to come straight to you. 

Explain the subject, justify the cause. 

And take you with me to St. Margaret's Court 

To see this miracle, this Marian Erie, 

This drover's daughter (she's not pretty, he swears). 

Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked 

By a hundred needles, we're to hang the tie 

'Twixt class and class in England,— thus indeed 

By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift 

The match up from the doubtful place. At once 

He thanked me, sighing, murmured to himself, 

' She'll do it, perhaps : she's noble,' — thanked me twice. 

And promised, as my guerdon, to put off 

His marriage for a month." 

I answered then, 
" I understand your drift imperfectly. 
You wish to lead me to my cousin's betrothed. 
To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand 
If feeble, thus to justify his match. 
So be it, then. But how this serves your ends. 
And how the strange confession of your love 
Serves this, I have to learn— I cannot see." 

She knit her restless forehead. " Then, despite 
Aurora, that most radiant morning name. 
You're dull as any London afternoon. 
I wanted time, and gained it ; wanted /^?/^, 



Aurora Leiir/i. 



And gain you ! You will come and see the girl 

In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal pearl 

And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs 

Is destined to solution. Authorized 

By sight and knowledge, then, you'll speak your mind. 

And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way, 

He'll wrong the people and posterity,. 

( Say such a thing is bad for me and you, 

And you fail utterly) by concluding thus 

An execrable marriage. Break it up, 

Disroot it ; peradventure presently 

We'll plant a better fortune in its place. 

Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me les* 

For saying the thing I should not. Well I know 

I should not, 1 have kept, as others have. 

The iron rule of womanly reserve 

In lip and life, till now : I wept a week 

Before I came here." Ending, she was pale. 

The last words, haughtily said, were tremulous. 

This palfrey pranced in harness, arched her neck. 

And only by the foam upon the bit 

You saw she champed against it. 

Then I rose. 
" I love love : truth's no cleaner thing than love. 
I comprehend a love so fiery hot 
It burns its natural veil of august shame, 
And stands sublimely in the nude, as chaste 
As Medicean Venus. But I know, 

A love that burns through veils will burn through masks. 
And shrivel up treachery. What, love and lie ! 
Nay. Go to the opera ! Your love"s curable." 

" I love and lie } " she said, — " I lie, forsooth ? " 

And beat her taper foot upon the floor. 

And smiled against the shoe, — " You're hard. Miss Leigh, 

Unversed in current phrases. Bowling-greens 

Of poets are fresher than the world's highways. 

Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust 

Which dims our hedges even, in your eyes. 

And vexed you so much. You find, probably. 

No evil in this marriage, rather good 

Of innocence, to pastoralize in song. 

You'll give the bond your signature, perhaps, 

Beneath the lady's mark, indifferent 



Auro?-a Lci^/i. 




t3..,/irs. 



Beat hek ta^-er i-oot ui'ON the floor, and smiled agaixct the shoe 



Aurora Leigh, 83 



That Romney chose a wife could write her name, 
In witnessing he loved her." 

" Loved," I cried. 

" Who tells you that he wants a wife to love ? 
He gets a horse to use, not love, I think : 
There's work for wives, as well,— and after, straw. 
When men are liberal. For myself, you err 
Supposing power in me to break this match. 
1 could not do it to save Romney's life, 
And would not to save mine.'' 

" You take it so. 
She said ; " farewell, then. Write your books in peace. 
As far as may be for some secret stir 
Now^ obvious to me ; for, most obviously, 
In coming hither I mistook the way.'' 
Whereat she touched my hand, and bent her head. 
And floated from me like a silent cloud 
That leaves the sense of thunder. 

I drew breath. 

Oppressed in my deliverance. After all. 

This woman breaks her social system up 

For love, so counted.— the love possible 

To such ; and lilies are still lilies, pulled 

By smutty hands, though spotted from their white; 

And thus she is better haply, of her kind. 

Than Romney Leigh, who lives by diagrams, 

And crosses out the spontaneities 

Of all his individual, personal life 

With formal universals. As if man 

Were set upon a high stool at a desk 

To keep God's books for him in red and black, 

And feel by millions ! What, if even God 

Were chiefly God by living out himself 

To an individualism of the infinite, 

Eterne, intense, profuse,— still throwing up 

The golden spray of multitudinous worlds 

In measure to the proclive weight and rush 

Of his inner nature, the spontaneous love 

Still proof and outflow of spontaneous life ? 

Then live, Aurora. 

Two hours afterward, 

Within St. Margaret's Court I stood alone. 
Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague-tit. 
Whose wasted right hand gambolled 'gainst his left 



84 Aurora Leigh. 



With an old brass button in a blot of sun, 

Jeered weakly at me as I passed across 

The uneven pavement ; while a woman rouged 

Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief torn, 

Thin, dangling locks, and flat lascivious mouth, 

Cursed at a window both ways, in and out, 

By turns some bed-rid creature and myself, — 

" Lie still there, mother ! liker the dead dog 

You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick our way. 

Fine madam, with those damnable small feet ! 

We cover up our face from doing good. 

As if it were our purse ! What brings you here, 

My lady ? is't to find my gentleman 

Who visits his tame pigeon in the eaves ? 

Our cholera catch you with its cramps and spasms. 

And tumble up your good clothes, veil and all. 

And turn your whiteness dead-blue I " I looked up : 

I think I could have walked through hell that day, 

And never flinched. " The dear Christ comfort you, 

1 said, " you must have been most miserable, 

To be so cruel ; " and I emptied out 

My purse upon the stones : when, as I had cast 

The last charm in the caldron, the whole court 

Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its doors 

And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs. 

And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps. . . I passed 

Too quickly for distinguishing. . . and pushed 

A little side-door hanging on a hinge. 

And plunged into the dark, and groped and climbed 

The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt broken rail 

And mildewed wall that let the plaster drop 

To startle me in the blackness. Still, up, up ! 

So high lived Romney's bride, I paused at last 

Before a low door in the roof, and knocked : 

There came an answer like a hurried dove, — 

" So soon } can that be Mister Leigh } so soon } " 

And as I entered an ineffable face 

Met mine upon the threshold. " Oh, not you, 

Not you ! " The dropping of the voice implied, 

" Then, if not you, for me not any one." 

I looked her in the eyes, and held her hands. 

And said, " I am his cousin,— Romney Leigh's ; 

And here I come to see my cousin too." 

She touched me with her face and with her voice, 



Aurora Leigh. 85 



This daughter of the people. Such soft flowers, 
From such rough roots ? the people under there 
Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . .faugh ! 
Yet have such daughters } 

Nowise beautiful 
Was Marian Erie. She was not white nor brown. 
But could look either, like a mist that changed 
According to being shone on more or less. 
The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls. 
In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear 
To name the color. Too much hair, perhaps, 
(I'll name a fault here) for so small a head, 
Which seemed to droop on that side and on this. 
As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight. 
Though not a wind should trouble it. Again 
The dimple in the cheek had better gone 
With redder, fuller rounds ; and somewhat large 
The mouth was, though the milky little teeth 
Dissolved it to so infantine a smile. 
For soon it smiled at me ; the eyes smiled too. 
But 'twas as if remembering they had wept. 
And knowing they should some day weep again. 

We talked. She told me all her story out. 

Which I'll retell with fuller utterance, 

As colored and confirmed in aftertimes 

By others and herself too. Marian Erie 

Was born upon the ledge of Malvern Hill, 

To eastward, in a hut built up at night, 

To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and turf ; 

Still liable, if once he looked that way. 

To being straight levelled, scattered by his foot. 

Like any other anthill. Born, I say. 

God sent her to his world commissioned right. 

Her human testimonials fully signed ; 

Not scant in soul, complete in lineaments : 

But others had to swindle her a place 

To wail in when she had come. No place for her, 

By man's law ! Born an outlaw was this babe : 

Her first cry in our strange and strangling air. 

When cast in spasms out by the shuddering womb. 

Was wrong against the social code, — forced wrong : 

What business had the baby to cry there } 



86 Aui'07-a Leigh. 



I tell her story and grow passionate. 

She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used 

Meek words that made no wonder of herself 

For being so sad a creature. " Mister Leigh 

Considered truly that such things should change. 

They will, in heaven — but meantime, on the earth, 

There's none can like a nettle as a pink, 

Except himself. We're nettles, some of us, 

And give offence by the act of springing up ; 

And, if we leave the damp side of the wall. 

The hoes, of course, are on us." So she said. 

Her father earned his life by random jobs 

Despised by steadier workmen, — keeping swine 

On commons, picking hops, or hurrying on 

The harvest at wet seasons, or, at need. 

Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a drove 

Of startled horses plunged into the mist 

Below the mountain-road, and sowed the wind 

With wandering neighings. In between the gaps 

Of such irregular work he drank and slept. 

And cursed his wife because, the pence being out. 

She could not buy more drink. At which she turned, 

(The worm) and beat her baby in revenge 

For her own broken heart. There's not a crime 

But takes its proper change out still in crime 

If once rung on the counter of this world : 

Let sinners look to it. 

Yet the outcast child, 
For whom the very mother's face forewent 
The mother's special patience, lived and grew ; 
Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone. 
With that pathetic, vacillating roll 
Of the infant body on the uncertain feet, 
(The earth being felt unstable ground so soon,) 
At which most women's arms unclose at once 
With irrepressive instinct. Thus at three 
This poor weaned kid would run off from the fold. 
This babe would steal off from the mother's chair, 
And, creeping through the golden walls of gorse. 
Would find some keyhole toward the secrecy 
Of heaven's high blue, and, nestling down, peer out — 
Oh, not to catch the angels at their games. 
She had never heard of angels, — but to gaze 
She knew not why, to see she knew not what. 



Aurora Leigh. 87 



A -hungering- outward from the barren earth 

For something like a joy. She liked, she said, 

To dazzle black her sight against the sky ; 

For then, it seemed, some grand blind Love came down. 

And groped her out, and clasped her with a kiss. 

She learnt God that way, and was beat for it 

Whenever she went home, yet came again. 

As surely as the trapped hare, getting free. 

Returns to his form. This grand, blind Love, she said. 

This skyey father and mother both in one, 

Instructed her and civilized her more 

Than even Sunday-school did afterward, 

To which a lady sent her to learn books, 

And sit upon a long bench in a row 

With other children. Well, she laughed sometimes 

To see them laugh and laugh, and maul their texts ; 

But ofter she was sorrowful with noise. 

And wondered if their mothers beat them hard 

That ever they should laugh so. There was one 

She loved indeed, — Rose Bell, a seven years' child, 

So pretty and clever, who read syllables 

When Marian was at letters : she would laugh 

At nothing, hold your finger up. she laughed, 

Then shook her curls d:^wn over eyes and mouth 

To hide her make-mirth from the schoolmaster. 

And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain 

On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian too. 

To see another merry whom she loved. 

She whispered once (the children side by side. 

With mutual arms intwined about their necks) 

*' Your mother lets you laugh so } '' " Ay," said Rose, 

"She lets me. She was dug into the ground 

Six years since, I being but a yearling wean. 

Such mothers let us play, and lose our time, 

And never scold nor beat us. Don't you wish 

You had one like that.? " There. Marian breaking off 

Looked suddenly in my face. " Poor Rose ! " said she : 

" I heard her laugh last night in Oxford Street. 

Fd pour out half my blood to stop that laugh. 

Poor Rose, poor Rose ! " said Marian. 

She resumed. 
It tried her, when she had learnt at Sunday-school 
What God was, what he wanted from us all. 
And how in choosing sin we vexed the Christ, 



88 Aurora Leigh. 



To go straight home, and hear her father pull 

The Name down on us from the thunder-shelf, 

Then drink away his soul into the dark 

From seeing judgment. Father, mother, home, 

Were God and heaven reversed to her : the more 

She knew of right, the more she guessed their wrong : 

Her price paid down for knowledge was to know 

The vileness of her kindred : through her heart. 

Her filial and tormented heart, henceforth, 

They struck their blows at virtue. Oh I 'tis hard 

To learn you have a father up in heaven 

By a gathering certain sense of being, on earth, 

Still worse than orphaned : 'tis too heavy a grief 

The having to thank God for such a joy. 

And so passed Marian's life from year to year. 

Her parents took her with them when they tramped. 

Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented towns and fairs, 

And once went farther, and saw Manchester. 

And once the sea, — that blue end of the world, 

That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book, — 

And twice a prison, back at intervals, 

Returning to the hills. Hills draw like heaven. 

And stronger sometimes, holding out their hands 

To pull you from the vile flats up to them. 

And though, perhaps, these strollers still strolled back, 

As sheep do, simply that they knew the way. 

They certainly felt bettered unaware. 

Emerging from the social smut of towns, 

To wipe their feet clean on the mountain turf. 

In which long wanderings Marian lived and learned, 

Endured and learned. The people on the roads 

Would stop, and ask her why her eyes outgrew 

Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge the birds 

In all that hair ; and then they lifted her,— 

The miller in his cart a mile or twain. 

The butcher's boy on horseback. Often, too. 

The peddler stopped, and tapped her on the head 

W' ith absolute forefinger, brown and ringed. 

And asked, if peradventure she could read ; 

And when she answered, " Ay," would toss her down 

Some stray odd volume from his heavy pack. — 

A "Thomson's Seasons," mulcted of the spring. 

Or half a play of Shakspeare's, torn across, 



Aurora Leigh. 89 



(She had to guess the bottom of a page 

By just the top, sometimes ; as difficult 

As, sitting on the moon, to guess the earth !) 

Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small Ruth's 

Small gleanings) torn out from the heart of books, 

From Churchyard Elegies and Edens Lost, 

From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and Tom Jones. 

'Twas somewhat hard to keep the things distinct ; 

And oft the jangling influence jarred the child, 

Like looking at a sunset full of grace 

Through a pothouse window, while the drunken oaths 

Went on behind her. But she weeded out 

Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves that hurt, 

(First tore them small, that none should find a word) 

And made a nosegay of the sweet and good 

To fold within her breast, and pore upon 

At broken moments of the noontide glare. 

When leave was given her to untie her cloak, 

And rest upon the dusty highway's bank 

From the road's dust : ox oft, the journey done, 

Some city friend would lead her by the hand 

To hear a lecture at an institute. 

And thus she had grown, this Marian Erie of ours, 

To no book-learning. She was ignorant 

Of authors ; not in earshot of the things 

Outspoken o'er the heads of common men 

By men who are uncommon, but within 

The cadenced hum of such, and capable 

Of catching from the fringes of the wing 

Some fragmentary phrases here and there 

Of that fine music, which, being carried in 

To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh 

In finer motions of the lips and lids. 

She said, in speaking of it, " If a flower 
Were thrown you out of heaven at intervals, 
You'd soon attain to a trick of looking up," 
And so with her. She counted me her years, 
Till / felt old ; and then she counted me 
Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt ashamed. 
She told me she was fortunate and calm 
On such and such a season, sate and sewed. 
With no one to break up her crystal thoughts. 
While rhymes from lovely poems span around 



90 Aurora Leigh. 



Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune, 

Beneath the moistened finger of the hour. 

Her parents called her a strange, sickly child, 

Not good for much, and given to sulk and stare. 

And smile into the hedges and the clouds, 

And tremble if one shook her from her fit 

By any blow, or word even. Outdoor jobs 

Went ill with her, and household quiet work 

She was not born to. Had they kept the north, 

They might have had their pennyworth out of her. 

Like other parents, in the factories, 

( Your children work for you, not you for them, 

Or else they better had been choked with air 

The first breath drawn ; ) but, in this tramping life. 

Was nothing to be done with such a child 

But tramp and tramp. And yet she knitted hose 

Not ill, and was not dull at needlework ; 

And all the country people gave her pence 

For darning stockings past their natural age. 

And patching petticoats from old to new. 

And other light work done for thrifty wives. 

One day, said Marian,— the sun shone that day, — 

Her mother had been badly beat, and felt 

The bruises sore about her wretched soul. 

(That must have been) : she came in suddenly. 

And snatching in a sort of breathless rage 

Her daughter's headgear comb, let down the hair 

Upon her like a sudden waterfall. 

Then drew her, drenched and passive, by the arm 

Outside the hut they lived in. When the child 

Could clear her blinded face from all that stream 

Of tresses . . . there a man stood, with beast's eyes. 

That seemed as they would swallow her alive, 

Complete in body and spirit, hair and all. 

And burning stertorous breath that hurt her cheek. 

He breathed so near. The mother held her tight, 

Saying hard between her teeth, " Why, wench, why, wench, 

The squire speaks to you now ! the squire's too good : 

He means to set you up, and comfort us. 

Be mannerly at least." The child turned round 

And looked up piteous in the mother's face, 

( Be sure that mother's death-bed will not want 

Another devil to damn, than such a look ). 



Aurora Leis:h. 



91 



" O mother ! " Then, with desperate glance to heaven, 

" God, free me from my mother ! " she shrieked out, 

" These mothers are too dreadful." And, with force 

As passionate as fear, she tore her hands, 

Like lilies from the rocks, from hers and his, 

And sprang- down, bounded headlong down the steep, 

Away from both — away, if possible, 

As far as God, — away ! They yelled at her. 

As famished hounds at a hare. She heard them yell ; 

She felt her name hiss after her from the hills, 




'And now I am dead and safi 

THOUGHT MaKIAN EkLE. 



Like shot from guns. On, on. 

And now she had cast 
The voices off with the uplands. 

On. Mad fear 
Was running in her feet, and 

killing the ground ; 
The white roads curled as if she 

burnt them up ; 
The green fields melted ; wayside trees fell back 
To make room for her. Then her head grew vexed ; 
Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after her ; 
She heard the quick pants of the hills behind, 
Their keen air pricked her neck : she had lost her feet 
Could run no more, yet somehow went as fast. 
The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the east 
So sucked her forward, forward, while her heart 
Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so big 
It seem^id to fill her body, when it burst, 



92 Aurora Leigh. 



And overflowed the world, and swamped the hght : 
" And now I am dead and safe," thought Marian Erie. 
She had dropped, she had fainted. 

As the sense returned, 
The night had passed, — not life's night. She was 'ware 
Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking wheels, 
The driver shouting to the lazy team 
That swung their rankling bells against her brain, 
While through the wagon's coverture and chinks 
The cruel yellow morning pecked at her, 
Alive or dead upon the straw inside ; 
At which her soul ached back into the dark 
And prayed, " No more of that." A wagoner 
Had found her in a ditch beneath the moon. 
As white as moonshine, save for the oozing blood. 
At first he thought her dead; but when he had wiped 
The mouth, and heard it sigh, he raised her up, 
And laid her in his wagon in the straw, 
And so conveyed her to the distant town 
To which his business called himself, and left 
That heap of misery at the hospital. 

She stirred : the place seemed new and strange as death. 

The white strait bed, with others strait and white. 

Like graves dug side by side at measured lengths. 

And quiet people walking in and out 

With wonderful low voices and soft steps, 

And apparitional equal care for each. 

Astonished her with order, silence, law ; 

And when a gentle hand held out a cup. 

She took it, as you do at sacrament, 

Half awed, half melted, not being used, indeed. 

To so much love as makes the form of love 

And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks. 

And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes 

Were turned in observation. O my God, 

How sick we must be ere we make men just ! 

I think it frets the saints in heaven to see 

How many desolate creatures on the earth 

Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship 

And social comfort, in a hospital. 

As Marian did. She lay here, stunned, ha'.f-tranced, 

And wished, at intervals of growing sense. 

She might be sicker yet, if sickness made 



Aurora Lciij^h. ^3 



The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed, 
And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep ; 
For now she understood (as such things were) 
How sickness ended very oft in heaven 
Among the unspoken raptures — yet more sick. 
And surelier happy. Then she dropped her lids, 
And, folding up her hands as flowers at night. 
Would lose no moment of the blessed time. 

She lay and seethed in fever many weeks. 

But youth was strong, and overcame the test : 

Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled. 

And fetched back to the necessary day 

And daylight duties. She could creep about 

The long bare rooms, and stare out drearily 

From any narrow window on the street. 

Till some one who had nursed her as a friend 

Said coldly to her, as an enemy, 

" She had leave to go next week, being well enough," 

( While only her heart ached.) " Go ne'xt week," thought she. 

" Next week ! how would it be with her next week. 

Let out into that terrible street alone 

Among the pushing people . . . to go . . . where .5" 

One day, the last before the dreaded last. 

Among the convalescents, like herself 

Prepared to go next morning, she s^te dunib, 

And heard half absently the women talk,— 

How one was famished for her baby's cheeks, 

" The little wretch would know her! a year old 

And lively, like his father; " one was keen 

To get to work, and fill some clamorous mouths ; 

And one was tender for her dear good man 

Who had missed her sorely ; and one, querulous . . . 

^' Would pay backbiting neighbors who had dared 

To talk about her as already dead ; " 

And one was proud ..." and if her sweetheart Luke 

Had left her for a ruddier face than hers, 

( The gossip would be seen through at a glance ) 

Sweet riddance of such sweethearts — let him hang .' 

'Twere good to have been sick for such an end." 

And while they talked, and Marian felt the worse 
For having missed the worst of all their wrongs, 



94 



Aurora Leir/i. 



A visitor was ushered through the wards 

And paused among the talkers. " When he looked 

It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke 

He sang perhaps," said Marian ; " could she tell ? 

She only knew " (so much she had chronicled. 

As seraphs might the making of the sun) 

" That he who came and spake was Romney Leigh, 

And then and there she saw and heard him first." 

And when it was her turn to have the face 

Upon her, all those buzzing pallid lips 

Being satisfied with comfort — when he changed 

To Marian, saying, '' And you? you're going, where .^'^ 

She, moveless as a worm beneath a stone 

Which some one's stumbling foot has spurned aside, 

Writhed suddenly, astonished with the light. 

And breaking into sobs cried, " Where I go ? 

None asked me till this moment. Can I say 

Where / go, when it has not seemed worth while 

To God himself, who thinks of every one, __ 

To think of me, and fix where I shall go } " 

" So young," he gently asked her, " you have lost 
Your father and your mother } " 

" Both," she said, 
" Both lost ! My father was burnt up with gin 
Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. 
My mother sold me to a i;ian last month. 
And so my mother's lost, 'tis manifest. 
And I, who fied from her for miles and miles, 
As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell 
Through some wild gap, (she was my mother, sir) 
It seems I shall be lost too presently : 
And so we end, all three of us." 

" Poor child I ' 
He said, with such a pity in his voice, 
It soothed her more than her own tears, — '* poor child ! 
'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's love 
Should bring despair of God's too. Yet be taught, 
He's better to us than many mothers are. 
And children cannot wander beyond reach 
Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold ! 
And, if you weep still, weep where John was laid 
While Jesus loved him." 

" She could sav the words,' 



Aurora Leiirk. 



95 



She told me, " exactly as he uttered them 
A year back, since in any doubt or dark 
They came out like the stars, and shone on her 
With just their comfort. Common words, perhaps 
The ministers in church might say the same ; 
But he, he made the church with what he spoke : 
The difference was the miracle," said she. 




She sewed and sewed. and sewed. 

Then catching up her smile to ravishment, 
She added quickly, " I repeat his words, 
But not his tones . can any one repeat 
The music of an organ out of church ? 
And when he said, ' Poor child ! ' I shut my eyes 
To feel how tenderly his voice broke through, 
As the ointment-box broke on the Holy feet 
To let out the rich medicative nard." ■ 



She told me how he had raised and rescued her 

With reverent pity, as in touching grief 

He touched the wounds of Christ, and made her feel 

More self-respecting. Hope he called belief 

In God ; work, worship : therefore let us pray. 

And thus, to snatch her soul from atheism, 



96 Aurora Leigh, 



And keep it stainless from her mother's face, 
He sent her to a famous seamstress-house 
Far off in London, there to work and hope. 

With that they parted. She kept sight of heaven, 
But not of Romney. He had good to do 
To others. Through the days and through the nights 
She sewed and sewed and sewed. She drooped some- 
times, 
And wondered, while along the tawny light 
She struck the new thread into her needle's eye. 
How people without mothers on the hills 
Could choose the town to live in ; then she drew 
The stitch, and mused how Romney's face would look, 
And if 'twere likely he'd remember hers 
When they two had their meeting after death. 



BOOK FOURTH. 

Thev met still sooner. 'Twas a year from thence 

That Lucy Gresham— the sick seamstress girl, 

Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and quick. 

And leant her head upon its back to cough 

More freely, when, the mistress turning round, 

The others took occasion to laugh out — 

Gave up at last. Among the workers spoke 

A bold girl with black eyebrows and red lips : 

" You know the news ? Who's dying, do you think } 

Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it 

As little as Nell Hart's wedding. — Blush not, Nell, 

Thy curls be red enough without thy cheeks, 

And some day there'll be found a man to dote 

On red curls. Lucy Gresham swooned last night. 

Dropped sudden in the street while going home ; 

And now the baker says, who took her up 

And laid her by her grandmother in bed, 

He'll give her a week to die in. Pass the silk. 

Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within reach : 

For otherwise they'll starve before they die. 

That funny pair of bedfellows I — Miss Bell, 

I'll thank you for the scissors. The old crone 

Is paralytic ; that's the reason why 

Our Lucv's thread went faster than her breath. 



Aurora Leigh. 97 



Which went too quick, we all know,— Marian Erie ! 
Why, Marian Erie, you're not the fool to cry? 
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new dress, 
You piece of pity !" 

Marian rose up straight, 
And, breaking through the talk and through the work. 
Went outward, in the face of their surprise, 
To Lucy's home, to nurse her back. to life 
Or down to death. She knew% by such an act. 
All place and grace were forfeit in the house, 
Whose mistress would supply the missing hand 
With necessary not inhuman haste, 
And take no blame. But pity, too, had dues. 
She could not leave a solitary soul 
To founder in the dark, while she sate still 
And lavished stitches on a lady's hem, 
As if no other work were paramount. 
" Why, God," thought Marian, " has a missing hand 
This moment : Lucy wants a drink, perhaps. 
Let others miss me ! never miss me, God ! " 

So Marian sate by Lucy's bed, content 

With duty, and was strong, for recompense, 

To hold the lamp of human love arm-high. 

To catch the death-strained eyes, and comfort them, 

Until the angels, on the luminous side 

Of death, had got theirs ready. And she said, 

If Lucy thanked her sometimes, called her kind. 

It touched her strangely. " Marian Erie, called kind ! 

What Marian, beaten and sold, who could not die ! 

'Tis verily good fortune to be kind. 

Ah, you f " she said, " who are born to such a grace, 

Be sorry for the unlicensed class, the poor, 

Reduced to think the best good fortune means 

That others simply should be kind to them." 

From sleep to sleep when Lucy had slid away 

So gently, like the light upon a hill. 

Of Which none names the moment that it goes 

Though all see when 'tis gone, a man came in 

And stood beside the bed. The old idiot wretch 

Screamed feebly, like a baby overlain. 

" Sir, sir, you won't mistake' me for the corpse ? 

Don't look at me, sir! never bury me! 



98 Aurora Leigh. 



Although I He here, I'm alive as you, 
Except my legs and arms, — I eat and drink 
And understand, — (that you're the gentleman 
Who tits the funerals up. Heaven speed you, sir,) 
And certainly I should be livelier still 
If Lucy here . . . sir, Lucy is the corpse . . . 
Had worked more properly to buy me wine ; 
But Lucy, sir, was always slow at work, 
I sha'n't lose much by Lucy. — Marian Erie, 
Speak up, and show the gentleman the corpse." 

And then a voice said, " Marian Erie." She rose ; 

It M'as the hour for angels — there stood hers I 

She scarcely marvelled to see Romney Leigh. 

As light November snows to empty nests, 

As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed stones. 

As July suns to ruins, through the rents, 

As ministering spirits to mourners through a loss. 

As Heaven itself to men, through pangs of death, 

He came uncalled wherever grief had come. 

" And so," said Marian Erie, " w'e met anew, " 

And added softly, " so, we shall not part." 

He was not angry that she had left the house 

Wherein he placed her. \Vell, she had feared it might 

Have vexed him. Also, wlien he found her set 

On keeping, though the dead was out of sight. 

That half-dead, half-live body left behind 

With cankerous heart and flesh, which took your best, 

And cursed you for the little good it did, 

( Could any leave the bedrid wretch alone. 

So joyless she was thankless even to God, 

Much more to you } ) he did not say 'twas well, 

Yet Marian thought he did not take it ill, 

Since day by day he came, and every day 

She felt within his utterance and his eyes 

A closer, tenderer presence of the soul, 

Until at last he said, " We shall not part." 

On that same day was Marian's work complete : 

She had smoothed the empty bed, and swept the floor 

Of cofifin sawdust, set the chairs anew 

The dead had ended gossip in, and stood 

In that poor room so cold and orderly, 



Aurora Leig/i. 99 



The door-key in her hand, prepared to go 

As they had, howbeit not their way. He spoke. 

" Dear Marian, of one clay God made us all ; 

And though men push and poke and paddle ni t, 

( As children play at fashioning dirt-pies ) 

And call their fancies by the name of facts, 

Assuming difference, lordship, privilege, 

When all's plain dirt, they come back to it at last : 

The first grave-digger proves it with a spade. 

And pats all even. Need we wait for this. 

You Marian, and I Romney ? " ci . .1 . 

She, at that. 

Looked blindly in his face, as when one looks 

Through driving autumn-rains to find the sky. 

He went on speaking : 

^ " Marian, I being born 

What men call noble, and you issued from 
The noble people, though the tyrannous sword 
Which pierced Christ's heart has cleft the world m twain 
'Twixt class and class, opposing rich to poor, 
Shall we keep parted ? Not so. Let us lean 
And strain together rather, each to each. 
Compress the red lips of this gaping wound 
As far as two souls can, ay, lean and league,— 
I from my superabundance, from your want 
You,— joinii^g i"^ ^ protest 'gainst the wrong 
On both sides." ,,111 i „ ^ 

All the rest he held her hand 

In speaking, which confused the sense of much. 

Iler heart against his words beat out so thick, 

They might^s well be written on the dust 

Where some poor bird, escaping from hawk's beak. 

Has dropped, and beats its shuddering wings, the lines 

Are rubbed so : yet 'twas something like to this : 

'« That they two, standing at the two extremes 

Of social classes, had received one seal. 

Been dedicate and drawn beyond themselves 

To mercy and ministration,— he, indeed, 

Throuo-h what he knew, and she, through what she telt ; 

He, by man's conscience, she, by woman's heart, 

Relinquishing their several 'vantage posts 

Of wealthy case and honorable toil. 

To work with God at love. And since God willed. 



Aurora Leiirh. 



That, putting out his hand to touch this ark, 
He found a woman's hand there, he'd accept 
The sign too, hold the tender fingers fast, 
And say, ' My fellow-worker, be my wife ! ' " 

She told the tale with simple, rustic turns. 
Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden eyes 
That took the gaps of any imperfect phrase 
Of the unschooled speaker : 1 have rather writ 
The thing I understood so than the thing 
I heard so. And I cannot render right 
Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft, 
Self-startled from the habitual mood she used, 
Half sad, half languid, — like dumb creatures ( now 
A rustling bird, and now a wandering deer. 
Or squirrel 'gainst the oak-gloom flashing up 
His sidelong, burnished head, in just her way 
Of savage spontaneity, ) that stir 
Abruptly the green silence of the woods. 
And make it stranger, holier, more profound ; 
As Nature's general heart confessed itself 
Of life, and then fell backward on repose. 

I kissed the lips that ended. " So, indeed. 
He loves you, Marian ? " 

" Loves me ! " She looked up 
With a child's'wonder when you ask him first 
Who made the sun, — a puzzled blush, that grew. 
Then broke off in a rapid, radiant smile 
Of sure solution. " Loves me ! He loves all. 
And me, of course. He had not asked me else 
To work with him forever, and be his wife." 

Her words reproved me. This, perhaps, was love, — 

To have its hands too full of gifts to give, 

For putting out a hand to take a gift ; 

To love so much, the perfect round of love 

Includes in strict conclusion being loved ; 

As Eden-dew went up, and fell again. 

Enough for watering Eden. Obviously 

She had not thought about his love at all. 

The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves. 

And risen self-crowned in rainbow : would she ask 

Who crowned her.^ It sufficed that she was crowned. 



Aurora Leiir/i. loi 



With women of my class 'tis otherwise : 
We haggle for the small change of our gold. 
And so much love accord for so much love, 
Rialto-prices. Are we therefore wrong ? 
If marriage be a contract, look to it then, 
Contracting parties should be equal, just ; 
But if, a simple fealty on one side, 
A mere religion, right to give, is all, 
And certain brides of Europe duly ask 
To mount the pile as Indian widows do. 
The spices of their tender youth heaped up, 
The jewels of their gracious virtues worn, 
More gems, more glory, to consume entire 
For a living husband : as the man's alive. 
Not dead, the woman's duty by so much 
Advanced in England beyond Hindostan. 

I sate there musing, till she touched my hand 

With hers, as softly as a strange white bird 

She feared to startle in touching. " You are kind. 

But are you, peradventure, vexed at heart 

Because your cousin takes me for a wife .'' 

I know I am not worthy — nay, in truth, 

I'm glad on't, since, for that, he chooses me. 

He likes the poor things of the world the best ; 

I would not, therefore, if I could, be rich. 

It pleasures him to stoop for buttercups. 

I would not be a rose upon the wall 

A queen might stop at, near the palace-door, 

To say to a courtier, ' Pluck that rose for me : 

It's prettier than the rest.' O Romney Leigh ! 

I'd rather far be trodden by his foot 

Than lie in a great queen's bosom." 

Out of breatl , 
She paused. " Sweet Marian, do you disavow 
The roses with that face ? " She dropt her head 

As if the wind had caught that flower of her 
And bent it in the garden, then looked up 
With grave assurance. " Well, you think me bold ; 
But so we all are, when we're praying God. 
And if I'm bold, yet, lady, credit me, 
That since I know myself for what I am,— 
Much fitter for his handmaid than his wife, — 
I'll prove the handmaid and the wife at once, 



:o2 Aurora Lei^h. 



Serve tenderly, and love obediently, 

And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than some 

Who are wooed in silk among their learned books ; 

While I shall set myself to read his eyes, 

Till such grow plainer to me than the French 

To wisest ladies. Do you think I'll miss 

A letter in the spelling of his mind? 

No more than they do when they sit and write 

Their flying words with flickering wild-fowl tails, 

Nor ever pause to find how many /s, 

Should that be j or /, they know't so well : 

I've seen them writing, when I brought a dress 

And waited, floating out their soft white hands 

On shining paper. But they're hard sometimes, 

For all those hands. We've used out many nights, 

And worn the yellow daylight into shreds 

Which flapped and shivered down our aching eyes 

Till night appeared more tolerable, just 

That pretty ladies might look beautiful. 

Who said at last . . . ' You're lazy in that house ! 

You're slow in sending home the work : I count 

I've waited near an hour for't.' Pardon me, 

I do not blame them, madam, nor misprise : 

They are fair and gracious ; ay, but not like you. 

Since none but you has Mister Leigh's own blood, 

Both noble and gentle, — and without it . . . well, 

They are fair, I said ; so fair, it scarce seems strange 

That, flashing out in any looking-glass 

The wonder of their glorious brows and breasts. 

They're charmed so, they forget to look behind, 

And mark how pale we've grown, we pitiful 

Remainders of the world. And so perhaps 

If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from these, 

She might, although he's better than her best. 

And dearly she would know it, steal a thought 

Which should be all his, an eye-glance from his face, 

To plunge into the mirror opposite 

In search of her own beauty's pearl ; while / . . . 

Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh silk 

For winter-wear, when bodies feel a-cold. 

And I'll be a true wife to your cousin Leigh." 

Before I answered, he was there himself. 
I think he had been standing in the room. 



Aurora Leig/i. 103 



And listened probably to half her talk, 
Arrested, turned to stone, — as white as stone. 
Will tender sayings make men look so white ? 
He loves her then profoundly. 

" You are here, 
Aurora } Here I meet you ! " We clasped hands. 

" Even so, dear Romney. Lady Waldemar 
Has sent me in haste to find a cousin of mine 
Who shall be." 

" Lady Waldemar is good." 

" Here's one, at least, who is good," I sighed, and touched 

Poor Marian's happy head, as dog-like she. 

Most passionately patient, waited on, 

A-tremble for her turn of greeting words ; 

" I've sate a full hour with your Marian Erie, 

And learnt the thing by heart, and from my heart 

Am therefore competent to give you thanks 

For such a cousin." 

" You accept at last 
A gift from me, Aurora, without scorn } 
At last I please you } " How his voice was changed ! 

" You cannot please a woman against her will. 

And once you vexed me. Shall we speak of that ? 

We'll say, then, you were noble in it all, 

And I not ignorant — let it pass ! And now 

You please me, Romney, when you please yourself : 

So, please you. be fanatical in love. 

And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin I at the old hall, 

Among the gallery portraits of our Leighs, 

We shall not find a sweeter signory 

Than this pure forehead's." 

Not a word he said. 
How arrogant men are ! Even philanthropists — ■ 
Who try to take a wife up in the way 
They put down a subscription-check, if once 
She turns, and says, " I will not tax you so, 
Most charitable sir " — feel ill at ease. 
As though she had wronged them somehow. I suppose 
We women should remember what we are. 
And not throw back an obolus inscribed 
With Caesar's image lightly. I resumed. 



I04 Aurora Leigh. 



" It strikes me, some of those sublime A^andyl^es 
Were not too proud to make good saints in heaven ; 
And, if so, then they're not too proud to-day, 
To bow down (now the ruffs are off their necks) 
And own this good, true, noble Marian, yours. 
And mine I'll say ! For poets (bear the word). 
Half-poets even, are still whole democrats,^ 
Oh, not that we're disloyal to the high, 
But loyal to the low, and cognizant 
Of the less scrutable majesties. For me, 
I comprehend your choice, I justify 
Your right in choosing." 

" No, no, no ' " he sighed. 
With a sort of melancholy impatient scorn, 
As some grown man who never had a child 
Puts by some child who plays at being a man, 
" You did not, do not, can not comprehend 
My choice, my ends, my motives, nor myself : 
No matter now — we'll let it pass, you say. 
I thank you for your generous cousinship 
Which helps this present : I accept for her 
Your favorable thoughts. W^e're fallen on days, 
We two who are not poets, when to wed 
Requires less mutual love than common love 
For two together to bear out at once 
Upon the loveless many. Work in pairs, 
In galley-couplings or in marriage-rings. 
The difference lies in the honor, not the work, — 
And such we're bound to, I and she. But love, 
( You poets are benighted in this age, 
The hour's too late for catching even moths, 
You've gnats instead,) love ! — love's fool-paradise 
Is out of date, like Adam's. Set a swan 
To swim the Trenton rather than true love 
To float its fabulous plumage safely down 
The cataracts of this loud transition-time. 
Whose roar ::orever henceforth in my ears 
Must keep me deaf to music." 

There, I turned 
And kissed poor Marian, out of discontent. 
The man had bafifled, chafed me. till I flung 
For refuge to the woman, as sometimes. 
Impatient of some crowded room's close smell. 
You throw a window open, and lean out 



Aurora Leigh. 



To breathe a long breath in the dewy night, 
And cool your angry forehead. She, at least. 
Was not built up as walls are, brick by brick. 
Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged by line, 
The very heat of burning youth applied 
To indurate form and system ! excellent bricks, 
A well-built wall, which stops you on the road, 
And into which you cannot see an inch 
Although you beat your head against it — pshaw ! 

" Adieu," I said, " for this time, cousins both. 

And cousin Romney, pardon me the word. 

Be happy, — oh ! in some esoteric sense 

Of course, — I mean no harm in wishing well. 

Adieu, my Marian. May she come to me. 

Dear Romney, and be married from my house.'' 

It is not part of your philosophy 

To keep your bird upon the blackthorn } " 



He answered ; " but it is. I take my wife 

Directly from the people ; and she comes. 

As Austria's daughter to imperial France, 

Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her race, 

From Margaret's Court at garret-height, to meet 

And wed me at St. James's, nor put off 

Her gown of serge for that. The things we do, 

We do : we'll wear no mask, as if we blushed." 

" Dear Romney, you're the poet," I replied, 

But felt my smile too mournful for my word, 

And turned and went. Ay, masks, I thought, — beware 

Of tragic masks we tie before the glass, 

Uplifted on the cothurn half a yard 

Above the natural stature ! we would play 

Heroic parts to ourselves, and end, perhaps, 

As impotently as Athenian wdves 

Who shrieked in fits at the Eumenides. 

His foot pursued me down the stair. " At least 
You'll suffer me to walk with you beyond 
These hideous streets, these graves, where men alive, 
Packed close with earthworms, burr unconsciously 
About the plague that slew them : let me go. • 
The very women pelt their souls in mud 



"Ay, 



io6 Aurora Leigh. 



At any woman who walks here alone. 

How came you here alone? — you are ignorant." 

We had a strange and melancholy walk : 

The night came drizzling downward in dark rain, 

And as we walked, the color of the time. 

The act, the presence, my hand upon his arm, 

His voice in my ear, and mine to my own sense, 

Appeared unnatural. We talked modern books 

And daily papers, Spanish marriage-schemes 

And English climate — was't so cold last year.'' 

And will the wind change by to-morrow morn } 

Can Guizot stand } is London full } is trade 

Competitive } has Dickens turned his hinge 

A-pinch upon the fingers of the great .'* 

And are potatoes to grow mythical 

Like moly } will the apple die out too ? 

Which way is the wind to-night.^ south-east.^ due east .^ 

We talked on fast, while every common word 

Seemed tangled with the thunder at one end, 

And ready to pull down upon our heads 

A terror out of sight. And yet to pause 

Were surelier mortal : we tore greedily up 

All silence, all the innocent breathing-points, 

As if, like pale conspirators in haste. 

We tore up papers where our signatures 

Imperilled us to an ugly shame or death. 

I cannot tell you why it was. 'Tis plain 
We had not loved nor hated : wherefore dread 
To spill gunpowder on ground safe from fire.'' 
Perhaps w^e had lived too closely to diverge 
So absolutely : leave two clocks, they say, 
Wound up to different hours, upon one shelf. 
And slowly, through the interior wheels of each. 
The blind mechanic motion sets itself 
A-throb to feel out for the mutual time. 
It was not so with us, indeed : while he 
Struck midnight, I kept striking six at dawn ; 
While he marked judgment, I, redemption-day : 
And such exception to a general law- 
Imperious upon inert matter even, 
Might make us, each to either, insecure, 
A beckoning mystery, or a troubling fear. 



Aurora Leigh. 107 



I mind me, when we parted at the door, 

How strange his good-night sounded, — like ^ood-night 

Beside a deathbed, where the morrow's sun 

Is sure to come too late for more good days. 

And all that night I thought . . . "Good-night," said he. 

And so a month passed. Let me set it down 

At once, — I have been wrong, I have been wrong. 

We are wrong always when we think too much 

Of what we think or are : albeit our thoughts 

Be verily bitter as self-sacrihce. 

We're no less selfish. If we sleep on rocks 

Or roses, sleeping past the hour of noon, 

We're lazy. This I write against myself. 

I had done a duty in the visit paid 

To Marian, and was ready otherwise 

To give the witness of my presence and name 

Whenever she should marry. Which, I thought, 

Sufficed. I even had cast into the scale 

An overweight of justice toward the match. 

The Lady Waldemar had missed her tool. 

And broken it in the lock as being too straight 

For a crooked purpose ; while poor Marian Erie 

Missed nothing in my accents or my acts : 

I had not been ungenerous on the whole, 

Nor yet untender : so enough. I felt 

Tired, overworked : this marriage somewhat jarred ; 

Or, if it did not, all the bridal noise, 

The pricking of the map of life with pins, 

In schemes of . . . " Here we'll go," and " There we'll stay," 

And " Everywhere we'll prosper in cur love," 

Was scarce my business : let them order it : 

Who else should care } I threw myself aside. 

As one who had done her work, and shuts her eyes 

To rest the better. 

I, who should have known, 
Forereckoned mischief ! Where we disavow 
Being keeper to our brother, we're his Cain. 

I might have held that poor child to my heart 
A little longer ! 'twould have hurt me much 
To have hastened by its beats the marriage-day, 
And kept her safe meantime from tampering hands, 
Or, peradventure, traps. What drew me back 



loS A 1 17-0 r a Lei^h. 



From telling Romney plainly the designs 

Of Lady Waldemar, as spoken out 

To me . . . me ? had I any right, ay, right, 

With womanly compassion and reserve 

To break the fall of woman's impudence ? — 

To stand by calmly, knowing what I knew, 

And hear him call \\t'c good? 

Distrust that word. 
" There is none good save God," said Jesus Christ. 
If he once, in the first creation- week, 
Called creatures good, forever afterward, 
The Devil only has done it, and his heirs. 
The knaves who win so, and the fools who lose : 
The word's grown dangerous. In the middle age 
I think they called malignant fays and imps 
Good people. A good neighbor, even in this. 
Is fatal sometimes, cuts your morning up 
To mince-meat of the very smallest talk, 
Then helps to sugar her bohea at night 
With your reputation. I have known good wives, 
As chaste, or nearly so, as Potiphar's ; 
And good, good mothers, who would use a child 
To better an intrigue ; good friends, beside, 
(Very good) who hung succinctly round your neck 
And sucked your breath, as cats are fabled to do 
By sleeping infants. And we all have known 
Good critics who have stamped out poet's hope, 
Good statesmen who pulled ruin on the state. 
Good patriots who for a theory risked a cause. 
Good kings who disembowelled for a tax. 
Good popes who brought all good to jeopardy. 
Good Christians who sate still in easy -chairs 
And damned the general world for standing up. 
Now may the good God pardon all good men ! 

How bitterly I speak ! how certainly 
The innocent white milk in us is turned 
By much persistent shining of the sun ! 
Shake up the sweetest in us long enough 
With men, it drops to foolish curd, too sour 
To feed the most untender of Christ's lambs. 

I should have thought, — a woman of the world 
Like her I'm meaning, centre to herself. 



Aurora Leigh. 109 



Who has wheeled on her own pivot half a life 

In isolated self-love and self-will, 

As a windmill seen at distance radiating 

Its delicate white vans against the sky, 

So soft and soundless, simply beautiful, 

Seen nearer,— what a roar and tear it makes, 

How it grinds and bruises ! — if she loves at last, 

Her love's a re-adjustment of self-love, 

No more, — a need felt of another's use 

To her one advantage, as the mill wants grain, 

The fire wants fuel, "the very wolf wants prey, 

And none of these is more unscrupulous 

Than such a charming woman when she loves. 

She'll not be thwarted by an obstacle 

So trifling as . . . her soul is . . . much less yours ! — 

Is God a consideration ? — she loves you, 

Not God : she will not flinch for him indeed : 

She did not for the Marchioness of Perth, 

When wanting tickets for the fancy ball. 

She loves you, sir, with passion, to lunacy. 

She loves you like her diamonds . . . almost. 

Well, 
A month passed so, and then the notice came. 
On such a day the marriage at the church. 
I was not backward. 

Half Saint Giles in frieze 
Was bidden to meet Saint James in cloth-of-gold. 
And, after contract at the altar, pass 
To eat a marriage-feast on Hampstead Heath. 
Of course the people came in uncompelled, 
Lame, blind, and worse; sick, sorrowful, and worse; 
The humors of the peccant social wound 
All pressed out, poured down upon Pimlico, 
Exasperating the unaccustomed air 
With a hideous interfusion. You'd suppose 
A finished generation, dead of plague, 
Swept outward from their graves into the sun, 
The moil of death upon them. What a sight ! 
A holiday of miserable men 
Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. 

They clogged the streets, they oozed into the church 
In a dark slow stream, like blood. To see that sight, 
The noble ladies stood up in their pews. 



Aurora Leigh. 




As A UI.NUMILL SEEN AT DISTANCE. 



Aurora Leigh. iii 



Some pale for fear, a few as red lor hate, 

Some simply curious, some just insolent, 

And some in wondering scorn, " What next ? what next ? 

These crushed their delicate rose lips from the smile 

That misbecame them in a holy place, 

With broidered hems of perfumed handkerchiefs ; 

Those passed the salts, with confidence of eyes. 

And simultaneous shiver of moire silk : 

While all the aisles, alive and black with heads. 

Crawled slowly toward the altar from the street. 

As bruised snakes crawl and hiss out of a hole 

With shuddering involution, swaying slow 

From right to left, and then from left to right. 

In pants and pauses. What an ugly crest 

Of faces rose upon you everywhere 

From that crammed mass ! you did not usually 

See faces like them in the open day : 

They hide in cellars, not to make you mad 

As Romney Leigh is. Faces ! O my God, 

We call those faces ? — men's and women's . . . ay. 

And children's ; babies, hanging like a rag 

Forgotten on their mother's neck — poor mouths, 

Wiped clean of mother's milk by mother's blow 

Before they are taught her cursing. Faces } . . . phew, 

We'll call them vices, festering to despairs. 

Or sorrows, petrifying to vices : not 

A finger-touch of God left whole on them. 

All ruined, lost, the countenance worn out 

As the garment, the will dissolute as the act. 

The passions loose and draggling in the dirt, 

To trip a foot up at the first free step ! 

Those faces.'*— 'twas as if you had stirred up hell 

To heave its lowest dreg-fiends uppermost 

In fiery swirls of slime, such strangled fronts. 

Such obdurate jaws, were thrown up constantly 

To twit you with your race, corrupt your blood. 

And grind to devilish colors all your dreams 

Henceforth, though haply you should drop asleep 

By clink of silver waters, in a muse 

On Raffael's mild Madonna of the Bird. 

I've waked and slept through many nights and days 

Since then ; but still that day will catch my breath 

Like a nightmare. There are fatal days, indeed, 

In which the fibrous years have taken root 



IT2 



Aurora Leij^/i. 



So deeply, that they quiver to their tups 
Whene'er you stir the dust of such a day. 

My cousin met me with his eyes and hand, 

And then, with just a word, . . . that " Marian Erie 

Was coming with her bridesmaids presently," 

Made haste to place me by the altar-stair 

Where he and other noble gentlemen 

And high-born ladies waited for the bride. 

We waited. It was early: there was time 

For greeting and the morning's compliment ; 

And gradually a ripple of women's talk 

Arose and fell, and tossed about a spray 

Of English s's, soft as a silent hush. 

And, notwithstanding, quite as audible 

As louder phrases thrown out by the men. 

— " Yes, really, if we need to wait in church 

W^e need to talk there." — " She ? 'tis Lady Ayr, 

In blue, not purple ! that's the dowager." 

" She looks as young " — " She flirts as young, you mean. 

Why, if you had seen her upon Thursday night. 

You'd call Miss Norris modest." — " You again ! 

I waltzed w^th you three hours back. Up at six. 

Up still at ten ; scarce time to change one's shoes : 

I feel as white and sulky as a ghost, 

So pray don't speak to me. Lord Belcher." — " No, 

I'll look at you instead, and it's enough 

While you have that face." — " In church, my lord ! fie, fie ! " 

— " Adair, you staid for the Division } " — " Lost 

By one." — " The devil it is ! I'm sorry for't. 

And if I had not promised Mistress Grove "... 

" You might have kept your word to Liverpool." 

— " Constituents must remember, after all. 

We're mortal." — " We remind them of it." — " Hark, 

The bride comes ! here she comes in a stream of milk ! " 

— " There ? Dear you are asleep still : don't you know 

The five Miss Granvilles ? always dressed in white 

To show they're ready to be married." " Lower ! 

The aunt is at your elbow." — " Lady Maud, 

Did Lady Waldemar tell you she had seen 

This girl of Leigh's ? " — " No — wait ! 'twas Mistress Brookes 

Who told me Lady Waldemar told her — 

No, 'twasn't Mistress Brookes " — " She's pretty ? " — " Who ? 



Aurora Ltigh. 113 



Mistress Brookes ? Lady Waldemar ? " — ■" How hot I 

Pray is't the law to-day we're not to breathe ? 

You're treading on my shawl — 1 thank you, sir." 

— " They say the bride's a mere child, who can't read, 

But knows the things she shouldn't, with wide-awake 

Great eyes. I'd go through fire to look at her." 

— " You do, I thmk." — " And Lady Waldemar 

( You see her ; sitting close to Romney Leigh. 

How beautiful she looks, a little flushed !) 

Has taken up the girl, and methodized 

Leigh's folly. Should I have come here, you suppose. 

Except she'd asked me } " — " She'd have served him more 

By marrying him herself." 

" Ah — there she comes, 
The bride, at last I " 

" Indeed, no. Past eleven. 
She puts off her patched petticoat to-day 
And puts on May-fair manners, so begins 
By setting us to wait." — " Yes, yes, this Leigh 
Was always odd : it's in the blood, I think. 
His father's uncle's cousin's second son 
Was, was . . . you understand me ; and for him. 
He's stark — has turned quite lunatic upon 
This modern question of the poor — the poor. 
An excellent subject when you're moderate. 
You've seen Prince Albert's model lodging-house ? 
Does honor to his Royal Highness. Good I 
But would he stop his carriage in Cheapside 
To shake a common fellow^ by the fist 

Whose name was . . . Shakspeare ? no. We draw a line ; 
And if we stand not by our order, we 
In England, we fall headlong. Here's a sight, — 
A hideous sight, a most indecent sight ! 
My wife would come, sir, or I had kept her back. 
By heaven, sir, when poor Damiens' trunk and limbs 
Were torn by horses, women of the court 
Stood by and stared, exactly as to-day 
On this dismembering of society. 
With pretty, troubled faces." 



Now, at last. 



She comes now." 

" W^here ? who sees } you push me, sir, 

Beyond the point of what is mannerly. 

You're standing, madam, on my second flounce. 



114 Aurora Leigh 



I do beseech you "... 

" No — it's not the bride. 
Half-past eleven. How late I The bridegroom, mark, 
Gets anxious and goes out." 

" And, as I said. 
These Leighs ! our best blood running in the rut ! 
It's somethmg awful. We had pardoned him 
A simple misalliance got up aside 
For a pair of sky-blue eyes : the House of Lords 
Has winked at such things, and we've all been young. 
But here's an intermarriage reasoned out, 
A contract (carried boldly to the light 
To challenge observation, pioneer 
Good acts by a great example) 'twixt the extremes 
Of martyrized society, — on the left 
The well-born, on the right the merest mob. 
To treat as equals I — 'tis anarchical ; 
It means more than it says ; 'tis damnable. 
Why, sir, we can't have even our coffee good. 
Unless we strain it," 

" Here, Miss Leigh ! " 

*' Lord Howe, 
You're Romney's friend. What's all this waiting for.-* " 

" I cannot tell. The bride has lost her head 
(And way. perhaps) to prove her sympathy 
With the bridegroom." 

" What,— you also disapprove ! " 

" Oh, / approve of nothing in the world," 
He answered, " not of you, still less of me, 
Nor even of Romney, though he's worth us both. 
We're all gone wrong. The tune in us is lost ; 
And whistling down back alleys to the moon 
Will never catch it." 

Let me draw Lord Howe. 
A born aristocrat, bred radical. 
And educated socialist, who still 
Goes floating, on traditions of his kind, 
Across the theoretic flood from France. 
Though, like a drenched Noah on a rotten deck, 
Scarce safer for his place there. He, at least, 
Will never land on Ararat, he knows. 
To recommence the world on the new plan : 



Aurora Leigh. 115 



Indeed, he thinks said world had better end. 

He sympathizes rather with the hsh 

Outside than with the drowned paired beasts within, 

Who cannot couple again or multiply, — 

And that's the sort of Noah he is, Lord Howe. 

He never could be anything complete. 

Except a loyal, upright gentleman, 

A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out. 

And entertainer more than hospitable. 

Whom authors dine with, and forget the hock. 

Whatever he believes, and it is much, 

But nowise certain, now here and now there. 

He still has sympathies beyond his creed 

Diverting him from action. In the House 

No party counts upon him, while for all 

His speeches have a noticeable weight. 

Men like his books too (he has written books), 

Which, safe to lie beside a bishop's chair. 

At times outreach themselves with jets of fire 

At which the foremost of the progressists 

May warm audacious hands in passing by. 

Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease ; 

Light hair, that seems to carry a wind in it ; . 

And eyes, that, when they look on you, will lean 

Their whole weight, half in indolence, and half 

In wishing you unmitigated good. 

Until you know not if to flinch from him. 

Or thank him. — 'Tis Lord Howe. 

" W^e're all gone wrong," 
Said he; "and Romney, that dear friend of ours. 
Is nowise right. There's one true thing on earth. 
That's love : he takes it up, and dresses it. 
And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did. 
To show what cruel uncles we have been. 
And how we should be uneasy in our minds, 
While he. Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty maid 
(Who keeps us too long waiting we'll confess) 
By symbol to instruct us formally 
To fill the ditches up 'twixt class and class. 
And live together in phalansteries. 
What then ) — he's mad, our Hamlet ! clap his play. 
And bind him." 

" Ah, Lord Howe ! this spectacle 
Pulls stronger at us than the Dane's. See there ! 



ii6 Aurora Lciirh. 



The crammed aisles heave and strain and steam with 

life. 
Dear Heaven, what life ! " 

" Why, yes, — a poet sees ; 
Which makes him different from a common man. 
I, too, see somewhat, though I cannot sing : 
I should have been a poet, only that 
My mother took fright at the ugly world. 
And bore me tongue-tied. If you'll grant me now 
That Romney gives us a fine actor-piece 
To make us merry on his marriage-morn. 
The fable's worse than Hamlet's I'll concede. 
The terrible people, old and poor and blind, 
Their eyes eat out with plague and poverty 
From seeing beautiful and cheerful sights 
We'll liken to a brutalized King Lear, 
Led out, — by no means to clear scores with wrongs, — 
His wrongs are so far back, he has forgot 
(All's past like youth) ; but just to witness here 
A simple contract, — he upon his side. 
And Regan with her sister Goneril, 
And all the dappled courtiers and court-fools. 
On their side. Not that any of these would say 
They're sorry, neither. What is done is done. 
And violence is not turned privilege, 
As cream turns cheese, if buried long enough. 
What could such lovely ladies have to do 
With the old man there in those ill-odorous rags, 
Except to keep the wind-side of him ? Lear 
Is flat and quiet, as a decent grave : 
He does not curse his daughters in the least. 
Be these his daughters ? Lear is thinking of 
His porridge chiefly . . . is it getting cold 
At Hampstead .-' will the ale be served in pots ? 
Poor Lear, poor daughters! Bravo, Romney's play." 

A murmur and a movement drew around ; 

A naked whisper touched us. Something wrong! 

What's wrong } The black crowd, as an overstrained 

Cord, quivered in vibration, and I saw . . . 

Was that his face I saw.'' . . . his . . . Romney Leigh's . . . 

Which tossed a sudden horror like a sponge 

Into all eyes, while himself stood white upon 

The topmost altar-stair, and tried to speak, 



Aurora Leigh. n? 



And failed, and lifted higher above his head 
A letter . . . as a man who drowns and gasps. 

" My brothers, bear with me ! I am very weak. 

I meant but only good. Perhaps I meant 

Too proudly, and God snatched the circumstance, 

And changed it therefore. There's no marriage— none. 

She leaves me,— she departs,— she disappears, 

I lose her. Yet I never forced her ' ay,' 

To have her ' no ' so cast into my teeth 

In manner of an accusation, thus. 

My friends you are dismissed. Go, eat and drink 

According to the programme— and farewell ! " 

He ended. There was silence in the church. 

We heard a baby sucking in its sleep 

At the farthest end of the aisle. Then spoke a man, 

" Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef and drink 

Be not filched from us, like the other fun ; 

For beer's spilt easier than a woman's lost ! 

This gentry is not honest with the poor : 

They bring us up, to trick us."—" Go it, Jim ! " 

A woman screamed back. " I'm a tender soul ; 

I never banged a child at two years old, 

And drew blood from him, but I sobbed for it 

Next moment, and I've had a plague of seven. 

I'm tender : I've no stomach even for beef. 

Until I know about the girl that's lost. 

That's killed mayhap. I did misdoubt at first, 

The fine lord meant no good by her or us. 

He, maybe, got the upper hand of her 

By holding up a wedding-ring, and then 

A choking finger on her throat last night. 

And just a clever tale to keep us still, 

As she is, poor lost innocent. ' Disappear . 

Who ever disappears, except a ghost ? 

And who believes a story of a ghost ? 

I ask you, would a girl go off, instead 

Of staying to be married? A fine tale ! 

A wicked man, I say, a wicked man ! _ 

For my part I would rather starve on gin ^^ 

Than make my dinner on his beef and beer.' 

At which a cry rose up, " We'll have our rights. 

We'll have the girl, the girl ! Your ladies there 



Aur07-a Leigh. 



Are married safely and 
smoothly e \' e r y 
day, 
And she shall not drop 
through into a trap 
Because she's poor and 
of the people. 
Shame ! 
We'll have no tricks 
played off by gen- 
tle folks. 
We'll see her righted." 
Through the rage 
and roar 
heard the broken 
words which Rom- 
ney flung 
Among the turbulent 
masses, from the 
ground 
He held still with his 

masterful pale face. 
As huntsmen throw the 
ration to the pack. 
Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog. 
In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up" 
With yelling hound-jaws, — his indignant words ; 
His suppliant words, his most pathetic words. 
Whereof I caught the meaning here and there 
By his gesture . . . torn in morsels, yelled across. 
And so devoured. From end to end, the church 
Rocked round us like the sea in storm, and then 
Broke up like the earth in earthquake. Men cried out, 
" Police ! " and women stood, and shrieked for God, 
Or dropt and swooned ; or. like a herd of deer, 
(For whom the black woods suddenly grow alive. 
Unleashing their wild shadows down the wind 
To hunt the creatures into corners, back 
And forward), madly fled, or blindly fell. 
Trod screeching underneath the feet of those 
Who fled and screeched. 

The last sight left to me 
Was Romney's terrible calm face above 
The tumult. The last sound was. " Pull him down ! 




At which a cry rose up, 

RIGHTS. 



'We'll have our 



Aurora Leigh. 1 19 



Strike— kill him ! " Stretching my unreasoning arms, 

As men in dreams, who vainly interpose 

'Twixt gods and their undoing, with a cry 

I struggled to precipitate myself 

Headforemost to the rescue of my soul 

In that white face . . . till some one caught me back, 

And so the world went out,— I felt no more. 

What followed was told after by Lord Howe, 
Who bore me senseless from the strangling crowd 
In church and street, and then returned alone 
To see the tumult quelled. The men of law 
Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire, 
And made all silent, while the people's smoke 
Passed eddying slowly from the emptied aisles. 

Here's Marian's letter, which a ragged child 
Brought running, just as Romney at the porch 
Looked out expectant of the bride. He sent 
The letter to me by his friend. Lord Howe, 
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet 
On which his well-known hand had left a word. 

Here's Marian's letter. , , . • , , 

" Noble friend, dear saint, 

Be patient with me. Never think me vile. 

Who might to-morrow morning be your wife 

But that'l loved you more than such a name. 

Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it once,— 

My Romney. , , , 

^ " 'Tis so pretty a coupled word, 

I have no heart to pluck it with a blot. 

We say, ' My God ' sometimes, upon our knees. 

Who is not therefore vexed : so bear with it . . . 

And me. I know I'm foolish, weak, and vain ; 

Yet most of all I'm angry with myself 

For losing your last footstep on the stair 

That last time of your coming,— yesterday ! 

The very first time I lost step of yours, 

( Its sweetness comes the next to what you speak,) 

But yesterday sobs took me by the throat 

And' cut me off from music. t • u 

" Mister Leigh, 

You'll set me down as wrong in many things. 

You've praised me, sir, for truth— and now you 11 learn 



Aurora Lei^h. 



I had not courage to be rightly true. 

I once began to tell you how she came, 

The woman . . . and you stared upon the floor 

In one of your fixed thoughts , . . which put me out 

For that day. After, some one spoke of me 

So wisely, and of you so tenderly. 

Persuading me to silence for your sake . . . 

Well, well ! it seems this moment I was wrong 

In keeping back from telling you the truth : . 

There might be truth betwixt us two, at least, 

If nothing else. And yet 'twas dangerous. 

Suppose a real angel came from heaven 

To live with men and women ! he'd go mad, 

If no considerate hand should tie a blind 

Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thus with you : 

You see us too much in your heavenly light. 

I always thought so, angel, and indeed 

There's danger that you beat yourself to death 

Against the edges of this alien world, 

In some divine and fluttering pity. 

"Yes, 
It would be dreadful for a friend of yours 
To see all England thrust you out of doors, 
And mock you from the windows. You might say, 
Or think (that's worse), ' There's some one in the house 
I miss and love still.' Dreadful ! 

" Very kind, 
I pray you, mark, was Lady W aide mar. 
She came to see me nine times, rather ten — 
So beautiful, she hurts one like the day 
Let suddenly on sick eyes. 

" Most kind of all, 
Your cousin — ah, most like you ! Ere you came 
She kissed me mouth to mouth : I felt her soul 
Dip through her serious lips in holy fire. 
God help me ; but it made me arrogant. 
I almost told her that you would not lose 
By taking me to wife ; though ever since 
I've pondered much a certain thing she asked ... 
' He loves you, Marian .^ ' ... in a sort of mild 
Derisive sadness ... as a mother asks 
Her babe, ' You'll touch that star, you think } ' 

" Farewell I 
I know I never touched it. 



Aurora Leigh. 



"This is worst : 
Babes grow, and lose the hope of things above : 
A silver threepence sets them leaping high — 
But no more stars ! mark that. 

" I've writ all night, 
Yet told you nothing. God, if 1 could die, 
And let this letter break off innocent 
Just here! But no— for your sake . . . 

" Here's the last : 
I never could be happy as your wife, 
I never could be harmless as your friend, 
I never will look more into your face 
Till God says, ' Look ! ' I charge you seek me not. 
Nor vex yourself with lamentable thoughts 
That peradventure I have come to grief ; 
Be sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at ease. 
But such a long way, long way, long way off, 
I think you'll find me sooner in my grave. 
And that's my choice, observe. For what remains. 
An over-generous friend will care for me, 
And keep me happy . . . happier . . . 

" There's a blot I 
This ink runs thick . . . we light girls lightly weep . . . 
And keep me happier . . . was the thing to say. 
Than as your wife I could be.— Oh, my star. 
My saint, my soul ! for surely you're my soul, 
Through whom God touched me ! I am not so lost 
I cannot thank you for the good you did. 
The tears you stopped, which fell down bitterly, 
Like these — the times you made me weep for joy 
At hoping I should learn to write your notes. 
And save the tiring of your eyes at night ; 
And most for that sweet thrice you kissed my lips. 
Saying, ' Dear Marian.' 

" 'Twould be hard to read, 
This letter, for a reader half as learned, 
But you'll be sure to master it in spite 
Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, I am blind ; 
I'm poor at writing at the best — and yet 
I tried to make my_^'s the way you showed. 
Farewell ! Christ love you ! Say, ' Poor Marian ! ' now." 

Poor Marian ! — wanton Marian ! — was it so, 
Or so ? For days, her touching, foolish lines 



122 Aurora Leigh. 



We mused on with conjectural fantasy, 

As if some riddle of a summer-cloud 

On which one tries unlike similitudes, 

Of now a spotted hydra-skin cast off, 

And now a screen of carven ivory 

That shuts the heavens' conventual secrets up 

From mortals over-bold. We sought the sense. 

She loved him so perhaps (such words mean love,) 

That, worked on by some shrewd perfidious tongue, 

( And then I thought of Lady Waldemar) 

She left him not to hurt him ; or perhaps 

She loved one in her class ; or did not love, 

But mused upon her wild bad tramping life, 

Until the free blood fluttered at her heart, 

And black bread eaten by the roadside hedge 

Seemed sweeter than being put to Romney's school 

Of philanthropical self-sacrifice 

Irrevocably. Girls are girls, beside, 

Thought I, and like a wedding by one rule. 

You seldom catch these birds except with chaff. 

They feel it almost an immoral thing 

To go out and be married in broad day, 

Unless some winning special flattery should 

Excuse them to themselves for't ..." No one parts 

Her hair with such a silver line as you, 

One moonbeam from the forehead to the crown I " 

Or else ..." You bite your lip in such a way 

It spoils me for the smiling of the rest ; " 

And so on. Then a worthless gaud or two 

To keep for love, — a ribbon for the neck, 

Or some glass pin, — they have their weight with girls. 

And Romney sought her many days and weeks. 
He sifted all the refuse of the town. 
Explored the trains, inquired among the ships. 
And felt the country through from end to end ; 
No Marian ! Though I hinted what I knew, — 
A friend of his had reasons of her owm 
For tfirowing back the match, — he would not hear : 
The lady had been ailing ever since. 
The shock had harmed her. Something in his tone 
Repressed me ; something in me shamed my doubt 
To a sign repressed too. He went on to say, 
That, putting questions where his Marian lodged, 



Aurora Leigh. 123 



He found she had received for visitors — 

Besides himself and Lady Waldemar, 

And, that once, me — a dubious woman dressed 

Beyond us both : the rings upon her hands 

Had dazed the children when she threw them pence ; 

" She wore her bonnet as the queen might hers. 

To show the crown," they said, — " a scarlet crown 

Of roses that had never been in bud." 

When Romney told me that, for now and then 
He came to tell me how the search advanced, 
His voice dropped. I bent forward for the rest. 
The woman had been with her, it appeared. 
At first from week to week, then day by day 
And last, 'twas sure . . . 

I looked upon the ground 
To escape the anguish of his eyes, and asked, 
As low as when you speak to mourners new 
Of those they cannot bear yet to call dead, 
"If Marian had as much as named to him 
A certain Rose, an early friend of hers, 
A ruined creature." 

" Never ! " Starting up. 
He strode from side to side about the room. 
Most like some prisoned lion sprung awake, 
Who has felt the desert sting him through his dreams. 
" What was I to her, that she should tell me aught ? 
A friend ! was / a friend .'' I see all clear. 
Such devils would pull angels out of heaven, 
Provided they could reach them : 'tis their pride. 
And that's the odds 'twixt soul and body plague ! 
The veriest slave who drops in Cairo's street 
Cries, ' Stand off from me ! ' to the passengers ; 
While these blotched souls are eager to infect, 
And blow their bad breath in a sister's face, 
As if they got some ease by it." 

I broke through. 
" Some natures catch no plagues. I've read of babes 
Found whole, and sleeping by the spotted breast 
Of one a full day dead. I hold it true, 
As I'm a woman and know womanhood, 
That Marian Erie, however lured from place. 
Deceived in way, keeps pure in aim and heart 



124 Aicrora Leigh. 



As snow that's drifted from the garden-bank 
To the open road." 

'Twas hard to hear him laugh. 
" The figure's happ3\ Well, a dozen carts 
And trampers will secure you presently 
A fine white snow-drift. Leave it there, your snow ! 
'Twill pass for soot ere sunset. Pure in aim ? 
She's pure in aim, I grant you, like myself, 
Who thought to take the world upon my back 
To carry it o'er a chasm of social ill. 
And end by letting slip, through impotence, 
A single soul, a child's weight in a soul. 
Straight down the pit of hell ! Yes, I and she 
Have reason to be proud of our pure aims." 
Then softly, as the last repenting drops 
Of a thunder-shower, he added, "The poor child, 
Poor Marian ! 'twas a luckless day for her. 
When first she chanced on my philanthropy." 
He drew^ a chair beside me, and sate down ; 
And I instinctively — as women use 
Before a sw^eet friend's grief, when in his ear 
They hum the tune of comfort, though themselves 
Most ignorant of the special words of such, 
And quiet so and fortify his brain. 
And give it time and strength for feeling out 
To reach the availing sense beyond that sound — 
Went murmuring to him what, if written here, 
Would seem not much, yet fetched him better help 
Than peradventure if it had been more. 

I've known the pregnant thinkers of our time, 

And stood by breathless, hanging on their lips, 

When some chromatic sequence of fine thought 

In learned modulation phrased itself 

To an unconjectured harmony of truth ; 

And yet I've been more moved, more raised, I say, 

By a simple word ... a broken, easy thing 

A three-years infant might at need repeat, 

A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm. 

Which meant less than " I love you," than by all 

The full-voiced rhetoric of those master-mouths. 



" Ah, dear Aurora." he began at last, 
His pale lips fumbling for a sort of smile, 



Aurora Leigh. 



" Your printer's devils have not spoilt your heart : 
That's well. And who knows, but long years ago 
When you and I talked, you were somewhat riglit 
In being so peevish with me? You, at least, 
Have ruined no one through your dreams. Instead, 
You've helped the facile youth to live youth's day 
With innocent distraction, still, perhaps 
Suggestive of things better than your rhymes. 




Asleep i' the sun, her head upon her knees. 



The little shepherd-maiden, eight years old, 
I've seen upon the mountains of Vaucluse, 
Asleep i' the sun, her head upon her knees, 
The flocks all scattered, is more laudable 
Than any sheep-dog trained imperfectly. 
Who bites the kids through too much zeal." 

" I look 
As if I had slept, then } " 

He was touched at once 
By something in my face. Indeed, 'twas sure 
That he and I, despite a year or two 



126 Aurora Leigh. 



Of younger life on my side, and on his 

The' heaping of the years' work on the days, 

The three-hour speeches from the member's seat, 

The hot committees in and out of doors. 

The pamphlets, " Arguments," " Collective Views," 

Tossed out as straw before sick houses, just 

To show one's sick, and so be trod to dirt. 

And no more use, — through this world's underground 

The burrowing, gropmg effort, whence the arm 

And heart come torn, — 'twas sure that he and I 

Were, after all, unequally fatigued ; 

That he, in his developed manhood, stood 

A Uttle sunburnt by the glare of life. 

While I ... it seemed no sun had shone on me. 

So many seasons I had missed my springs. 

My cheeks had pined and perished from their orbs. 

And all the youth-blood in them had grown white 

As dew on autumn cyclamens ; alone 

My eyes and forehead answered for my face. 

He said, " Aurora, you are changed — are ill ! " 

" Not so, my cousin, — only not asleep," 

I answered, smiling gently. " Let it be. 

You scarcely found the poet of Vaucluse 

As drowsy as the shepherds. What is art 

But life upon the larger scale, the higher, 

When, graduating up in a spiral line 

Of still expanding.and ascending gyres. 

It pushes toward the intense significance 

Of all things, hungry for the Infinite ? 

Art's life ; and where we hve, we suffer and toil." 

He seemed to sift me with his painful eyes. 

" You take it gravely cousin : you refuse 

Your dreamland's right of common, and green rest. 

You break the mythic turf where danced the nymphs, 

With crooked ploughs of actual fife, let in 

The axes to the legendary woods. 

To pay the poll-tax. You are fallen indeed 

On evil days, you poets, if yourselves 

Can praise the art of yours no otherwise ; 

And if you cannot . . . better take a trade 

And be of use ; 'twere cheaper for your youth." 



Auro7'a Leigh. 127 



" Of use ? " I softly echoed, " there's the point 

We sweep about forever in argument, 

Like swallows which the exasperate, dying year 

Sets spinning in black circles, round and round, 

Preparing for far flights o'er unknown seas. 

And we — where tend we ? " " Where ? " he said, and 

sighed. 
" The whole creation, from the hour we are born. 
Perplexes us with questions. Not a stone 
But cries behind us, every weary step, 
' Where, where } ' I leave stones to reply to stones. 
Enough for me and for my fleshly heart 
To hearken the invocations of my kind, 
When men catch hold upon my shuddering nerves, 
And shriek, * What help ? what hope ? what bread i' the 

house ? 
What fire i' the frost ? ' There must be some response, 
Though mine fail utterly. This social Sphinx 
Who sits between the sepulchres and stews, 
Makes mock and mow against the crystal heavens. 
And bullies God, — exacts a word at least 
From each man standing on the side of God, 
However paying a sphinx-price for it. 
We pay it also, if we hold our peace, 
In pangs and pity. Let me speak and die. 
Alas ! you'll say I speak and kill instead." 

I pressed in there, " The best men, doing their best, 

Know peradventure least of what they do ; 

Men usefullest i' the world are simply used ; 

The nail that holds the wood must pierce it first ; 

And he alone who wields the hammer sees 

The work advanced by the earliest blow. Take heart." 

" Ah, if I could have taken yours ! " he said— 

" But that's past now." Then rising, — " I will take 

At least your kindness and encouragement. 

I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing your songs, 

If that's your way ; but sometimes slumber too, 

Nor tire too much with following, out of breath, 

The rhymes upon your mountains of Delight. 

Reflect, if art be in truth the higher life. 

You need the lower life to stand upon 

In order to reach up unto that higher ; 



128 Aufora Leigh. 

And none can stand a-tiptoe in the place 
He cannot stand in with two stable feet. . 
Remember then ! for art's sake hold your life." 

We parted so. I held him in respect. 

1 comprehended what he was in heart 

And sacrificial greatness. Ay. but he 

Supposed me a thing too small to deign to know. 

He blew me, plainly, from the crucible 

As some intruding, interrupting fly, 

Not worth the pains of his analysis 

Absorbed on nobler subjects. Hurt a fly ! 

He would not for the w^orld : he's pitiful 

To flies even. " Sing," says he, " and tease me still, 

If that's your way, poor insect." That's your way I 



FIFTH BOOK. 



Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I hope 
To speak my poems in mysterious tune 
With man and nature ? with the lava-lymph 
That trickles from successive galaxies 
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God 



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SUMMEK-DAVS l.N THIS THAT SCARCE DARE BREATHE, THEV ARE SO 
BEAUTIFCL. 

In still new worlds ? with summer-days in this 
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful ? 
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground, 



Aurora Leigh. 129 



Tormented by the quickened blood of roots, 

And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves 

In token of tne harvest-time of tiowers ? 

With winters and with autumns, and beyond 

With the human heart's large seasons, when it hopes 

And fears, joys, grieves, and loves ? with all that strain 

Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh 

In a sacrament of souls ? with mother's breasts. 

Which, round the new-made creatures hanging there, 

Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres ? 

With multitudinous life, and, finally. 

With the great escapings of ecstatic souls, 

Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame, 

Their radiant faces upward, burn away 

This dark of the body, issuing on a world 

Beyond our mortal ? Can I speak my verse 

So plainly in tune to these things and the rest, 

That men shall feel it catch them on the quick, 

As having the same warrant over them 

To hold and move them, if they will or no. 

Alike imperious as the primal rhythm 

Of that theurgic nature ? I must fail, 

Who fail at the beginning to hold and move 

One man, and he my cousin, and he my friend, 

And he born tender, made intelligent, 

Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides 

Of difficult questions, yet obtuse to me. 

Of me, incurious ! likes me very well, 

And wishes me a paradise of good, — • 

Good looks, good means, and good digestion, — ay, 

But otherwise evades me, puts me off 

With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness, — 

Too light a book for a grave man's reading ! Go, 

Aurora Leigh : be humble. 

There it is. 
We women are too apt to look to one. 
Which proves a certain impotence in art. 
We strain our natures at doing something great. 
Far less because it's something great to do 
Than haply that we, so, commend ourselves 
As being not small, and more appreciable 
To some one friend. We must have mediators 
Betwixt our highest conscience and the judge ; 
Some sweet saint's blood must quicken in our palms. 



[30 Aurora Leigh. 



Or all the life in heaven seems slow and cold ; 
Good only being perceived as the end of good, 
And God alone pleased,— that's too poor, we think, 
And not enough for us by any means. 
Ay, Romney, I remember, told me once 
We miss the abstract when we comprehend ; 
We miss it most when we aspire, — and fail. 

Yet, so, I will not. This vile woman's way 
Of trailing garments shall not trip me up :' 
ril have no traffic with the personal thought 
In art's pure temple. Must I work in vain. 
Without the approbation of a man ? 
It cannot be ; it shall not. Fame itself, 
That approbation of the general race, 
Presents a poor end, (though the arrow speed. 
Shot straight with vigorous finger to the white,) 
And the highest fame was never reached except 
By what was aimed above it. Art for art, 
And good for God himself, the essential Good I 
We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect, 
Although our woman-hands should shake and fail ; 
And if we fail . . . But must we? — 

Shall I fail ? 
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 
" Let no one be called happy till his death." 
To which I add. Let no one till his death 
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work 
Until the day's out and the labor done ; 
Then bring your gauges. If the day's work's scant. 
Why, call it scant ; affect no compromise ; 
And, in that we've nobly striven at least. 
Deal with us nobly, women though we be. 
And honor us with truth, if not with praise. 

My ballads prospered ; but the ballad's race 

Is rapid for a poet who bears weights 

Of thought and golden image. He can stand 

Like Atlas, in the sonnet, and support 

His own heavens pregnant with dynastic stars: 

But then he must stand still, nor take a step. 

In that descriptive poem called " The Hills," 
The prospects were too far and indistinct. 



Aurora Leigh. 



131 



'Tis true my critics said, "A fine view, that ! " 

The public scarcely cared to climb my book 

For even the finest, and the public's right : 

A tree's mere firewood, unless humanized; 

Which well the Greeks knew when they stirred its bark 

With close-pressed bosoms of subsiding nymphs, 

And made the forest-rivers garrulous 

With babble of gods. For us, we are called to mark 

A still more intimate humanity 

In this inferior nature, or ourselves 

Must fall like dead leaves trodden 

underfoot 
By veritable artists. Earth (shut up 
By Adam, like a fakir in a box 
Left too long buried) remained stiff 

and dry, 
A mere dumb corpse, till Christ 

Lord came down. 
Unlocked the doors, forced open 

blank eyes, 
And used his kingly chrism 

straighten out 
The leathery tongue turned back into ^.^ 

the throat ; 
Since when, she lives, remembers, pal- 
pitates 
In every limb, aspires in every breath. 
Embraces infinite relations. Now 
We want no half-gods, Panompha^an 

Joves, 
Fauns, Naiads, Tritons, Oreads, and 

the rest, 
To take possession of a senseless world 
To unnatural vampire-uses. See the earth. 
The body of our body, the green earth, 
Indubitably human like this flesh 
And these articulated veins through which 
Our heart drives blood ! There's not a flower of spring 
That dies ere June, but vaunts itself allied 
By issue and symbol, by significance 
And correspondence, to that spirit-world 
Outside the limits of our space and time, 
Whereto we are bound. Let poets give it voice 
With human meanings, else they miss the thought, 




lin 



A FLOWER OF SPRING. 



132 Aurora Leigh. 



And henceforth step down lower, stand confessed 
Instructed poorly for interpreters, 
Thrown out by an easy cowslip in the text. 

Even so my pastoral failed : it was a book 

Of surface-pictures, pretty, cold, and false 

With literal transcript, — the worse done, I think, 

For being- not ill done : let me set my mark 

Against such doings, and do otherwise. 

This strikes me. — if the public whom we know 

Could catch me at such admissions, I should pass 

For being right modest. Yet how proud we are 

In daring to look down upon ourselves ! 

The critics say that epics have died out 

With Agamemnon and the goat-nursed gods : 

I'll not believe it. I could never deem, 

As Payne Knight did, (the mythic mountaineer 

Who travelled higher ihan he was born to live, 

And showed sometimes the goitre in his throat 

Discoursing of an image seen through fog, ) 

That Homer's heroes measured twelve feet high. 

They were but men : his Helen's hair turned gray 

Like any plain Miss Smith's who wears a front ; 

And Hector's infant whimpered at a plume 

As yours last Friday at a turkey-cock. 

All actual heroes are essential men, 

And all men possible heroes : every age. 

Heroic in proportions, double-faced. 

Looks backward and before, expects a morn 

And claims an epos. 

Ay ; but every age 
Appears to souls who live in't ( ask Carlyle ) 
Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, ours — 
The thinkers scout it, and the poets abound 
Who scorn to touch it with a finger-tip — 
A pewter age, mixed metal, silver-washed — 
An age of scum, spooned off the richer past, — 
An age of patches for old gaberdines. 
An age of mere transition, meaning naught 
Except that what succeeds must shame it quite 
If God please. That's wrong thinking, to my mind, 
And wrong thoughts make poor poems. 

Every age. 
Through being beheld too close, is ill discerned 



Aurora Leigh. 133 



liy those who have not lived past it. We'll suppose 

Mount Athos carved, as Alexander schemed, 

To some colossal statue of a man. 

The peasants, gathering brushwood in his ear. 

Had guessed as little as the browsing goats 

Of form or feature of humanity 

Up there,— in fact, had travelled five miles off 

Or ere the giant image broke on them. 

Full human profile, nose and chin distinct, 

Mouth muttering rhythms of silence up the sky, 

And fed at evening with the blood of sons ; 

Grand torso,— hand that flung perpetually 

The largesse of a silver river down 

To all the country pastures. 'Tis even thus 

With times we live in,— evermore too great 

To be apprehended near. 

But poets should 

Exert a double vision ; should have eyes 

To see near things as comprehensively 

As if afar they took their point of sight. 

And distant things as intimately deep 

As if they touched them. Let us strive for this. 

I do distrust the poet who discerns 

No character or glory in his times. 

And trundles back his soul five hundred years. 

Past moat and draw^bridge, into a castle-court. 

To sing — oh, not of lizard or of toad 

Alive i' the ditch there,— 'twere excusable, 

But of some black chief, half knight, half sheep-lifter, 

Some beauteous dame, half chattel and half queen, 

As dead as must be, for the greater part, 

The poems made on their chivalric bones; 

And that's no wonder : death inherits death. 

Nay, if there's room for poets in this world 

A little overgrown, (I think there is) 

Their sole work is to represent the age, 

Their age, not Charlemagne's,— this live, throbbing age, 

That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires, 

And spends more passion, more heroic heat. 

Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing-rooms, 

Than Roland with his knights at Roncesvalles. 

To flinch from modern varnish, coat or flounce, 

Cry out for togas and the picturesque. 



134 Aurora Leigh. 



Is fatal, — foolish too. King Arthur's self 
Was commonplace to Lady Guinevere ; 
And Camelot to minstrels seemed as flat 
As Fleet Street to our poets. 



Never flinch. 



But still, unscrupulously epic, catch 

Upon the burning lava of a song 

The full-veined, heaving, double-breasted age. 

That, when the next shall come, the men of that 

May touch the impress with reverent hand, and say, 

" Behold, behold, the paps we all have sucked ! 

This bosom seems to beat still, or at least 

It sets ours beating : this is living art. 

Which thus presents and thus records true life." 

What form is best for poems } Let me think 
Of forms less, and the external. Trust the spirit, 
As sovran nature does, to make the form ; 
For otherwise we only imprison spirit 
And not embody. Inward evermore 
To outward, — so in life, and so in art. 
Which still is life. 

Five acts to make a play. 
And why not fifteen ? why not ten } or seven ? 
What matter for the number of the leaves, 
Supposing the tree lives and grows } exact 
The literal unities of time and place. 
When 'tis the essence of passion to ignore 
Both time and place ? Absurd. Keep up the fire, 
And leave the generous flames to shape themselves. 
'Tis true the stage requires obsequiousness 
To this or that convention ; " exit " here 
And " enter " there ; the points for clapping fixed, 
Like Jacob's white-peeled rods before the ram$ ; 
And all the close-curled imagery clipped 
In manner of their fleece at shearing-time. 
Forget to pick the galleries to the heart 
Precisely at the fourth act, culminate 
Our five pyramidal acts with one act more. 
We're lost so : Shakspeare's ghost could scarcely plead 
Against our just damnation. Stand aside ; 
We'll muse, for comfort, that last century. 
On this same tragic stage on which we have failed, 
A wigless Hamlet would have failed the same. 



Aurora Leigh. 135 



And whosoever writes good poetry 

Looks just to art. He does not write for you 

Or nie, for London or for Edinburgh ; 

He will not suffer the best critic known 

To step into his sunshine of free thought 

And self-absorbed conception, and exact 

An inch-long swerving of the holy lines. 

If virtue done for popularity 

Defiles like vice, can art, for praise or hire. 

Still keep its splendor, and remain pure art ? 

Eschew such serfdom. What the poet writes. 

He writes. Mankind accepts it if it suits, 

And that's success : if not, the poem's passed 

From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand, 

Until the unborn snatch it, crying out 

In pity on their fathers being so dull ; 

And that's success too. 

I will write no plays, 
Because the drama, less sublime in this, 
Makes lower appeals ; submits more menially; 
Adopts the standard of the public taste 
To chalk its height on ; wears a dog-chain round 
Its regal neck, and learns to carry and fetch 
The fashions of the day to please the day ; 
Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap hands. 
Commending chiefly its docility 
And humor in stage-tricks; or else, indeed. 
Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at like a dog, 
Or worse, we'll say. For dogs, unjustly kicked, 
Yell, bite at need ; but if your dramatist 
( Being wronged by some five hundred nobodies, 
Because their grosser brains most naturally 
Misjudge the fineness of his subtle wit) 
Shows teeth an almond's breath, protests the length 
Of a modest phrase, " My gentle countrymen. 
There's something in it haply of your fault," 
Why then, besides five hundred nobodies. 
He'll have five thousand and five thousand more 
Against him, — the whole public, all the hoofs 
Of King Saul's father's asses, in full drove. 
And obviously deserve it. He appealed 
To these, and why say more if they condemn. 
Than if they praise him ? Weep, my ^schylus, 
But low and far, upon Sicilian shores ! 



336 Aurora Leigh. 



For since 'twas Athens (so I read the myth) 
Who gave commission to that fatal weight 
The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop on thee 
And crush thee, better cover thy bald head. 
She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblan bee 
Before thy loudest protestation. ' 



Then 



The risk's still w^orse upon the modern stage : 
I could not, for so little, accept success ; 
Nor would I risk so much, in ease and calm, 
For manifester gains : let those who prize 
Pursue them : 1 stand off. And yet forbid 
That any irreverent fancy or conceit 
Should litter in the drama's throne-room, where 
The rulers of our art, in whose full veins 
Dynastic glories mingle, sit in strength 
And do their kingly work, conceive, command. 
And from the imagination's crucial heat 
Catch up their men and women all aflame 
For action, all alive, and forced to prove 
Their life by living out heart, brain, and nerve, 
Until mankind makes witness, " These be men 
As we are," and vouchsafes the greeting due 
To Imogen and Juliet,— sweetest kin 
On art's side. 

'Tis that, honoring to its worth 
The drama, I would fear to keep it down 
To the level of the footlights. Dies no more 
The sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain, 
His filmed ej^es fluttered by the whirling white 
Of choral vestures, troubled in his blood. 
While tragic voices that clanged keen as swords, 
Leapt high together with the altar-flame, 
And made the blue air wink. The waxen mask, 
Which set the grand, still front of Themis' son 
Upon the puckered visage of a player ; 
The buskin, which he rose upon and moved, 
As some tall ship, first conscious of the wind. 
Sweeps slowly past the piers ; the mouthpiece, where 
The mere man's voice, with all its breaths and breaks. 
Went sheathed in brass, and clashed on even heights 
Its phrased thunders, — these things are no more. 
Which once were. And concluding, which is clear. 
The growing drama has outgrown such toys 



Aurora Leigh. 137 



Of simulated stature, face, and speech, 

It also perad venture may outgrow 

The simulation of the painted scene. 

Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume. 

And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, 

Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, 

With all its grand orchestral silences 

To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds. 

Alas ! I still see something to be done, 

And what I do falls short of what I see, 

Though I waste myself on doing. Long green days, 

Worn bare of grass and sunshine ; long calm nights. 

From which the silken sleeps were fretted out,— 

Be witness for me, with no amateur's 

Irreverent haste and busy idleness 

I set myself to art ! What then ? what's done ? 

What's done, at last ? 

Behold, at last, a book. 
If life-blood's necessary, which it is, — 
( By that blue vein a-throb on Mahomet's brow, 
Each prophet-poet's book must show man's blood ! ) 
If life-blood's fertilizing, I wrung mine 
On every leaf of this, unless the drops 
Slid heavily on one side, and left it dry. 
That chances often. Many a fervid man 
Writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones 
From which the lichen's scraped ; and if St. Preux 
Had written his own letters, as he might, 
We had never wept to think of the little mole 
'Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion is 
But something suffered, after all. 



While art 



Set action on the top of suffering, 
The artist's part is both to be and do. 
Transfixing with a special central power 
The flat experience of the common man, 
And turning outward, with a sudden wrench, 
Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing 
He feels the inmost, — never felt the less 
Because he sings it. Does a torch less burn 
For burning next reflectors of blue steel, 
That he should be the colder for his place 
'Twixt two incessant fires, — his personal life's. 



Aurora Leigh. 



And that intense refraction which burns back 
Perpetually against him from the round 
Of crN'Stal conscience he was born into, 
If artist-born? Oh, sorrowful, great gift 
Conferred on poets, of a twofold life. 
When one life has been found enough for pain ! 
We, staggering 'neath our burden as mere men. 
Being called to stand up straight as demigods, 
Support the intolerable strain "and stress 
Of the universal, and send clearly up 
With voices broken by the human sob, 
Our poems to find rhymes among the stars ! 
But soft, — a " poet " is a word soon said, 
A book's a thing soon written. Nay, indeed, 
The more the poet shall be questionable. 
The more unquestionably comes his book. 
And this of mine — well, granting to myself 
Some passion in it, furrowing up the flats, 
Mere passion will not prove a volume worth 
Its gall and rags even. Bubbles round a keel 
Mean nought, excepting that the vessel moves. 
There's more than passion goes to make a man 
Or book, which is a man too. 



I am sad. 



I wonder if Pygmalion had these doubts, 
And, feeling the hard marble first relent. 
Grow supple to the straining of his arms, 
And tingle through its cold to his burning lip. 
Supposed his senses mocked, supposed the toil 
Of stretching past the known and seen to reach 
The archetypal beauty out of sight, 
Had made his heart beat fast enough for two. 
And with his own life dazed and blinded him I 
Not so. Pygmalion loved ; and whoso loves 
Believes the impossible. 

But I am sad 
I cannot thoroughly love a work of mine, 
Since none seems worthy of my thought and hope 
More highly mated. He has shot them down. 
My Phoebus Apollo, soul within my soul, 
W' ho judges by the attempted what's attained. 
And with the silver arrow from his height 
Has struck down all my works before my face. 
While I said nothing. Is there aught to say .> 



Aurora Lei^h. 



I called the artist but a greatened man. 
He may be childless also, like a man. 

I labored on alone. The wind and dust 

And sun of the world beat blistering in my face ; 

And hope, now for me, now against me, dragged 

My spirits onward, as some fallen balloon, 

Which, whether caught by blossoming tree or bare. 

Is torn alike. I sometimes touched my aim, 

Or seemed, and generous souls cried out, " Be strong, 

Take courage ; now you're on our level — now ! 

The next step saves you." I was flushed with praise ; 

But, pausing just a moment to draw breath, 

I could not choose but murmur to myself, 

" Is this all ? all that's done } and all that's gained } 

If this, then, be success, 'tis dismaller 

Than any failure." 

O my God, my God, 
O supreme Artist, who, as sole return 
For all the cosmic wonder of thy work, 
Demandest of us just a word ... a name, 
" My Father ! " thou hast knowledge, only thou, 
How dreary 'tis for women to sit still. 
On winter nights, by solitary fires. 
And hear the nations praising them far off. 
Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense of love. 
Our very heart of passionate womanhood, 
Which could not beat so in the verse, without 
Being present also in the unkissed lips. 
And eyes undried, because there's none to ask 
The reason they grew moist. 

To sit alone, 
And think for comfort, how that very night 
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face, 
With sweet half-listenings for each other's breath, 
Are reading haply from a page of ours, 
To pause with a thrill (as if their cheeks had touched) 
When such a stanza, level to their mood, 
Seems floating their own thought out — " So I feel 
For thee," — " And I, for thee : this poet knows 
What everlasting love is ! " — how that night 
Some father, issuing from the misty roads 
Upon the luminous round of lamp and hearth, 
And happy children, having caught up first 



I40 



Aurora Lei^rh. 




Affianced lovers, i.eamxg face to face. 



Aurora Leigh. 141 



The youngest there, until it shrink and shriek 

To feel the cold chin prick its dimples through 

With winter from the hills, may throw i' the' lap 

Of the eldest (who has learnt to drop her lids 

To hide some sweetness newer than last year's) 

Our book, and cry ..." Ah, you, you care for rhymes : 

So here be rhymes to pore on under trees, 

When April comes to let you ! I've been told 

They are not idle, as so many are, 

But set hearts beating pure, as well as fast. 

'Tis yours, the book : I'll write your name in it, 

That so you may not lose, however lost 

In poet's lore and charming revery, 

The thought of how your father thought of /^// 

In riding from the town." 

To have our books 
Appraised by love, associated with love, 
While we sit loveless ! is it hard, you think } 
At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 'twas said. 
Means simply love. It was a man said that. 
And then there's love and love : the love of all 
( To risk in turn a woman's paradox) 
Is but a small thing to the love of one. 
You bid a hungry child be satisfied 
With a heritage of many cornfields : nay, 
He says he's hungry ; he would rather have 
That little barley-cake you keep from him 
While reckoning up his harvests. So with us ; 
( Here, Romney, too, we fail to generalize !) 
We're hungry. 

Hungry! But it's pitiful 
To wail like un weaned babes, and suck our thumbs. 
Because we're hungry. Who in all this world 
( Wherein we are haply set to pray and fast. 
And learn what good is by its opposite ) 
Has never hungered } Woe to him who has found 
The meal enough ! If Ugolino's full. 
His teeth have crunched some foul unnatural thing ; 
For here satiety proves penury 
More utterly irremediable. And since 
We needs must hunger, better, for man's love 
Than God's truth ! better, for companions sweet 
Than g;reat convictions ! Let us bear our weights, 
Preferring dreary hearths to desert souls. 



142 Aurora Leigh. 



Well, well I they say we're envious, we who rhyme ; 

But I — because I am a woman, perhaps, 

And so rhyme ill — am ill at envying. 

I never envied Graham his breadth of style, 

Which gives you, with a random smutch or two, 

( Near-sighted critics analyze to smutch ) 

Such delicate perspectives of full life ; 

Nor Belmore, for the unity of aim 

To which he cuts his cedarn poems, fine, 

As sketchers do their pencils ; nor Mark Gage, 

For that caressing color and trancing tone 

Whereby you're swept away, and melted in 

The sensual element, which, with a back wave, 

Restores you to the level of pure souls. 

And leav^es you with Plotinus. None of these. 

For native gifts or popular applause, 

Fve envied ; but for this, — that when by chance 

Says some one, " There goes Belmore, a great man I 

He leaves clean work behind him, and requires 

No sweeper-up of the chips," ... a girl 1 know, 

Who answers nothing, save with her brown eyes. 

Smiles unaware, as if a guardian saint 

Smiled in her ; for this, too, that Gage comes home, 

And lays his last book's prodigal review 

Upon his mother's knee, where, years ago. 

He laid his childish spelling-book, and learned 

To chirp, and peck the letters from her mouth. 

As young birds must. " Well done," she murmured then 

She will not say it now more wonderingly. 

And yet the last " Well done," will touch him more, 

As catching up to-day and yesterday 

In a perfect chord of love. And so, Mark Gage, 

I envy you your mother— and you, Graham, 

Because you have a wife who loves you so, 

She half forgets, at moments, to be proud 

Of being Graham's wife, until a friend observes, 

" The boy here has his father's massive brow. 

Done small in wax ... if we push back the curls." 

Who loves me ? Dearest father, mother sweet, — 
I speak the names out sometimes by myself. 
And make the silence shiver. They sound strange. 
As Hindostanee to an Ind-born man 
Accustomed many years to English speech ; 



Aurora Leigh. ^43 



Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete, 
Which will not leave off singing. Up in neaven 
I have my father, with my mother's face 
Beside him in a blotch of heavenly light ; 
No more for earth's familiar, household use. 
No more The best verse written by this hand 
Can never reach them where they sit to seem 
Well done to them. Death quite unfellows us. 
Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and dead. 
And makes us part, as those at Babel did 
Through sudden ignorance of a common tongue. 
A living Csesar would not dare to play 
At bowls with such as my dead father is. 

And yet this may be less so than appears. 

This change and separation. Sparrows hve 

For just two farthings, and God cares for each. 

If God is not too great for little cares. 

Is any creature, because gone to God } 

I've seen some men, veracious, nowise mad. 

Who have thought or dreamed, declared and testitied, 

They heard the dead a-ticking like a clock 

Which strikes the hours of the eternities, 

Beside them, with their natural ears, and known 

That human spirits feel the human way, 

And hate the unreasoning awe which waves them oil 

From possible communion. It may be. 

At least, earth separates as well as heaven. 

For instance, I have not seen Romney Leigh 

Full eighteen months ... add six, you get two years. 

Thev say he's very busiy with good works. 

Has' parted Leigh Hall into almshouses. 

He made one day an almshouse of his heart. 

Which ever since is loose upon the latch 

For those who pull the string.— I never did. 

It always makes me sad to go abroad. 
And now I'm sadder that I went to-night ^ 
Among the lights and talkers at Lord Howe s. 
His wife is gracious, with her glossy braids. 
And even voice, and gorgeous eyeballs, calm 
As her other jewels. If she's somewhat cold. 
Who wonders, when her blood has stood so long 



144 



Aurora Leigh. 




Those alabaster shoulders. 



Aurora Leigh. 145 



In the ducal reservoir she calls her line 

liy no means arrogantly ? She's not proud ; 

Not prouder than the swan is of the lake 

He has always swum in : 'tis her element, 

And so she takes it with a natural grace, 

Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows, perhaps. 

There are who travel without outriders. 

Which isn't her fault. Ah, to watch her face, 

When good Lord Howe expounds his theories 

Of social justice and equality ! 

'Tis curious what a tender, tolerant bend 

Her neck takes ; for she loves him, likes his talk, 

" Such clever talk— that dear odd Algernon ! " 

She listens on, exactly as if he talked 

Some Scandinavian myth of Lemures, 

Too pretty to dispute, and too absurd. 

She's gracious to me as her husband's friend. 

And would be gracious were I not a Leigh, 

Being used to smile just so, without her eyes. 

On Joseph Strangways, the Leeds mesmerist. 

And Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from " the States " 

Upon the " Woman's question." Then, for him— 

I like him : he's my friend. And all the rooms 

Were full of crinkling silks that swept about 

The fine dust of most subtle courtesies. 

What then } Why, then we come home to be sad. 

How lovely one I love not looked to-night ! 

She's very pretty. Lady Waldemar. 

Her maid must use both hands to twist that coil 

Of tresses, then be careful lest the rich 

Bronze rounds should slip : she missed, though, a gray hair. 

A single one,— I saw it ; otherwise 

The woman looked immortal. How they told. 

Those alabaster shoulders and bare breasts, 

On which the pearls, drowned out of sight in milk. 

Were lost, excepting for the ruby clasp. 

They split the amaranth velvet bodice down 

To the waist, or nearly, with the audacious press 

Of full-breathed beauty. If the heart within 

Were half as white !— but, if it were, perhaps 

The breast were closer covered, and the sight 

Less aspectable by half, too. 

I heard 



146 Aurora Leigh. 



The young man with the German student's look — 
A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft stick. 
Which shot up straight against the parting line 
So equally dividing the long hair — 
Say softly to his neighbor (thirty-five 
And mediceval), " Look that way. Sir Blaise, 
She's Lady Waldemar, — to the left — in red, — 
Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest man just now, 
Is soon about to marry." 

Then replied 
Sir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priest-like voice, 
Too used to syllable damnations round 
To make a natural emphasis worth while, 
" Is Leigh your ablest man? — the same, I think, 
Once jilted by a recreant pretty maid 
Adopted from the people? Now, in change. 
He seems to have plucked a flower from the other side 
Of the social hedge." 

" A flower, a flower ! " exclaimed 
My German student, his own eyes full blown 
Bent upon her. He was twenty, certainly. 

Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arrogance, 

As if he had dropped his alms into a hat 

And gained the right to counsel, " My young friend, 

I doubt your ablest man's ability 

To get the least good or help meet for him, 

For Pagan phalanstery or Christian home, 

From such a flowery creature." 

" Beautiful ! " 
My student murmured, rapt. " Mark how she stirs ! 
Just waves her head, as if a flower indeed. 
Touched far off by the vain breath of our talk." 

At which that bilious Grimwald (he who writes 

For the Renovator), who had seemed absorbed 

Upon the table-book of autographs, 

I dare say mentally he crunched the bones 

Of all those writers, wishing them alive 

To feel his tooth in earnest), turned short round 

With low, carnivorous laugh, — " A flower, of course ! 

She neither sews nor spins, and takes no thought 

Of her garments . . . falling off." 



Aurora Leigh. 147 



The student Hi ached ; 
Sir Blaise the same ; then both, drawing back their chairs 
As if they spied black-beetles on the floor, 
Pursued their talk without a word being thrown 
To the critic. 

Good Sir Blaise's brow is high, 
And noticeably narrow ; a strong wind, 
You fancy, might unroof him suddenly. 
And blow that great top attic off his head • 

So piled with feudal relics. You admire 
His nose in profile, though you miss his chin ; 
But, though you miss his chin, you seldom miss 
His ebon cross worn innermostly, (carved 
For penance by a saintly Styrian monk 
Whose flesh was too much with him,) slipping through 
Some unaware unbuttoned casualty 
Of the under waistcoat. With an absent air 
Sir Blaise sate fingering it, and speaking low, 
While I upon the sofa heard it all. 

" My dear young friend, if we could bear our eyes. 

Like blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate. 

They would not trick us into choosing wives, 

As doublets, by the color. Otherwise 

Our fathers chose ; and therefore, when they had hung 

Their household keys about a lady's waist. 

The sense of duty gave her dignity : 

She kept her bosom holy to her babes. 

And, if a morahst reproved her dress, 

'Twas, " Too much starch ! " and not, " Too little lawn ! 

" Now, pshaw ! " returned the other in a heat, 

A little fretted by being called " Young friend," 

Or so I took it,—" for St. Lucy's sake. 

If she's the saint to swear by, let us leave 

Our fathers,— plagued enough about our sons ! " 

(He stroked his beardless chin) " yes, plagued, sir, plagued 

The future generations lie on us 

As heavy as the nightmare of a seer ; 

Our meat and drink grow painful prophecy. 

I ask you. have we leisure, if we liked, 

To hollow out our weary hands to keep 

Your intermittent rushlight of the past 

From draughts in lobbies ? Prejudice of sex 



48 Aurora Leigh. 



And marriage-law . . . the socket drops them through 
While we two speak, however may protest 
Some over-delicate nostrils like your own, 
'Gainst odors thence arising." 

" You are young," 
Sir Blaise objected, 

" If I am," he said 
With fire, " though somewhat less so than I seem, 
The young run on before, and see the thing 
That's coming, ' Reverence for the young ! ' I cry. 
In that new church for which the world's near ripe, 
You'll have the younger in the elder's chair, 
Presiding with his ivory front of hope 
O'er foreheads clawed by cruel carrion birds 
Of life's experience," 

"Pray your blessing, sir," 
Sir Blaise replied good-humoredly. 

" I plucked 
A silver hair this morning from my beard. 
Which left me your inferior. Would I were 
Eighteen, and worthy to admonish you ! 
If young men of your order run before 
To see such sights as sexual prejudice 
And marriage-law dissolved, — in plainer words, 
A general concubinage expressed 
In a universal pruriency, — the thing 
Is scarce worth running fast for, and you'd gain 
By loitering with your elders." 

" Ah ! " he said, 
'• Who, getting to the top of Pisgah-hill, 
Can talk with one at bottom of the view, 
To make it comprehensible } Why, Leigh 
Himself, although our ablest man, I said. 
Is scarce advanced to see as far as this ; 
W^hich some are. He takes up imperfectly 
The social question, — by one handle, — leaves 
The rest to trail. A Christian socialist 
Is Romney Leigh, you understand." 



I disbelieve in Christian-Pagans, much 
As you in women-fishes. If we mix 
Two colors, we lose both, and make a third, 
Distinct from either. Mark you ! to mistake 
A color is the sign of a sick brain, 



Not I. 



Aurora Leigh. i49 



And mine, I thank the saints, is clear and cool : 

A neutral tint is here impossible. 

The church— and by the church, I mean, of course, 

The catholic, apostolic, mother-church— 

Draws lines as plain and straight as her own wall. 

Inside of which are Christians, obviously. 

And outside . . . dogs." 

"We thank you. Well I know 

The ancient mother-church would fain still bite, 

For all her toothless gums, as Leigh himself 

Would fain be a Christian still, for all his wit. 

Pass that : vou two may settle it for me. 

You're slow in England. In a month I learnt 

At Gdttingen enough philosophy 

To stock your English schools for fifty years ; 

Pass that too. Here alone, I stop you short. 

—Supposing a true man like Leigh could stand 

Unequal in the stature of his life 

To the height of his opinions. , Choose a wite 

Because of a smooth skin ? Not he, not he ! 

He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking shoes. 

Unless she walked his way of righteousness ; 

And if he takes a Venus Meretrix 

( No imputation on the lady there ) 

Be sure, that, by some sleight of Christian art, 

He has metamorphosed and converted her 

To a Blessed Virgin." . , , . , u ^u 

" Soft ! " Sir Blaise drew breath 

As if it hurt him.—" Soft ! no blasphemy, 

1 pray you . ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ Chiistians did the thing : 

Why not the last ? " asked he of Gottingen. 

With just that shade of sneering on the lip, 

Compensates for the lagging of the beard,— 

" And so the case is. If that fairest fair 

Is talked of as the future wife of Leigh, 

She's talked of too, at least as certainly, 

As Leigh's disciple. You may find her name 

On all his missions and commissions, schools, 

Asylums, hospitals : he had her down. 

With other ladies whom her starry lead 

Persuaded from their spheres, to his country-place 

In Shropshire, to the famed phalanstery 

At Leigh Hall, christianized from Fourier's own, 



50 Aurora Leigh. 



( In which he has planted out his sapling stocks 

Of knowledge into social nurseries ) 

And there they say she has tarried half a week. 

And milked the co'ws, and churned, and pressed the curd, 

And said ' My sister ' to the lowest drab 

Of all the assembled castaways : such girls ! 

Ay, sided with them at the washing-tub — 

Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked perfect arms. 

Round glittering arms, plunged elbow-deep in suds. 

Like wild swans hid in lilies all a- shake." 

Lord Howe came up. " What, talking poetry 

So near the image of the unfavoring Muse ? 

That's you, Miss Leigh : I've watched you half an hour. 

Precisely as I watched the statue called 

A Pallas in the Vatican. — You mind 

The face. Sir Blaise ? — intensely calm and sad. 

As wisdom cut it off from fellowship. 

But that spoke louder, — Not a word from you ! 

And these two gentlemen were bold, I marked, 

And unabashed bv even your silence." 

"Ah," 
Said I, " my dear Lord Howe, you shall not speak 
To a printing woman who has lost her place 
( The sweet safe corner of the household fire 
Behind the heads of children ) compliments, 
As if she were a woman. We who have dipt 
The curls before our eyes may see at least 
As plain as men do. Speak out, man to man. 
No compliments, beseech you." 

" Friend to friend, 
Let that be. We are sad to-night, I saw, 
(—Good-night, Sir Blaise ! ah. Smith— he has slipped away) 
I saw you across the room, and staid, Miss Leigh, 
To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off. 
With faces toward your jungle. There were three : 
A spacious lady, five feet ten, and fat, 
Who has the devil in her (and there's room) 
For walking to and fro upon the earth, 
From Chippewa to China ; she requires 
Your autograph upon a tinted leaf 
'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor Soulouque's. 
Pray give it ! she has energies, though fat : 
For me I'd rather see a rick on fire 



Aurora Leigh. 151 



Than such a woman angry. Then a youth 

Fresh from the backwoods, green as the underboughs, 

Asks modestly, Miss Leigh, to kiss your shoe, 

And adds he has an epic in twelve parts. 

Which when you've read, you'll do it for his boot : 

All which I saved you, and absorb next week 

Both manuscript and man, — because a lord 

Is still more potent than a poetess 

With any extreme Republican. Ah, ah, 

You smile at last, then." 

" Thank you." 

" Leave the smile. 
I'll lose the thanks for't, ay, and throw you in 
My transatlantic girl, with golden eyes. 
That draw you to her splendid whiteness as 
The pistil of a water-lily draws, 
Adust with gold. Those girls across the sea 
Are tyrannously pretty, and I swore 
( She seemed to me an innocent frank girl) 
To bring her to you for a woman's kiss ; 
Not now, but on some other day or week : 
— We'll call it perjury ; I give her up." 

" No, bring her." 

" Now," said he, " you make it hard 
To touch such goodness with a grimy palm. 
I thought to tease you well, and fret you cross. 
And steel myself, when rightly vexed with you, 
For telling you a thing to tease you more." 

" Of Romney ? " 

" No, no : nothing worse," he cried, 
" Of Romney Leigh than what is buzzed about, — 
That he is taken in an eye-trap too. 
Like many half as wise. The thing I mean 
Refers to you, not him." 

" Refers to me." 

He echoed, — " * Me ' ! You sound it like a stone 

Dropped down a dry well very listlessly 

By one who never thinks about the toad 

Alive at the bottom. Presently perhaps 

You'll sound your 'me ' more proudly— till I shrink." 

" Lord Howe's the toad, then, in this question } " 



152 Aurora Leigh. 



" Brief, 
We'll take it graver. Give me sofa-room, 
And quiet hearing. You know Eglinton, — 
John Eglinton of Eglinton in Kent ? " 

" Is he the toad ? He's rather like the snail, 
Known chiefly for the house upon his back : 
Divide the man and house, you kill the man : 
That's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord Howe." 

He answered grave : " A reputable man, 

An excellent landlord of the olden stamp 

If somewhat slack in new philanthropies. 

Who keeps his birthdays with a tenants' dance, 

Is hard upon them when they miss the church 

Or hold their children back from catechism. 

But not ungentle when the aged poor 

Pick sticks at hedgesides : nay, I've heard him say, 

' The old dame has a twinge because she stoops : 

That's punishment enough for felony.' " 

" O tender-hearted landlord I may I take 

My long lease with him, when the time arrives 

For gathering winter-fagots I " 

" He likes art ; 
Buys books and pictures ... of a certain kind ; 
Neglects no patent duty ; a good son "... 

" To a most obedient mother. Born to wear 
His father's shoes, he wears her husband's too : 
Indeed I've heard it's touching. Dear Lord Howe, 
You shall not praise me so against your heart 
When I'm at worst for praise and fagots." 

"Be 
Less bitter with me ; for ... in short," he said, 
" I have a letter, which he urged me so 
To bring you ... I could scarcely choose but 

yield ; 
Insisting that a new lov'e, passing through 
The hand of an old friendship, caught from it 
Some reconciling odor." 

" Love, you say .'' 
My lord, I cannot love : I only find 
The rhvme for lov^e : and that's not love, my lord. 



Aurora Lcii^h. 153 



Take back your letter." 

" Pause. You'll read it first ? " 

" I will not read it ; it is stereotyped. 
The same he wrote to, — anybody's name, 
Anne Blythe the actress, when she died so true 
A duchess fainted in a private box ; 
Pauline the dancer, after the great /^?^ 
In which her little feet winked overhead 
Like other fireflies, and amazed the pit ; 
Or Baldinacci, when her F in alt 
Had touched the silver tops of heaven itself 
With such a pungent spirit-dart, the (2ueen 
Laid softl3% each to each, her white gloved palms, 
And sighed for joy ; or else (I thank your friend) 
Aurora Leigh, when some indifferent rhymes, 
Like those the boys sang round the holy ox 
On Memphis-highway, chance perhaps to set 
Our Apis-public lowing. Oh, he wants. 
Instead of any worthy wife at home, 
A star upon his stage of Egiinton } 
Advise him that he is not over-shrewd 
In being so little modest : a dropped star 
Makes bitter waters, says a Book I've read, — 
And there's his unread letter." 

" My dear friend," 
Lord Howe began . . . 

In haste I tore the phrase. 
•' You mean your friend of Egiinton, or me ? " 

" I mean you, you ! " he answered with some fire. 

" A happy life means prudent compromise ; 

The tare runs through the farmer's garnered sheaves. 

And, though the gleaner's apron holds pure wheat 

We count her poorer. Tare with wheat, we cry. 

And good with drawbacks. You, you love your art. 

And, certain of vocation, set your soul 

On utterance. Only, in this world we have made, 

( They say God made it first, but if he did 

'Twas so long since, and, since, we have spoiled it so, 

He scarce would know it, if he looked this way. 

From hells we preach of, with the llames blown out,) 

— In this bad, twisted, topsyturvy world. 

Where all the heaviest wrongs get uppermost, — 



154 Aurora Leigh. 



In this uneven, unfostering England here, 

Where ledger-strokes and sword-strokes count indeed, 

But soul-strokes merely tell upon the flesh 

They strike from, — it is hard to stand for art, 

Unless some golden tripod from the sea 

Be fished up, by Apollo's divine chance, 

To throne such feet as yours, my prophetess, 

At Delphi. Think, — the god comes down as fierce 

As twenty bloodhounds, shakes you, strangles you. 

Until the oracular shriek shall ooze in froth I 

At best 'tis not all ease ; at worst too hard. 

A place to stand on is a 'vantage gained, 

And here's your tripod. To be plain, dear friend, 

You're poor, except in what you richly give ; 

You labor for your own bread painfully. 

Or ere you pour our wine. For art's sake, pause." 

I answered slow, — as some wayfaring man, 

Who feels himself at night too far from home, 

Makes steadfast face against the bitter wind, — 

" Is art so less a thing than virtue is. 

That artists first must cater for their ease. 

Or ever they make issue past themselves 

To generous use ? Alas ! and is it so. 

That we who would be somewhat clean must sweep 

Our ways, as well as walk them, and no friend 

Confirm us nobly, — ' Leave results to God, 

But you, be clean ! ' What ! ' prudent compromise 

Makes acceptable life,' you say instead, — 

You, you, Lord Howe } — in things indifferent, well. 

For instance, compromise the wheaten bread 

For rye, the meat for lentils, silk for serge, 

And sleep on down, if needs, for sleep on straw ; 

But there end compromise. I will not bate 

One artist-dream on straw or down, my lord, 

Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I be poor, 

Nor cease to love high, though I live-thus low." 

So speaking, with less anger in my voice 

Than sorrow, I rose quickly to depart ; 

While he, thrown back upon the noble shame 

Of such high stumbling natures, murmured words, — 

The right words after wrong ones. Ah, the man 

Is worthy, but so given to entertain 



Aurora Leigh. 155 



Impossible plans of superhuman life. 

He sets his virtues on so raised a shelf, 

To keep them at the grand millennial height, 

He has to mount a stool to get at them, 

And meantime lives on quite the common way. 

With everybody's morals. 

As we passed, 
Lord Howe insisting that his friendly arm 
Should oar me across the sparkling, brawling stream 
Which swept from room to room, we fell at once 
On Lady Waldemar. " Miss Leigh," she said. 
And gave me such a smile,— so cold and bright, 
As if she tried it in a 'tiring glass 
And liked it, — " all to-night I've strained at you 
As babes at bawbles held up out of reach 
By spiteful nurses, (' Never snatch,' they say,) 
And there you sate, most perfectly shut in 
By good Sir Blaise and clever Mister Smith, 
And then our dear Lord Howe ! At last indeed 
I almost snatched. I have a world to speak 
About your cousin's place in Shropshire where 
Lve been to see his work ... our work,— you heard 
I went } . . . and of a letter yesterday. 
In which if I should read a page or two 
You might feel interest, though you're locked of course 
In Hterary toil.— You'll like to hear 
Your last book lies at the phalanstery. 
As judged innocuous for the elder girls 
And younger women w4io still care for books. 
We all must read, you see, before we live, 
Till slowly the ineffable light comes up 
And as it deepens drowns the written w'ord : 
So said your cousin, while we stood and felt 
A sunset from his favorite beech-tree seat. 
He might have been a poet if he w^ould ; 
But then he saw the higher thing at once 
And climbed to it. I think he looks well now, 
Has quite got over that unfortunate . . . 
Ah, ah ... I know^ it moved you. Tender-heart ! 
You took a liking to the wretched girl. 
Perhaps you thought the marriage suitable, 
Who knows ? A poet hankers for romance, 
And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 'tis sure 
He never loved her,— never. By the way, 



56 Aurora Leigh, 



You have not heard of her . . . ? Quite out of sight, 
And out of saving? Lost in every sense? " 

She might have gone on talking half an hour 

And I stood still, and cold, and pale, I think, 

As a garden-statue a child pelts with snow 

For pretty pastime. Every now and then 

I put in " yes " or " no," I scarce knew why: 

The blind man walks wherever the dog pulls, 

And so I answered. Till Lord Howe broke in : 

" What penance takes the wretch who interrupts 

The talk of charming women ? I at last 

Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Waldemar ! 

The lady on my arm is tired, unwell. 

And loyally I've promised she shall say 

No harder word this evening than . . . good-night : 

The rest her face speaks for her." — Then we went. 

And I breathe large at home. I drop my cloak. 
Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that ties 
My hair . . . now could I but unloose my soul ! 
We are sepulchred alive in this close world, 
And want more room. 

The charming woman there — 
This reckoning up and writing down her talk 
Affects me singularly. How she talked 
To pain me ! woman's spite. You wear Steel mail ; 
A woman takes a housewife from her breast, 
And plucks the delicatest needle out 
As 'twere a rose, and pricks you carefully 
'Neath nails, 'neath eyelids, in your nostrils, say: 
A beast would roar so tortured ; but a man, 
A human creature, must not, shall not, flinch. 
No, not for shame. 

What vexes, after all, 
Is just that such as she, with such as I, 
Knows how to vex. Sweet Heaven ! she takes me up 
As if she had fingered me, and dogeared me, 
And spelled me by the fireside half a life. 
She knows my turns, my feeble points. What then ? 
The knowledge of a thing implies the thing: 
Of course, she found that in me, she saw that. 
Her pencil underscored this for a fault. 
And I, still ignorant. Shut the book up— cloge I ^-. 



Aurora Leigh. 157 



And crush that beetle in the leaves. 

O heart 
At last we shall grow hard too, like the rest, 
And call it self-defence because we are soft. 

And after all, now . . . why should I be pained 

That Romney Leigh, my cousin, should espouse 

This Lady Waldemar ? And, say she held 

Her newly blossomed gladness in my face, . .' . 

'Twas natural surely, if not generous. 

Considering how, when winter held her fast, 

I helped the frost with mine, and pained her more 

Than she pains me. Pains me ! — But wherefore pained } 

'Tis clear my cousin Romney wants a wife. 

So, good ! The man's need of the woman, here, 

Is greater than the woman's of the man. 

And easier served ; for where the man discerns 

A sex (ah, ah, the man can generalize. 

Said he), we see but one ideally 

And really : where we yearn to lose ourselves, 

And melt like white pearls, in another's wine. 

He seeks to double himself by what he loves. 

And makes his drink more costly by our pearls. 

At board, at bed, at work and holiday. 

It is not good for man to be alone ; 

And that's his way of thinking, first and last. 

And thus my cousin Romney wants a wife. 

But then my cousin sets his dignity 

On personal virtue. If he understands 

By love, like others, self-aggrandizement, 

It is that he may verily be great 

By doing rightly and kindly. Once he thought. 

For charitable ends set duly forth 

In heaven's white judgment-book, to marry . . . ah, 

We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, although 

She's changed since then I — and once, for social ends 

Poor Marian Erie, my sister Marian Erie, 

My woodland sister, sweet maid Marian, 

Whose memory moans on in me like the wind 

Through ill-shut casements, making me more sad 

Than ever I find reasons for. Alas, 

Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied ghost ! 

He finds it easy, then, to clap thee off 



158 Aurora Leigh. 



From pulling at his sleeve and book and pen, 
He locks thee out at night into the cold, 
Away from butting with thy horny eyes 
Against his crystal dreams, that now he's strong 
To love anew ? that Lady Waldemar 
Succeeds my Marian ? 

After all, why not? 
He loved not Marian more than once he loved 
Aurora. If he loves at last that third. 
Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt oil 
On marble floors, I will not augur him 
111 luck for that. Good love, howe'er ill placed. 
Is better for a man's soul in the end 
Than if he loved ill what deserves love well. 
A Pagan kissing for a step of Pan 
The wild-goat's hoof-print on the loamy down. 
Exceeds our modern thinker who turns back 
The strata . . . granite, limestone, coal, and clay, 
Concluding coldly with, " Here's law ! where's God.'* " 

And then at worse,— if Romney loves her not, — 

At worst, — if he's incapable of love, 

( Which may be ), — then, indeed, for such a man 

Incapable of love, she's good enough ; 

For she, at worst too, is a woman still, 

And loves him ... as the sort of woman can. 

My loose long hair began to burn and creep, 

Alive to the very ends, about my knees : 

1 swept it backward, as the wind sweeps flame. 

With the passion of my hands. Ah, Romney laughed 

One day . . . (how full the memories come up ! ) 

— " Your Florence fireflies live on in your hair," 

He said, "it gleams so." Well, I wrung them out, 

My fireflies ; made a knot as hard as life 

Of those loose, soft, impracticable curls. 

And then sat down and thought ..." She shall not think 

Her thought of me," — and drew my desk, and wrote. 

" Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not speak 
With people round me, nor can sleep to-night, 
And not speak, after the great news I heard 
Of you and of my cousin. May you be 
Most happy, and' the good he meant the world 



Aurora Leigh. ^59 



Replenish his own life 1 Say what I say. 
And let my word be sweeter for your mouth. 
As you 2xlyoic ... 1 only Aurora Leigh. 

That's quiet, guarded : though she hold it up 

Aea nst\he li|ht, she'll not see through it more 

Than lies there to be seen. So much for pride ; 

And now for peace a little. Let me stop , . . i 

in .a-kh.g bad. ..." Sweet thanks, my sweetest fnend, 

You've made more joyful my great joy itself 

-No that's too simple : she would twist it thus, 

.. My 'joy would still be as sweet as thyme in drawers. 

However shut up in the dark and dry ; 

But violets aired and dewed by love like yours 

Outsmell all thyme : we keep that in our clothes. 

But drop the other down our bosoms till 

?hey smell like" ... Ah ! I see her writing back 

Tust so She'll make a nosegay of her word:,, 

And tie it with blue ribbons at the end, 

To suit a poet. Pshaw! And then we'll have 

The call to church ; the broken, sad, bad dream 
Dreamed out at last ; the marriage-vow complete 
With Jhe marriage-breakfast : praying in white gloves. 
Drawn off in haste for drinking pagan toasts 
In somewhat stronger wine than any sipped 
By gods since Bacchus had his way with grapes. 

A postscript stops all that and rescues me. 
'^You need not write. 1 have been overwoiked, 
And think of leaving London, England even. 
And hastening to get nearer to the sun,^ 
Where men sleep better. So, adieu ! I fold 
And seal ; and now I'm out of all the coil. 
I breathe now. I spring upward like a branch 
The ten-years' schoolboy with a crooked sticK 
May pull down to his level in search of nuts. 
But cannot hold a moment. How we twang 
Back on the blue sky. and assert our height. 
While Se stares after ! Now. the wonder seems 
That I could wrong myself by such a doubt. 
We poets always have uneasy hearts. 
Because our hearts, large-rounded as the globe. 
Can turn but one side to the sun at once. 



i6o Aurora Lei^h. 



We are used to dip our artist hands in gall 

And potash, trying potentiahties 

Of alternated color, till at last 

We get confused, and wonder for our skin 

How nature tinged it first. Well, here's the true 

Good flesh-color : I recognize my hand, 

Which Romney Leigh may clasp as just a friend's, 

And keep his clean. 

And now, my Italy. 
Alas ! if we could ride with naked souls. 
And make no noise, and pay no price at all, 
I would have seen thee sooner, Italy ; 
For still I have heard thee crying through my life, 
Thou piercing silence of ecstatic graves, 
Men call that name. 

But even a witch to-day 
Must melt down golden pieces in the nard, 
Wherewith to anoint her broomsti-jk ere she rides ; 
And poets evermore are scant of gold, 
And if they find a piece behind the door. 
It turns by sunset to a withered leaf. 
The Devil himself scarce trusts his patented 
Gold-making art to any who make rhymes, 
But culls his Faustus from philosophers. 
And not from poets. " Leave my Job," said God ; 
And so the Devil leaves him without pence, 
And poverty proves plainly special grace. 
In these new, just, administrative times 
Men clamor for an order of merit : why ? 
Here's black bread on the table, and no wine ! 

At least I am a poet in being poor. 

Thank God ! I wonder if the manuscript 

Of my long poem, if 'twere sold outright. 

Would fetch enough to buy me shoes to go 

Afoot (thrown in, the necessary patch 

For the other side the Alps) ? It cannot be. 

I fear that I must sell this residue 

Of my father's books, although the Elzevirs 

Have fly-leaves over-written by his hand 

In faded notes as thick and fine and brown 

As cobwebs on a tawny monument 

Of the old Greeks — conferenda hcEC cum his — 



An for a Lei^h. i6i 



Corrupt e citat — lege pot i its. 

And so on, in tlie scholar's regal way 

Of giving judgment on the parts of speech, 

As if he sate on all twelve thrones uppiled. 

Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and notes 

Must go together. And this Proclus too. 

In these dear quaint contracted Grecian types, 

Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughts. 

Which would not seem too plain ; you go round twice 

For one step forward, then you take it back. 

Because you're somewhat giddy ; there's the rule 

For Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle leaf 

With pressing in't my Florence iris-bell. 

Long stalk and all. My father chided me 

For that stain of blue blood. I recollect 

The peevish turn his voice took, — " Silly girls ! 

Who plant their flowers in our philosophy 

To make it fine, and only spoil the book. 

No more of it, Aurora." Yes — no more. 

Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than all praise 

Of those who love not ! 'Tis so lost to me, 

I cannot, in such beggared life, afford 

To lose my Proclus— not for Florence even. 

The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go instead. 
Who builds us such a royal book as this 
To honor a chief poet, folio-built, 
And writes above, " The house of Nobody I " 
Who floats in cream as rich as any sucked 
From Juno's breasts, the broad Homeric lines, 
And while with their spondaic prodigious mouths 
They lap the lucent margins as babe-gods, 
Proclaims them bastard. Wolff's an atheist ; 
And if the Iliad fell out, as he says. 
By mere fortuitous concourse of old songs, 
Conclude as much, too, for the universe. 

That Wolff, those Platos : sweep the upper shelves 
As clean as this, and so I am almost rich. 
Which means, not forced to think of being poor 
In sight of ends. To-morrow : no delay. 
I'll wait in Paris till good Carrington 
Dispose of such, and, having chaffered for 
My book's price with the publisher, direct 



1 62 Aurora Leigh. 

All proceeds to me. Just a line to ask 
His help. 

And now I come, my Italy, 
My own hills ! Are you 'ware of me, my hills, — 
How I burn toward you ? do you feel to-night 
The urgency and yearning of my soul, 
As sleeping mothers feel the sucking babe, 
And smile ? Nay, not so much as when in heat 
Vain lightnings catch at your inviolate tops 
And tremble, while ye are steadfast. Still ye go 
Your own determined, calm, indifferent way 
Toward sunrise, shade by shade, and light by light, 
Of all the grand procession naught left out. 
As if God verily made you for yourselves. 
And would not interrupt your life with ours. 



SIXTH BOOK. 



The English have a scornful insular way 

Of calling the French light. The levity 

Is in the judgment only, which yet stands ; 

For, say a foolish thing but oft enough 

( And here's the secret of a hundred creeds, 

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell. 

By re-iteration chiefly), the same thing 

Shall pass at last for absolutely wise. 

And not with fools exclusively. And so 

We say the French are light, as if we said 

The cat mews, or the milch-cow gives us milk : 

Say, rather, cats are milked, and milch-cows mew ; 

For what is lightness but inconsequence. 

Vague fluctuations 'twixt effect and cause. 

Compelled by neither? Is a bullet light. 

That dashes from the gun-mouth, while the eye 

Winks and the heart beats one, to flatten itself 

To a wafer on the white speck on the wall 

A hundred paces off? Even so direct. 

So sternly undivertible of aim, 

Is this French people. 

All idealists 



Aurora Leigh. 163 



Too absolute and earnest, with them all 

The idea of a knife cuts real flesh ; 

And still, devouring the safe interval 

Which nature placed between the thought and act. 

With those too fiery and impatient souls. 

They threaten conHagration to the world. 

And rush with most unscrupulous logic on 

Impossible practice. Set your orators 

To blow upon them with loud windy mouths 

Through watchword phrases, jest or sentiment, 

Which drive our burly brutal English mobs, 

Like so much chaff whichever way they blow, — 

This light French people will not thus be driven. 

They turn indeed ; but then they turn upon 

Some central pivot of their thought and choice, 

And veer out by the force of holding fast. 

That's hard to understand, for Englishmen 

Unused to abstract questions, and untrained 

To trace the involutions, valve by valve, 

In each orbed bulb-root of a general truth, 

And mark what subtly fine integument 

Divides opposed compartments. Freedom's self 

Comes concrete to us, to be understood, 

Fixed in a feudal form incarnately 

To suit our ways of thought and reverence ; 

The special form, with us, being still the thing. 

With us, I say, though I'm of Italy 

By mother's birth and grave, by father's grave 

And memory, let it be, — a poet's heart, 

Can swell to a pair of nationalities. 

However ill lodged in a woman's breast. 

And so I am strong to love this noble France, 

This poet of the nations, who dreams on 

And wails on (while the household goes to wreck) 

Forever, after some ideal good. 

Some equal poise of sex, some unvowed love 

Inviolate, some spontaneous brotherhood. 

Some wealth that leaves none poor and finds none tired. 

Some freedom of the many that respects 

The wisdom of the few. Heroic dreams ! 

Sublime to dream so ; natural to wake ; 

And sad to use such lofty scaffoldings, 

Erected for the building of a church. 



164 Aurora Leigh. 



To build, instead, a brothel or a prison. 
May God save France ! 

And if at last she sighs 
Her great soul up into a great man's face, 
To flush his temples out so gloriously 
That few dare carp at Caesar for being bald. 
What then? This Caesar represents, not reigns. 
And is no despot, though twice absolute : 
This head has all the people for a heart ; 
This purple's lined with the democracy, — 
Now let him see to it ! for a rent within 
Would leave irreparable rags without. 

A serious riddle : find such anywhere 

Except in France, and, when 'tis found in France, 

Be sure to read it rightly. So, I mused 







Fair fantastic Paris. 



Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets. 

The glittering boulevards, the white colonnades. 

Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees 

Like plumes, as if man made them, spire and tower 

As if they had grown by nature, tossing up 

Her fountains in the sunshine of the squares, 



Aurora Lfidi. 165 



As if in beauty's game she tossed the dice, 
Or blew the silver down-balls of her dreams 
To sow futurity with seeds of thought. 
And count the passage of her festive hours. 

The city swims in verdure, beautiful 

As Venice on the waters,— the sea-swan. 

What boskv gardens dropped in close-walled courts, 

Like plums' in ladies' laps who start and laugh ! 

What miles of streets that run on after trees. 

Still carrying all the necessary shops. 

Those open caskets with the jewels seen ! 

And trade is art, and art's philosophy. 

In Paris. There's a silk, for instance, there. 

As worth an artist's study for the folds. 

As that bronze opposite ! nay, the bronze has faults ; 

Art's here too artful,— conscious as a maid 

Who leans to mark her shadow on the wall 

Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. 

Yet art walks forward, and knows where to walk : 

The art'sts also are idealists. 

Too absolute for nature, logical 

To austerity in the application of 

The special theory ; not a soul content 

To paint a crooked pollard and an ass, 

As the English will, because they find it so, 

And like it somehow.— There the old Tuilenes 

Is pulling its high cap down on its eyes, 

Confounded, conscience-stricken, and amazed 

By the apparition of a new fair face 

In those devouring mirrors. Through the grate 

Within the gardens, what a heap of babes, 

Swept up like leaves beneath the chestnut-trees 

From every street and alley of the town, 

By ghosts, perhaps, that blow too bleak this way 

A-looking for their heads ! dear pretty babes, 

I wish them luck to have their ball-play out 

Before the next change. Here the air is thronged 

With statues poised upon their columns fine, 

As if to stand a moment were a feat. 

Against that blue ! What squares ! what breathing roon) 

For a nation that runs fast, ay, runs against 

The dentist's teeth at the corner in pale rows. 

Which grin at progress, in an epigram ! 



1 66 Aurora Leis:h. 



I walked the day out, listening to the chink 

Of the first Napoleon's bones in his second grave, 

By victories guarded 'neath the golden dome 

That caps all Paris like a bubble. " Shall 

These dry bones live," thought Louis Philippe once, 

And lived to know. Herein is argument 

For kings and politicians, but still more 

For poets, who bear buckets to the well 

Of ampler draught. 

These crowds are very good 
For meditation (when we are very strong.) 
Though love of beauty makes us timorous, 
And draws us backward from the coarse town-sights 
To count the daisies upon dappled fields, 
And hear the streams bleat on among the hills 
In innocent and indolent repose ; 
While still with silken elegiac thoughts 
We wind out from us the distracting world, 
And die into the chrysalis of a man, 
And leave the best that may, to come of us, 
In some brown moth. I would be bold, and bear, 
To look into the swarthiest face of things, 
For God's sake who has made them. 

Six days' work ; 
The last day shutting 'twixt its dawn and eve 
The whole work bettered of the previous five ! 
Since God collected and resumed in man 
The firmaments, the strata, and the lights. 
Fish, fowl, and beast, and insect, — all their trains 
Of various life caught back upon his arm. 
Re-organized, and constituted man, 
The microcosm, the adding-up of works ; 
Within whose fluttering nostrils, then, at last 
Consummating himself the Maker sighed. 
As some strong winner at the foot-race sighs 
Touching the goal. 

Humanity is great ; 
And if I w^ould not rather pore upon 
An ounce of common, ugl}^ human dust. 
An artisan's palm or a peasant's brow, 
Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 
Than track old Nilus to his silver roots. 
Or wait on all the changes of the moon 
Among the mountain-peaks of Thessaly 



Aurora Leigh. 167 



( Until her magic crystal round itself 

For many a witch to see in )— set it down 

As weakness, strength by no means. How is this, 

That men of science, osteologists 

And surgeons, beat some poets in respect 

For nature ? — count naught common or unclean, 

Spend raptures upon perfect specimens 

Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 

Or beautiful new cases of curved spine. 

While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off. 

We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains. 

We will not, when she sneezes, look at her. 

Not even to say, " God bless her ! " That's our wrong 

For that, she will not trust us often with 

Her larger sense of beauty and desire, 

But tethers us to a lily or a rose. 

And bids us diet on the dew inside, 

Left ignorant that the hungry beggar-boy 

( Who stares unseen against our absent eyes. 

And w^onders at the gods that we must be. 

To pass so careless for the oranges ! ) 

Bears yet a breastful of a fellow-world 

To this world, undisparaged, undespoiled. 

And (while we scorn him for a flower or two, 

As being. Heaven help us, less poetical) 

Contains himself both flowers and firmaments 

And surging seas and aspectable stars 

And all that we would push him out of sight 

In order to see nearer. Let us pray 

God's grace to keep God's image in repute. 

That so the poet and philanthropist 

( Even I and Romney ) may stand side by side, 

Because we both stand face to face with men. 

Contemplating the people in the rough, 

Yet each so follow a vocation, his 

And mine. 

I walked on, musing with myself 
On life and art, and whether after all 
A larger metaphysics might not help 
Our physics, a completer poetry 
Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants 
More fully than the special outside plans. 
Phalansteries, material institutes, 
The civil conscriptions, and lay monasteries 



1 68 Aurora Leizh. 



Preferred by modern thinkers, as they thought 

The bread of man indeed made all his life, 

And washing- seven times in the " People's Baths " 

Were sovereign for a people's leprosy, 

Still leaving out the essential prophet's word 

That comes in power. On which we thunder down, 

We prophets, poets, — Virtue's in \.\\^word ! 

The maker burnt the darkness up with his, 

To inaugurate the use of vocal life ; 

And plant a poet's word even deep enough 

In any man's breast, looking presently 

For ofifshoots, you have done more for the man 

Than if you dressed him in a broad-cloth coat. 

And warmed his Sunday pottage at your fire. 

Yet Romney leaves me . . 

God ! what face is that ? 

Romney, O Marian ! 

W^alking on the quays. 
And pulling thoughts to pieces leisurely. 
As if I caught at grasses in a field, 
And bit them slow between my absent lips, 
And shred them with my hands ... 

What face is that } 
What a face, what a look, what a likeness ! Full on mine 
The sudden blow of it came down, till all 
My blood swam, my eyes dazzled, then I sprang . . . 

It was as if a meditative man 

Were dreaming out a summer afternoon. 

And watching gnats a-prick upon a pond. 

When something floats up suddenly, out there. 

Turns over ... a dead face, known once alive . . . 

So old, so new ! it would be dreadful now 

To lose the sight, and keep the doubt of this : 

He plunges— ha! he has lost it in the splash. 

1 plunged — I tore the crowd up, either side, 
And rushed on, forward, forward, after her. 
Her ? whom ? 

A woman sauntered slow in front. 
Munching an apple ; she left off amazed 
As if I had snatched it : that's not she, at least. 
A man walked arm-linked with a lady veiled. 



Aurora Leigh. 169 



Both heads dropped closer than the need of talk 
They started : he forgot her with his face, 
And she, herself, and clung to him as if 
My look were fatal. Such a stream of folk, 
And all with cares and business of their own ! 
I ran the whole quay down against their eyes- 
No Marian ; nowhere Marian. Almost, now% 
I could call " Marian, Marian ! " with the shriek 
Of desperate creatures calling for the dead. 
Where is she, was she } was she anywhere } 
I stood still, breathless, gazing, straining out 
In every uncertain distance, till at last 
A gentleman abstracted as myself 
Came full against me, then resolved the clash 
In voluble excuses,— obviously 
Some learned member of the Institute 
Upon his way there, walking, for his health, 
While meditating on the last " Discourse ; " 
Pinching the empty air 'twixt finger and thumb. 
From which the snuff being ousted by that shock 
Defiled his snow-white waistcoat duly pricked 
At the button -hole with honorable red ; 
" Madame, your pardon,"— there he swerved from me 
A metre, as'confounded as he had heard 
That Dumas would be chosen to till up 
The next chair vacant, by his " men /;/ its." 
Since when was genius found respectable ? 
It passes in its place, indeed, which means 
The seventh floor back, or else the hospital. 
Revolving pistols are ingenious things ; 
But prudent men (academicians are) 
Scarce keep them in the cupboard next the prunes. 

And so, abandoned to a bitter mirth, 

I loitered to my inn. O world, O world, 

O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what you please, 

We play a weary game of hide-and-seek ! 

We shape a figure of our fantasy, 

Call nothing something, and run after it 

And lose it, lose ourselves, too, in the search, 

Till clash against us comes a somebody 

Who also has lost something and is lost, — 

Philosopher against philanthropist, 

Academician against poet, man 



170 



Aurora Leigh. 



Against woman, against the living the dead — 
Then home, with a bad headache and worse jest. 

To change the water for my heliotropes 
And yellow roses. Paris has such flowers, 
But England also. 'Twas a yellow rose, 
By that south window of the little house. 
My cousin Romney gathered with his hand 
On all my birthdays for me, save 

the last ; 
And then I shook the tree too 

rough, too rough. 
For roses to stay after. 

Now, my maps. 
I must not linger here from Italy 
Till the last nightingale is tired of 

song, 
And the last firefly dies off in the 

maize. 
My soul's in haste to leap into 

the sun, 
And scorch and seethe itself to a 

finer mood. 
Which here in this chill north is 

apt to stand 
Too stiffly in former moulds. 

'J hat face persists. 
It floats up, it turns over in my 

mind 
As like to Marian as one dead is 

like 
The same alive. In very deed a 

face. 
And not a fancy, though it vanished so : 
The small fair face between the darks of hair 
I used to liken, when I saw her first. 
To a point of moonlit water down a well ; 
The low brow, the frank space between the eyes, 
Which always had the brown pathetic look 
Of a dumb creature, who had been beaten once. 
And never since was easy with the world. 
Ah ah ! now I remember perfectly 
Those eyes to-day : how overlarge they seemed ! 
As if some patient passionate despair 




Twas a yellow rose. 



Aurora Leigh. 171 



( Like a coal dropt and forgot on tapestry, 

Which slowly burnt a widening circle out ) 

Had burnt them larger, larger. And those eyes, 

To-day, I do remember, saw me too, 

As I saw them, with conscious lids astrain 

In recognition. Now, a fantasy, 

A simple shade or image of the brain. 

Is merely passive, does not retroact, 

Is seen, but sees not. 

'Twas a real fac«. 
Perhaps a real Marian. 

Which being so, 
I ought to write to Romney, " Marian's here : 
Be comforted for Marian." 

My pen fell ; 
My hands struck sharp together, as hands do 
Which hold at nothing. Can I write to hi?n 
A half-truth } can I keep my own soul blind 
To the other half ... the worse ? What are our souls, 
If still, to run on straight a sober pace. 
Nor start at every pebble or dead leaf. 
They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, suppress 
Six-tenths of the road } Confront the truth, my soul ! 
And, oh ! as truly as that was Marian's face. 
The arms of that same Marian clasped a thing 
. . . Not hid so wtU beneath the scanty shawl, 
I cannot name it now^ for what it was. 

A child. Small business has a castaway 

Like Marian, with that crown of prosperous wives, 

At which the gentlest she grows arrogant. 

And says, " My child." Who finds an emerald ring 

On a beggar's middle finger, and requires 

More testimony to convict a thief ? 

A child's too costly for so mere a wretch : 

She filched it somewhere ; and it means with her. 

Instead of honor, blessing, merely shame. 

I cannot write to Romney, " Here she is. 

Here's Marian found ! I'll set you on her track. 

I saw^ her here in Paris, . . . and her child. 

She put away your love two years ago. 

But, plainly, not to starve. You suffered then ; 

And now that you've forgot her utterly. 

As any last year's annual, in whose place 



172 Aurora Leigh. 



You've planted a thick flowering evergreen, 
I choose, being kind, to write and tell you this 
To make you wholly easy, — she's not dead, 
But only . . . damned." 

Stop there : I go too fast 
I'm cruel, like the rest, — in haste to take 
The first stir in the arras for a rat. 
And set my barking, biting thoughts upon't. 
— A child ! what then ? Suppose a neighbor's sick. 
And asked her, " Marian, carry out my child 
In this spring air," — I punish her for that ? 
Or say, "^he child should hold her round the neck 
For good child reasons, that he liked it so. 
And would not leave her, — she had winning ways, — 
I brand her, therefore, that she took the child ? 
Not so. 

I will not write to Romney Leigh 
For now he's happy, and she may, indeed. 
Be guilty, and the knowledge of her fault 
Would draggle his smooth time. But I, whose days 
Are not so fine they cannot bear the rain, 
And who, moreover, having seen her face. 
Must see it again . . . will see it, by my hopes 
Of one day seeing heaven too. The police 
Shall track her, hound her, ferret their own soil : 
We'll dig this Paris to its catacombs 
But certainly we'll find her, have her out, 
And save her, if she will or will not, child 
Or no child, — if a child, then one to save ! 

The long weeks passed on without consequence. 

As easy find a footstep on the sand 

The morning after spring-tide, as the trace 

Of Marian's feet between the incessant surfs 

Of this live flood. She may have moved this way ; 

But so the star-fish does, and crosses out 

The dent of her small shoe. The foiled police 

Renounced me. " Could they find a girl and child, 

No other signalment but girl and child } 

No data shown but noticeable eyes. 

And hair in masses, low upon the brow. 

As if it were an iron crown, and pressed .'* 

Friends heighten, and suppose they specify : 

Why, girls with hair and eyes are everywhere 



Aurora Leigh. 173 



In Paris ; they had turned me up in vain, 

No Marian Erie indeed, but certainly 

Mathildes, Justines, Victoires ... or, if I sought 

The English, Betsies, Saras, by the score. 

They might as well go out into the fields 

To find a speckled bean that's somehow specked, 

And somewhere in the pod. They left me so. 

Shall / leave Marian } have I dreamed a dream ? 

—I thank God I have found her ! I must say 
" Thank God " for finding her, although 'tis true 
I find the world more sad and wicked for't. 
But she — 

I'll write about her presently. 
My hand's a-tremble, as I had just caught up 
My heart to write with in the place of it. 
At least you'd take these letters to be writ 
At sea, in storm ! — wait now . . . 

A simple chance 
Did all. I could not sleep last night, and, tired 
Of turning on my pillow and harder thoughts, 
Went out at early morning when the air 
Is delicate with some last starry touch, 
To wander through the market-place of flowers 
( The prettiest haunt in Paris), and make sure 
At worst that there were roses in the world. 
So wandering, musing, with the artist's eye, 
That keeps the shade-side of the thing it loves, 
Half-absent, whole observing, while the crowd 
Of young vivacious and black-braided heads 
Dipped, quick as finches in a blossomed tree. 
Among the nosegays, cheapening this and that 
In such a cheerful twitter of rapid speech, — 
My heart leapt in me, startled by a voice 
That slowly, faintly, with long breaths that marked 
The interval between the wish and word, 
Inquired in stranger's French, " Would that be much, 
That branch of flowering mountain-gorse ? " — " So much ? 
Too much for me, then ! " turning the face round 
So close upon me that I felt the sigh 
It turned with. 

" Marian, Marian ! " — face to face — 
" Marian ! I find you. Shall I let you go ? " 
I held her two slight wrists with both my hands ; 



174 Aurora Leigh. 



" Ah, Marian. Marian, can I let you go ? " 

She fluttered from me Hke a cyclamen 

As white, which, taken in a sudden wind, 

Beats on against the palisade. " Let pass," 

She said at last. " I will not," I replied : 

'• I lost my sister Marian many days, 

And sought her ever in my walks and prayers, 

And now I find her ... do we throw away 

The bread we worked and prayed for, — crumble it 

And drop it ... to do even so by thee 

Whom still I've hungered after more than bread. 

My sister Marian ? Can I hurt thee, dear ? 

Then why distrust me ? Never tremble so. 

Come with me rather, where we'll talk and live. 

And none shall vex us. I've a home for you 

And me, and no one else " = . . 

She shook her head. 
" A home for you and me and no one else 
111 suits one of us : I prefer to such 
A roof of grass on which a flower might spring. 
Less costly to me than the cheapest here ; 
And yet 1 could not at this hour afford 
A like home even. That you offer yours, 
I thank you. You are good as heaven itself — 
As good as one I knew before . . . Farewell ! " 

I loosed her hands. " In his name no farewell ! " 
( She stood as if I held her.) " For his sake. 
For his sake, — Romney's ! by the good he meant, 
Ay, always ! by the love he pressed for once. 
And by the grief, reproach, abandonment. 
He took in change" ... 

" He, Romney ! who grieved him ? 
Who had the heart for't ? what reproach touched him? 
Be merciful — speak quickly." 

" Therefore come," 
I answered with authority. " I think 
We dare to speak such things, and name such names, 
In the open squares of Paris." 

Not a word 
She said, but in a gentle, humbled way 
(As one who had forgot herself in grief) 
Turned round, and followed closely where I went. 
As if I led her by a narrow plank 



Aurora Leigh. 175 



Across devouring waters, step by step ; 
And so in silence we walked on a mile. 

And then she stopped : her face was white as wax. 
" We go much farther ? " 

"You are ill," I asked, 

" Or tired ? " , , 

She looked the whiter for her smile. 
" There's one at home," she said, " has need of me 
By this time ; and I must not let him wait." 

" Not even," I asked, " to hear of Romney Leigh ? " 

" Not even," she said, "to hear of Mister Leigh." 

" In that case," I resumed, " I go with you. 
And we can talk the same thing there as here. 
None waits for me : I have my day to spend." 

Her lips moved in a spasm without a sound ; 
But then she spoke. " It shall be as you please. 
And better so — 'tis shorter seen than told ; 
And, though you will not find me worth your pains, 
That, even, may be worth some pains to know 
For one as good as you are." 

^ Then she led 

The way ; and I, as by a narrow plank 
Across devouring waters, followed her, 
Stepping by her footsteps, breathing by her breath. 
And holding her with eyes that would not slip ; 
And so, without a word, we walked a mile. 
And so another mile, without a word. 

Until the peopled streets being all dismissed. 
House row^s and groups all scattered like a flock. 
The market-gardens thickened, and the long 
White walls beyond, like spiders' outside threads, 
Stretched, feeling blindly toward the country-fields 
Through half-built habitations and half-dug 
Foundations,— intervals of trenchant chalk 
That bit betwixt the grassy uneven turfs 
Where goats (vine-tendrils trailing from their mouths) 
Stood perched on edges of the cellarage 
Which should be, staring as about to leap 



176 Aurora Leigh. 



To find their coming Bacchus. All the place 
Seemed less a cultivation than a waste. 
Men work here, only, — scarce begin to live : 
All's sad, the country struggling with the town. 
Like an untamed hawk upon a strong man's fist, 
That beats its wings, and tries to get away. 
And cannot choose be satisfied so soon 
To hop through court-yards with its right foot tied, 
The vintage plains and pastoral hills in sight. 

We stopped beside a house too high and slim 

To stand there by itself, but waiting till 

Five others, two on this side, three on that. 

Should grow up from the sullen second fioo:* 

They pause at now, to build it to a row. 

The upper windows partly were unglazed 

Meantime, — a meagre, unripe house : a line 

Of rigid poplars elbowed it behind ; 

And just in front, beyond the lime and bricks 

That wronged the grass between it and the road, 

A great acacia with its slender trunk, 

And overpoise of multitudinous leaves, 

( In which a hundred fields might spill their dew 

And intense verdure, yet find room enough ) 

Stood reconciling all the place with green. 

I followed up the stair upon her step. 

She hurried upward, shot across a face, 

A woman's on the landing, — " How now, now ! 

Is no one to have holidays but you } 

You said an hour, and stay three hours, I think. 

And Julie waiting for your betters here ? 

Why, if he had waked, he might have waked, for me." 

— Just murmuring an excusing word, she passed 

And shut the rest out with the chamber-door, 

Myself shut in beside her. 

'Twas a room 
Scarce larger than a grave, and near as bare, — 
Two stools, a pallet-bed. I saw the room : 
A mouse could find no sort of shelter in't, 
Much less a greater secret ; curtainless, — 
The window fixed you with its torturing eye, 
Defying you to take a step apart, 
If, peradventure, you would hide a thing. 



Aurora Lei^h^ 



^n 



I saw the whole room, I and Marian there 
Alone. 

Alone ? She threw her bonnet off, 
Then, sighing as 'twere sighing the last time. 
Approached the bed, and drew a shawl away : 
You could not peel a fruit you fear to bruise 
More calmly and more carefully than so, — 
Nor would you find w^ithin, a rosier flushed 
Pomegranate- 
There he lay upon his back. 
The yearling creature, warm and moist with life 
To the bottom of his dimples,— to the ends 
Of the lovely tumbled curls about his face ; 
For since he had been covered over-much 




Thuuk he lav upon his hack, thh; \kakling lkeatuke, warm anu 
MOIST wivH i.i;e. 



178 Aurora Leigh. 



To keep him from the Hght-glare, both his cheeks 

Were hot and scarlet as the first Hve rose 

The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away into 

The faster for his love. And love was here 

As instant : in the pretty baby-mouth. 

Shut close, as if for dreaming that it sucked ; 

The little naked feet, drawn up the way 

Of nestled birdlings ; every thing so soft 

And tender,— to the tiny holdfast hands, 

Which, closing on a finger into sleep, 

Had kept the mould oft. 

While we stood there dumb 
For oh, that it should take such innocence 
To prove just guilt, 1 thought, and stood there dumb, — 
The light upon his eyelids pricked them wide. 
And staring out at us with all their blue, 
As half perplexed between the angel-hood 
He had been away to visit in his sleep. 
And our most mortal presence, gradually 
He saw his mother's face, accepting it 
In change for heaven itself with such a smile 
As might have well been learnt there, never moved, 
But smiled on in a drowse of ecstasy. 
So happy (half with her, and half with heaven) 
He could not have the trouble to be stirred. 
But smiled and lay there. Like a rose, I said } 
As red and still indeed as any rose, 
That blows in all the silence of its leaves, 
Content, in blowing, to fulfil its hfe. 

She leaned above him (drinking him as wine) 

In that extremity of love 'twill pass 

For agony or rapture, seeing that love 

Includes the whole of nature, rounding it 

To love ... no more, since more can never be 

Than just love. Self-forgot, cast out of self. 

And drowning in the transpert of the sight. 

Her whole pale passionate face, mouth, forehead, eyes. 

One gaze she stood ; then, slowly as he smiled. 

She smiled too, slow^ly, smiling unaware, 

And drawing from his countenance to hers 

A fainter red, as if she watched a flame. 

And stood in it aglow. " How beautiful ! " 

Said she. 



Aurora Leigh. 179 



I answered, trying to be cold. 
( Must sin have compensations, was my thought, 
As if it were a holy thing like grief? 
And is a woman to be fooled aside 
From putting vice down, with that woman's toy, 
A baby ? ) — " Ay ! the child is well enough," 
I answered. " If his mother's palms are clean. 
They need be glad, of course, in clasping such ; 
But, if not, I would rather lay my hand. 
Were I she, on God's brazen altar-bars 
Red-hot with burning sacrificial lambs. 
Than touch the sacred curls of such a child." 

She plunged her fingers in his clustering locks 

As one who would not be afraid of fire ; 

And then, with indrawn steady utterance, said, 

" My lamb, my lamb ! although through such as thou. 

The most unclean got courage, and approached 

To God, once, novv they cannot, even with men. 

Find grace enough for pity and gentle words." 

" My Marian," I made answer, grave and sad, 

" The priest who stole a lamb to offer him 

Was still a thief. And if a woman steals 

( Through God's own barrier-hedges of true love, 

Which fence out license in securing love ) 

A child like this, that smiles so in her face, 

She is no mother, but a kidnapper. 

And he's a dismal orphan, not a son, 

Whom all her kisses cannot feed so full 

He will not miss hereafter a pure home 

To live in, a pure heart to lean against, 

A pure good mother's name and memory 

To hope by when the world grows thick and bad, 

And he feels out for virtue." 

" Oh ! " she smiled 
With bitter patience, " the child takes his chance ; 
Not much worse off in being fatherless 
Than I was, fathered. He will say, belike, 
His mother was the saddest creature born ; 
He'll say his mother lived so contrary 
To joy, that even the kindest, seeing her. 
Grew sometimes almost cruel ; he'll not say 
She flew contrarious in the face of (lod 



Aurora Leigh. 



With bat-wings of her vices. Stole my chiLl ! 

My flower of earth, my only flower on earth, 

My sweet, my beautv ! " . . . Up she snatched the 

child. 
And, breaking on him in a storm of tears. 
Drew out her long sobs from their shivering roots. 
Until he took it for a game, and stretched 
His feet, and flapped his eager arms like wings, 
And crowed and gurgled through his infant laugh. 
" Mine, mine ! " she said. " I have as sure a right 
As any glad proud mother in the world, 
Who sets her darling down to cut his teeth 
Upon her church-ring. If she talks of law, 
I talk of law : I claim my mother-dues 
By law, — the law which now is paramount ; 
The common law, by which the poor and weak 
Are trodden under foot by vicious men, 
And loathed forever after by the good. 
Let pass ! I did not filch : I found the child." 

" You found him, Marian? " 

" Ay, I found him where 
I found my curse, — in the gutter with my shame ! 
Wnat have you, any of you, to say to that. 
Who all are happy, and sit safe and high. 
And never spoke before to arraign my right 
To grief itself ? What, what, . . . being beaten down 
By hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch. 
Half-dead, whole mangled, when a girl at last 
Breathes, sees . . . and finds there, bedded in her flesh, 
Because of the extremity of the shock. 
Some coin of price I . . . and when a good man comes 
( That's God ! the best men are not quite as good ) 
And says, * I dropped the coin there : take it, you, 
And keep i:, it shall pay you for the loss,' — 
You all put up your finger — ' See the thief ! 
Observe what precious thing she has come to filch I 
How bad those girls are ! ' Oh, my flower, my pet, 
I dare forget I have you in my arms. 
And fly off to be angry with the world, 
And fright you, hurt you with my tempers, till 
You double' up your lip. ^ Why, that indeed 
Is bad : a naughty mother ! " 

" You mistake," 



Aurora Lei irk. i8i 



I interrupted. " If I loved you not, 

I should not, Marian, certainly be here." 

" Alas ! " she said, " you are so very good ; 

And yet I wish, indeed, you had never come 

To make me sob until I vex the child. 

It is not wholesome for these pleasure-plats 

To be so early watered by our brine. 

And then who knows ? he may not like me now 

As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me fret : 

One's ugly fretting. He has eyes the same 

As angels, but he cannot see as deep ; 

And so I've kept forever in his sight 

A sort of smile to please him, as you place 

A green thing from the garden in a cup 

To make believe it grows there. Look, my sweet, 

My cowslip-ball ! we've done with that cross face, 

And here's the face come back you used to like. 

Ah, ah ! he laughs : he likes me. Ah ! Miss Leigh, 

You're great and pure ; but were you purer still, — 

As if you had walked, we'll say no otherwhere 

Than up and down the New Jerusalem, 

And held your trailing lutestring up yourself 

From brushing the twelve stones, for fear of some 

Small speck as little as a needle-prick. 

White stitched on white, — the child would keep to me, 

Would choose his poor lost Marian, like me best, 

And, though you stretched your arms, cry back and cling, 

As we do when God says it's time to die 

And bids us go up higher. Leave us, then : 

We two are happy. Does he push me off } 

He's satisfied with me, as I with him." 

" So soft to one, so hard to others ! Nay," 

I cried, more angry that she melted me, 

" We make henceforth a cushion of oar faults 

To sit and practise easy virtues on ? 

I thought a child was given to sanctify 

A woman, — set her, in the sight of all 

The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen minister 

To do their business, and lead spirits up 

The difficult blue heights. A woman lives 

Not bettered, quickened toward the truth and good 

Through being a mother } . . . Then she's none, although 



[82 Aurora Leisrh. 



She damps her baby's cheeks by kisshig them, 
As we kill roses." 

" Kill ! O Christ ! " she said. 
And turned her wild, sad face from side to side 
With most despairing wonder in it. " What, 
What have you in your souls against me then, 
All of you? Am I wicked, do you think? 
God knows me, trusts me with the child— but you, 
You think me really wicked ? " 

" Complaisant," 
I answered softly, " to a wrong you've done, 
Because of certain profits, which is wrong 
Beyond the first wrong, Marian. When you left 
The pure place and the noble heart to take 
The hand of a seducer "... 

" Whom? whose hand ? 
I took the hand of " . . . 

Springing up erect. 
And lifting up the child at full arm's length. 
As if to bear him like an oriflamme 
Unconquerable to armies of reproach, — 
" By ///;;/," she said, " my child's head and its curls. 
By these blue eyes no woman born could dare 
A perjury on, I make my mother's oath. 
That if I'left that heart to lighten it. 
The blood of mine was still, except for grief ! 
No cleaner maid than I was took a step 
To a sadder end, — no matron-mother now 
Looks backward to her early maidenhood 
Through chaster pulses. I speak steadily ; 
And if 1 lie so . . . if, being fouled in will 
And paltered with in soul by devil's lust, 
I dared to bid this angel take my part . . . 
Would God sit quiet, let us think, in heaven. 
Nor strike me dumb with thunder ? Yet I speak : 
He clears me therefore. What, ' seduced ' 's your word ? 
Do wolves seduce a wandering fawn in France ? 
Do eagles, who have pinched a lamb with claws, 
Seduce it into carrion ? So with me. 
I was not ever, as you say, seduced. 
But simply murdered." 

There she paused, and sighed. 
With such a sigh as drops from agony 
To exhaustion, — sighing while she let the babe 



Aurora Leigh. 183 



Slide down upon her bosom from her arms, 
And all her face's light fell after him 
Like a torch quenched in falling. Down she sank, 
And sate upon the bedside with the child. 

But I, convicted, broken utterly, 

With woman's passion clung about her waist. 

And kissed her hair and eyes, — " I have been wrong, 

Sweet Marian "... (weeping in a tender rage), 

" Sweet, holy Marian ! And now, Marian, now, 

I'll use your oath, although my lips are hard, 

And by the child, my Marian, by the child, 

I swear his mother shall be innocent 

Before my conscience, as in the open Book 

Of Him who reads for judgment. Innocent, 

My sister ! Let the night be ne'er so dark. 

The moon is surely somewhere in the sky. 

So surely is your whiteness to be found 

Through all dark facts. But pardon, pardon me. 

And smile a little, Marian, — for the child. 

If not for me, my sister." 

The poor lip 
Just motioned for the smile, and let it go ; 
And then, wath scarce a stirring of the mouth. 
As if a statue spoke that could not breathe, 
But spoke on calm between its marble lips, — 
" I'm glad, I'm very glad, you clear me so. 
I should be sorry that you set me down 
With harlots, or with even a better name 
Which misbecomes his mother. For the rest, 
I am not on a level with your love. 
Nor ever was, you know, but now am worse, 
Because that world of yours has dealt with me 
As when the hard sea bites and chews a stone, 
And changes the first form of it. I've marked 
A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape 
From all the various life of madrepores ; 
And so that little stone called Marian Erie, 
Picked up and dropped by you and another friend. 
Was ground and tortured by the incessant sea, 
And bruised from what she was, — changed ! death's a 

change. 
And she, I said, was murdered : Marian's dead. 
What can you do with people when they are dead. 



184 Aurora Leigh. 



But, if yoLi are pious, sing a hymn and go, 

Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and go. 

But go by all means, and permit the grass 

To keep its green feud up 'twixt them and you ? 

Then leave me, — let me rest. I'm dead, I say. 

And if, to save the child from death as well. 

The mother in me has survived the rest. 

Why, that's God's miracle you must not tax, 

I'm not less dead for that : I'm nothing more 

But just a mother. Only for the child 

I'm warm, and cold, and hungry, and afraid, 

And smell the flowers a little, and see the sun. 

And speak still, and am silent, — just for him ! 

I pray you therefore to mistake me not, 

And treat me haply as I were alive ; 

For, though you ran a pin into my soul, 

I think it would not hurt nor trouble me. 

Here's proof, dear lady, — in the market-place 

But now, you promised me to say a word 

About ... a friend, who once, long years ago, 

Took God's place toward me, when he leans and loves. 

And does not thunder . . . whom at last I left, 

As all of us leave God. You thought perhaps 

I seemed to care for hearing of that friend ? 

Now judge me ! We have sate here half an hour 

And talked together of the child and me, 

And I not asked as much as ' What's the thing 

You had to tell me of the friend . . . the friend ? 

He's sad, I think you said, — he's sick perhaps ? 

'Tis nought to Marian if he's sad or sick. 

Another would have crawled beside your foot. 

And prayed your words out. Why, a beast, a dog, 

A starved cat, if he had fed it once with milk. 

Would show less hardness. But I'm dead, you see. 

And that explains it." 

Poor, poor thing, she spoke 
And shook her head, as white and calm as frost 
On days too cold for raining any more, 
But still with such a face, so much alive, 
I could not choose but take it on my arm. 
And stroke the placid patience of its cheeks, 
Then told my story out, of Romney Leigh, — 
How, having lost her, sought her, missed her still 
He, broken-hearted for himself and her. 



Aurora Leigh. 185 



Had drawn tiie curtains of the world awhile 

As if he had done with morning. There I stopped ; 

F'or when she gasped, and pressed me with her eyes, 

" And now . . . how^ is it with him ? tell me now," 

I felt the shame of compensated grief. 

And chose my words with scruple — slowly stepped 

Upon the slippery stones set here and there 

Across the sliding water. " Certainly 

As evening empties morning into night, 

Another morning takes the evening up 

With healthful, providential interchange ; 

And though he thought still of her — " 

" Yes, she knew, 
She understood : she had supposed, indeed, 
That as one stops a hole upon a flute. 
At which a new note comes and shapes the tune, 
Excluding her would bring a worthier in, 
And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar 
He loved so " . . . 

" Loved ! " . I started — " loved her so ! 
Now tell me " . . . 

" I will tell you," she replied : 
" But, since we're taking oaths, you'll promise first 
That he in P2ngland, he, shall never learn 
In what a dreadful trap his creature here. 
Round whose unworthy neck he had meant to tie 
The honorable ribbon of his name, 
Fell unaware, and came to butchery : 
Because, — I know him, — as he takes to heart 
The grief of every stranger, he's not like 
To banish mine as far as I should choose 
In wishing him most happy. Now he leaves 
To think of me, perverse, who went my way, 
Unkind, and left him ; but if once he knew . . 
Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel wrong 
Would fasten me forever in his sight. 
Like some poor curious bird, through each spread wing 
Nailed high up over a fierce hunter's fire. 
To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk 
Come in by chance. Nay, since your Marian's dead, 
You shall not hang her up, but dig a hole. 
And bury her in silence ; ring no bells." 



:86 Aurora Leigh. 



I answered gayly, though my whole voice wept, 
" We'll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells, 
Because we have her back, dead or alive." 

She never answered that, but shook her head ; 

Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven. 

Shall tell a story of his lower life. 

Unmoved by shame or anger, so she spoke. 

She told me she had loved upon her knees, 

As others pray, more perfectly absorbed 

In the act and inspiration. She felt his 

For just his uses, not her own at all, 

His stool, to sit on or put up his foot ; 

His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar, 

Whichever drink might please him at the chance. 

For that should please her always ; let him write 

His name upon her ... it seemed natural : 

It was most precious, standing on his shelf, 

To wait until he chose to lift his hand. 

Well, well, — I saw her then, and must have seen 

How bright her life went floating on her love. 

Like wicks the housewives send afloat on oil 

Which feeds them to a flame that lasts the night. 

To do good seemed so much his business, 

That having done it she was fain to think 

Must fill up his capacity for joy. 

At first she never mooted with herself 

If he was happy, since he made her so ; 

Or if he loved her, being so much beloved. 

Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, 

Observing that it lightens } who's so bold. 

To question God of his felicity? 

Still less. And thus she took for granted first 

What, first of all, she should have put to proof. 

And sinned against him so, but only so. 

" What could you hope," she said, " of such as she ? 

You take a kid' you like, and turn it out 

In some fair garden : though the creature's fond 

And gentle, it will leap upon the beds. 

And break your tulips, bite your tender trees : 

The wonder would be if such innocence 

Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids." 



Aurora Leigh. 187 



And by degrees, when he who had chosen her 
Brought in his courteous and benignant friends 
To spend their goodness on her, which she took 
So very gladly, as a part of his,— 
By slow degrees it broke on her slow sense, 
That she, too, in that Eden of delight 
Was out of place, and, like the silly kid. 
Still did most mischief where she meant most love. 
A thought enough to make a woman mad, 
( No beast in this but she may well go mad ) 
That saying " I am thine to love and use " 
May blow the plague in her protesting breath 
To the very man for whom she claims to die ; 
That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down 
And drowns him ; and that, lavishing her soul, 
She hales perdition on him. " So, being mad," 
Said Marian . . . 

" Ah ! who stirred such thoughts," you ask ? 
" Whose fault it was that she should have such thoughts } 
None's fault, none's fault. The light comes, and we 

see : 
But if it were not truly for our eyes, 
There w^ould be nothing seen for all the light : 
And so with Marian. If she saw at last. 
The sense was in her : Lady Waldemar 
Had spoken all in vain else." 



O prophet in my heart ! " I cried aloud. 
" Then Lady Waldemar spoke ! " 



"O my heart, 
"Did she speak .'' " 



Mused Marian softly, " or did she sign } 

Or did she put a word into her face 

And look, and so impress you with the word } 

Or leave it in the foldings of her gown, 

Like rosemary smells a movement will shake out 

When no one's conscious } Who shall say, or guess ? 

One thing alone was certain,— from the day 

The gracious lady paid a visit first, 

She, Marian, saw^ things different, — felt distrust 

Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance 

Her hopes were building into with clay nests : 

Her heart was restless, pacing up and djown. 

And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms. 

Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease." 



1 88 Aurora LcigJi. 



"And still the lady came," said Marian Erie, — 

" Much oftener than he knew it, Mister Leigh. 

She bade me never tell him she had come, 

She liked to love me better than he knew : 

So very kind was Lady Waldemar. 

And every time she brought with her more light. 

And every light made sorrow clearer . . , Well, 

Ah, well ! we cannot give her blame for that : 

'Twould be the same thing if an angel came, 

Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time 

The lady came she looked more beautiful. 

And spoke more like a fiute among green trees. 

Until at last, as one, whose heart being sad 

On hearing lovely music, suddenly 

Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in tears 

Before her, asked her counsel, — * Had I erred 

In being too happy .^ would she set me straight .'' 

For she, being wise and good, and born above 

The flats I had never climbed from, could perceive 

If such as I might grow upon the hills, 

And whether such poor herb sufficed to grow 

For Romney Leigh to break his fast upon't ; 

Or would he pine on such, or haply starve } ' 

She wrapt me in her generous arms at once. 

And let me dream a moment how it feels 

To have a real mother, like some girls ; 

But, when I looked, her face was younger ... ay, 

Youth's too bright not to be a little hard. 

And beauty keeps itself still uppermost. 

That's true ! Though Lady Waldemar was kind, 

She hurt me, hurt, as if the morning-sun 

Should smite us on the eyelids when we sleep. 

And wake us up with headache. Ay, and soon 

Was light enough to make my heart ache too. 

She told me truths I asked for, — 'twas my own fault,— 

' That Romney could not love me, if he would. 

As men call loving : there are bloods that flow 

Together, like some rivers, and not mix. 

Through contraries of nature. He, indeed. 

Was set to wed me, to espouse my class, 

Act out a rash opinion ; and, once wed. 

So just a man and gentle could not choose 

But make my life as smooth as marriage-ring. 

Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheerful house, 



Aurora Leisrh. 



189 



With servants, brooches, all the flowers I liked. 

And pretty dresses, silk the whole year round ' . . . 

At which I stopped her, — ' This for me. And now 

For ///;// ? ' She hesitated, — truth grew hard ; 

She owned ' 'Twas plain a man like Romney Leigh 

Required a wife more level to himself. 

If day by day he had to bend his height 

To pick up sympathies, opinions, thoughts, 

And interchange the common talk of life, 

Which helps a man to live, as well as talk, 

His days were heavily taxed. Who buys a staff 

To fit the hand, that reaches but the knee } 

He'd feel it bitter to be forced to miss 

The perfect joy of married suited pairs. 

Who, bursting through the separating hedge 

Of personal dues with that sweet eglantine 

Of equal love, keep saying, " So we think, 



T^sJ^ 




Sweet eglantine. 



It Strikes us, that's our fancy." ' — When I asked 

If earnest will, dev^oted love, employed 

In youth like mine, would fail to raise me up, 

As two strong arms will always raise a child 

To a fruit hung overhead, she sighed and sighed . 

' That could not be,' she feared. ' You take a pink, 

You dig about its roots, and water it. 

And so improve it to a garden-pink, 

But will not change it to a heliotrope : 

The kind remains. And then the harder truth, — 

This Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a pale. 

So bold for conscience, quick for martyrdom. 

Would suffer steadily and never flinch. 



igo Aurora Leigh. 



But suffer surely and keenly, when his class 

Turned shoulder on him for a shameful match, 

And set him up as ninepin in their talk 

To bowl him down with jestings.' There she paused, 

And when I used the pause in doubting that 

We wronged him, after all, in what we feared — 

' Suppose such things could never touch him more 

In his high conscience (if the things should be,) 

Than, when the queen sits in an upper room, 

The horses in the street can spatter her ! ' — 

A moment, hope came ; but the lady closed 

That door, and nicked the lock, and shut it out. 

Observing wisely, that ' the tender heart 

Which made him over-soft to a lower class 

Would scarcely fail to make him sensitive 

To a higher, — how they thought, and what they felt. 

" Alas, alas ! " said Marian, rocking slow 

The pretty baby who was near asleep, 

The eyelids creeping over the blue balls, — 

" vShe made it clear, too clear : I saw the whole. 

And yet who knows if I had seen my way 

Straight out of it by looking, though 'twas clear. 

Unless the generous lady, 'ware of this. 

Had set her own house all a-fire for me 

To light me forwards ? Leaning on my face 

Her heavy agate eyes, which crushed my will, 

She told me tenderly, (as when men come 

To a bedside to tell people they must die) 

She knew of knowledge, — ay, of knowledge knew, 

That Romney Leigh had loved her formerly. 

And she loved him, she might say, now the chance 

Was past. But that, of course, he never guessed. 

For something came between them, — something thin 

As a cobweb, catching every fly of doubt 

To hold it buzzing at the window-pane. 

And help to dim the daylight. Ah, man's pride 

Or woman's, — which is greatest } most averse 

To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she and he 

Remained fast friends : it seemed not more than so. 

Because he had bound his hands, and could not stir. 

An honorable man, if somewhat rash ; 

And she — not even for Romney would she spill 

A blot, as little even as a tear . . . 



Aurora Leigh. 191 



Upon his marriage-contract, — not to gain 

A better joy for two than came by that ; 

For, though I stood between her heart and heaven, 

She loved me wholly. " 

Did I laugh, or curse ? 
I think I sat there silent, hearing all. 
Ay, hearing double, — Marian's tale, at once, 
And Romney's marriage-vow, "I'll keep to thee," 
Which means that woman-serpent. Is it time 
For church now ? 

" Lady Waldemar spoke more," 
Continued Marian ; " but as when a soul 
Will pass out through the sweetness of a song 
Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road, 
Even so mine wandered from the things I heard 
To those I suffered. It was afterward 
I shaped the resolution to the act. 
For many hours we talked. What need to talk ? 
The fate was clear and close ; it touched my eyes ; 
But still the generous lady tried to keep 
The case afloat, and would not let it go. ^ 
And argued, struggled upon Marian's side, 
Which was not Romney's, though she little knew 
What ugly monster would take up the end,— 
What griping death within the drowning death. 
Was ready to complete my sum of death." 

I thought, — Perhaps he's sliding now the ring 
Upon that woman's finger . . . 

She went on 
" The lady, failing to prevail her way, 
Upgathered my torn wishes from the ground, 
And pieced them with her strong benevolence; 
And as I thought I could breathe freer air 
Away from England, going without pause, 
Without farewell, just breaking with a jerk 
The blossomed offshoot from my thorny life. 
She promised kindly to provide the means, 
With instant passage to the colonies 
And full protection, ' would commit me straight 
To one who had once been her waiting-maid, 
And had the customs of the world, intent 
On changing England for Australia 
Herself, to carry out her fortune so.' 



192 Aurora Leigh. 



For which I thanked the Lady Waldemar, 

As men upon their death-beds thank last friends 

Who lay the pillow straight : it is not much, 

And yet 'tis all of which they are capable, — 

This lying smoothly in a bed to die. 

And so, 'twas fixed ; and so, from day to day, 

The woman named came in to visit me." 

Just then the girl stopped speaking, sate erect, 

And stared at me as if I had been a ghost, 

( Perhaps I looked as white as any ghost ) 

With large-eyed horror. " Does God make," she said, 

" All sorts of creatures really, do you think,? 

Or is it that the Devil slavers them 

So excellently, that we come to doubt 

Who's stronger, — he who makes, or he who mars ? 

I never liked the woman's face, or voice. 

Or ways : it made me blush to look at her ; 

It made me tremble if she touched my hand ; 

And when she spoke a fondling word, I shrank 

As if one hated me who had power to hurt ; 

And, every time she came, my veins ran cold, 

As somebody were walking on my grave. 

At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar : 

' Could such a one be good to trust ? ' I asked. 

Whereat the lady stroked my cheek, and laughed 

Her silver laugh (one must be born to laugh 

To put such music in it), — ' Foolish girl. 

Your scattered wits are gathering wool beyond 

The sheep-walk reaches ! — leave the thing to me.* 

And therefore, half in trust, and half in scorn 

That I had heart still for another fear 

In such a safe despair, I left the thing. 

" The rest is short. I was obedient : 

I wrote my letter which delivered hiin 

From Marian to his own prosperities. 

And followed that bad guide. The lady ? — hush, 

I never blame the lady. Ladies who 

Sit high, however willing to look down, 

Will scarce see lower than their dainty feet , 

And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, 

With what a Devil's daughter I went forth 



Aurora Leigh. 193 



Along the swine's road, down the precipice, 
In such a curl of hell-foam caught and choked, 
No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce through 
To fetch some help. They say there's help in heaven 
Yox all such cries. But if one cries from hell . . . 
What then .?— the heavens are deaf upon that side 

" A woman . . . hear me, let me make it plain . . . 
A woman ... not a monster . . . both her breasts 
Made right to suckle babes . . . she took me off, 
A woman also, young and ignorant. 
And heavy with my grief, my two poor eyes 
Near washed away with weeping, till the trees, 
The blessed unaccustomed trees and fields 
Ran either side the train like stranger dogs 
Unworthy of any notice, — took me off 
So dull, io blind, so only half alive. 
Not seeing by what road, nor by what ship, 
Nor toward what place, nor to what end of all. 
Men carry a corpse thus,— past the doorway, past 
The garden-gate, the children's play-ground, up 
The green lane,— then they leave it in the pit, 
To steep and find corruption, cheek to cheek 
With him who stinks since Friday. 

" But suppose . 
To go down with one's soul into the grave, 
To go down half dead, half alive, I say. 
And wake up with corruption . . . cheek to cheek 
With him who stinks since Friday! There it is, 
And that's the horror of 't, Miss Leigh. 



You feel ? 



You understand ?— no, do not look at me, 
But understand. The blank, blind weary way 
Which led, where'er it led. away at least; 
The shifted ship ... to Sydney, or to France, 
Still bound, wherever else, to another land ; 
The swooning sickness on the dismal sea, 
The foreign shore, the shameful house, the night. 
The feeble blood, the heavy-headed grief . . . 
No need to bring their damnable drugged cup, 
And yet they brought it. Hell's so prodigal 
Of Devil's gifts, hunts liberally in packs. 
Will kill no poor small creature of the wilds 
But fifty red wide throats must smoke at it, 



194 Aiu'07-a Leigh. 



As HIS at me . . . when waking up at last . . . 
I told you that I waked up in the grave. 

" Enough so ! — it is plain enough so. True, 

We wretches cannot tell out all our wrong 

Without offence to decent happy folk. 

I know that we must scrupulously hint 

With half-words, delicate reserves, the thing 

Which no one scrupled we should feel in full. 

Let pass the rest, then ; only leave my oath 

Upon this sleeping child, — man's violence, 

Not man's seduction, made me what I am. 

As lost as ... I told ////// I should be lost. 

When mothers fail us, can we help ourselves } 

That's fatal ! And you call it being lost, 

That down came next day's noon, and caught me there 

Half gibbering and half raving on the floor. 

And wondering what had happened up in heaven, 

That suns should dare to shine when God himself 

Was certainly abolished. 

" I was mad, 
How many weeks I know not, — many weeks. 
I think they let me go when I was mad : 
They feared my eyes, and loosed me, as boys might 
A mad dog which they had tortured. Up and down 
I went, by road and village, over tracts 
Of open foreign country, large and strange. 
Crossed everywhere by long, thin poplar-lines 
Like fingers of some ghastly skeleton hand 
Through sunlight and through moonlight evermore 
Pushed out from hell itself to pluck me back. 
And resolute to get me, slow and sure ; 
While every roadside Christ upon his cross 
Hung reddening through his gory wounds at me. 
And shook his nails in anger, and came down 
To follow a mile after, wading up 

The low vines and green wheat, crying, " Take the girl ! 
She's none of mine from henceforth." Then I knew 
( But this is somewhat dimmer than the rest ) 
The charitable peasants gave me bread. 
And leave to sleep in straw ; and twice they tied. 
At parting, Mary's image round my neck. 
How heavy it seemed ! — as heavy as a stone ; 
A woman has been strangled with less weight : 



Aurora Lci^h. 



195 




196 Aurora Leigh. 



I threw it in a ditch to keep it clean, 

And ease my breath a little, when none looked : 

I did not need such safeguards : brutal men 

Stopped short, Miss Leigh, in insult, when they had seen 

My face, — I must have had an awful look. 

And so I lived : the weeks passed on, — I lived. 

'Twas living my old tramp-life o'er again, 

But this time in a dream, and hunted round 

By some prodigious dream-fear at my back. 

Which ended yet : my brain cleared presently; 

And there I sate, one evening, by the road, 

I, Marian Erie, myself, alone, undone, 

Facmg a sunset low upon the flats 

As if it were the finish of all time. 

The great red stone upon my sepulchre. 

Which angels were too weak to roll away. 



SEVENTH BOOK. 



" The woman's motive ? shall we daub ourselves 

With finding roots for nettles } 'tis soft clay. 

And easily explored. She had the means, 

The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace. 

In trust for that Australian scheme and me, 

Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands, 

And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed, 

She served me (after all it was not strange : 

'Twas only what my mother would have done) 

A motherly, right damnable good turn. 

" Well, after. There are nettles everywhere ; 

P)Ut smooth green grasses are more common still : 

The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud. 

A miller's wife at Clichy took me in. 

And spent her pity on me, — made me calm. 

And merely very reasonably sad. 

She found me a servant's place in Paris, where 

I tried to take the cast-off life again, 

And stood as quiet as a beaten ass. 

Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up 

To let them charge him with another pack. 



Aurora Lcig/i. 197 



*' A few months, so. My mistress, young and light, 

Was easy with me, less for kindness than 

Because she led, herself, an easy time 

Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass. 

Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most. 

She felt so pretty and so pleased all day. 

She could not take the trouble to be cross, 

But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe. 

Would tap me softly with her slender foot. 

Still restless with the last night's dancing in't. 

And say, ' Fie, pale-face ! Are you English girls . 

All grave and silent ? mass-book still, and Lent ? 

And first-communion pallor on your cheeks. 

Worn past the time for't ? Little fool, be gay ! ' 

At which she vanished, like a fairy, through 

A gap of silver laughter. 

" Came an hour 

When all went otherwise. She did not speak. 

But clinched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes 

As if a viper with a pair of tongs, 

Too far for any touch, yet near enough 

To view the writhing creature,— then at last, 

' Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name. 

Thou Marian : thou'rt no reputable girl. 

Although sufficient dull for twenty saints ! 

1 think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said ; 

' Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month. 

Thou mask of saintship.' 

" Could I answer her } 

The light broke in so. It meant that, then, t/iat ? 

I had not thought of that, in all my thoughts. 

Through all the cold numb aching of my brow. 

Through all the heaving of impatient life 

Which threw me on death at intervals : through all 

The upbreak of the fountains of my heart 

The rains had swelled too large. It could mean t/iat ? 

Did Ood make mothers out of victims, then, 

And set such pure amens to hideous deeds ? 

Why not ? He overblows an ugly grave 

With violets which blossom in the spring. 

And / could be a mother in a month } 

I hope it was not wicked to be glad. 

I lifted up my voice and wept, and laughed— 

To heaven, not her— until it tore my throat. 



198 Aurora Leigh. 



' Confess, confess ! ' What was there to confess, 

Except man's cruelty, except my wrong? 

Except this anguish, or this ecstasy ? 

This shame or glory? The light woman there 

Was small to take it in : an acorn-cup 

Would take the sea in sooner. 

" ' Good ! ' she cried : 
' Unmarried and a mother, and she laughs ! 
These unchaste girls are always impudent. 
Get out, intriguer ! Leave my house, and trot ! 
I wonder you should look me in the face. 
With such a filthy secret,' 

" Then I rolled 
My scanty bundle up, and went my way. 
Washed white with weeping, shuddering, head and foot. 
With blind, hysteric passion, staggering forth 
Beyond those doors. 'Twas natural, of course. 
She should not ask me where I meant to sleep ; 
I might sleep well beneath the heavy Seine, 
Like others of my sort : the bed was laid 
For us. But any woman, womanly, 
Had thought of him who should be in a month. 
The sinless babe that should be in a month. 
And if by chance he might be warmer housed 
Than underneath such dreary dripping eaves." 

I broke on Marian there. " Yet she herself, 
A wife, I think, had scandals of her own, 
A lover not her husband." 

" Ay," she said ; 
*' But gold and meal are measured otherwise : 
I learnt so much at school," said Marian Erie. 

"O crooked world," I cried, "ridiculous. 

If not so lamentable ! 'Tis the way 

With these light women of a thrifty vice, 

My Marian, — always hard upon the rent 

In any sister's virtue ! while they keep 

Their own so darned and patched with perfidy, 

That, though a rag itself, it looks as well 

Across a street, in balcony or coach. 

As any perfect stuff might. For my part, 

Fd rather take the wind-side of the stews 

Than touch such women with my finger-end ! 



Aurora Leigh. 199 



They top the poor street-walker by their lie, 
And look the better for being so much worse 
The Devil's most devilish when respectable. 
But you, dear, and your story." 



All the rest 



Is here," she said, and signed upon the child. 
" I found a mistress-seamstress who was kind, 
And let me sew in peace among her girls. 
And what was better than to draw the threads 
All day and half the night for him and him } 
And so I lived for him, and so he lives ; 
And so I know, by this time, God lives too." 

She smiled beyond the sun, and ended so, 

And all my soul rose up to take her part 

Against the world's successes, virtues, fames. 

" Come with me, sweetest sister," 1 returned, 

" And sit within my house and do me good 

From henceforth, thou and thine ! ye are my own 

From henceforth. I am lonely in the world. 

And thou art lonely, and the child is half 

An orphan. Come ; and henceforth thou and I, 

Being still together, will not miss a friend, 

Nor he a father, since two mothers shall 

Make that up to him. I am journeying south. 

And in my Tuscan home I'll find a niche 

And set thee there, my saint, the child and thee. 

And burn the lights of love before thy face. 

And ever at thy sweet look cross myself 

From mixing with the world's prosperities ; 

That so, in gravity and holy calm. 

We two may live on toward the truer Hfe." 

She looked me in the face and answered not. 

Nor signed she was unworthy, nor gave thanks. 

But took the sleeping child, and held it out 

To meet my kiss, as if requiting me 

And trusting me at once. And thus, at once, 

I carried him and her to where I live : 

She's there now, in the little room asleep, 

I hear the soft child-breathing through the door ; 

And all three of us, at to-morrow's break. 

Pass onward, homeward, to our Italy. 

O Romney Leigh ! 1 have your debts to pay. 



Aurora Leigh. 



And I'll be just and pay them. 

But yourself 
To pay your debts is scarcely difficult ; 
To buy your life is nearly impossible, 
Being sold away to Lamia. My head aches ; 
I cannot see my road along this dark ; 
Nor can I creep and grope, as fits the dark. 
For these foot -catching robes of womanhood : 
A man might walk a little . . . but 1 ! — He loves 
The Lamia-woman, — and I write to him 
What stops his marriage, and destroys his peace. 
Or what perhaps shall simply trouble him, 
LIntil she only need to touch his sleeve 
With just a finger's tremulous white fiame, 
Saying, " Ah, Aurora Leigh ! a pretty tale, 
A very pretty poet ! I can guess 
The motive," — then, to catch his eyes in hers 
And vow she does not wonder, and they two 
To break in laughter, as the sea along 
A melancholy coast, and float up higher, 
In such a laugh, their fatal weeds of love I 
Ay, fatal, ay. And who shall answer me 
Fate has not hurried tides, and if to-night 
My letter would not be a night too late. 
An arrow shot into a man that's dead. 
To prove a vain intention } Would I show 
The new wife vile to make the husband mad } 
No, Lamia ! shut the shutters, bar the doors 
From every glimmer on thy serpent-skin : 
I will not let thy hideous secret out 
To agonize the man I love — I mean 
The friend I love ... as friends love. 

It is stranj-'r, 
To-day, while Marian told her story like 
To absorb most listeners, how I listened chief 
To a voice not hers, nor yet that enemy's. 
Nor God's in wrath . . . but one that mixed with mine 
Long years ago among the garden-trees. 
And said to vie, to me too, " Be my wife, 
Aurora." It is strange with what a swell 
Of yearning passion, as a snow of ghosts 
Might beat against the impervious door of heaven, 
I thought, " Now, if I had been a woman, such 
As God made women, to save men by love, 



Aurora Lcii^h. 



20I 




Tears, tears ! vvhv we weep 



? 'TiS WORTH INQUIRY ? 



202 Aurora Leigh. 



By just my love I might have saved this man, 

And made a nobler poem for the world 

Than all I have failed in." But I failed besides 

In this ; and now he's lost— through me alone ! 

And, by my only fault, his empty house 

Sucks in at this same hour a wind from hell 

To keep his hearth cold, make his casements creak 

Forever to the tune of plague and sin — 

O Romney, O my Romney, O my friend ! 

My cousin and friend ! my helper, when I would ! 

My love, that might be ! mine I 

Why, how one weeps 
When one's too weary ! Were a witness by, 
He'd say some folly . . . that I loved the man. 
Who knows ? . . . and make me laugh again for scorn. 
At strongest, women are as weak in flesh. 
As men, at weakest, vilest, are in soul : 
So hard for women to keep pace with man ! 
As well give up at once, sit down at once. 
And weep as I do. Tears, tears ! why we weep } 
'Tis worth inquiry.? — That we've shamed a life, 
Or lost a love, or missed a world, perhaps } 
By no means. Simply that we've walked too far, 
Or talked too much, or felt the wind i' the east; 
And so we weep, as if both body and soul 
Broke up in water — this way. 

Poor mixed rags 
Forsooth we're made of, like those other dolls 
That lean with pretty faces into fairs. 
It seems as if I had a man in me, 
Despising such a woman. 

Yet, indeed. 
To see a wrong or suffering moves us all 
To undo it, though we should undo ourselves ; 
Ay, all the more that we undo ourselves : 
That's womanly, past doubt, and not ill-moved. 
A natural movement, therefore, on my part. 
To fill the chair up of my cousin's wife. 
And save him from a Devil's company ! 
We're all so, — made so : 'tis our woman's trade 
To suffer torment for another's ease. 
The world's male chivalry has perished out ; 
But women are knights-errant to the last ; 
And if Cervantes had been Shakspeare too, 



Aurora Leigh. 203 



He had made his Don a Donna. 
And so we rain our skies blue. 



So it clears, 
Put away 



This weakness. If, as I have just now said, 
A man's within me, let him act himself, 
Ignoring the poor conscious trouble of blood 
That's called the woman merely. I will write 
Plain words to England, — if too late, too late ; 
If ill accounted, then accounted ill : 
We'll trust the heavens with something. 

" Dear Lord Howe, 
You'll find a story on another leaf 
Of Marian Erie, — what noble friend of yours 
She trusted once, through what flagitious means, 
To what disastrous ends : the story's true. 
I found her wandering on the Paris quays, 
A babe upon her breast, — unnatural 
Unseasonable outcast on such snow, 
Unthawed to this time. I will tax in this 
Your friendship, friend, if that convicted she 
Be not his wife yet, to denounce the facts 
To himself, but otherwise to let them pass 
On tiptoe like escaping murderers, 
And tell my cousin merely — Marian lives, 
Is found, and finds her home with such a friend, 
Myself, Aurora. Which good news, ' She's found,' 
Will help to make him merry in his love : 
I send it, tell him, for my marriage-gift. 
As good as orange-water for the nerves. 
Or perfumed gloves for headache, — though aware 
That he, except of love, is scarcely sick : 
I mean the new love this time . . . since last year. 
Such quick forgetting on the part of men ! 
Is any shrewder trick upon the cards 
To enrich them .'' Pray instruct me how 'tis done. 
First, clubs ; and while you look at clubs, 'tis spades , 
That's prodigy. The lightning strikes a man, 
And, when we think to find him dead and charred . . . 
Why, there he is on a sudden playing pipes 
Beneath the splintered elm-tree ! Crime and shame, 
And all their hoggery, trample your smooth world. 
Nor leave more foot-marks than Apollo's kine, 
Whose hoofs were muffled by the thieving god 



204 Aurora Leigh. 



In tamarisk-leaves and myrtle. I'm so sad, 

So weary and sad to-night, I'm somewhat sour,— 

Forgive me. To be blue and shrew at once 

Exceeds all toleration except yours ; 

But yours, I know, is infinite. Farewell ! 

To-morrow we take train for Italy. 

Speak gently of me to your gracious wife, 

As one, however far, shall yet be near 

In loving wishes to your house." 

I sign. 
And now I loose my heart upon a page, 
This— 

" Lady Waldemar, I'm very glad 
I never liked you ; which you knew so well 
You spared me, in your turn, to like me much. 
Your liking surely had done worse for me 
Than has your loathing, though the last appears 
Sufficiently unscrupulous to hurt. 
And not afraid of judgment. Now there's space 
Between our faces, I stand off, as if 
I judged a stranger's portrait, and pronounced 
Indifferently the type was good or bad. 
What matter to me that the lines are false } 
I ask you. Did I ever ink my lips 
By drawing your name through them as a friend's? 
Or touch your hands as lovers do } Thank God 
I never did ! And since you're proved so vile, 
Ay, vile, I say, — we'll show it presently, — 
I'm not obliged to nurse my friend in you, 
Or wash out my own blots in counting yours, 
Or even excuse myself to honest souls 
Who seek to press my lip, or clasp my palm,— 
' Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first I ' 
'Tis true, by this time you may near me so 
That you're my cousin's wife. You've gambled deep 
As Lucifer, and won the morning-star 
In that case ; and the noble house of Leigh 
Must henceforth with its good roof shelter you. 
I cannot speak and burn you up between 
Those rafters, I who am born a Leigh ; nor speak 
And pierce your breast through Romney's, I who live 
His friend and cousin : so 3^ou're safe. You two 
Must grow together like the tares and wheat 
Till God's great fire. But make the best of time. 



Aurora Leigh. ■ 205 



" And hide this letter : let it speak no more 
Than I shall, how you tricked poor Marian Erie, 
And set her own love digging its own grave 
Within her green hope's pretty garden-ground,— 
Ay, sent her forth with some one of your sort, 
To'a wicked house in France, from which she fled 
With curses in her eyes and ears and throat, 
Her whole soul choked with curses, mad, in short, 
And madly scouring up and down for weeks 
The foreign hedgeless country, lone and lost,— 
So innocent, male fiends might slink within 
Remote hell-corners seeing her so defiled. 

"But you,— you are a woman, and more bold. 

To do you justice, you'd not shrink to face . . . 

We'll say, the unfledged life in the other room. 

Which, treading down God's corn, you trod in sight 

Of all the dogs in reach of all the guns,— 

Ay, Marian's babe, her poor unfathered child. 

Her yearling babe!- you'd face him when he wakes 

And opens up his wonderful blue eyes ; 

You'd meet them, and not wink perhaps, nor fear 

God's triumph in them and supreme revenge 

When righting his creation's balance-scale 

( You pulled as low as Tophet ) to the top 

Of most celestial innocence. For me 

Who am not as bold, I own those infant eyes 

Have set me praving. 

" While they look at heaven. 
No need of protestation in my words 
Against the place you've made them ! let them look. 
They'll do your business with the heavens, be sure : 
I spare you common curses. 

" Ponder this ; 

If haply you're the wife of Romney Leigh, 

( For which inheritance beyond your birth 

You sold that poisonous porridge called your soul ) 

I charge you be his faithful and true wife ! 

Keep warm his hearth, and clean his board, and, when 

He speaks, be quick with your obedience ; 

Still grind your paltry wants and low desires 

To dust beneath his heel, though, even thus. 

The ground must hurt him : it was writ of old, 

' Ye shall not yoke together ox and ass,' 



2o6 Aurora Leigh. 



The nobler and ignobler. Ay ; but you 

Shall do your part as well as such ill things 

Can do aught good. You shall not vex him, — mark, 

You shall not vex him, jar him when he's sad, 

Or cross him when he's eager. Understand 

To trick him with apparent sympathies. 

Nor let him see thee in the face too near, 

And unlearn thy sweet seeming. Pay the price 

Of lies by being constrained to lie on still : 

'Tis easy for thy sort : a million more 

Will scarcely damn thee deeper. 



You are very safe from Marian and myself: 
We'll breathe as softly as the infant here, 
And stir no dangerous embers. Fail a point. 
And show our Romney wounded, ill content. 
Tormented in his home, we open mouth, 
And such a noise will follow, the last trump's 
Will scarcely seem more dreadful, even to you ; 
You'll have no pipers after : Romney will 
( I know him ) push you forth as none of his. 
All other men declaring it well done ; 
While women, even the worst, your like, will draw 
Their skirts back, not to brush you in the street : 
And so I warn you. I'm . . . Aurora Leigh." 

The letter written, I felt satisfied. 

The ashes smouldering in me were thrown out 

By handfuls from me : I had writ my heart. 

And wept my tears, and now was cool and calm ; 

And, going straightway to the neighboring room, 

I lifted up the curtains of the bed 

Where Marian Erie — the babe upon her arm, 

Both faces leaned together like a pair 

Of folded innocences self-complete. 

Each smiling from the other — smiled and slept. 

There seemed no sin, no shame, no wrath, no grief. 

I felt she too had spoken words that night, 

But softer certainly, and said to God, 

Who laughs in heaven perhaps that such as I 

Should make ado for such as she. " Defiled " 

I wrote } " defiled " I thought her ? Stoop, 

Stoop lower, Aurora ! get the angels* leave 

To creep in somewhere, humbly on your knees. 



Doing which 



Aurora Leigh. 207 



Within this round of sequestration white 

In which they have wrapt earth's foundlings, heaven's elect. 

The next day we took train to Italy, 

And fled on southward in the roar of steam. 

The marriage-bells of Romney must be loud 

To sound so clear through all. I was not well, 

And truly, though the truth is like a jest, 

I could not choose but fancy, half the way, 

I stood alone i' the belfry, fifty bells, 

Of naked iron, mad with merriment, 

( As one who laughs and cannot stop himself ) 

All clanking at me, in me, over me. 

Until I shrieked a shriek I could not hear. 

And swooned with noise, but still, along my swoon, 

Was 'ware the baffled changes backward rang, 

Prepared at each emerging sense to beat 

And crash it out with clangor. I was weak ; 

I struggled for the posture of my soul 

In upright consciousness of place and time, 

But evermore, 'twixt waking and asleep. 

Slipped somehow, staggered, caught at Marian's e^'es 

A moment, (it is very good for strength 

To know that some one needs you to be strong) 

And so recovered what I call myself. 

For that time. 

I just knew it when we swept 
Above the old roofs of Dijon. Lyons dropped 
A spark into the night, half trodden out 
Unseen. But presently the winding Rhone 
Washed out the moonlight large along his banks 
Which strained their yielding curves out clear and clean 
To hold it, — shadow of town and castle blurred 
Upon the hurrying river. Such an air 
Blew thence upon the forehead, — half an air 
And half a water — that I leaned and looked. 
Then, turning back on Marian, smiled to mark 
That she looked only on her child, who slept, 
His face toward the moon too. 

So we passed 
The liberal open country and the close. 
And shot through tunnels, like a lightning-wedge 
By great Thor-hammers driven through the rock. 
Which, quivering through the intestine blackness, splits, 



2o8 Aurora Leigh. 



And lets it in at once : the train swept in 

Athrob with effort, trembling with resolve, 

The fierce denouncing whistle wailing on. 

And dying off, smothered in the shuddering dark ; 

While we self-awed, drew troubled breath, oppressed 

As other Titans, underneath the pile 

And nightmare of the mountains. Out, at last, 

To catch the dawn afloat upon the land. 

—Hills, slung forth broadly and gauntly everywhere. 

Not crampt in their foundations, pushing wide 

Rich outspreads of the vineyards and the corn, 

(As if they entertained i' the name of France) 

While down their straining sides streamed manifest 

A soil as red as Charlemagne's knightly blood. 

To consecrate the verdure. Some one said, 

" Marseilles ! " And lo, the city of Marseilles, 

With all her ships behind her, and beyond, 

The cimiter of ever-shining sea 

For right-hand use, bared blue against the sky ! 

That night we spent between the purple heaven 
And purple water. I think Marian slept ; 
But I, as a dog a- watch for his master's foot. 
Who cannot sleep or eat before he hears, 
I sate upon the deck, and watched the night. 
And listened through the stars for Italy. 
Those marriage-bells I spoke of sounded far, 
As some child's go-cart in the street beneath 
To a dying man who will not pass the day, 
And knows it, holding by a hand he loves. 
I, too, sate quiet, satisfied with death, 
Sate silent. I could hear my own soul speak. 
And had my friend ; for Nature comes sometimes, 
And says, " I am ambassador for God." 
I felt the wind soft from the land of souls ; 
The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight, 
One straining past another along the shore, 
The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts 
Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of seas, 
And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing peak, 
They stood. I watched, beyond that Tyrian belt 
Of intense sea betwixt them and the ship, 
Down all their sides the misty olive-woods 
Dissolving in the weak congenial moon. 



Au?'ora Leigh. 



209 




That night we spent between the purple heave> 



And Still disclosing some brown convent-tower. 

That seems as if it grew from some brown rock, 

Or many a little lighted village, dropt 

Like a fallen star upon so high a point 

You wonder what can keep it in its place 

From sliding headlong with the water-falls 

Which powder all the myrtle and orange groves 

With spray of silver. Thus my Italy 

Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with day ; 

The Doria's long pale palace striking out, 

From green hills in advance of the white town, 

A marble finger dominant to ships. 

Seen glimmering through the uncertain gray of dawn. 



Aui'ora Leis'h. 



And then I did not think, " My Italy ! " 

I thought, " My father ! " Oh, my father's house, 

Without his presence ! Places are too much. 

Or else too little, for immortal man, — 

Too little, when love's May o'ergrovvs the ground ; 

Too much, when that luxuriant robe of green 

Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. 

'Tis only good to be or here or there, 

Because we had a dream on such a stone, 

Or this or that ; but once being wholly waked. 

And come back to the stone without the dream, 

We trip upon't, alas ! and hurt ourselves ; 

Or else it falls on us, and grinds us flat, — 

The heaviest gravestone on this burying earth. 

— But, while I stood and mused, a quiet touch 

Fell light upon my arm, and, turning round, 

A pair of moistened eyes convicted mine, 

" What, Marian ! is the babe astir so soon ? " 

" He sleeps," she answered. " I have crept up thrice, 

And seen you sitting, standing, still at watch. 

I thought it did you good till now ; but now "... 

"But now," I said, "you leave the child alone." 

" And you're alone," she answered ; and she looked 

As if I, too, were something. Sweet the help 

Of one we have helped ! Thanks, Marian, for such help. 

I found a house at Florence on the hill 

Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower which keeps 

A post of double observation o'er 

That valley of Arno (holding as a hand 

The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole 

And Mount Morello and the setting sun, 

The Vallombrosan mountains opposite. 

Which sunrise tills as full as crystal cups 

Turned red to the brim because their wine is red. 

No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen 

By dwellers at my villa. Morn and eve 

Were magnified before us in the pure 

Illimitable space and pause of sky. 

Intense as angels' garments blanched with God, 

Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall 

Of the garden drops the mystic floating gray 

Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green 

From maize and vine) until 'tis caught and torn 



Aurora Lcizh. 



Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses 
Which signs the way to Florence. Beautiful 
The city lies along the ample vale, 
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street, 
The river trailing like a silver cord 
Through all, and curling loosely, both before 
And after, over the whole stretch of land 
Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes 
With farms and villas. 

Many weeks had passed, 
No word was granted. Last, a letter came 
From Vincent Carrington, — " My dear Miss Leigh, 
You've been as silent as a poet should, 
When any other man is sure to speak. 
If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver piece 
Will split a man's tongue, — straight he speaks, and says, 
* Received that check.' But you ... I send you funds 
To Paris, and you make no sign at all. 
Remember I'm responsible, and wait 
A sign of you, Miss Leigh. 

" Meantime your book 
Is eloquent as if you were not dumb ; 
And common critics, ordinarily deaf 
To such fine meanings, and, like deaf men, loath 
To seem deaf, answering chance-wise, yes or no, 
' It must be,' or ' It must not,' (most pronounced 
When least convinced) pronounce for once aright : 
You'd think they really heard, — and so they do . . . 
The burr of three or four who really hear 
And praise your book aright : fame's smallest trump 
Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as posts. 
No other being effective. Fear not, friend : 
We think here you have written a good book. 
And you, a woman ! It was in you — yes, 
I felt 'twas in you ; yet I doubted half 
If that od-force of German Reichenbach, 
W^hich still from female finger-tips burns blue. 
Could strike out as our masculine white-heats 
To quicken a man. Forgive me. All my heart 
Is quick with yours since, just a fortnight since, 
I read your book and loved it. 

" Will you love 
My wife too ? Here's my secret I might keep 
A month more from you ; but I yield it up 



212 Au7'07'a Leigh. 



Because I know you'll write the sooner for't, 

Most women (of your height even) counting love 

Life's only serious business. Who's my wife 

That shall be in a month ? you ask ? nor guess ? 

Remember what a pair of topaz eyes 

You once detected, turned against the wall, 

That morning in my London painting-room ; 

The face half-sketched, and slurred ; the eyes alone ! 

But you . . . you caught them up with yours, and said 

' Kate Ward's eyes surely,' — Now I own the truth : 

I had thrown them there to keep them safe from Jove, 

They would so naughtily find out their way 

To both the heads of both my Danaes, 

Where just it made me mad to look at them. 

Such eyes ! T could not paint or think of eyes 

But those,— and so I flung them into paint. 

And turned them to the wall's care. Ay, but now 

I've let them out, my Kate's. I've painted her, 

( I change my style, and leave mythologies). 

The whole sweet face : it looks upon my soul 

Like a face on water, to beget itself. 

A half-length portrait, in a hanging cloak 

Like one you wore once ; 'tis a little frayed,— 

I pressed too for the nude, harmonious arm ; 

But she, she'd have her way, and have her cloak : 

She said she could be like you only so, 

And would not miss the fortune. Ah, my friend. 

You'll write and say she shall not miss your love 

Through meeting mine } in faith, she would not change. 

She has your books by heart more than my words. 

And quotes you up against me till I'm pushed 

Where, three months since, her eyes were : nay, in fact. 

Naught satisfied her but to make me paint 

Your last book folded in her dimpled hands. 

Instead of my brown palette, as I wished. 

And, grant me, the presentment had been newer : 

She'd grant me nothing. I compounded for 

The naming of the wedding-day next month. 

And gladly too. 'Tis pretty to remark 

How women can love women of your sort. 

And tie their hearts w^ith love-knots to your feet, 

Grow insolent about you against men. 

And put us down by putting up the lip. 

As if a man — there are such, let us own. 



Aurora Leigh. 213 



Who write not ill— remains a man, poor wretch, 

While you !— Write weaker than Aurora Leigh, 

And there'll be women who believe of you 

( Besides my Kate) that if you walked on sand 

You would not leave a footprint. ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ 

To wonder by my marriage, like poor Leigh ? 

' Ka e Ward ! ' he said. ' Kate Ward ! he said ane^^^ 

^r thought' ... he said, and stopped,-'! d.d not 

think ' . . . 
And then he dropped to silence. ^^ ^^^ ^^,^ ^^^^^^^^^ 

I had not seen him, you're aware, for long, 
But went, of course. I have not touched on this 
Through all this letter, conscious of your heart. 
And writing lightlier for the heavy fact. 
As clocks are voluble with lead. 

" How poor. 
To say I'm sorry! dear Leigh, dearest Leigh ! 
In those old davs of Shropshire.-pardon me — 
When he and you fought many a held of gold 
On what you should do, or you should not do,— 
Make bread, or verses, (it just came to that) 
I thought you'd one day draw a silken peace 
Through a golden ring. I thought so : foolishly, 
The event proved ; for you went more opposite 
To each other, month by month, and year by year. 
Until this happened. God knows best, we say. 
But hoarselv. When the fever took him hrst, 
Tust after I had writ to you in France 
They tell me Lady Waldemar mixed drinks, 
And counted grains, like any salaried nurse. 
Excepting that she wept too. Then, Lord Howe, 
You ?e rilht about Lord Howe, Lord Howe's a trump ; 
And yet, with such in his hand, a man like Leigh 
May lose as he does. There's an end to all. 
Yes, even this letter, though this second sheet 
May find you doubtful. Write a word for Kate : 
She reads my letters always, like a wife. 
And if she sees her name I'll see her smile 
And share the luck. So, bless you, friend of two ! 
I will not ask you what your feeling is 
At Florence with my pictures. I can hear 



214 Aurora Leigh. 



Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills ; 

And, just to pace the Pitti with you once, 

I'd give a half-hour of to-morrow's walk 

With Kate ... I think so. Vincent Carrington." 

The noon was hot : the air scorched like the sun, 

And was shut out. The closed persiani threw 

Their long-scored shadows on my villa-floor, 

And interlined the golden atmosphere 

Straight, still, — across the pictures on the wall. 

The statuette on the console, (of young Love 

And Psyche made one marble by a kiss) 

The low couch where I leaned, the table near, 

The vase of lilies Marian pulled last night, 

( Each green leaf and each white leaf ruled in black 

As if for writing some new text of fate ) 

And the open letter rested on my knee ; 

But there the lines swerved, trembled, though I sate 

Untroubled, plainly, reading it again 

And three times. Well, he's married : that is clear, 

No wonder that he's married, nor, much more, 

That Vincent's therefore " sorry." Why, of course 

The lady nursed him when he was not well, 

Mixed drinks — unless nepenthe was the drink 

'Twas scarce worth telling. But a man in love 

Will see the whole sex in his mistress' hood, 

The prettier for its lining of fair rose, 

Although he catches back and says at last, 

" I'm sorry," Sorry. Lady Waldemar 

At prettiest, under the said hood, preserved 

From such a light as I could hold to her face 

To flare its ugly wrinkles out to shame, 

Is^carce a wife for Romney, as friends judge, — 

Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington : 

That's plain. And if he's " conscious of my heart "... 

It may be natural, though the phrase is strong ; 

( One's apt to use strong phrases, being in love) 

And even that stuff of " fields of gold," "gold rings," 

And what he " thought," poor Vincent ! what he " thought, 

May never mean enough to ruffle me. 

— Why, this room stifles. Better burn than choke : 

Best have air, air, although it comes with fire ; 

Throw open blinds and windows to the noon. 

And take a blister on my brow instead 



Aurora Leigh. 215 



Of this dead weight ! best perfectly be stunned 

By those insufferable cicale, sick 

And hoarse with rapture of the summer heat, 

That sing, like poets, till their hearts break,— sing 

Till men say.-' It's too tedious." Books succeed, 

And lives fail. Do I feel it so at last ? 

Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being like mine. 

While I live self-despised for being myself. 

And yearn toward some one else, who yearns away 

From what he is, in his turn. Strain a step 

Forever, yet gain no step ? Are we such 

We cannot, with our admirations even, 

Our tiptoe aspirations, touch a thing 

That's higher than we ? Is all a dismal flat. 

And God alone above each,— as the sun 

O'er level lagunes, to make them shine and stmk,— 

Laying stress upon us with immediate flame. 

While we respond with our miasmal fog. 

And call it mounting higher because we grow 

More highly fatal } 

Tush, Aurora Leigh ! 
You wear your sackcloth looped in Cesar's way. 
And brag your failings as mankind's. Be still. 
There is what's higher, in this very world 
Than you can live, or catch at. Stand aside. 
And look at others,— instance little Kate. 
She'll make a perfect wife for Carrington. 
She always has been looking round the earth 
For something good and green to alight upon 
And nestle into, with those soft-winged eyes, 
Subsiding now beneath his manly hand, ^ 

'Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive joy. 
I will not scorn her, after all, too. much, 
That so much she should love me. A wise man 
Can pluck a leaf, and find a lecture in't ; 
And I too . . . God has made me,— I've a heart 
That's capable of worship, love, and loss : 
We say the same of Shakspeare's. I'll be meek 
And learn to reverence, even this poor myself. 
The book, too— pass it. " A good book," says he, 
" And you a woman." I had laughed at that 
But long since. I'm a woman, it is true, 



2i6 Aurora Lei^h. 



Alas, and woe to us, when we feel it most ! 
Then least care have we for the crowns and goals 
And compliments on writing our good books. 

The book has some truth in it, I believe ; 

And truth outlives pain, as the soul does life. 

I know we talk our Phsedons to the end. 

Through all the dismal faces that we make, 

O'er-wrinkled with dishonoring agony 

From decomposing drugs. I have written truth, 

And I a woman, — feebly, partially. 

Inaptly in presentation, Romney '11 add, 

Because a woman. For the truth itself, 

That's neither man's nor woman's, but just God's ; 

None else has reason to be proud of truth : 

Himself will see it sifted, disinthralled, 

And kept upon the height and in the light, 

As far as and no farther than 'tis truth ; 

For now he has left off calling firmaments 

And strata, flowers and creatures, very good, 

He says it still of truth, which is his own. 

Truth, so far, in my book, — the truth which draws 

Through all things upwards, — that a twofold world 

Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural things 

And spiritual, — who separates those two 

In art, in morals, or the social drift. 

Tears up the bond of nature, and brings death. 

Paints futile pictures, writes unreal verse. 

Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly with men. 

Is wrong in short, at all points. We divide 

This apple of life, and cut it through the pips : 

The perfect round which fitted Venus' hand 

Has perished as utterly as if we ate 

Both halves. Without the spiritual, observe. 

The natural's impossible, no form. 

No motion : without sensuous, spiritual 

Is inappreciable, no beauty or power. 

And in this twofold sphere the twofold man 

( For still the artist is intensely a man) 

Holds firmly by the natural to reach 

The spiritual beyond it, fixes still 

The type with mortal vision to pierce through. 

With eyes immortal to the antetype 



Aurora Leizh. 



217 



Some call the ideal, better called the real, 

And certain to be called so presently, 

When things shall have their names. Look long enough 

On any peasant's face here, coarse and lined, 

You'll catch Antinous somewhere in that clay, 

As perfect-featured as he yearns at Rome 

From marble pale with beauty ; then persist, 

And, if your apprehension's competent. 

You'll find some fairer angel at his back, 

As much exceeding him as he the boor. 

And pushing him with empyreal disdain 

Forever out of sight. Ay, Carrington 

Is glad of such a creed : an artist must. 

Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common stone 

With just his hand, and finds it suddenly 

Apiece with and conterminous to his soul. 

Why else do these things move him, — leaf, or stone 't 

The bird's not moved, that pecks at a spring-shoot ; 

Nor yet the horse, before a quarry agraze : 

But man, the twofold creature, apprehends 

The twofold manner, in and outwardly, 

And nothing in the world comes single to him, 

A mere itself, — cup, column, or candlestick, 

All patterns of what shall be in the Mount ; 

The whole temporal show related royally. 

And built up to eterne significance 

Through the open arms of God. " There's nothing great 

Nor small," has said a poet of our day. 

Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve, 

And not be thrown out by the matin's bell : 

And truly, I reiterate. Nothing's small ! 

No lily-mufifled hum of a summer-bee. 

But finds some coupling with the spinning stars ; 

No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere ; 

No chafftnch, but implies the cherubim ; 

And (glancing on my own thin, veined wrist) 

In such a little tremor of the blood 

The whole strong clamor of a vehement soul 

Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven, 

And every common bush afire with God ; 

But only he who sees takes off his shoes. 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries. 

And daub their natural faces unaware 

More and more from the first similitude. 



2i8 Aurora Leigh. 



Truth so far, in my book I— a truth which draws 

From all things upward. I, Aurora, still 

Have felt it hound me through the wastes of life 

As Jove did lo ; and until that hand 

Shall overtake me wholly, and on my head 

Lay down its large unfluctuating peace, 

The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and down. 

It must be. Art's the witness of what is 

Behind this show. If this world's show were all, 

Then imitation would be all in art. 

There Jove's hand gripes us ! for we stand here, we. 

If genuine artists, witnessing for God's 

Complete, consummate, undivided work ; 

— That every natural flower which grows on earth 

Implies a flower upon the spiritual side, 

Substantial, archetypal, all aglow 

With blossoming causes, — not so far away, 

But we whose spirit-sense is somewhat cleared 

May catch at something of the bloom and breath, — 

Too vaguely apprehended, though, indeed, 

Still apprehended, consciously or not, 

And still transferred to picture, music, verse, 

For thrilling audient and beholding souls 

By signs and touches which are known to souls. 

How known, they know not ; why, they cannot find : 

So straight call out on genius, say, " A man 

Produced this," when much rather they should say, 

" 'Tis insight, and he saw this." 

Thus is art 
Self-magnified in magnifying a truth 
Which, fully recognized, would change the world. 
And shift its morals. If a man could feel. 
Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy. 
But every day, — feast, fast, or working day, — 
The spiritual significance burn through 
The hieroglyphic of material shows. 
Henceforward he would paint the globe with wings, 
And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, the tree, 
And even his very body as a man ; 
Which now he counts so vile, that all the towns 
Make offal of their daughters for its use 
On summer-nights, when God is sad in heaven 
To think what goes on in his recreant world 
He made quite other ; while that moon he made 



Aurora Leigh. 219 



To shine there, at the first love's covenant, 
Shines still, convictive as a marriage-ring 
Before adulterous eyes. 



How sure it 



That, if we say a true word, instantly 

We feel 'tis God's, not ours, and pass it on, 

Like bread at sacrament we taste and pass, 

Nor handle for a moment, as indeed 

We dared to set up any claim to such ! 

And I — my poem— let my readers talk. 

I'm closer to it, I can speak as well : 

I'll say with Romney, that the book is weak, 

The range uneven, the points of sight obscure, 

The music interrupted. 



Let us go. 



The end of woman (or of man, I think) 
Is not a book. Alas, the best of books 
Is but a word in art, which soon grows cramped. 
Stiff, dubious-statured, with the weight of years. 
And drops an accent or digamma down 
Some cranny of unfathomable time. 
Beyond the critic's reaching. Art itself. 
We've called the larger life, must feel the soul 
Live past it. For more's felt than is perceived. 
And more's perceived than can be interpreted, 
And love strikes higher with his lambent flame 
Than art can pile the fagots. 

Is it so ? 
When Jove's hand meets us with composing touch. 
And when at last we are hushed and satisfied, 
Then lo does not call it truth, but love } 
Well, well ! my father was an Englishman : 
My mother's blood in me is not so strong 
That I should bear this stress of Tuscan noon. 
And keep my wits. The town there seems to seethe 
In this Medcean boil-pot of the sun, 
And all the patient hills are bubbling round 
As if a prick would leave them flat. Does heaven 
Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze ? 
Not so ; let drag your fiery fringes, heaven, 
And burn us up to quiet. Ah ! we know 
Too much here, not to know what's best for peace ; 
We have too much light here, not to want more fire 
To purify and end us. We talk, talk, 



2 20 Aurora Leixr/i. 



Conclude upon divine philosophies. 

And get the thanks of men for hopeful books ; 

Whereat we take our own life up, and . . . pshaw ! 

Unless we piece it with another's life, 

( A yard of silk to carry out our lawn ) 

As well suppose my little handkerchief 

Would cover Samminiato, church and all. 

If out ! threw it past the cypresses, 

As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine. 

Contain my own conclusions. 

But at least 

We'll shut up the persiani, and sit down, 

And when my head's done aching, in the cool. 

Write just a word to Kate and Carrington. 

May joy be with them ! she has chosen well, 

And he not ill. 

I should be glad, I think. 

Except for Romney. Had he married Kate, 

I surely, surely, should be very glad, 

This Florence sits upon me easily, 

With native air and tongue. My graves are calm. 

And do not too much hurt me. 'Marian's good. 

Gentle, and loving, lets me hold the child, 

Or drags him up the hills to find me flowers 

And fill these vases ere I'm quite awake, ^ 

My grandiose red tulips, which grow wild ; 

Or Dante's purple lilies, which he blew 

To a larger bubble with his prophet breath ; 

Or one of those tall flowering reeds that stand 

In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres left 

By some remote dynasty of dead gods. 

To suck the stream for ages, and get green. 

And blossom wheresoe'er a hand divine 

Had warmed the place with ichor. Such I find 

At early morning laid across my bed. 

And wake up pelted with a childish laugh 

Which even Marian's low precipitous " Hush ! " 

Has vainly interposed to put away ; 

While I, with shut eyes, smile and motion for 

The dewy kiss that's very sure to come 

From mouth and cheeks, the whole child's face at once 

Dissolved on mine, as if a nosegay burst 

Its string with the weight of roses overblown. 

And dropt upon me. Surely I should be glad. 



Aurora Leigh. 



The little creature almost loves me now, 
And calls my name " Alola," stripping off 
The r's like thorns, to make it smooth enough 
To take between his dainty, milk-fed lips. 
God love him ! I should certainly be glad. 
Except, God help me! that I'm sorrowful 
Because of Romney. 

Romney, Romney ! Well, 
This grows absurd,— too like a tune that runs 
r the head, and forces all things in the world- 
Wind, rain, the creaking gnat or stuttering fly- 
To sing itself, and vex you ; yet perhaps 
A paltry tune you never fairly liked, 
Some " I'd be a butterfly," or " C'est I'amour." 
We're made so, — not such tyrants to ourselves. 
But still we are slaves to nature. Some of us 
Are turned, too, overmuch like some poor verse 
With a trick of ritournelle : the same thing goes, 
And comes back ever. 

Vincent Carrington 

Is " sorry," and I'm sorry ; but hcs strong 

To mount from sorrow to his heaven of love, 

And when he says at moments, " Poor, poor Leigh, 

Who'll never call his own so true a heart, 

So fair a face even," he must quickly lose 

The pain of pity in the blush he makes 

By his very pitying eyes. The snow, for him, 

Has fallen in May, and finds the whole earth warm, 

And melts at the first touch of the green grass. 

But Romney,— he has chosen, after all. 

I think he had as excellent a sun 

To see by as most others ; and perhaps 

Has scarce seen really worse than some of us. 

When all's said. Let him pass. I'm not too much 

A woman, not to be a man for once, 

And bury all my dead like Alaric, 

Depositing the treasures of my soul 

In this drained water-course, then letting flow 

The river of life again with commerce-ships, 

And pleasure-barges full of silks and songs. 

Blow, winds, and help us. 

Ah, we mock ourselves 

With talking of the winds ! perhaps as much 



222 Aurora Leigh. 



With other resolutions. How it weighs, 
This hot, sick air ! and how I covet here 
The dead's provision on the river-couch. 
With silver curtains drawn on tinkling rings; 
Or else their rest in quiet crypts, laid by 
From heat and noise, from those cicale, say. 
And this more vexing heart-beat ! 



So it is. 



We covet for the soul the body's part. 

To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, ends 

Our aspiration who bespoke our place 

So far in the east. The occidental flats 

Had fed us fatter, therefore ? we have climbed 

Where herbage ends ? we want the beast's part now, 

And tire of the angel's ? Men define a man, 

The creature who stands front-ward to the stars. 

The creature who looks inward to himself. 

The tool-wright, laughing creature. 'Tis enough : 

We'll say, instead, the inconsequent creature, man. 

For that's his specialty. What creature else 

Conceives the circle, and then walks the square } 

Loves things proved bad, and leaves a thing proved good ^ 

You think the bee makes honey half a year, 

To loathe the comb in winter, and desire 

The little ant's food rather } But a man — 

Note men ! — they are but women, after all, 

As women are but Aurpras ! — there are men 

Born tender, apt to pale at a trodden worm, 

Who paint for pastime, in their favorite dream, 

Spruce auto-vestments flowered with crocus-fiames ; 

There are, too, who believe in hell, and lie ; 

There are, too, who believe in heaven, and fear ; 

There are, who waste their souls in working out 

Life's problem on these sands betwixt two tides. 

Concluding, " Give us the oyster's part, in death." 

Alas, long-suffering and most patient God, 
Thou needst be surelier God to bear with us 
Than even to have made us ! thou aspire, aspire 
From henceforth for me ! thou who hast thyself 
Endured this fieshhood, knowing how as a soaked 
And sucking vesture it can drag us down. 
And choke us in the melancholy deep. 
Sustain me, that with thee I walk these waves. 



Aurora Leigh. 



223 



Resisting '.—breathe me upward, thou \\\ me 
Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, the hfe,— 
That no truth henceforth seem mdifferent 
No way to truth laborious, and no life, 
Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 

The days went by. I took up the old 

days, 
With all their Tuscan pleasures worn 

and spoiled. 
Like some lost book we dropt m the 

long grass 
On such a happy summer afternoon. 
When last we read it with a lovmg 
friend, c • a 

And find in autumn, when the friend 

is gone, 
The grass cut short, the weather 

changed, too late, 
And stare at, as at somethmg 

wonderful, 
For sorrow, thinking how two 

hands before 
Had held up what is left to only \ 

one. 
And how we smiled when such 

a vehement nail 
Impressed the tiny dint here 

which presents 
This verse in fire forever. Ten- 
derly 
And mournfully I lived. I knew 

the birds 
And insects, which looked fath- 
ered by the f^ow^ers 
And emulous of their hues ; I 

recognized . 

The moths, with that great overpoise of wings 
Which make a mystery of them how at all 
They can stop flying ; butterflies, that bear 
Upon their blue wings such red embers round. 
They seem to scorch the blue air into holes 
Each flight they take ; and fireflies, that suspire 
In short soft lapses of transported flame 




Insects, which i.ooiced fatheked 
by the flowers. 



224 Aurora Leigh. 



Across the tinkling dark, while overhead 

The constant and inviolable stars 

Outburn those lights-of-love ; melodious owls, 

( If music had but one note and was sad, 

'Twould sound just so), and all the silent swirl 

Of bats that seem to follow in the air 

Some grand circumference of a shadowy dome 

To which we are blind ; and then the nightingales, 

Which pluck our heart across a garden- wall, 

( When walking in the town) and carry it 

So high into the bowery almond-trees 

We tremble and are afraid, and feel as if 

The golden flood of moonlight unaware 

Dissolved the pillars of the steady earth 

And made it less substantial. And I knew 

The harmless opal snakes, the large- mouthed frogs, 

( Those noisy vaunters of their shallow streams ) 

And lizards, the green lightnings of the wall, 

Which, if you sit down quiet, nor sigh loud, 

Will flatter you, and take you for a stone, 

And flash familiarly about your feet 

With such prodigious eyes in such small heads ! — 

I knew them (though they had somewhat dwindled from 

My childish imagery), and kept in mind 

How last I sate among them equally. 

In fellowship and mateship, as a child 

Feels equal still toward insect, beast, and bird, 

Before the Adam in him has foregone 

All privilege of Eden, making friends 

And talk with such a bird or such a goat. 

And buying many a two-inch-wide rush-cage 

To let out the caged cricket on a tree, 

Saying, " Oh, my dear grillino, were you cramped ? 

And are you happy with the ilex-leaves ? 

And do you love me who have let you go ? 

Say j't'i- in singing, and I'll understand." 

But now the creatures all seemed farther off, 

No longer mine, nor like me, only there, 

A gulf between us. I could yearn, indeed, 

Like other rich men, for a drop of dew 

To cool this heat, — a drop of the early dew, 

The irrecoverable child-innocence 

(Before the heart took fire and withered life) 



Aurora Leigh. 



225 



When childhood might pair equally with birds ; 

But now ... the birds were grown too proud for us, 

Alas ! the very sun forbids the dew. 

And I— I had come back to an empty nest, 

Which every bird's too wise for. How I heard 

My father's 'step on that deserted ground, 

His voice along that silence, as he told 

The names of bird and insect, tree and flower, 

And all the presentations of the stars 

Across Valdarno, interposing still 

" My child," "my child." When fathers say, " My child, 

'Tis easier to conceive the universe, 

And life's transitions down the steps of law. 

I rode once to the little mountain-house 
As fast as if to find mv father there ; 




Back we went as fast, to Florence. 



2 26 Aurora Leigh. 



But when in sight oft, within fifty yards, 

I dropped my horse's bridle on his neck, 

And paused upon his flank. The house's front 

Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian corn 

In tessellated order and device 

Of golden patterns, not a stone of wall 

Uncovered, not an inch of room to grow 

A vine-leaf. The old porch had disappeared, 

And right in the open doorway sate a girl 

At plaiting straws, her black hair strained away 

To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath her chin 

In Tuscan fashion, her full ebon eyes. 

Which looked too heavy to be lifted so, 

Still dropt and lifted toward the mulberr^'-tree, 

On which the lads were busy with their staves 

In shout and laughter, stripping every bough. 

As bare as winter, of those summer leaves 

My father had not changed for all the silk 

In which the ugly silkworms hide themselves. 

Enough. My horse recoiled before my heart. 

I turned the rein abruptly. Back we went 

As fast, to Florence. 

That was trial enough 
Of graves. I would not visit, if I could, 
My father's, or my mother's any more, 
To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat 
So early in the race, or throw my flowers, 
Which could not out-smell heaven, or sweeten earth. 
They live too far above, that I should look 
So far below to find them : let me think 
That rather they are visiting my grave. 
Called life here, (undeveloped yet to life) 
And that they drop upon me now and then, 
For token or for solace, some small weed 
Least odorous of the growths of paradise, 
To spare such pungent scents as kill with joy. 

My old Assunta, too, was dead, — was dead. 
O land of all men's past ! for me alone 
It would not mix its tenses. I was past. 
It seemed, like others, — only not in heaven. 
And many a Tuscan eve I wandered down 
The cypress alley like a restless ghost 
That tries its feeble, ineffectual breath 



Aurora Leigh. 227 



Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out 

Too soon, where black and stiff stood up the trees 

Against the broad vermilion of the skies. 

Such skies !— all clouds abolished in a sweep 

Of God's skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts and men. 

As down I went, saluting on the bridge 

The hem of such before 'twas caught away 

Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Underneath, 

The river, just escaping from the weight 

Of that intolerable glory, ran 

In acquiescent shadow murmurously ; 

While up beside it streamed the festa-folk 

With fellow-murmurs from their feet and fans, 

And issimo and ino and sweet poise 

Of vowels in their pleasant, scandalous talk ; 

Returning from the grand-duke's dairy-farm 

Before the trees grew dangerous at eight, 

(For "trust no tree by moonlight," Tuscans say,) 

To eat their ice at Donay's tenderly, 

Each lovely lady close to a cavalier 

Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile 

On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, 

And listens to his hot-breathed vows of love. 

Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch his beard. 

'Twas little matter. I could pass them by 

Indifferently, not fearing to be known. 

No danger of being wrecked upon a friend. 

And forced to take an iceberg for an isle ! 

The very English here must wait, and learn 

To hang the cobweb of their gossip out 

To catch a fly. I'm happy. It's sublime, 

This perfect solitude of foreign lands ! 

To be as if you had not been till then. 

And were then, simply that you chose to be ; 

To spring up, not be brought forth from the ground, 

Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip thrice 

Before a woman makes a pounce on you 

And plants you in her hair !— possess, yourself, 

A new world all alive with creatures new,— 

New sun, new moon, new flowers, new people— ah. 

And be possessed by none of them ! no right 

In one to call your name, inquire your where. 

Or what you think of Mister Someone's book. 



228 Aurora Leis^h. 



Or Mister Other's marriage or decease, 

Or how's the headache which you had last week, 

Or why you look so pale still, since it's gone. 

— Such most surprising riddance of one's life 

Comes next one's death : 'tis disembodiment 

Without the pang. I marvel people choose 

To stand stock-still, like fakirs, till the moss 

Grows on them and they cry out, self-admired, 

" How verdant and how virtuous ! " Well, I'm glad, 

Or should be, if grown foreign to myself 

As surelv as to others. 



Musinir so, 



I walked the narrow, unrecognizmg streets, 

Where many a palace-front peers gloomily 

Through stony visors iron-barred, (prepared 

Alike, should foe or lover pass that way, 

For guest or victim,) and came wandering out 

Upon the churches with mild open doors 

And plaintive wail of vespers, where a few, 

Those chiefly women, sprinkled round in blots 

Upon the dusky pavement, knelt and prayed 

Toward the altar's silver glory. Oft a ray 

( I liked to sit and watch ) would tremble out, 

Just touch some face more lifted, more in need, 

( Of course a woman's) while I dreamed a tale 

To fit its fortunes. There was one who looked 

As if the earth had suddenly grown too large 

For such a little humpbacked thing as she ; 

The pitiful black kerchief round her neck 

Sole proof she had had a mother. One, again. 

Looked sick for love, seemed praying some soft saint 

To put more virtue in the new, fine scarf 

She spent a fortnight's meals on yesterday, 

That cruel Gigi might return his eyes 

From Giuliana. There was one, so old, 

So old, to kneel grew easier than to stand ; 

So solitary, she accepts at last 

Our Lady for her gossip, and frets on 

Against the sinful world which goes its rounds 

In marrying and being married, just the same 

As when 'twas almost good and had the right, 

( Her Gian alive and she herself eighteen.) 

" And yet, now even, if Madonna willed. 

She'd win a tern in Thursday's lottery. 



Aurora Leigh. 229 



And better all things. Did she dream for naught, 
That, boiling cabbage for the fast-day's soup, 
It smelt like blessed entrails ? such a dream 
For naught ? would sweetest Mary cheat her so, 
And lose that certain candle, straight and white 
As any fair grand-duchess in her teens, 
Which otherwise should flare here in a week ? 
Benig7ia sis, thou beauteous Queen of heaven ! " 

I sate there musing, and imagining- 

Such utterance from such faces, poor blind souls 

That writhe toward heaven along the Devil's trail : 

Who knows, I thought, but he may stretch his hand 

And pick them up ? 'Tis written in the Book 

He heareth the young ravens when they cry, 

And yet they cry for carrion. O my God ! 

And we who make excuses for the rest, 

We do it in our measure. Then I knelt. 

And dropped my head upon the pavement too, 

And prayed — since 1 was foolish in desire 

Like other creatures, craving offal-food — 

That he would stop his ears to what I said, 

And only listen to the run and beat 

Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood — 

And then 
I lay, and spoke not ; but he heard in heaven. 

So many Tuscan evenings passed the same. 

I could not lose a sunset on the bridge. 

And would not miss a vigil in the church, 

And liked to mingle with the outdoor crowd, 

So strange and gay, and ignorant of my face ; 

For men you know not are as good as trees. 

And only once, at the Santissima, 

I almost chanced upon a man I knew. 

Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me certainly. 

And somewhat hurried, as he crossed himself, 

The smoothness of the action ; then half bowed, 

But only half, and merely to my shade, 

I slipped so quick behind the porphyry plinth, 

And left him dubious if 'twas really I, 

Or perad venture Satan's usual trick 

To keep a mounting saint uncanonized. 

But he was safe for that time, and 1 too : 



230 Aurora Leigh. 



The argent angels in the altar-flare 

Absorbed his soul next moment. The good man ! 

In England we were scarce acquaintances, 

That here in Florence he should keep my thought 

Beyond the image on his eye, which came 

And went : and yet his thought disturbed my life ; 

For after that I oftener sat at home 

On evenings, watching how they fined themselves 

With gradual conscience to a perfect night, 

Until the moon, diminished to a curve, 

Lay out there like a sickle for His hand 

Who Cometh down at last to reap the earth. 

At such times ended seemed my trade of verse : 

I feared to jingle bells upon my robe 

Before the four-faced silent cherubim. 

With God so near me, could I sing of God } 

I did not write, nor read, nor even think, 

But sate absorbed amid the quickening glooms, 

Most like some passive broken lump of salt 

Dropt in by chance to a bowl of oenomel, 

To spoil the drink a little, and lose itself. 

Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. 



EIGHTH BOOK. 



One eve it happened, when I sate alone. 
Alone, upon the terrace of my tower, 
A book upon my knees to counterfeit 
The reading that I never read at all. 
While Marian, in the garden down below. 
Knelt by the fountain I could just hear thrill 
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day. 
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap 
In the grass beside her, turning out the red 
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it 
With vehement lips across a gap of air. 
As he stood opposite, face and curls aflame 
With that last sun-ray, crying, " Give me, give !" 
And stamping with imperious baby-feet, 
( We're all born princes) something startled me, 
The laugh of sad and innocent souls that breaks 
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself, 



Aurora Leis^/t. 231 



'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above 
In sudden shame that 1 should hear her laugh, 
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book, 
And knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tale, 
The P^alcon's, of the lover who for love 
Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us 
Do it still, and then we sit, and laugh no more. 
"LsiMghyou, sweet Marian, you've the right to laugh, 
Since God himself is for you, and a child. 
For me there's somewhat less, and so I sigh. 

The heavens were making room to hold the night. 

The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates 

To let the stars out slowly (prophesied 

In close-approaching advent, not discerned). 

While still the cue-owls from the cypresses 

Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse 

Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually 

The purple and transparent shadows slow 

Had filled up the whole valley to the brim, 

And flooded all the city, which you saw 

As some drowned city in some enchanted sea, 

Cut off from nature, drawing you who gaze, 

With passionate desire, to leap and plunge, 

And find a sea-king with a voice of waves. 

And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks 

You cannot kiss but you shall bring away 

Their salt upon your lips. The duomobell 

Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down, 

So deep, and twenty churches answer it 

The same, with twenty various instances. 

Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets ; 

The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire ; 

And, past the quays, Maria Novella Place, 

In which the mystic obelisks stand up 

Triangular, pyramidal, each based 

Upon its four-square brazen tortoises, 

To guard that fair church, Buonarroti's Bride, 

That stares out from her large blind dial-eyes, 

( Her quadrant and armillary dials, black 

With rhythms of many suns and moons) in vain 

Inquiry for so rich a soul as his. 

Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so clear . . . 

And O my heart . . . the sea-king ! 



232 Aurora Leigh, 



In my ears 
The sound of waters. There he stood, my king ! 

I felt him, rather than beheld him. Up 

I rose, as if he were my king indeed, 

And then sate down, in trouble at myself, 

And struggling for my woman's empery. 

'Tis pitiful ; but women are so made : 

We'll die for you, perhaps, — 'tis probable ; 

But we'll not spare you an inch of our full height : 

We'll have our whole just stature, — five feet four, 

Though laid out in our coffins : pitiful. 

— " You, Romney !— Lady Waldemar is here? " 

He answered in a voice which was not his. 

" I have her letter : you shall read it soon. 

But first I must be heard a little, I 

Who have waited long and travelled far for that, 

Although you thought to have shut a tedious book, 

And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such a page, 

And here you find me." 

Did he touch my hand, 
Or but my sleeve } I trembled, hand and foot : 
He must have touched me. " Will you sit ? " I asked, 
And motioned to a chair ; but down he sate, 
A little slowly, as a man in doubt, 
Upon the couch beside me, couch and chair 
Being wheeled upon the terrace. 

•• You are come, 
My cousin Romney .-' This is wonderful. 
But all is wonder on such summer-nights ; 
And nothing should surprise us any more. 
Who see that miracle of stars. Behold." 

I signed above, where all the stars were out, 
As if an urgent heat had started there 
A secret writing from a sombre page, 
A blank last moment, crowded suddenly 
With hurrying splendors. 

" Then you do not know '''■ — 
He murmured. "Yes, I know," I said, " 1 know. 
I had the news from Vincent Carrington. 
And yet I did not think you'd leave the work 
In England for so much even,^though of course 



Aurora Leigh. 233 



You'll make a work-day of your holiday, 

And turn it to our Tuscan people's use. — 

Who much needed helping, since the Austrian boar 

( So bold to cross the Alp to Lombardy, 

And dash his brute front unabashed against 

The steep snow-bosses of that shield of God 

Who soon shall rise in wrath, and shake it clear ) 

Came hither also, raking up our grape 

And olive gardens with his tyrannous tusk. 

And rolling on our maize with all his swine." 

'* You had the news from Vincent Carrington," 
He echoed, picking up the phrase beyond, 
As if he knew the rest M-as merely talk 
To fill a gap and keep out a strong wind : 
" You had, then, Vincent's personal news ? " 

" His own," 
I answered. " All that ruined world of yours 
Seems crumbling into marriage. Carrington 
Has chosen wisely." 

" Do you take it so.? " 
He cried, " and is it possible at last "... 
He paused there, and then, inward to himself, — 
" Too much at last, too late ! yet certainly "... 
( And there his voice swayed as an Alpine plank 
That feels a passionate torrent underneath ) 
" The knowledge, had I known it first or last. 
Could scarce have changed the actual case for 7ne, 
And best for her at this time." 

Nay, I thought 
He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like a man, 
Because he has married Lady Waldemar ! 
Ah, Vincent's letter said how Leigh was moved 
To hear that Vincent was betrothed to Kate. 
With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells 
In this world ! Then I spoke, — " I did not think, 
My cousin, you had ever known Kate Ward." 

" In fact I never knew her. 'Tis enough 
That Vincent did, and therefore chose his wife 
For other reasons than those topaz eyes 
We've heard of. Not to undervalue them, 
For all that. One takes up the world with eyes." 



234 Aurora Leigh. 



— Including Romney Leigh, I thought again, 
Albeit he knows them only by repute. 
How vile must all men be, since hes a man ! 
His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed 
I did not surely love him, took the word : 
" You never got a letter from Lord Howe 
A month back, dear Aurora ? " 



None," I said. 



" I felt it was so," he replied. " Yet, strange ! 

Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through Florence } " 

"Ay, 
By chance I saw him in Our Lady's Church, 
( I saw him, mark you ; but he saw not me) 
Clean-washed in holy water from the count 
Of things terrestrial, — letters and the rest : 
He had crossed us out together with his sins. 
Ay, strange ; but only strange that good Lord Howe 
Preferred him to the post because of pauls. 
For me, I'm sworn to never trust a man — 
At last with letters." 

" There were facts to tell. 
To smooth wdth eye and accent, Howe supposed . . . 
Well, well, no matter ! there was dubious need : 
You heard the news from Vincent Carrington. 
And yet perhaps you had been startled less 
To see me, dear Aurora, if you had read 
That letter." 

— Now he sets me down as vexed. 
I think I've draped myself in woman's pride 
To a perfect purpose. Oh, I'm vexed, it seems ! 
My friend Lord Howe deputes his friend Sir Blaise 
To break, as softly as a sparrow's egg 
That lets a bird out tenderly, the news 
Of Romney's marriage to a certain saint. 
To smooth with eye aiid accent, — indicate 
His possible presence. Excellently well 
You've played your part, my Lady Waldemar, — 
As I've played mine. 

" Dear Romney," I began, 
" You did not use of old to be so like 
A Greek king coming from a taken Troy 
'Twas needful that precursors spread your path 
With three-piled carpets to receive your foot, 



Aurora Leigh. 235 



And dull the sound oft. For myself, be sure, 

Although it frankly grinds the gravel here, 

I still can bear it. Yet I'm sorry, too, 

To lose this famous letter, which Sir Blaise 

Has twisted to a lighter absently 

To fire some holy taper. Dear Lord Howe 

Writes letters good for all things but to lose : 

And many a flower of London gossipry 

Has dropt wherever such a stem broke off. 

Of course I feel that, lonely among my vines. 

Where nothing's talked of, save the blight again, 

And no more Chianti ! Still the letter's use 

As preparation . . . Did I start indeed.^ 

Last night I started at a cockchafer. 

And shook a half-hour after. Have you learnt 

No more of women, 'spite of privilege. 

Than still to take account too seriously 

Of such weak flutterings ? Why, we like it, sir : 

We get our powers and our effects that way. 

The 'trees stand stiff and still at time of frost, 

If no wind tears them ; but let summer come. 

When trees are happy, and a breath avails 

To set them trembling through a million leaves 

In luxury of emotion. Something less 

It takes to move a woman : let her start 

And shake at pleasure, nor conclude at yours. 

The winter's bitter, but the summer's green." 

He answered, " Be the summer ever green 

With you, Aurora ! though you sweep your sex 

With somewhat bitter gusts from where you live 

Above them, whirling downward from your heights 

Your very own pine-cones, in a grand disdain 

Of the lowland burrs with which you scatter them. 

So high and cold to others and yourself, 

A little less to Romney were unjust. 

And thus I would not have you. Let it pass : 

I feel content so. You can bear, indeed. 

My sudden step beside you : but for me, 

'Twould move me sore to hear your softened voice, — 

Aurora's voice, — if softened unaware 

In pity of what I am." 

Ah, friend ! I thought, 
As husband of the Lady Waldemar 



236 Aurora Leigh. 



You're granted very sorely pifiable ; 
And yet Aurora Leigh must guard her voice 
From softening in the pity of your case, 
As if from lie or license. Certainly 
We'll soak up all the slush and soil of life 
With softened voices, ere v^^e come X-o yoii. 

At which I interrupted my own thought, 

And spoke out calmly. " Let us ponder, friend, 

Whate'er our state, we must have made it first ; 

And though the thing displease us, ay, perhaps 

Displease us warrantably, never doubt 

That other states, though possible once, and then 

Rejected by the instinct of our lives. 

If then adopted, had displeased us more 

Than this in which the choice, the will, the love. 

Has stamped the honor of a patent act 

From henceforth. What we choose may not be good ; 

But that we choose it proves it good for iis 

Potentially, fantastically, now 

Or last year, rather than a thing we saw, 

And saw no need for choosing. Moths will burn 

Their wings, — which proves that light is good for moths. 

Who else had flown not where they agonize." 

" Ay, light is good," he echoed, and there paused ; 
And then abruptly ..." Marian. Marian's well } " 

I bowed my head, but found no word. 'Twas hard 
To speak of her to Lady Waldemar's 
New husband. How much did he know, at last } 
How much.'' how little.'* He would take no sign, 
But straight repeated, — •" Marian. Is she well .'' " 

" She's well," I answered. 

She was there in sight 
An hour back ; but the night had drawn her home, 
Where still I heard her in an upper room, 
Her low voice singing to the child in bed. 
Who, restless with the summer-heat and play. 
And slumber snatched at noon, was long sometimes 
In falling off, and took a score of songs 
And mother hushes ere she saw him sound. 



Aurora Leiir/i. 



237 



" She's well," I answered. 

" Here?" he asked. 
" Yes, here." 

He stopped and sighed. " That shall be presently ; 
But now this must be. I have words to say, 
And would be alone to say them, I with you. 
And no third troubling." 

" Speak, then," I returned, 
" She will not vex you." 

At which, suddenly 
He turned his face upon me with its smile, 
As if to crush me. " I have read your book, 
Aurora." 

" You have read it," I replied, 
" And I have writ it — we have done with it. 
And now the rest } " 

" The rest is like the hrst," 
He answered, " for the book is in my heart, 
Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams in me : 
My daily bread tastes of it ; and my wine 
Which has no smack of it, — I pour it out, 
It seem unnatural drinking." 



I took the word up : " Never waste your wine. 
The book lived in me ere it lived in you ; 
I know it closer than another does. 
And how it's foolish, feeble, and afraid, 
And all unworthy so much compliment. 
Beseech you, keep your wine, and, when you drink. 
Still wish some happier fortune to a friend 
Than even to have written a far better book." 

He answered gently : " That is consequent. 

The poet looks beyond the book he has made. 

Or else he had not made it. If a man 

Could make a man, he'd henceforth be a god 

In feeling what a little thing is man : 

It is not my case. And this special book, 

I did not make it, to make light of it : 

It stands above my knowledge, draws me up ; 

'Tis high to me. It may be that the book 



Bitterly 



238 



Is not so high, but I so low, instead ; 

Still high to me. I mean no compliment : 

I will not say there are not, young or old, 

Male writers, ay, or female, let it pass. 

Who'll write us richer and completer books. 

A man may love a woman perfectly, 

And yet by no means ignorantly maintain 

A thousand women have not larger eyes : 

Enough that she alone has looked at him 

With eyes that, large or small, have won his soul. 

And so, this book, Aurora,— so, your book." 



" Alas ! " I answered, " is it so, indeed ? " 
And then was silent. 



Is it so, indeed, 



He echoed, " that a/as is all your word .'* " 
I said, " I'm thinking of a far-off June, 
When you and I, upon my birthday, once, 
Discoursed of life and art, with both untried. 
I'm thinking, Romney, how 'twas morning then, 
And now 'tis night," 

" And now," he said, " 'tis night." 

" I'm thinking," I resumed, " 'tis somewhat sad, 
That if I had known, that morning in the dew, 
My cousin Romney would have said such words 
On such a night at close of many years. 
In speaking of a future book of mine, 
It would have pleased me better as a hope 
Than as an actual grace it can at all : 
That's sad, I'm thinking." 

" Ay," he said, " 'tis night. 

" And there," I added lightly, " are the stars ; 
And here we'll talk of stars, and not of books." 

" You have the stars," he murmured, — " it is well : 
Be like them. Shine, Aurora, on my dark. 
Though high and cold, and only like a star. 
And for this short night only, — you who keep 
The same Aurora of the bright June day 
That withered up the flowers before my face. 
And turned me from the garden evermore, 



Aurora Leigh. 239 



Because 1 was not worthy. Oh, deserved, 

Deserved ! that I, who verily had not learnt 

God's lesson half, attaining as a dunce 

To obliterate good words with fractious thumbs. 

And cheat myself of the context,—/ should push 

Aside, with male ferocious impudence, 

The world's Aurora, who had conned her part 

On the other side the leaf ! ignore her so, 

Because she was a woman and a queen, 

And had no beard to bristle through her song, 

My teacher, who has taught me with a book, 

My Miriam, whose sweet mouth, when nearly drowned, 

I still heard singing on the shore ! Deserved, 

That here I should look up unto the stars, 

And miss the glory "... 

" Can I understand ? ' 
I broke in. " You speak wildly, Romney Leigh, 
Or I hear wildly. In that morning-time 
We recollect, the roses were too red. 
The trees too green, reproach too natural 
If one should see not what the other saw : 
And now it's night, remember ; we have shades 
In place of colors ; we are now grown cold 
And old, my cousin Romney. Pardon me,— * 
I'm very happy that you like my book. 
And very sorry that I quoted back 
A ten-years' birthday. 'Twas so mad a thmg 
In any woman, I scarce marvel much 
You took it for a venturous piece of spite, 
Provoking such excuses as indeed 
I cannot call you slack in." 

" Understand. 
He answered sadly, " something, if but so. 
This night is softer than an English day, 
And men may well come hither when they're sick. 
To draw in easier breath from larger air. 
'Tis thus with me : I come to you,— to you. 
My Italy of women, just to breathe 
My soul out once before you, ere I go, 
As humble as God makes me at the last, 
( I thank him ) quite out of the way of men. 
And yours, Aurora,— like a punished child. 



2 40 Aurora Leigh. 



His cheeks all blurred with tears and naughtiness, 
To silence in a corner. I am come 
To speak, beloved "... 

" Wisely, cousin Leigh, 
And worthily of us both." 

"Yes, worthily; 
For this time I must speak out, and confess 
That I, so truculent in assumption once. 
So absolute in dogma, proud in aim, 
And fierce in expectation, — I, who felt 
The whole world tugging at my skirts for help, 
As if no other man than I could pull, 
Nor woman, but I led her by the hand. 
Nor cloth hold, but I had it in my coat, — 
Do know myself to-night for what I was 
On that June-day, Aurora. Poor bright day. 
Which meant the best ... a woman and arose. 
And which I smote upon the cheek with words, 
Until it turned and rent me. Young you were. 
That birthday, poet ; but you talked the right : 
While I ... I built up follies, like a wall, 
To intercept the sunshine and your face. 
Your face ! that's worse." 

" Speak wisely, cousin Leigh." 

" Yes, wisely, dear Aurora, though too late. 

But then, not wisely. I was heavy then, 

And stupid, and distracted with the cries 

Of tortured prisoners in the polished brass 

Of that Phalarian bull, society. 

Which seems to bellow bravely like ten bulls. 

But, if you listen, moans and cries instead 

Despairingly, like victim's tossed and gored 

And trampled by their hoofs. I heard the cries 

Too close : I could not hear the angels lift 

A fold of rustling air, nor what they said 

To help my pity. I beheld the world 

As one great famishing carnivorous mouth, — 

A huge, deserted, callow, blind bird thing. 

With piteous open beak that hurt my heart. 

Till down upon the filthy ground I dropped, 

And tore the violets up to get the worms. 

Worms, worms, was all my cry : an open mouth, 

A gross want, bread to fill'it to the lips. 



Aurora Leigh. 241 



No more. That poor men narrowed their demands 

To such an end was virtue, 1 supposed, 

Adjudicating that to see it so 

Was reason. Oh, I did not push the case 

Up higher, and ponder how it answers when 

The rich take up the same cry for themselves, 

Professing equally,—' An open mouth 

A gross need, food to fill us, and no more. 

Why, that's so far from virtue, only vice 

Can find excuse for't ! that makes libertmes, 

And slurs our cruel streets from end to end 

With eighty thousand women in one smile. 

Who only smile at night beneath the gas. 

The body's satisfaction, and no more,^ 

Is used for argument against the soul's, 

Here too : the want, here too, implies the right. 

— How dark I stood that morning in the sun. 

My best Aurora (though I saw your eyes) 

When first you told me . . . oh, I recollect 

The sound, and how vou lifted your small hand. 

And how your white dress and your burnished curls 

Went greatening round you in the still blue air, 

As if an inspiration from within 

Had blown them all out when you spoke the words, 

Even these,—' You will not compass your poor ends 

Of barley-feeding and material ease 

Without the poeVs individualism 

To work your universal. It takes a soul 

To move a body ; it takes a high-souled man 

To move the masses even to a cleaner sty ; 

It takes the ideal to blow an inch inside 

The dust of the actual ; and your Founers failed. 

Because not poets enough to understand 

That life develops from within.' I say 

Your words : I could say other words of yours ; 

For none of all your words will let me go. 

Like sweet verbena, which, being brushed against, 

Will hold us three hours after by the smell, 

In spite of long walks upon windy hills. 

But these words dealt in sharper perfume ; these 

Were ever on me, stinging through my dreams, 

And saying themselves forever o'er my acts 

Like some unhappy verdict. That I failed 

Is certain. Sty or no sty, to contrive 



242 Aurora Leigh. 



The swine's propulsion toward the precipice 

Proved easy and plain. I subtly organized 

And ordered, built the cards up high and higher, 

Till, some one breathing, all fell flat again : 

In setting right society's wide wrong, 

Mere life's so fatal ! So I failed indeed 

Once, twice, and oftener, hearing through the rents 

Of obstinate purpose, still those words of yours,— 

' You will not compass your poor ends, 7iot you ! ' 

But harder than you said them ; every time 

Still farther from your voice, until they came 

To overcrow me with triumphant scorn, 

Which vexed me to resistance. Set down this 

For condemnation. I was guilty here ; 

I stood upon my deed, and fought my doubt. 

As men will, — for I doubted, — till at last 

My deed gave way beneath me suddenly, 

And left me what I am. The curtain dropped, 

My part quite ended, all the foot-lights quenched. 

My own soul hissing at me through the dark, 

I ready for confession, — I was wrong, 

I've sorely failed, I've slipped the ends of life, 

I yield : you have conquered." 

" Stay," I answered him 
" I've something for your hearing, also. I 
Have failed too." 

" You ! " he said, " you're very great : 
The sadness of your greatness fits you well, 
As if the plume upon a hero's casque 
Should nod a shadow upon his victor's face." 

I took him up austerely, — " You have read 
My book, but not my heart ; for, recollect, 
'Tis writ in Sanscrit, which 3^ou bungle at. 
I've surely failed, I know, if failure means 
To look back sadly on work gladly done, 
To wander on my Mountains of Delight, 
So called, (I can remember a friend's words 
As well as you, sir) weary, and in want 
Of even a sheep-path, thinking bitterly . . . 
Well, well ! no matter. I but say so much. 
To keep you, Romney Leigh, from saying more. 
And let you feel I am not so high indeed. 
That I can bear to have you at my foot, 



Aurora Leigh. 243 



Or safe, that I can help you. That June day, 

Too deeply sunk in craterous sunsets now 

For you or me to dig it up alive ; 

To pluck it out all bleeding with spent flame 

At the roots, before those moralizing stars 

We have got instead, — that poor lost day, you said 

Some v^^ords as truthful as the thing of mine 

You cared to keep in memory ; and I hold 

If I that day, and being the girl I was, 

Had shown a gentler spirit, less arrogance, 

It had not hurt me. You will scarce mistake 

The point here. I but only think, you see. 

More justly, that's more humbly of myself. 

Than when I tried a crown on, and supposed . . . 

Nay, laugh, sir, — I'll laugh with you ! — pray you laugh. 

I've had so many birthdays since that day, 

I've learnt to prize mirth's opportunities. 

Which come too seldom. Was it you who said 

I was not changed ? the same Aurora ? Ah, 

We could laugh there too ! Why Ulysses' dog 

Knew htjn, and wagged his tail and died ; but if 

I had owned a dog, I too, before my Troy, 

And if you brought him here ... I warrant you 

He'd look into my face, bark lustily, 

And live on stoutly, as the creatures will 

Whose spirits are not troubled by long loves. 

A dog would never know me, I'm so changed. 

Much less a friend . . . except that you're misled 

By the color of the hair, the trick of the voice. 

Like that Aurora Leigh's." 

" Sweet trick of voice ! 
I Vv^ould be a dog for this, to know it at last. 
And die upon the falls of it. O love, 
O best Aurora ! are you then so sad 
You scarcely had been sadder as my wife f " 

" Your wife, sir ! I must certainly be changed. 

If I, Aurora, can have said a thing 

So light, it catches at the knightly spurs 

Of a noble gentleman like Romney Leigh, 

And trips him from his honorable sense 

Of what befits . . ." 

" You wholly misconceive," 
He answered. 



244 Aurora Leigh. 



I returned, — " I'm glad of it. 
But keep from misconception, too, yourself : 
I am not humbled to so low a point, 
Nor so far saddened. If I am sad at all, 
Ten layers of birthdays on a woman's head 
Are apt to fossilize her girlish mirth. 
Though ne'er so merry : I'm perforce more wise, 
And that, in truth, means sadder. For the rest, 
Look here, sir : I was right, upon the whole, 
That birthday morning. 'Tis impossible 
To get at men excepting through their souls, 
However open their carnivorous jaws ; 
And poets get directlier at the soul 
Than any of your economists ; for which 
You must not overlook the poet's work 
When scheming for the w^orld's necessities. 
The soul's the way. Not even Christ himself 
Can save man else than as he holds man's soul ; 
And therefore did he come into our flesh, 
As some wise hunter, creeping on his knees 
With a torch, into the blackness of a cave. 
To face and quell the beast there, — take the soul, 
And so possess the whole man, body and soul. 
I said, so far, right, yes ; not farther, though : 
We both were wrong that June day,— both as wrong 
As an east wind had been. I who talked of art. 
And you who grieved for all men's griefs . . . what then } 
We surely made too small a part for God 
In these things. What we are imports us more 
Than what we eat ; and life, you've granted me, 
Develops from within. But innermost 
Of the inmost, most interior of the interne, 
God claims his own, divine humanity 
Renewing nature ; or the piercingest verse, 
Prest in by subtlest poet still must keep 
As much upon the outside of a man 
As the very bowl in which he dips his beard. 
— And then ... the rest ; I cannot surely speak : 
Perhaps I doubt more than you doubted then, 
If I the poet's veritable charge 
Have borne upon my forehead. If I have. 
It might feel somewhat liker to a crown, 
The foolish green one, even. Ah, I think, 
And chiefly when the sun shines, that I've failed. 



Aiu'ora Leigh. 245 



Bui what then, Romney ? Though we fail indeed, 

You ... I ... a score of such weak w^orkers ... He 

Fails never. If he cannot work by us. 

He will work over us. Does he want a man, 

Much less a woman, think you ? Every time 

The star winks there, so many souls are born, 

Who all shall work too. Let our own be calm : 

We should be ashamed to sit beneath those stars, 

Impatient that we're nothing." 

" Could we sit 
Just so forever, sweetest friend," he said, 
" My failure would seem better than success. 
And yet indeed your book has dealt with me 
More gently, cousin, than you ever will. 
Your book brought down entire the bright June day. 
And set me wandering in the garden-walks, 
And let me watch the garland in a place 
You blushed so . . . nay, forgive me, do not stir ; 
I only thank the book for what it taught. 
And what permitted. Poet doubt yourself, 
But never doubt that you're a poet to me 
From henceforth. You have written poems, sweet. 
Which moved me in secret, as the sap is moved 
In still March branches, signless as a stone ; 
But this last book o'ercame me like soft rain 
Which falls at midnight, when the tightened bark 
Breaks out into unhesitating buds, 
And sudden protestations of the spring. 
In all your other books I saw hvX you. 
A man may see the moon so, in a pond. 
And not be nearer therefore to the moon, 
Nor use the sight . . . except to drown himself: 
And so I forced my heart back from the sight, 
For what had /, I thought, to do with her, 
Aurora . . . Romney.'' But in this last book 
You showed me something separate from yourself, 
Beyond you. and I bore to take it in, 
And let it draw me. You have shown me truths, 
O June-day friend, that help me now at night 
When June is over, — truths not yours, indeed, 
But set within my reach by means of you. 
Presented by your voice and verse the way 
To take them clearest. Verily I was wrong ; 
And verily many thinkers of this age, 



246 



Aurora Leis:h. 



Ay, many Christian teachers, 

half in heaven, 
Are wrong in just my sense 

who understood 
Our natural world too insularly, 

as if 
No spiritual counterpart com- 
pleted it, 
Consummating its meaning, 
rounding all 
To justice and per- 
fection, line by 
line. 
Form by for m , 
nothing single 
nor alone. 
The great below 
clinched by the 
great above, 
Shade here authen- 
ticating sub- 
stance there. 
The body proving 
spirit, as the effect 
The cause : we meantime being 
too grossly apt 
To hold the natural, as dogs a bone, 
( Though reason and nature beat us 
in the face ) 
So obstinately that we'll break our 

teeth 
Or ever we let go. For everywhere 
We're too materialistic, eating clay, 
(Like men of the west) instead of 
Adam's corn 
And Noah's wine, — clay by handfuls, clay by lumps, 
Until we're filled up to the throat with clay, 
And grow the grimy color of the ground 
On which we are feeding. Ay, materialist 
The age's name is. God himself, with some. 
Is apprehended as the bare result 
Of what his hand materially has made. 
Expressed in such an algebraic sign 
Called God ; that is, to put it otherwise, 




A MAN MAY SEE THE MOOn 
SO, IN A POND. 



Aurora Leigh. 247 



They add up nature to a naught of God, 

And cross the quotient. There are many even, 

Whose names are written in the Christian church 

To no dishonor, diet still on mud. 

And splash the altars with it. You might think 

The clay Christ laid upon their eyelids, when. 

Still blind, he called them to the use of sight. 

Remained there to retard its exercise 

With clogging incrustations. Close to heaven. 

They see for mysteries, through the open doors, 

Vague puffs of smoke from pots of earthenware, 

And fain would enter, when their time shall come, 

With quite another body than St. Paul 

Has promised, — husk and chaff, the whole barley-corn, 

Or Where's the resurrection ?" 

" Thus it is, 
I sighed. And he resumed with mournful face. 
" Beginning so, and filling up with clay 
The wards of this great key, the natural world, 
And fumbling vainly therefore at the lock 
Of the spiritual, we feel ourselves shut in 
With all the wild-beast roar of struggling life. 
The terrors and compunctions of our souls. 
As saints with lions, — we who are not saints, 
And have no heavenly lordship in our stare 
To awe them backward. Ay, we are forced, so pent. 
To judge the whole too partially . . . confound 
Conclusions. Is there any common phrase 
Significant, with the adverb heard alone. 
The verb being absent, and the pronoun out 1; 
But we, distracted in the roar of life. 
Still insolently at God's adverb snatch. 
And bruit against him that his thought is void, 
His meaning hopeless, — cry, that everywhere 
The government is slipping from his hand. 
Unless some other Christ (say Romney Leigh) 
Come up and toil and moil and change the world, 
Because the First has proved inadequate, 
However we talk bigly of his work 
And piously of his person. We blaspheme 
At last, to finish our doxology. 
Despairing on the earth for which he died." 

" So now," I asked, "you have more hope of men.'' " 



248 



Aurora Leigh. 



" I hope," he answered. " I am come to think 
That God will have his work done, as you said, 
And that we need not be disturbed too much 
For Romney Leigh or others having failed 
With this or that quack nostrum, — recipes 
For keeping summits by annulling depths, 
For wrestling with luxurious lounging sleeves, 
And acting heroism without a scratch. 
We fail, — what then .'' Aurora, if I smiled 
To see you, in your lovely morning-pride, 
Try on the poet's wreath which suits the noon 
( Sweet cousin, walls must get the weather-stain 
Before they grow the ivy ) certainly 
I stood myself there worthier of contempt. 
Self-rated in disastrous arrogance, 
As competent to sorrow for mankind 
And even their odds. A man may well despair. 
Who counts himself so needful to success. 
I failed . I throw the remedy back on God, 
And sit down here beside you, in good hope." 

" And yet take heed," I answered, " lest we lean 

Too dangerously on the other side. 

And so fail twice. Be sure, no earnest work 

Of any honest creature, howbeit weak. 

Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much 

It is not gathered as a grain of sand 

To enlarge the sum of human action used 

For carrying out God's end. No creature works 

So ill, observe, that therefore he's cashiered. 

The honest earnest man must stand and work. 

The woman also : otherwise she drops 

At once below the dignity of man, 

Accepting serfdom. Free men freely work. 

Whoever fears God fears to sit at ease." 



I 



He cried, " True. After Adam, work was curse 
The natural creature labors, sweats, and frets. 
But, after Christ, work turns to privilege, 
And henceforth, one with our humanity. 
The Six-day Worker, working still in us. 
Has called us freely to work on with him 
In high companionship. So, happiest ! 
I count that heaven itself is only work 



Aurora Leij^/i. 



249 



To a surer issue. Let us work, indeed, 
But no more work as Adam, nor as Leigh 
Erewhile, as if the only man on earth. 
Responsible for all the thistles blown, 
And tigers couchant, struggling in amaze 
Against disease and winter, snarling on 
Forever that the world's not paradise. 

cousin, let us be content, in work. 

To do the thing we can, and not presume 
To fret because it's little. 'Twill employ 
Seven men they say to make a perfect pin ; 
Who makes the head, content to miss the point ; 
Who makes the point, agreed to leave the join : 
And if a man should cry, ' I want a pin. 
And I must make it straightway, head and point,' 
His wisdom is not worth the pin he wants. 
Seven men to a pin, and not a man too much. 
Seven generations, haply, to this world, 
To right it visibly a finger's breadth, 
And mend its rents a little. Oh, to storm 
And say, ' This world here is intolerable ; 

1 will not eat this corn, nor drink this wine, 
Nor love this woman, flinging her my soul 
Without a bond for't as a lover should. 
Nor use the generous leave of happiness 
As not too good for using generously ' — 

( Since virtue kindles at the touch of joy, 
Like a man's cheek laid on a woman's hand. 
And God, who knows it, looks for quick returns 
From joys ) — to stand and claim to have a life 
Beyond the bounds of the individual man, 
And raze all personal cloisters of the soul 
To build up public stores and magazines, 
As if God's creatures otherwise were lost, 
The builder surely saved by any means ! 
To think, — 1 have a pattern on my nail. 
And I will carve the world new after it, 
And solve so these hard social questions, nay. 
Impossible social questions, since their roots 
Strike deep in evil's own existence here, 
Which God permits because the question's hard 
To abolish evil nor attaint free-will. 
Ay, hard to God, but not to Romney Leigh ; 
For Romney has a pattern on his nail 



250 Aurora Leigh. 



(Whatever may be lacking on the Mount), 
And, not being overnice to separate 
What's element from what's convention, hastes 
By line on line to draw you out a world. 
Without your help indeed, unless you take 
His yoke upon you, and will learn of him, 
So much he has to teach ! — so good a world, 
The same the whole creation's groaning for ! 
No rich nor poor, no gain nor loss nor stint, 
No pottage in it able to exclude 
A brother's birthright, and no right of birth. 
The pottage, — both secured to every man. 
And perfect virtue dealt out like the rest 
Gratuitously, with the soup at six, 
To whoso does not seek it." 

"Softly, sir," 
I interrupted. " I had a cousin once 
I held in reverence. If he strained too wide. 
It was not to take honor, but give help. 
The gesture was heroic. If his hand 
Accomplished nothing . . . (well, it is not proved) 
That empty hand thrown impotently out 
Were sooner caught, I think, by One in heaven, 
Than many a hand that reaped a harvest in 
And keeps the scythe's glow on it. Pray you,, then. 
For my sake merely, use less bitterness 
In speaking of my cousin." 

"Ah," he said, 
" Aurora ! when the prophet beats the ass. 
The angel intercedes." He shook his head. 
" And yet to mean so well, and fail so foul. 
Expresses ne'er another beast than man : 
The antithesis is human. Hearken, dear : 
There's too much abstract willing, purposing. 
In this poor world. We talk by aggregates. 
And think by systems, and, being used to face 
Our evils in statistics, are inclined 
To cap them with unreal remedies 
Drawn out in haste on the other side the slate." 

" That's true," I answered, fain to throw up thought, 
And make a game oft. " Yes, we generalize 
Enough to please you. If we pray "at all. 
We pray no longer for our daily bread. 



Aurora Leigh. 25 



But next centenary's harvests. If we give, 
Our cup of water is not tendered till 
We lay down pipes and found a company 
With branches. Ass or angel, 'tis the same : 
A woman cannot do the thing she ought. 
Which means whatever perfect thing she can. 
In life, in art, in science, but she fears 
To let the perfect action take her part, 
And rest there : she must prove what she can do 
Before she does it, prate of woman's rights. 
Of woman's mission, woman's function, till 
The men (who are prating too on their side) cry. 
' A woman's function plainly is ... to talk.' 
Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed : 
They cannot hear each other talk." 



An artist, judge so } " 



"•And you. 
I, an artist, yes. 



Because, precisely, I'm an artist, sir, 

And woman, if another sate in sight, 

I'd whisper, — ' Soft, my sister ! not a word ! 

By speaking we prove only we can speak, 

Which he, the man here, never doubted. What 

He doubts is, whether we can do the thing 

With decent grace we've not yet done at all. 

Now, do it ; bring your statue, — you have room ! 

He'll see it even by the starlight here ; 

And if 'tis ere so little like the god 

Who looks out from the marble silently 

Along the track of his own shining dart 

Through the dusk of ages, there's no need to speak : 

The universe shall henceforth speak for you, 

And witness, " She who did this thing was born 

To do it, — claims her license in her work." ' 

And so with more works. Whoso cures the plague, 

Though twice a woman, shall be called a leech ; 

Who rights a land's finances is excused 

For touching coppers, though her hands be white, — 

But we, we talk I " 

" It is the age's mood 
He said : " we boast, and do not. We put up 
Hostelry signs where'er we lodge a day, 
Some red colossal cow with mighty paps 
A Cyclops' fingers could not strain to milk, 



252 Aurora Leigh. 



Then bring out presently our saucerful 

Of curds. We want more quiet in our works, 

More knowledge of the bounds in which we work, 

More knowledge that each individual man 

Remains an Adam to the general race, 

Constrained to see, like Adam, that he keep 

His personal state's condition honestly, 

Or vain all thoughts of his to help the world, 

Which still must be developed from its one. 

If bettered in its many. We indeed, 

Who think to lay it out new like a park, — 

\Ve take a work on us which is not man's ; 

For God alone sits far enough above 

To speculate so largely. None of us 

( Not Romney Leigh ) is mad enough to say, 

We'll have a grove of oaks upon that slope. 

And sink the need of acorns. Government, 

If veritable and lawful, is not given 

By imposition of the foreign hand, 

Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book 

Of some domestic idealogue who sits 

And coldly chooses empire, where as well 

He might republic. Genuine government 

Is but the expression of a nation, good 

Or less good, even as all society, 

Howe'er unequal, monstrous, crazed, and cursed. 

Is but the expression of men's single lives, 

The loud sum of the silent units. What, 

We'd change the aggregate, and yet retain 

Each separate figure } whom do we cheat by that.^ 

Now, not even Romney." 

" Cousin, you are sad. 
Did all your social labor at Leigh Hall 
And elsewhere come to naught, then .^ " 

" It was naught," 
He answered mildly. " There is room indeed 
For statues still, in this large world of God's, 
But not for vacuums : so I am not sad, — 
Not sadder than is good for what I am. 
My vain phalanstery dissolved itself ; 
My men and women of disordered lives, 
I brought in orderly to dine and sleep. 
Broke up those waxen masks I made them wear, 
With tierce contortions of the natural face. 



Aurora Leigh. 253 



And cursed me for my tyrannous constraint 

In forcing- crooked creatures to live straight, 

And set the country hounds upon my back 

To bite and tear me for my wicked deed 

Of trying to do good without the church, 

Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you mind 

Your ancient neighbors ? The great book-club teems 

With 'sketches,' ' summaries,' and ' last tracts/ but twelve, 

On socialistic troublers of close bonds 

Betwixt the generous rich and grateful poor. 

The vicar preached from ' Revelation,' (till 

The doctor woke) and found me with ' the frogs ' 

On three successive Sundays : ay, and stopped 

To weep a little (for he's getting old) 

That such perdition should o'ertake a man 

Of such fair acres, — in the parish, too ! 

He printed his discourses ' by request ; ' 

And, if your book shall sell as his did, then 

Your verses are less good than I suppose. 

The women of the neighborhood subscribed. 

And sent me a copy bound in scarlet silk. 

Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms of Leigh : 

I own that touched me." 

" What, the pretty ones } 
Poor Romney ! " 

" Otherwise the effect was small. 
I had my windows broken once or twice 
By liberal peasants naturally incensed 
At such a vexer of Arcadian peace. 
Who would not let men call their wives their own 
To kick like Britons, and made obstacles 
When things went smoothly, as a baby drugged, 
Toward freedom and starvation, bringing down 
The wicked London tavern-thieves and drabs 
To affront ttie blessed hillside drabs and thieves 
With mended morals, quotha, — fine new lives ! — 
My windows paid for't. I was shot at, once, 
By an active poacher who had hit a hare 
From the other barrel, (tired of springeing game 
So long upon my acres, undisturbed. 
And restless for the country's virtue, yet 
He missed me) ay, and pelted very oft 
In riding through the village. ' There he goes, 
Who'd drive away our Christian gentlefolks, 



254 



Aurora Leigh. 



.,W'^-^:\ 




vf 






1 WAS SHOT AT, ONCE, BY AN ACTIVE POACHER. 



Aurora Leigh. 255 



To catch us undefended in the trap 
He baits with poisonous cheese, and lock us up 
In that pernicious prison of Leigh Hall 
With all his murderers ! Give another name, 
And say Leigh Hell, and burn it up with fire.' 
And so' they did, at last, Aurora." 



Did 



" You never heard it, cousin ? Vincent's news 

Came stinted, then." t • t u n 2 

" They did ? Tney burnt Leigh Hall ? 
" You're sorry, dear Aurora ? Yes indeed, 
They did it perfectly ; a thorough work. 
And not a failure, this time. Let us grant 
'Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn a house 
Than build a system ; yet that's easy, too— 
In a dream. Books, pictures, ay, the pictures ! What. 
You think your dear Vandykes would give them pause ? 
Our proud ancestral Leighs, with those peaked beards. 
Or bosoms white as foam thrown up on rocks 
From the old-spent wave. Such calm defiant looks 
They flared up with ! now nevermore to twit 
The bones in the family vault with ugly death. 
Not one was rescued, save the Lady Maud, 
Who threw you down, that morning you were born, 
The undeniable lineal mouth and chin, 
To wear forever for her gracious sake ; 
For which good deed I saved her : the rest went : 
And you, you're sorry, cousin. Well, for me. 
With all my phalansterians safely out, 
( Poor hearts, they helped the burners, it was said, 
And certainly a few clapped hands and yelled ) 
The ruin did not hurt me as it might ; 
As when, for instance, I was hurt one day, 
A certain letter being destroyed. In fact. 
To see the great house flare so . . . oaken floors 
Our fathers made so fine with rushes once, 
Before our mothers furbished them with trains. 
Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, (the favorite slide 
For draining off a martyr— or a rogue) 
The echoing galleries, half a half-mile long. 
And all the various stairs that took you up, 
And took you down, and took you round about 
Upon their slippery darkness, recollect. 



256 Aurora Leigh. 

All helping to keep up one blazing jest ; 
The Hames through all the casements pushing forth 
Like red-hot devils crinkled into snakes, 
All signifying, ' Look you, Romney Leigh, 
We save the people from your saving, here, 
Yet so as by lire ! we make a pretty show 
Besides, — and that's the best you've ever done,' 
— To see this, almost moved myself to clap. 
The ' vale et plaude ' came too with effect, 
When in the roof fell, and the fire that paused. 
Stunned momently beneath the stroke of slates 
And tumbling rafters, rose at once and roared, 
And, wrapping the whole house (which disappeared 
In a mounting whirlwind of dilated liame), 
Blew upward straight its drift of fiery chaf^ 
In the face of heaven . . . which blenched, and ran up 
higher." 

" Poor Romney ! " 

" Sometimes when I dream," he said, 
" I hear the silence after, 'twas so still. 
For all those wild beasts, yelling, cursing round. 
Were suddenly silent while you counted five, — 
So silent that you heard a young bird fall 
From the top-nest in the neighboring rookery. 
Through edging over-rashly toward the light. 
The old rooks had already fled too far 
To hear the screech they fled with, though you saw 
Some flying still, like scatterings of dead" leaves 
In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the sky, — 
All flying, ousted, like the house of Leigh." 



" Evidently 'twould have beei 
A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like you, 
To make the verse blaze after. I myself, 
Even I, felt something in the grand old trees. 
Which stood that moment like brute Druid gods 
Amazed upon the rim of ruin, where, 
As into a blackened socket, the great fire 
Had dropped, still throwing up splinters now and then 
To show them gray with all their centuries. 
Left there to witness that on such a day 
The house went out." 



Aurora Leigh. 257 

" Ah ! " 
" While you counted five, 

I seemed to feel a little like a Leigh ; 

But then it passed, Aurora. A child cried, 

And I had enough to think of what to do 

With all those houseless wretches in the dark. 

And ponder where they'd dance the next time,— they 

Who had burnt the viol." 

" Did you think of that ? 

Who burns his viol will not dance, I know. 

To cymbals, Romney." 

" O my sweet, sad voice," 

He cried, — " O voice that speaks and overcomes! 

The sun is silent ; but Aurora speaks." 

" Alas I " I said, " I speak I know not what: 
I'm back in childhood, thinking as a child, 
A foolish fancy — will it make you smile ?— 
I shall not from the window of my room 
Catch sight of those old chimneys any more." 

" No more," he answered, " If you pushed ope day 
Through all the green hills to our fathers' house. 
You'd come upon a great charred circle, where 
The patient earth was singed an acre round, 
With one stone stair, symbolic of my life. 
Ascending, winding, leading up to naught. 
'Tis worth a poet's seeing. Will you go } " 

I made no answer. Had I any right 

To weep with this man, that I dared to speak ? 

A woman stood between his soul and mine. 

And waved us off from touching evermore. 

With those unclean white hands of hers. Enough. 

We had burnt our viols and were silent. 

So, 
The silence lengthened till it pressed. I spoke 
To breathe,—"! think you were ill afterward." 

" More ill," he answered, " had been scarcely ill. 
I hoped this feeble fumbling at life's knot 
Might end concisely; but I failed to die. 
As' formerly I failed to live, and thus 
Grew willing, having tried all other ways, 



258 



Anro7'a Leigh. 



To try just God's. Humility's so good 

When pride's impossible. Mark us, how we make 

Our virtues, cousin, from our wornout sins. 

Which smack of them from henceforth. Is it right, 

For instance, to wed here while you love there } 

And yet, because a man sins once, the sin 

Cleaves to him in necessity to sin, 

That if he sin not so, to damn himself. 

He sins so, to damn others with himself : 

And thus to wed here, loving there, becomes 

A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf 

Round mortal brows : your ivy's better, dear. 

— Yet she, 'tis certain, is my very wife. 

The very lamb left mangled by the wolves 

Through my own bad shepherding : and could I choose 

But take her on my shoulder past this stretch 

Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb, 

Poor child, poor child .•* Aurora, my beloved, 

I will not vex you any more to-night ; 

But, hav'ing spoken what I came to say, 

The rest shall please you. What she can in me, — 

Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease,— 

She shall have surely, liberall\^ for her 

And hers, Aurora. Small amends they'll make 

For hideous evils which she had not known 

Except by me, and for this imminent loss, 

This forfeit presence of a gracious friend, 

Which also she must forfeit for my sake. 

Since . . . drop your hand in mine a moment, sweet, 

We're parting ! — Ah, my snowdrop, what a touch. 

As if the wind had swept it off ! you grudge 

Your gelid sweetness on my palm but so, 

A moment } angry, that I could not bear 

You . . . speaking, breathing, living, side by side 

With some one called my wife , . . and live myself } 

Nay, be not cruel : you must understand ! 

Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine 

Would shake the house, my lintel being uncrossed 

'Gainst angels : henceforth it is night with me, 

And so, henceforth, I put the shutters up : 

Auroras must not come to spoil my dark." 

He smiled so feebh', with an empty hand 

Stretched sideway from me — as indeed he looked 

To any one but me to give him help ; 



Aurora Leigh. 259 



And while the moon came suddenly out full, 

The double-rose of our Italian moons, 

Sufficient plainly for the heaven and earth, 

( The stars, struck dumb, and washed away in dews 

Of golden glory, and the mountains steeped 

In divine languor) he, the man, appeared 

So pale and patient, like the marble man 

A sculptor puts his personal sadness in 

To join his grandeur of ideal thought — 

As if his mallet struck me from my height 

Of passionate indignation, I who had risen 

Pale, doubting paused. . . . Was Romney mad indeed? 

Had all this wrong of heart made sick the brain ? 

Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous pride, 

" Go, cousin," I said coldly : " a farewell 

Was sooner spoken 'twixt a pair of friends 

In those old days than seems to suit you now. 

Howbeit, since then, I've writ a book or two, 

I'm somewhat dull still in the manly art 

Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any man 

Can carve a score of white Loves out of snow, 

As Buonarroti in my Florence there. 

And set them on the wall in some safe shade, — 

As safe, sir, as your marriage ! very good ; 

Though if a woman took one from the ledge 

To put it on the table by her flowers, 

And let it mind her of a certain friend, 

'Twould drop at once, (so better) would not bear 

Her nail-mark even, where she took it up 

A little tenderly (so best, I say :) 

For me, I would not touch the fragile thing 

And risk to spoil it half an hour before 

The sun shall shine to melt it : leave it there. 

I'm plain at speech, direct in purpose : when 

I speak, you'll take the meaning as it is, 

And not allow for puckerings in the silk 

By clever stitches. I'm a woman, sir. 

And use the woman's figures naturally. 

As you the male license. So, I wish you well. 

I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've had. 

And not for your sake only, but mankind's. 

This race is never grateful : from the first, 

One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, 



2 6o Aurora Leigh. 



Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, 
In vinegar and gall." 

" If gratefuller," 
He murmured, " by so much less pitiable ! 
God's self would never have come down to die, 
Could man have thanked him for it." 

" Happily 
'Tis patent, that, whatever," I resumed, 
" You suffered from this thanklessness of men. 
You sink no more than Moses' bulrush-boat 
When once relieved of Moses ; for you're light. 
You're light, my cousin ! w^hich is well for you. 
And manly. For myself — now mark me, sir, 
They burnt Leigh Hall ; but if, consummated 
To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, 
They had burnt instead a star or two of those 
We saw above there just a moment back. 
Before the moon abolished them, destroyed 
And riddled them in ashes through a sieve 
On the head of the foundering universe — what then } 
If you and I remained still you and I, 
It could not shift our places as mere friends. 
Nor render decent j^ou should toss a phrase 
Beyond the point of actual feeling ! — Nay, 
You shall not interrupt me : as you said, 
We're parting. Certainly, not once nor twice 
To-night you've mocked me somewhat, or yourself. 
And I, at least, have not deserved it so 
That I should meet it unsurprised. But now, 
Enough. We're parting . . . parting. Cousin Leigh, 
I wish you well through all the acts of life 
And life's relations, wedlock not the least. 
And it shall ' please me,' in your words, to know 
You yield your wife protection, freedom, ease. 
And very tender liking. May you live 
So happy with her, Romney, that your friends 
Shall praise her for it. Meantime some of us 
Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant 
Of what she has suffered by you, and what debt 
Of sorrow your rich love sits down to pay : 
But, if 'tis sweet for love to pay its debt, 
'Tis sweeter still for love to give its gift : 
And you, be liberal in the sweeter way ; 
You can, I think. At least as touches me. 



Aurora Leigh. 261 



You owe her, cousin Romney, no amends. 

She is not used to hold my gown so fast 

You need entreat her now to let it go : 

The lady never was a friend of mine, 

Nor capable — I thought you knew as much — 

Of losing for your sake so poor a prize 

As such a worthless friendship. 13e content. 

Good cousin, therefore, both for her and you ! 

I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull your noon, 

Nor vex you when you're merry or at rest : 

You shall not need to put a shutter up 

To keep out this Aurora, though your north 

Can make Auroras which vex nobody. 

Scarce known from night, I fancied ! let me add, 

My larks fly higher than some windows. Well, 

You've read your Leighs. Indeed 'twould shake a house. 

If such as I came in with outstretched hand 

Still warm and thrilling from the clasp of one . . . 

Of one we know ... to acknowledge, palm to palm, 

As mistress there, the Lady Waldemar." 

" Now God be wath us ! " . . . with a sudden clash 
Of voice he interrupted. " What name's that ? 
You spoke a name, Aurora." 

" Pardon me 
I would that, Romney, I could name your wife 
Nor wound you, yet be worthy." 

"Are we mad ? ' 
He echoed — " wife ! mine ! Lady Waldemar ! 
1 think you said my wife." He sprang to his feet, 
And threw his noble head back toward the moon, 
As one who swims against a stormy sea, 
Then laughed with such a helpless, hopeless scorn, 
I stood and trembled. 

" May God judge me so ! ' 
He said at last, — " I came convicted here, 
And humbled sorely, if not enough. I came. 
Because this woman from her crystal soul 
Had shown me something which a man calls light ; 
Because too, formerly, I sinned by her, 
As then and ever since 1 have bv God, 



262 



Aurora Lei^h. 



Through arrogance of nature, — though I loved . . . 

Whom best I need not say, since that is writ 

Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds : 

And thus I came here to abase myself, 

And fasten, kneeling, on her regent brows 

A garland which I startled thence one day 

Of her beautiful June youth. But here again 

I'm baffled, fail in my abasement as 

My aggrandizement : there's no room left for me 

At any woman's foot who misconceives 

My nature, purpose, possible actions. What ! 

Are you the Aurora who made large my dreams 

To frame your greatness ? you conceive so small .'' 

You stand so less than woman through being more, 

And lose your natural instinct (like a beast) 

Through intellectual culture .'' since indeed 

I do not think that any common she 

Would dare adopt such monstrous forgeries 

For the legible life-signature of such 

As I, with all my blots, with all my blots ! 

At last, then, peerless cousin, we are peers; 

At last we're even. Ah, you've left 3'our height, 

And here upon my level we take hands. 

And here I reach you to forgive you, sweet, 

And that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago 

You seldom understood me ; but before 

I could not blame you. Then, you only seemed 

So high above, you could not see below ; 

But now I breathe, — but now I pardon ! Nay, 

We're parting. Dearest, men have burnt my house, 

Maligned my motives ; but not one, I swear, 

Has wronged my soul as this Aurora has, 

Who called the Lady Waldemar my wife." 



Not married to her ! Yet you said ". 



Nay, read the lines " (he held a letter out) 
" She sent you through me." 



Again 



By the moonlight there 
I tore the meaning out with passionate haste 
Much rather than I read it. Thus it ran. 



Aurora Leigh. 263 



NINTH BOOK. 

Even thus. I pause to write it out at length, 
The letter of the Lady Waldemar. 

" I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this; 

He says he''ll do it. After years of love, 

Or what is called so, when a woman frets 

And fools upon one string of a man's name, 

And fingers it forever till it breaks. 

He may perhaps do for her such a thing. 

And she accept it without detriment. 

Although she should not love him any more. 

And I, who do not love huii, nor love you, 

Nor you, Aurora, choose you shall repent 

Your most ungracious letter, and confess, 

Constrained by his convictions, (he's convinced) 

You've wronged me foully. Are you made so ill, 

You woman, to impute such ill to me? 

We both had mothers, — lay in their bosom once. 

And, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh, 

For proving to myself that there are things 

I would not do, — not for my life, nor him, — 

Though something I have somewhat overdone ; 

For instance, when I went to see the gods 

One morning on Olympus, with a step 

That shook the thunder from a certain cloud. 

Committing myself vilely. Could I think 

The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast 

To soften had herself a sort of heart. 

And loved my mortal } He at least loved her, 

I heard him say so : 'twas my recompense, 

When, watching at his bedside fourteen days, 

He broke out ever, like a flame at whiles 

Between the heats of fever, ' Is it thou .'' 

Breathe closer, sweetest mouth ! ' And when, at last 

The fever gone, the wasted face extinct. 

As if it irked him much to know me there. 

He said, ' 'Twas kind, 'twas good, 'twas womanly, 

( And fifty praises to excuse no love), 

' But was the picture safe he had ventured for } ' 

And then, half wandering, — ' I have loved her well. 

Although she could not love me.' ' Say instead,' 



264 



Aurora Lt'h^/i. 




Watching at his bedside. 



Aurora Leigh. 265 



I answered, ' she does love you.' 'Twas my turn 

To rave : I would have married him so changed, 

Although the world had jeered me properly 

For taking up with Cupid at his worst, 

The silver quiver worn off on his hair. 

' No, no,' he murmured, ' no, she loves me not ; 

Aurora Leigh does better. Bring her book 

And read it softly, Lady Waldemar, 

Until I thank your friendship more for that 

Than even for harder service.' So I read 

Your book, Aurora, for an hour that day : 

I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis ; 

My voice, empaled upon its hooks of rhyme. 

Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor revolt ; 

I read on calmly, — calmly shut it up, 

Obesrving, ' There's some merit in the book ; 

And yet the merit in't is thrown away, 

As chances still with women if we write 

Or write not : we want string to tie our flowers, 

So drop them as we walk, which serves to show 

The way we went. Good-morning, Mister Leigh ; 

You'll find another reader the next time. 

A woman who does better than to love, 

I hate ; she will do nothing very well : 

Male poets are preferable, straining less. 

And teaching more.' 1 triumphed o'er you both. 

And left him. 

" When I saw him afterward, 
I had read your shameful letter, and my heart. 
He came with health recovered, strong, though pale, — 
Lord Howe and he, a courteous pair of friends, — 
To say what men dare say to women, when 
Their debtors. But I stopped them with a word, 
And proved I had never trodden such a road 
To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. 
Then, putting into it something of disdain, 
1 asked forsooth his pardon, and m.y own, 
For having done no better than to love. 
And that not wisely, though 'twas long ago, 
And had been mended radically since. 
1 told him, as I tell you now. Miss Leigh, 
And proved 1 took some trouble, for his sake, 
( Because 1 knew he did not love the girl ) 
To spoil my hands with working in the stream 



266 Aurora Leigh. 



Of that poor bubbling nature, till she went, 

Consigned to one I trusted (my own maid 

Who once had lived full five months in my house. 

Dressed hair superbly) with a lavish purse 

To carry to Australia where she had left 

A husband, said she. If the creature lied, 

The mission failed, — we all do fail and lie 

More or less, — and I'm sorry, which is all 

Expected from us when we fail the most, 

And go to church to own it. What I meant 

Was just the best for him, and me, and her . . . 

Best even for Marian ! — I am sorry for't, 

And very sorry. Yet my creature said, 

She saw her stop to speak in Oxford Street 

To one ... no matter ! I had sooner cut 

My hand off (though 'twere kissed the hour before. 

And promised a duke's troth-ring for the next) 

Than crush her silly head with so much wrong. 

Poor child ! I would have mended it with gold, 

Until it gleamed like St. Sophia's dome 

When all the faithful troop to morning prayer: 

But he, he nipped the bud of such a thought 

With that cold Leigh look which I fancied once, 

And broke in, ' Henceforth she was called his wife. 

His wife required no succor : he was bound 

To Florence to resume this broken bond ; 

Enough so. Both were happ3% he and Howe, 

To acquit me of the heaviest charge of all ' — 

— At which I shot my tongue against my fly, 

And struck him : ' Would he carry, he was just, 

A letter from me to Aurora Leigh, 

And ratify from his authentic mouth 

My answer to her accusation ? ' — ' Yes, 

If such a letter were prepared in time.' 

— He's just, your cousin ; ay, abhorrently : 

He'd wash his hands in blood to keep them clean. 

And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentleman, 

He bowed, we parted. 

" Parted. Face no more. 
Voice no more, love no more ! wiped wholly out, 
Like some ill scholar's scrawl from heart and slate : 
Ay, spit on, and so wiped out utterly. 
By some coarse scholar ! I have been too coarse. 
Too human. Have we business, in our rank, 



Aurora Leig/i. 267 



With blood i' the veins ? I will have henceforth none, 

Not even to keep the color at my lip. 

A rose is pink and pretty without blood ; 

Why not a woman ? When we've played in vain 

The game, to adore, — we have resources still, 

And can play on, at leisure, being adored : 

Here's Smith already swearing at my feet 

That I'm the typic she. Away with Smith !— 

Smith smacks of Leigh, — and henceforth I'll admit 

No socialist within three crinolines, 

To live and have his being. But for you. 

Though insolent your letter and absurd, 

And though I hate you frankly, — take my Smith I 

For when you have seen this famous marriage tied, 

A most unspotted Erie to a noble Leigh, 

( His love astray on one he should not love ) 

Howbeit you may not want his love, beware. 

You'll want some comfort. So I leave you Smith ; 

Take Smith ! — he talks Leigh's subjects, somewhat worse ; 

Adopts a thought of Leigh's, and dwindles it ; 

Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch behind ; 

Will mind you of him, as a shoe-string may 

Of a man : and women when they are made like you 

Grow tender to a shoe-string, footprint even. 

Adore averted shoulders in a glass, 

And memories of what, present once, was loathed. 

And yet you loathed not Romney, though you played 

At ' fox-and-goose ' about him with your soul : 

Pass over fox, you rub out fox, — ignore 

A feeling, you eradicate it— the act's 

Identical. 

" I wish you joy, Miss Leigh, 
You've made a happy marriage for your friend, 
And all the honor, well-assorted love. 
Derives from you who love him, whom he loves ! 
You need not wish ?ne joy to think of it, 
I have so much. Observe, Aurora Leigh, 
Your droop of eyelid is the same as his. 
And but for you I might have won his love, 
And to you I have shown my naked heart ; 
For which three things, I hate, hate, hate you. Hush ! 
Suppose a fourth, — I cannot choose but think 
That, with him, I were virtuouser than you 
Without him : so I hate vou from this eulf 



268 



Am'ora Leigh. 



And hollow of my soul which opens out 

To what, except for you, had been my heaven, 

And is, instead, a place to curse by ! Love." 

An active kind of curse. I stood there cursed, 
Confounded. I had seized and caught the sense 
Of the letter, with its twenty stinging snakes. 
In a moment's sweep of e3'esight, and I stood 
Dazed. " Ah ! not married." 

" You mistake," he said, 
" I'm married. Is not Marian 

Erie my wife } 
As God sees things, I have a 

wife and child ; 
And I, as I'm a man who 

honors God, 
Am here to claim them as my 
child and wife. 

I felt it hard to breathe, much 

less to speak. 
Nor word of mind are needed. 

Some one else 
Was there for answering. 

" Romney," she began, 
" My great good angel, Rom- 
ney." 

Then, at first, 
I knew that Marian Erie was 

beautiful. 
She stood there, still and pal- 
lid as a saint, 
Dilated, like a saint in ec- 
stasy, 
As if the floating moonshine 
interposed 
^^ Betwixt her foot and the earth, 
and raised her up 
To float upon it. " I had left 
my child, 
Who sleeps," she said, " and, having drawn this way, 
I heard you speaking . . . friend ! — Confirm me now. 
You take this Marian, such as wicked men 
Have made her, for your honorable wife } " 




She stood thei 



A SAINT. 



Aurora Leigh. 269 



The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice. 

He stretched his arms out toward that thrilling voice, 

As if to draw it on to his embrace. 

— " I take her as God made her, and as men 

Must fail to unmake her, for my honored wife." 

She never raised her eyes, nor took a step, 

But stood there in her place, and spoke again. 

— " You take this Marian's child, which is her shame 

In sight of men and women, for your child. 

Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed } " 

The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic voice. 

He stepped on toward it, still with outstretched arms. 

As if to quench upon his breast that voice. 

— " May God so father me as 1 do him, 

And so forsake me as I let him feel 

He's orphaned haply. Here I take the child 

To share my cup, to slumber on my knee. 

To play his loudest gambol at my foot. 

To hold my rtnger in the public ways. 

Till none shall need inquire, ' Whose child is this ? ' 

The gesture saying so tenderly, ' My own.' " 

She stood a moment silent in her place ; 

Then turning toward me very slow and cold, 

— " And you, — what say you .^ — will you blame me much, 

If, careful for that outcast child of mine, 

I catch this hand that's stretched to me and him, 

Nor dare to leave him friendless in the world 

Where men have stoned me ? Have I not the right 

To take so mere an aftermath from life, 

Else found so wholly bare } Or is it wrong 

To let your cousin, for a generous bent. 

Put out his ungloved fingers among briers 

To set a tumbling bird's-nest somewhat straight } 

You will not tell him, though we're innocent. 

We are not harmless . . . and that both our harms 

Will stick to his good, smooth, noble life like burrs, 

Never to drop ofT, though he shakes the cloak } 

" You've been my friend : you will not now be his } 
You've known him that he's worthy of a friend. 
And you're his cousin, lady, after all, 



270 Aurora Leigh. 



And therefore more than free to take his part, 
Explaining, since the nest is surely spoilt, 
And Marian what you know her, — though a wife. 
The world would hardly understand her case 
Of being just hurt and honest ; while for him, 
'Twould ever twit him with his bastard child 
And married harlot. Speak while yet there's time. 
You would not stand and let a good man's dog 
Turn round and rend him, because his, and reared 
Of a generous breed ; and will you let his act. 
Because it's generous ? Speak. I'm bound to you, 
And I'll be bound by only you in this." 
The thrilling, solemn voice, so passionless. 
Sustained, yet low, without a rise or fall, 
As one who had authority to speak, 
And not as Marian. 

I looked up to feel 
If God stood near me, and beheld his heaven 
As blue as Aaron's priestly robe appeared 
To Aaron when he took it off to die. 
And then I spoke, — " Accept the gift, I say. 
My sister Marian, and be satisfied. 
The hand that gives has still a soul behind 
Which will not let it quail for having given, 
Though foolish worldlings talk they know not what 
Of what they know not. Romney's strong enough 
For this : do you be strong to know he's strong. 
He stands on right's side : never flinch for him. 
As if he stood on the other. You'll be bound 
By me } I am a woman of repute ; 
No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life ; 
My name is clean and open as this hand. 
Whose glove there's not a man dares Blab about. 
As if he had touched it freely. Here's my hand 
To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned as pure ! — 
As pure, as I'm a woman and a Leigh ; 
And, as I'm both, I'll witness to the\vorld 
That Romney Leigh is honored in his choice 
Who chooses Marian for his honored wife." 

Her broad, wild, woodland eyes shot out a light ; 
Her smile was wonderful for rapture. " Thanks, 
My great Aurora." Forward then she sprang, 
And, dropping her impassioned spaniel head 



Aurora Leigh. 271 



With all its brown abandonment of curls 

On Romney's feet, we heard the kisses drawn 

Through sobs upon the foot, upon the ground— 

" O Romney ! O my angel ! O unchanged ! 

Though since we've parted I have passed the grave. 

But death itself could only better thee. 

Not change thee. Thee I do not thank at all : 

I but thank God who made thee what thou art. 

So whollv godlike." 

When he tried m vaui 
To raise her to his embrace, escaping thence 
As any leaping fawn from a huntsman's grasp. 
She bounded off, and 'lighted beyond reach. 
Before him, with a staglike majesty 
Of soft, serene defiance, as she knew 
He could not touch her, so was tolerant 
He had cared to try. She stood there with her great 
Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and strange sweet 

smile 
That lived through all, as if one held a light 
Across a waste of waters,— shook her head 
To keep some thoughts down deeper in her soul- 
Then, white and tranquil like a summer-cloud. 
Which, having rained itself to a tardy peace. 
Stands still in heaven as if it ruled the day, 
Spoke out again,—" Although, my generous friend, 
Since last we met and parted you're unchanged. 
And, having promised faith to Marian Erie, 
Maintain it, as she were not changed at all ; 
And though that's worthy, though that's full of balm 
To any conscious spirit of a girl 
Who once has loved you as I loved you once,— 
Yet still it will not make her . . . if she's dead, 
And gone away w^here none can give or take 
In marriage, — able to revive, return 
And wed you,— will it, Romney } Here's the pomt ; 
My friend, we'll see it plainer : you and I 
Must never, never, never join hands so. 
Nav, let me say it ; for I said it first 
To'God, and placed it, rounded to an oath. 
Far, far above the moon there, at his feet, 
As surely as 1 wept just now at yours,— 
We never, never, never join hands so. 
And now, be patient with me : do not think 



272 Auro7-a Leigh. 



I'm speaking- from a false humility. 

The truth is, 1 am grown so proud with grief, 

And He has said so often through his nights 

And through his mornings, ' Weep a little still, 

Thou foolish Marian, because women must, 

But do not blush at all except for sin,' — 

That I, who felt myself unworthy once 

Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race, 

Have come to learn, — a woman, poor or rich. 

Despised or honored, is a human soul, 

And what her soul is, that she is herself, 

Although she should be spit upon of men. 

As is the pavement of the churches here. 

Still good enough to pray in. And being chaste 

And honest, and inclined to do the right. 

And love the truth, and live my life out green 

And smooth beneath his steps,'! should not fear 

To make him thus a less uneasy time 

Than many a happier woman. Very proud 

You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap 

To hear a confirmation in your voice, 

Both yours and yours. It is so good to know 

'Twas really God who said the same before ; 

And thus it is in heaven, that first God speaks, 

And then his angels. Oh, it does me good, 

It wipes me clean and sweet from devil's dirt, 

That Romney Leigh should think me worthy still 

Of being his true and honorable wife ! 

Henceforth I need not say, on leaving earth, 

I had no glory in it. For the rest. 

The reason's ready (master, angel, friend. 

Be patient with me) wherefore you and 1 

Can never, never, never join hands so. 

I know you'll not be angry like a man 

( Y ox you are none) when I shall tell the truth, 

Which is, I do not love you, Romney Leigh, 

I do not love you. Ah, well I catch my hands, 

Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with yours, — 

1 swear I do not love him. Did I once } 

'Tis said that women have been bruised to death, 

And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs 

Could never be drained out with all their blood : 

I've heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed 

Love once ? or did I only worship } Yes, 



Aurora Leigh. 273 



Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high 

Above all actual good, or hope of good, 

Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, 

I haply set vou above love itself. 

And out of 'reach of these poor woman's arms, 

Angelic Romney. What was in my thought ? 

To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool. 

To be your love ... I never thought of that. 

To give you love . . . still less. I gave you love ? 

I think I did not give you any thing ; 

I was but only yours,— upon my knees, 

All yours, in soul and body, in head and, heart,— 

A creature you had taken from the ground. 

Still crumbling through your fingers to your feet 

To join the dust she came from. Did I love. 

Or did I worship.? Judge, Aurora Leigh ! 

But, if indeed I loved, 'twas long ago, 

So long '.—before the sun and moon were made. 

Before the hells were open, ah, before 

I heard my child cry in the desert night, 

And knew he had no father. It may be 

I'm not as strong as other women are. 

Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love. 

It may be I am colder than the dead. 

Who, being dead, love always. But for me. 

Once killed, this ghost of Marian loves no more. 

No more . . . except the child ... no more at all. 

I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead ; 

And now she thinks I'll get up from my grave. 

And wear mv chin-cloth for a wedding-veil, 

And glide along the churchyard like a bride, _ 

While all the dead keep whispering through the withes, 

' You would be better in your place with us, 

You pitiful corruption ! ' At the thought. 

The damps break out on me like leprosy. 

Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erie ! 

As Marian Leigh, I know I were not clean : 

Nor have I so much life that I should love. 

Except the child. Ah God ! I could not bear 

To see my darling on a good man's kriees. 

And know bv such a look, or such a sigh. 

Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes, ^ 

' This child was fathered by some cursed wretcli . . . 

For, Romney, angels are less tender-wise 



2 74 Aurora Leigh. 



Than God and mothers : t\&n yott would think 

What we think never. He is ours, the child ; 

And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven 

By coupling with it the dead body's thought 

It left behind it in a last month's grave 

Than in my child see other than ... my child. 

We only never call him fatherless 

Who has God and his mother. my babe, 

My pretty, pretty blossom an ill wind 

Once blew upon my breast ! Can any think 

I'd have another, — one called happier, 

A fathered child, with father's love and race 

That's worn as bold 'and open as a smile. 

To vex my darling when he's asked his name 

And has no answer ? What ! a happier child 

Than mine, my best, who laughed so loud to-night 

He could not sleep for pastime ? Nay, I swear 

By life and love, that if I lived like some. 

And loved like . . . some, ay, loved you, Romney Leigh, 

As some love, (eyes that have wept so much see clear) 

I've room for no more children in my arms, 

My kisses are all melted on one mouth, 

I would not push my darling to a stool 

To dandle babies. Here's a hand shall keep 

Forever clean without a marriage-ring. 

To tend my boy until he cease to need 

One steadying finger of it, and desert 

( Not miss ) his mother's lap to sit with men. 

And when I miss him (not he me) I'll come 

And say, ' Now give me some of Romney's work, — 

To help your outcast orphans of the world 

And comfort grief with grief.' For you, meantime. 

Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife. 

And open on each other your great souls : 

I need not farther bless you. If I dared 

But strain and touch her in her upper sphere 

And say, * Come down to Romney — pay my debt ! ' 

I should be joyful with the stream of joy 

Sent through me. But the moon is in my face . . . 

I dare not, — though I guess the name he loves : 

I'm learned with my studies of old days. 

Remembering how he crushed his under lip 

When some one came and spoke, or did not come : 

Aurora, I could touch her with my hand. 



Aui'ora Leigh. 275 



And fly because I dare not." 

She was gone. 
He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. 
" Forgive her — she sees clearly for herself : 
Her instinct's holy." 

" / forgive ! " he said, 
" I only marvel how she sees so sure, 

While others "... there he paused, then hoarse, abrupt, — 
" Aurora, you forgive us, her and me ? 
For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child. 
If once corrected by the thing I know. 
Had been unspoken, since she loves you well. 
Has leave to love you ; while for me, alas ! 
If once or twice I let my heart escape 
This night . . . remember, where hearts slip and fall 
They break beside : we're parting, — parting, — ah. 
You do not love, that you should surely know 
What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant : 
It had not been, but that I felt myself 
So safe in impuissance and despair 
I could not hurt you, though I tossed my arms 
And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch 
Will choose his postures when he comes to die, 
However in the presence of a queen ; 
And you'll forgive me some unseemly spasms 
Which meant no more than dying. Do you think 
I had ever come here in my perfect mind, 
Unless I had come here in my settled mind 
Bound Marian's, — bound to keep the bond, and give 
My name, my house, my hand, the things I could. 
To Marian } For even / could give as much : 
Even I, affronting her exalted soul 
By a supposition that she wanted these, 
Could act the husband's coat and hat set up 
To creak i' the wind, and drive the world-crows off 
From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill 
A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last, 
I own heaven's angels round her life suffice 
To fight the rats of our society, 
Without this Romney. I can see it at last ; 
And here is ended my pretension w^hich 
The most pretended. Over-proud of course, 
Even so! — but not so stupid . . . blind . . . that I, 
Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world 



276 Aurora Leigh. 



Has set to meditate mistaken work, — 

My dreary face against a dim blank wall 

Throughout man's natural lifetime, — could pretend 

Or wish . . . O love, I have loved you ! O my soul, 

I have lost you ! But I swear by all yourself, 

And all you might have been to me these years 

If that June morning had not failed my hope, 

I'm not so bestial to regret that day 

This night, — this night, which still to you is fair ; 

Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest 

Those stars above us v^'hich I cannot see "... 

" You cannot "... 
" That if Heaven itself should stoop. 
Remix the lots, and give me another chance, 
I'd say, ' No other ! ' I'd record my blank. 
Aurora never should be wife of mine." 

" Not see the stars .^ " 

" 'Tis worse still not to see 
To find your hand, although we're parting, dear. 
A moment let me hold it ere we part. 
And understand my last words — these at last I — 
I would not have you thinking when I'm gone 
That Romney dared to hanker for your love 
In thought or vision, if attainable, 
( Which certainly for me it never was ) 
And wished to use it for a dog to-day 
To help the blind man stumbling. God forbid ! 
And now I know he held you in his palm. 
And kept you open-eyed to all my faults, 
To save you at last from such a dreary end. 
Believe me, dear, that if I had known, like him. 
What loss was coming on me, I had done 
As well in this as he has. — Farewell you 
Who are still my light,— farew^ell ! How late it is I 
I know that now. You've been too patient, sweet. 
I will but blow my whistle toward the lane. 
And some one comes, — the same who brought me here. 
Get in. Good-night." 

" A moment. Heavenly Christ I 
A moment. Speak once, Romney. 'Tis not true. 
I hold your hands, I look into your face— 
You see me .'' " 



Aurora Leigh. 277 



" No more than the blessed stars. 
Be blessed too, Atirora. Nay, my sweet, 
You tremble. Tender-hearted I Do you mind 
Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old John, 
And let the mice out slyly from his traps, 
Until he marvelled at the soul in mice 
Which took the cheese, and left the snare ? The same 
Dear soft heart always ! 'Twas for this I grieved 
Howe's letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard 
Of illness, not the issue, not the extent, — 
My life long sick with tossings up and down. 
The sudden revulsion in the blazing house. 
The strain and struggle both of body and soul. 
Which left fire running in my veins for blood 
Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the falling beam 
Which nicked me on the forehead as I passed 
The gallery-door with a burden. Say heaven's bolt, 
Not William Erie's, not Marian's father's, — tramp 
And poacher, whom I found for what he was. 
And, eager for her sake to rescue him. 
Forth swept from the open highway of the world, 
Road-dust and all, till, like a woodland boar 
Most naturally unwilling to be tamed. 
He notched me with his tooth. But not a word 
To Marian ! And I do not think, besides, 
He turned the tilting of the beam my way ; 
And if he laughed, as many swear, poor wretch. 
Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep. 
We'll hope his next laugh may be merrier, 
In a better cause." 

" Blind, Romney ? " 

" Ah, my friend, 
You'll learn to say it in a cheerful voice. 
I, too, at first desponded. To be blind. 
Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man, 
Refused the daily largess of the sun 
To humble creatures ! When the fever's heat 
Dropped from me, as the flame did from my house, 
And left me ruined like it, stripped of all 
The hues and shapes of aspectable life, 
A mere bare blind stone in the blaze of day, ^ 
A man, upon the outside of the earth. 
As dark as ten feet under, in the grave, — 
Why, that seemed hard." 



278 Aurora Leigh 



" No hope 



A tear ! you weep, 



Divine Aurora ? tears upon my hand 
I've seen you weeping for a mouse, a bird, — 
But, weep for me, Aurora ? Yes, there's hope. 
No hope of sight : I could be learned, dear, 
And tell you in what Greek and Latin name 
The visual nerve is withered to the root. 
Though the outer eyes appear indifferent, 
Unspotted in their crystals. But there's hope. 
The spirit, from behind this dethroned sense, 
Sees, waits in patience till the walls break up 
From which the bas-relief and fresco have dropt : 
There's hope. The man here, once so arrogant 
And restless, so ambitious, for his part, 
Of dealing with statistically packed 
Disorders (from a pattern on his nail); 
And packing such things quite another way. 
Is now contented. From his personal loss 
He has come to hope for others when they lose. 
And wear a gladder faith in what we gain . . . 
Through bitter experience, compensation sweet, 
Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet now 
As tender surely for the suffering world. 
But quiet, — sitting at the wall to learn, 
Content henceforth to do the thing I can ; 
For though as powerless, said I, as a stone, 
A stone can still give shelter to a worm. 
And it is worth while being a stone for that. 
There's hope, Aurora." 

"Is there hope for me ? 
For me } — and is there room beneath the stone 
For such a worm } And if I came and said . . . 
What all this weeping scarce will let me say. 
And yet what women cannot say at all 
But weeping bitterly . . . (the pride keeps up 
Until the heart breaks under it) ... I love, — 
I love you, Romney "... 

" Silence ! " he exclaimed. 
" A w^oman's pity sometimes makes her mad. 
A man's distraction must not cheat his soul 
To take advantage of it. Yet 'tis hard — 
Farewell, Aurora." 

*' But I love you, sir ; 



Aurora Leigh. 279 



And when a woman says she loves a man, 

The man must hear her, though he love her not, 

Which . . . hush ! ... he has leave to answer in his turn 

She will not surely blame him. As for me, 

You call it pity, think I'm generous ? 

'Twere somewhat easier, for a woman proud 

As I am, and I'm very vilely proud. 

To let it pass as such, and press on you 

Love born of pity, — seeing that excellent loves 

Are born so, often, nor the quicklier die,— 

And this would set me higher by the head 

Than now I stand. No matter. Let the truth 

Stand high ; Aurora must be humble : no. 

My love's not pity merely. Obviously 

I'm not a generous woman, never was. 

Or else, of old, I had not looked so near 

To weights and measures, grudging you the power 

To give, as first I scorned your power to judge 

For me, Aurora. I would'have no gifts 

Forsooth, but God's ; and I w^ould use them, too, 

According to my pleasure and my choice. 

As he and I were equals, you below. 

Excluded from that level of interchange 

Admitting benefaction. You were wrong 

In much ? you said so. I was wrong in most. 

Oh, most ! You only thought to rescue men 

By half-means, half-way, seeing half their wants, 

While thinking nothing of your personal gain. 

But I, who saw the human nature broad 

At both sides, comprehending too the soul's. 

And all the high necessities of art. 

Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged my own life 

For which I pleaded. Passioned to" exalt 

The artist's instinct in me at the cost 

Of putting down the woman's, I forgot 

No perfect artist is developed here 

From any imperfect woman. Flower from root, 

And spiritual from natural, grade by grade 

In all our life. A handful of the earth 

To make God's image ! the despised poor earth, 

The healthy odorous earth, — I missed, with it 

The divine breath that blows the nostrils out 

To ineffable inflatus, — ay, the breath 

Which love is. Art is much ; but love is more. 



28o 



Aurora Lei^rJi. 



art, my art, thou'rt much ; but love is more I 
Art symbolizes heaven ; but love is God, 

And makes heaven. 1, Aurora, fell from mine. 

1 would not be a woman like the rest, 
A simple woman who believes in love, 

? And owns the right of 
^ love because she 

i loves, 

/ And, hearing she's be- 
loved, is satisfied 
With what contents 
God : I must an- 
alyze, 
Confront, and question, 

just as if a fiy 
Refused to warm itself 

in any sun 
Till such was in Icoiic : 

I must fret, 
Forsooth, because the 
month was o n 1 v 
May, 
Be faithless of the kind 

of proffered love, 
And captious, lest it 

miss my dignity. 

And scornful, that my 

lover sought a wife 

To use ... to use ! O 

Romney, O m y 

love ! 

I am changed since then, changed 

wholly ; for indeed 
If now you'd stoop so low to take 
my love, 
And use it roughly, without stint or 
spare. 
The month was only As men use common thinQ;s with more 

May. I u- j 

behnid, 
( And, in this, ever would be more be- 
hind) 
To any mean and ordinary end, 
The joy would set me, like a star in heaven, 
So high up, I should shine because of height, 




Aurora Leigh. 28] 



And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, 

Just one, beloved, I am in no wise changed : 

1 love you, loved you . . . loved you first and last, 

And love you on forever. Now I know- 

I loved you always, Romney. She who died 

Knew that, and said so ; Lady Waldemar 

Knows that . . . and Marian. I had known the same, 

Except that I was prouder than I knew, 

And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, 

I should have died so, crushing in my hand 

This rose of love, the wasp inside and all, 

Ignoring ever to my soul and you 

Both rose and pain, — except for this great loss. 

This great despair, — to stand before your face 

And know you do not see me where I stand. 

You think, perhaps, I am not changed from pride, 

And that I chiefly bear to say such words 

Because you cannot shame me with your eyes } 

calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a storm. 
Blown out like lights o'er melancholy seas. 

Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked I O my Dark, 
My Cloud, — to go before me every day. 
While I go ever toward the wilderness, — 

1 would that you could see me bare to the soul ! 
If this be pity, 'tis so for myself, 

And not for Romney : he can stand alone ; 

A man like him is never overcome : 

No woman like me counts him pitiable 

While saints applaud him. He mistook the world ; 

But I mistook my own heart, and that slip 

Was fatal. Romney, will you leave me here } 

So wrong, so proud, so weak, so unconsoled, 

So mere a woman ! — and I love you so, 

I love you, Romney" — 

Could I see his face 
I wept so } Did I drop against his breast. 
Or did his arms constrain me } Were my cheeks 
Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his? 
And which of our two large explosive hearts 
So shook me ? That I know^ not. There were words 
That broke in utterance . . . melted in the fire ; 
Embrace that was convulsion . . . then a kiss 
As long and silent as the ecstatic night. 



282 Aurora Leigh. 



And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, which meant beyond 
Whatever could be told by word or kiss. 

But what he said ... I have written day by day, 
With somewhat even writing. Did I think 
That such a passionate rain would intercept 
And dash this last page ? What he said, indeed, 
I fain would write it down here like the rest. 
To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears. 
The heart's sweet scripture, to be read at night 
When weary, or at morning when afraid, 
And lean my heaviest oath on when I swear. 
That when all's done, all tried, all counted here, 
All great arts, and all good philosophies. 
This love just puts its hand out in a dream. 
And straight outstretches all things. 

What he said 
I fain would write. But, if an angel spoke 
In thunder, should we haply know much more 
Than that it thundered ? If a cloud came down 
And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its shape, 
As if on the outside, and not overcome ? 
And so he spake. His breath against my face 
Confused his words, yet made them more intense, — 
( As when the sudden finger of the wind 
Will wipe a row of single city lamps 
To a pure white line of flame, more luminous 
Because of obliteration ) more intense. 
The intimate presence carrying in itself 
Complete communication, as with souls. 
Who, having put the body off, perceive 
Through simply being. Thus 'twas granted me 
To know he loved me to the depth and height 
Of such large natures, ever competent. 
With grand horizons by the sea or land. 
To love's grand sunrise. Small spheres hold small fires ; 
But he loved largely, as a man can love, 
Who, baffled in his love, dares live his life, 
Accept the ends which God loves, for his own, 
And lift a constant aspect. 

From the day 
I brought to England my poor searching face, 
C An orphan even of my father's grave) 
He had loved me, watched me, watched his soul in mine. 



Aurora Leigh. 283 



Which in me grew and heightened into love. 

For he, a boy still, had been told the tale 

Of how a fairy bride from Italy, 

With smells of oleanders in her hair, 

Was coming through the vines to touch his hand ; 

Whereat the blood of boyhood on the palm 

Made sudden heats. And when at last I came. 

And lived before him, lived, and rarely smiled. 

He smiled, and loved me for the thing I was, 

A3 every child will love the year's first flower, 

( Not certainly the fairest of the year, 

But in which the complete year seems to blow) 

The poor sad snowdrop, growing between drifts, 

Mysterious medium 'twixt the plant and frost, 

So faint with winter while so quick with spring. 

And doubtful if to thaw itself away 

With that snow near it. Not that Romney Leigh 

Had loved me coldly. If I thought so once. 

It was as if I had held my hand in fire, 

And shook for cold. But now I understood 

Forever, that the very fire and heat 

Of troubling passion in him burned him clear, 

And shaped to dubious order word and act ; 

That, just because he loved me over all, — 

All wealth, all lands, all social privilege. 

To which chance made him unexpected heir, — 

And just because on all these lesser gifts. 

Constrained by conscience and the sense of wrong, 

He had stamped with steady hand God's arrow-mark 

Of dedication to the human need, 

He thought it should be so, too, with his love. 

He, passionately loving, would bring down 

His love, his life, his best, (because the best) 

His bride of dreams, who walked so still and high 

Through flowery poems, as through meadow-grass. 

The dust of golden lilies on her feet. 

That she should walk beside him on the rocks 

In all that clang and hewing out of men, 

And help the work of help which was his life, 

And prove he kept back nothing, — not his soul. 

And when I failed him,— for I failed him, I,— 

And when it seemed he had missed my love, he thought, 

" Aurora makes room for a working-noon," 

And so, self-girded with torn strips of hope. 



284 Aurora Leigh 



Took up his life as if it were for death, 

(Just capable of one heroic aim) 

And threw it in the thickest of the world, 

At which men laughed as if he had drowned a dog. 

No wonder, — since Aurora failed him first ! 

The morning and the evening made his day. 

But oh the night ! O bitter-sweet ! O sweet ! 

dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love, 

In which absorbed, loss, anguish, treason's self, 

Enlarges rapture, as a pebble dropt 

In some full winecup over-brims the wine ! 

While we two sate together, leaned that night 

So close my very garments crept and thrilled 

With strange electric life, and both my cheeks 

Grew red, then pale, with touches from my hair 

In which his breath was ; while the golden moon 

Was hung before our faces as the badge 

Of some sublime, inherited despair. 

Since ev'er to be seen by only one, — 

A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh, 

Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a smile, 

" Thank God, who made me blind to make me see ! 

Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls, 

Which rul'st forevermore both day and night ! 

1 am happy." 

I fiung closer to his breast. 
As sword that after battle flings to sheath ; 
And, in that hurtle of united souls, 
The mystic motions which in common moods 
Are shut be^'ond our sense broke in on us, 
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth spin. 
And all the starry turbulence of worlds 
Swing round us in their audient circles, till 
If that same golden moon were overhead 
Or if beneath our feet, we did not know. 

And then calm., equal, smooth with weights of joy, 
His voice rose, as some chief musician's song 
Amid the old Jewish temple's Selah-pause, 
And bade me mark how we two met at last 
Upon this moon-bathed promontory of earth, 
To give up much on each side, then take all. 



Aurora Leigh. 285 



" Beloved," it sang, " we must be here to work; 
And men who. work can only work for men. 
And, not to work in vain, must comprehend 
Humanity, and so work humanly. 
And raise men's bodies still by raising souls, 
As God did first." 

" But stand upon the earth," 
I said, " to raise them, (this is human too ; 
There's nothing high which has not first been low; 
My humbleness, said One, has made me great !) 
As God did last." 

" And work all silently 
And simply," he returned. " as God does all ; 
Distort our nature never for our work. 
Nor count our right hands stronger for being hoofs. 
The man most man, with tenderest human hands. 
Works best for men, as God in Nazareth." 

He paused upon the word, and then resumed : 

" Fewer programmes, we w'ho have no prescience. 

Fewer systems, we who are held, and do not hold. 

Less mapping out of masses to be saved, 

By nations or by sexes. Fourier's void, 

And Comte absurd, and Cabet, puerile. 

Subsist no rules of life outside of life. 

No perfect manners, without Christian souls : 

The Christ himself had been no Law-giver 

Unless he had given the life too, with the law." 

I echoed thoughtfully, — " The man most man 
Works best for men, and, if most man indeed. 
He gets his manhood plainest from his soul ; 
While obviously this stringent soul itself 
Obeys the old law^ of development, 
The Spirit ever witnessing in ours. 
And love, the soul, of soul, within the soul, 
Evolving it sublimely. First, God's love." 

" And next," he smiled, " the love of wedded souls. 
Which still presents that mystery's counterpart. 
Sweet shadow-rose upon the water of life, 
Of such a mystic substance, Sharon gave 
A name to ! human, vital, fructuous rose. 
Whose calyx holds the multitude of leaves. 



286 Aurora Leigh. 



Loves filial, loves fraternal, neighbor-loves 
And civic, — all fair petals, all good scents, 
All reddened, sweetened, from one central Heart ! ' 

" Alas ! " I cried, " it was not long ago 
You swore this very social rose smelt ill." 

" Alas ! " he answered, " is it a rose at all ? 

The filial's thankless, the fraternal's hard, 

The rest is lost. I do but stand and think, 

Across the waters of a troubled life, 

This flower of heaven so vainly overhangs, 

What perfect counterpart would be in sight 

If tanks were clearer. Let us clean the tubes. 

And wait for rains. O poet, O my love. 

Since / was too ambitious in my deed. 

And thought to distance all men in success, 

( Till God came on me, marked the place, and said, 

' Ill-doer, henceforth keep within this line. 

Attempting less than others ; ' and I stand 

And work among Christ's little ones, content,) 

Come thou, my compensation, my dear sight. 

My morning-star, my morning ! rise and shine. 

And touch my hills with radiance not their own. 

Shine out for two, Aurora, and fulfil 

My falling-short that must be I work for two. 

As I, though thus restrained, for two shall love ! 

Gaze on, with inscient vision, toward the sun. 

And from his visceral heat pluck out the roots 

Of light beyond him. Art's a service, mark : 

A silv-er key is given to thy clasp. 

And thou shalt stand unwearied, night and day. 

And fix it in the hard, slow-turning wards, 

To open, so, that intermediate door 

Betwixt the different planes of sensuous form 

And form insensuous, that inferior men 

May learn to feel on still through these to those, 

And bless thy ministration. The world waits 

For help. Beloved, let us love so well. 

Our work shall still be better for our love, 

And still our love be sweeter for our work, 

And both commended, for the sake of each, 

By all true workers and true lovers born. 

Now press the clarion on thy woman's lip, 



Auror-a Leigh. 287 



( Love's holy kiss shall still keep consecrate) 
And breathe thy fine keen breath along the brass, 
And blow all class-walls level as Jericho's 
Past Jordan, crying from the top of souls, 
To souls, that here assembled on earth's f^ats. 
They get them to some purer eminence 
Than any hitherto beheld for clouds ! 
What height we know not, but the way we know, 
And how, by mounting ever, we attain. 
And so climb on. It is the hour for souls. 
That bodies, leavened by the will and love. 
Be lightened to redemption. The world's old ; 
But the old world waits the time to be renewed, 
Toward which new hearts in individual growth 
Must quicken, and increase to multitude 
In new dynasties of the race of men, 
Developed whence shall grow spontaneously 
New churches, new economies, new laws 
Admitting freedom, new societies 
Excluding falsehood : He shall make all new." 

My Romney I — Lifting up my hand in his. 
As wheeled by seeing spirits toward the east, 
He turned instinctively, where, faint and far. 
Along the tingling desert of the sky. 
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills. 
Where laid in jasper-stone as clear as glass 
The first foundations of that new, near day 
W^hich should be builded out of heaven to God. 
He stood a moment with erected brows 
In silence, as a creature might who gazed, — 
Stood calm, and fed his blind, majestic eyes 
Upon the thought of perfect noon : and when 
I saw his soul saw, — "Jasper first," I said, 
" And second, sapphire ; third, chalcedony ; 
The rest in order, — last, an amethyst." 



A DRAMA OF EXILE 



Scene.— yy/t- otiter side of the gate of Eden shut fast 7vith cloud, 
from the depth of which revolves a sword of fire self moved. 
Adam and Eve are seen in the distance, flying along the glare. 

Lucifer, alone. 

Rejoice in the clefts of Gehenna, 

My exiled, my host ! 
Earth has exiles as hopeless as when a 

Heaven's empire was lost. 
Through the seams of her shaken foundations 

Smoke up in great joy ! 
With the smoke of your fierce exultations 

Deform and destroy ! 
Smoke up with your lurid revenges. 

And darken the face 
Of the white heavens, and taunt them with changes 

From glory and grace ! 
We in falling, while destiny strangles. 

Pull down with us all. 
Let them look to the rest of their angels ! 

Who's safe from a fall ? 
He saves not. Where's Adam ? Can pardon 

Requicken that sod ? 
Unkinged is the King of the Garden, 

The image of God. 
Other exiles are cast out of Eden, 

More curse has been hurled : 
Come up, O my locusts, and feed in 

The green of the world ! 



290 



A Drain a of Exile 



Come up I we have conquered by evil 

Good reigns not alone : 
/ prevail now, and, angel or devil. 

Inherit a throne. 




Exiles are cast out of Ede> 



[/// sudden apparition a watch 
of iimicmerable angels, rank^ 
above rank, slopes 7ip from 
around the f^ate to the zejiith. 
The angel Gahriel descends. '\ 

Luc. Hail, Gabriel, the keeper of the gate I 
Now that the fruit is plucked, prince Gabriel, 
I hold that Eden is impregnable 
Under thy keeping. 

Gab. Angel of the sin. 

Such as thou standest, — pale in the drear light 
Which rounds the rebel's work with Maker's wrath, — 
Thou shalt be an Idea to all- souls, 
A monumental melancholy gloom 
Seen down all ages, whence to mark despair. 
And measure out the distances from good. 
Go from us straightway ! 

Luc. Wherefore } 

Gab. Lucifer, 

Thy last step in this place trod sorrow up. 
Recoil before that sorrow, if not this sword. 

Lite. Angels are in the world : wherefore not I ? 
Exiles are in the world : wherefore not I ? 
The cursed are in the world : wherefore not I .'' 

Gab. Depart ! 

Luc. And Where's the logic of " depart "} 



A Drama of Exile. 291 



Our lady Eve had half been satisfied 

To obey her Maker, if I had not learnt 

To fix my postulate better. Dost thou dream 

Of guarding- some monopoly in heaven 

Instead of earth ? Why. I can dream with thee 

To the length of thy wings. 

Gab. I do not dream. 

This is not heaven, even in a dream, nor earth, 
As earth was once, first breathed among the stars, 
Articulate glory from the mouth divine. 
To which the myriad spheres thrilled audibly, 
Touched like a lute-string, and the sons of God 
Said Amen, singing it. I know that this 
Is earth not new created, but new cursed — 
This, Eden's gate, not opened, but built up 
With a final cloud of sunset. Do I dream } 
Alas, not so ! this is the Eden lost 
By Lucifer the serpent ; this the sword 
(This sword alive with justice and with fire) 
That smote upon the forehead Lucifer 
The angel. Wherefore, angel, go, depart ! 
Enough is sinned and suffered. 

Liic. By no means. 

Here's a brave earth to sin and suffer on : 
It holds fast still ; it cracks not under curse ; 
It holds like mine immortal. Presently 
We'll sow it thick enough with graves as green 
Or greener certes, than its knowledge-tree. 
We'll have the cypress for the tree of life. 
More eminent for shadow : for the rest. 
We'll build it dark with towns and pyramids. 
And temples, if it please you : we'll have feasts 
And funerals also, merrymakes and wars. 
Till blood and wine shall mix, and run along 
Right o'er the edges. And, good Gabriel, 
(Ye like that word in heaven ), / too have strength. 
Strength to behold Him, and not worship Him ; 
Strength to fall from Him, and not cry on Him ; 
Strength to be in the universe, and yet 
Neither God nor his servant. The red sign 
Burnt on my forehead, which you taunt me with. 
Is God's sign that it bows not unto God, — 
The potter's mark upon his work to show 
It rings well to the striker. I and the earth 



292 A Drama of Exile. 

Can bear more curse. 

Gab. O miserable earth, 

ruined angel ! 

Luc. Well, and if it be, 

1 CHOSE this ruin : I elected it 

Of my will, not of service. What I do, 

I do volitient, not obedient. 

And overtop thy crown with my despair. 

My sorrow crowns me. Get thee back to heaven, 

And leave me to the earth, which is mine own 

In virtue of her ruin, as I hers 

In virtue of my revolt ! turn thou, from both 

That bright, impassive, passive angelhood, 

And spare to read us backward any more 

Of the spent hallelujahs ! 

Gab. Spirit of scorn, 

I might say of unreason, I might say 
That who despairs, acts ; that who acts, connives 
With God's relations set in time and space ; 
That who elects, assumes a something good 
Which God made possible ; that who loves, obeys 
The law of a Life-maker . . . 

Luc. Let it pass : 

No more, thou Gabriel ! What if I stand up 
And strike my brow against the crystalline 
Roofing the creatures — shall I say, for that. 
My stature is too high for me to stand, 
Henceforward I must sit.^ Sit thou! 

Gab. I kneel. 

Luc. A heavenly answer. Get thee to thy heaven. 
And leave my earth to me ! 

Gab. Through heaven and ean'.i 

God's will moves freely, and I follow it, 
As color follows light. He overflows 
The firmamental walls with deity, 
Therefore with love. His lightnings go abroad ; 
His pity may do so ; his angels must 
Whene'er he gives them charges. 

Luc. Verily, 

I and my demons, who are spirits of scorn. 
Might hold this charge of standing with a sword 
'Twixt man and his inheritance, as well 
As the benignest angel of you all. 

Gab. Thou speakest in the shadow of thy change. 



A Drama of Exile. 293 

If thou hadst gazed upon the face of God 
This morning for a moment, thou hadst known 
That only pity fitly can chastise. 
Hate but avenges. 

Lice. As it is, I know 

Something of pity. When I reeled in heaven. 
And my sword grew too heavy for my grasp, 
Stabbing through matter which it could not pierce 
So much as the first shell of, toward the throne ; 
When I fell back, down, staring up as I fell, 
The lightnings holding open my scathed lids, 
And that thought of the infinite of God 
Hurled after to precipitate descent. 
When countless angel faces still and stern 
Pressed out upon me from the level heavens 
Adown the abysmal spaces, and I fell. 
Trampled down by your stillness, and struck blind 
By the sight within your eyes, — 'twas then I knew 
How ye could pity, my kind angelhood ! 

Gab. Alas, discrowned one, by the truth in me 
Which God keeps in me, I would give away 
All— save that truth and his love keeping it, — 
To lead thee home again into the light. 
And hear thy voice chant with the morning stars 
When their rays tremble round them with much song 
Sung in more gladness ! 

Luc. Sing, my morning star ! 

Last beautiful, last heavenly, that I loved ! 
If I could drench thy golden locks with tears. 
What were it to this angel .'* 

Gab. What love is. 

And now I have named God. 

Luc. Yet, Gabriel, 

By the lie in me which I keep myself, 
Thou'rt a false swearer. Were it otherwise, 
What dost thou here, vouchsafing tender thoughts 
To that earth-angel or earth-demon (which, 
Thou and I hav^e not solved the problem yet 
Enough to argue), that fallen Adam there. 
That red-clay and a breath, who must, forsooth, 
Live in a new apocalypse of sense. 
With beauty and music waving in his trees. 
And running in his rivers, to make glad 
His soul made perfect } — is it not for hope — 



294 ^ Drama of Exile. 

A hope within thee deeper than thy truth — 
Of finally conducting him and his 
To fill the vacant thrones of me and mine, 
Which affront heaven with their vacuity? 

Gab. Angel, there are no vacant thrones in heaven 
To suit thy empty words. Glory and life 
Fulfil their own depletions ; and, if God 
Sighed you far from him, his next breath drew in 
A compensative splendor up the vast, 
Flushing the starry arteries. 

Luc. With a change ! 

So let the vacant thrones and gardens too 
Fill as may please you ! — and be pitiful, 
As ye translate that word, to the dethroned 
And exiled, ^ — man or angel. The fact stands, 
That I, the rebel, the cast out and down, 
Am here, and will not go ; while there, along 
The light to which ye flash the desert out, 
Flies your adopted Adam, your red-clay 
In two kinds, both being flawed. Why, what is this.^ 
Whose work is this } Whose hand was in the work } 
Against whose hand ? In this last strike, methinks, 
I am not a fallen angel ! 

Gab. Dost thou know 

Aught of those exiles } 

Luc. Ay : I know they have fled 

Silent all day along the wilderness : 
I know they wear, for burden on their backs. 
The thought of a shut gate of Paradise, 
And faces of the marshalled cherubim 
Shining against, not for, them ; and I know 
They dare not look in one another's face. 
As if each were a cherub ! 

Gab. Dost thou know 

Aught of their future ? 

Luc. Only as much as this : 

That evil will increase and multiply 
Without a benediction. 

Gab. Nothing more } 

Luc. Why, so the angels taught ! What should be more ? 

Gab. God is more. 

Luc. Proving what } 

Gab. That he is God, 

And capable of saving. Lucifer, 



A Drama of Exile. 295 

I charge thee, by the soHtude he kept 
Ere he created, leave the earth to God ! 

Luc. My foot is on the earth, firm as my sin. 

Gab. I charge thee, by the memory of heaven 
Ere any sin was done, leave earth to God ! 

Ltic. My sin is on the earth, to reign thereon. 

Gab. I charge thee, by the choral song we sang, 
When, up against the white shore of our feet, 
The depths of the creation swelled and brake, 
And the new worlds — the beaded foam and flower 
Of all that coil — roared outward into space 
On thunder-edges, leave the earth to God ! 

Luc. My woe is on the earth, to curse thereby. 

Gab. I charge thee, by that mournful morning star 
Which trembles . . . 

Luc. Enough spoken. As the pine 

In norland forest drops its weight of snows 
By a night's growth, so, growing toward my ends 
I drop thy counsels. Farewell, Gabriel ! 
Watch out thy service : I achieve my will. 
And peradventure in the after-years, 
When thoughtful men shall bend their spacious brows 
Upon the storm and strife seen everywhere 
To ruffle their smooth manhood, and break up 
With lurid lights of intermittent hope 
Their human fear and wrong, they may discern 
The heart of a lost angel in the earth. 



CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS. 

[Chanting from Paradise, zu/iile Adkm and Y.V¥. fly across the 
suwrd-glare.) 

Harken, oh harken ! let your souls behind you 

Turn, gently moved ! 
Our voices feel along the Dread to find you, 

O lost, beloved ! 
Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels 

They press and pierce : 
Our requiems follow fast on our evangels : 

Voice throbs in verse. 
We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden 

A time ago : 



296 A Drama of Exile. 

God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden 

To feed you so. 
But now our right hand hath no cup remaining, 

No work to do ; 
The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining 

The whole earth through, — 
Most ineradicable stains, for showing (Not interfused I) 
That brighter colors were the world's foregoing, 

Than shall be used. 
Harken, oh harken ! ye shall harken surely, 

For years and years, 
The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely, 

Of spirits' tears. 
The yearning to a beautiful denied you 

Shall strain your powers ; 
Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you, 

Resumed from ours. 
In all your music our pathetic minor 

Your ears shall cross, 
And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner, 

With sense of loss. 
We shall be near you in your poet-languors 

And wild extremes. 
What time ye vex the desert with vain angers. 

Or mock with dreams. 
And when upon you, weary after roaming, 

Death's seal is put. 
By the foregone ye shall discern the coming, 
Through eyelids shut. 
Spirits of the trees. 

Hark ! the Eden trees are stirring, 

Soft and solemn in your hearing, — 

Oak and linden, palm and fir, 

Tamarisk and juniper. 

Each still throbbing in vibration 

Since that crowning of creation 

When the God-breath spake abroad, 

Let us make mati like to God ! 

And the pine stood quivering 

As the awful word went by. 

Like a vibrant music -string 

Stretched from mountain-peak to sky ; 

And the platan did expand 

Slow and gradual, branch and head ; 



A Drama of Exile. 297 

And the cedar's strong black shade 
Fluttered brokenly and grand : 
Grove and wood were swept aslant 
In emotion jubilant. 
Voice of the same, but softer. 
Which divine impulsion cleaves 
In dim movements to the leaves 
Dropt and lifted, dropt and lifted, 
In the sunlight greenly sifted, — 
In the sunlight and the moonlight 
Greenly sifted through the trees. 
Ever wave the Eden trees 
In the nightlight and the moonlight. 
With a ruffling of green branches 
Shaded off to resonances, 

Never stirred by rain or breeze. 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The sylvan sounds, no longer audible, 
Expire at Eden's door. 

Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye heard before. 

Farewell ! the trees of Eden 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 
River-spirits. 

Hark the flow of the four rivers, 

Hark the flow ! 
How the silence round you shivers. 

While our voices through it go 
Cold and clear ! 
A softer voice. 

Think a little, while ye hear. 

Of the banks 
Where the willows and the deer 

Crowd in intermingled ranks, 
As if all would drink at once 
Where the living water runs ! — 

Of the fishes' golden edges 

Flashing in and out the sedges ; 
Of the swans, on silver thrones. 

Floating down the winding streams 
With impassive eyes turned shoreward. 
And a chant of undertones, 
And the lotus leaning forward 

To help them into dreams ! 



298 A Drama of Exile. 

Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The river-sounds, no longer audible. 
Expire at Eden's door. 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye heard before. 
Farewell ! the streams of Eden 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 
Bird-spirit. 

I am the nearest nightingale 

That singeth in Eden after you, 
And I am singing loud and true, 
And sweet : I do not fail. 

I sit upon a cypress-bough, 
Close to the gate, and I fling my song 
Over the gate and through the mail 
Of the warden angels marshalled strong, — 

Over the gate, and after you. 
And the warden-angels let it pass. 
Because the poor brown bird, alas ! 

Sings in the garden, sweet and true. 
And I build my song of high, pure notes, 
Note over note, height over height, 
Till I strike the arch of the Infinite ; 
And I bridge abysmal agonies 
With strong, clear calms of harmonies ; 
And something abides, and something floats 
In the song which I sing after you. 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The creature-sounds, no longer audible. 
Expire at Eden's door. 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some cadence which ye heard before. 
Farewell ! the birds of Eden 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 
Flower-spirits. 

We linger, we linger, 

The last of the throng, 
Like the tones of a singer 

Who loves his own song. 
We are spirit-aromas 

Of blossom and bloom. 
We call your thoughts home, as 

Ye breathe our perfume. 
To the amaranth's splendor 



A Drama of Exile. 



299 



Afire on the slopes ; 
To the lily-bells tender 
And R:ray heliotropes 




We are spirit-aromas of blossom and bloom. 



To the poppy-plains keeping 
Such dream-breath and blee. 

That the angels there stepping 
Grew whiter to see ; 



300 A Drama of Exile. 

To the nook set with moly, 

Ye jested one day in, 
Till your smile waxed too holy, 

And left your lips praying ; 
To the rose in the bower-place, 

That dripped o'er you sleeping 
To the asphodel flower-place, 

Ye walked ankle-deep in. 
We pluck at your raiment. 

We stroke down your hair, 
We faint in our lament. 

And pine into air. 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The Eden scents, no longer sensible, 
Expire at Eden's door, 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some fragrance which ye knew before. 
Farewell! the flowers of Eden 
Ye shall smell nevermore. 

\There is silence. Adam and 
Eve fly on, and jiever look 
back. Only a colossal sha- 
dow, as of the dark Angel 
passing quickly, is cast upon 
the sword-glare. 



Scene. — The extremity of the sword-glare. 

Adam. Pausing a moment on this outer edge, 
Where the supernal sword-glare cuts in light 
The dark exterior desert, hast thou strength. 
Beloved, to look behind us to the gate } 

Eve. Have I not strength to look up to thy face } 
Adam. We need be strong : yon spectacle of cloud, 
Which seals the gate up to the final doom. 
Is God's seal manifest. There seem to lie 
A hundred thunders in it, dark and dead. 
The unmolten lightnings vein it motionless ; 
And, outward from its depth, the self-moved sword 
Swings slow its awful gnomon of red fire 
From side to side, in pendulous horror slow, 
Across the stagnant ghastly glare thrown flat 
On the intermediate ground from that to this. 
The angelic hosts, the archangelic pomps. 



A Drama of Exile. 301 

Thrones, dominations, princedoms, rank on rank, 
Rising sublimely to the feet of God, 
On either side, and overhead the gate, 
Show like a glittering and sustained smoke 
Drawn to an apex. That their faces shine 
Betwixt the solemn clasping of their wings 
Clasped high to a silver point above their heads. 
We only guess from hence, and not discern. 

Eve. Though we were near enough to see them shine, 
The shadow on thy face were awfuUer 
To me, at least, — to me, — than all their light. 

Adam. What is this. Eve ? Thou droppest heavily 
In a heap earthward, and thy body heaves 
Under the golden floodings of thine hair. 

Eve. O Adam, Adam ! by that name of Eve, — 
Thine Eve, thy life, — which suits me little now, 
Seeing that I now confess myself thy death 
And thine undoer, as the snake was mine, — 
I do adjure thee put me straight away. 
Together with my name ! Sweet, punish me ! 
O love, be just ! and ere we pass beyond 
The light cast outward by the fiery sword, 
Into the dark which earth must be to us, 
Bruise my head with thy foot, as the curse said 
My seed shall the first tempter's ! — strike with curse. 
As God struck in the garden ! and as he, 
Being satisfied with justice and with wrath. 
Did roll his thunder gentler at the close, 
Thou, peradventure, mayst at last recoil 
To some soft need of mercy. Strike, my lord ! 
/, also, after tempting, writhe on the ground, 
And I would feed on ashes from thine hand. 
As suits me, O my tempted ! 

Adam. My beloved. 

Mine Eve and life, I have no other name 
For thee, or for the sun, than what ye are, — 
My utter life and light ! If we have fallen, 
It is that we have sinned, — we. God is just ; 
And, since his curse doth comprehend us both, 
It must be that his balance holds the weights 
Of first and last sin on a level. What ! 
Shall I, who had not virtue to stand straight 
Among the hills of Eden, here assume 
To mend the justice of the perfect God, 



302 A Drama of Exile. 



By piling up a curse upon his curse, 
Against thee, — thee ? 

Eve. For so, perchance, thy God 

Might take thee into grace for scorning me, 
Thy wrath against the sinner giving proof 
Of inward abrogation of the sin : 
And so the blessed angels might come down 
And walk with thee as erst, — I think they would, — 
Because I was not near to make them sad. 
Or soil the rustling of their innocence. 

Adam. They know me. I am deepest in the guilt, 
If last in the transgression. 

Eve. Thou ! 

Adam. If God, 

Who gave the right and joyaunce of the world 
Both unto thee and me, gave thee to me, — 
The best gift last, — the last sin was the worst, 
Which sinned against more complement of gifts 
And grace of giving. God ! I render back 
Strong benediction and perpetual praise 
From mortal feeble lips (as incense-smoke 
Out of a little censer may fill heaven). 
That thou, in striking my benumbed hands. 
And forcing them to drop all other boons 
Of beauty and dominion and delight. 
Hast left this well-beloved Eve, this life 
Within life, this best gift between their palms, 
In gracious compensation. 

Eve. Is it thy voice. 

Or some saluting angel's, calling home 
My feet into the garden ? 

Adam. O my God ! 

I, standing here between the glory and dark, — 
The glory of thy wrath projected forth 
From Eden's wall, the dark of our distress. 
Which settles a step off in that drear world,— 
Lift up to thee the hands from whence hath fallen 
Only creation's sceptre, thanking thee 
That rather thou hast cast me out with her 
Than left me lorn of her in Paradise, 
With angel looks and angel songs around 
To show the absence of her eyes and voice, 
And make society full desertness 
Without her use in comfort. 



A Dfama of Exile. 303 



Eve. Where is loss ? 

Am I in Eden ? Can another speak 
Mine own love's tongue? 

Adam. Because, with her, I stand 

Upright, as far as can be in this fall. 
And look away from heaven which doth accuse, 
And look away from earth which doth convict, 
Into her face, and crown my discrowned brow 
Out of her love, and put the thought of her 
Around me for an Eden full of birds. 
And lift her body up — thus— to my heart, 
And with my lips upon her lips — thus, thus — 
Do quicken and sublimate my mortal breath. 
Which cannot climb against the grave's steep sides, 
But overtops this grief. 

Eve. I am renewed. 

My eyes grow with the light which is in thine ; 
The silence of my heart is full of sound. 
Hold me up — so ! Because 1 comprehend 
This human love, I shall not be afraid 
Of any human death ; and yet, because 
I know this strength of love, I seem to know 
Death's strength by that same sign. Kiss on my lips. 
To shut the door close on my rising soul, 
Lest it pass outwards in astonishment. 
And leave thee lonely ! 

Adam. Yet thou liest. Eve, 

Bent heavily on thyself across mine arm. 
Thy face flat to the sky. 

Eve. Ay ; and the tears 

Running, as it might seem, my life from me. 
They run so fast and warm. Let me lie so. 
And weep so, as if in a dream or prayer. 
Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard tight thought 
Which clipped my heart, and showed me evermore 
Loathed of thy justice as I loathe the snake. 
And as the pure ones loathe our sin. To-day, 
All day, beloved, as we fled across 
This desolating radiance cast by swords. 
Not suns, my lips prayed soundless to myself, 
Striking against each other, " O Lord God ! " 
('T was so I prayed) " I ask thee by my sin, 
And by thy curse, and by thy blameless heavens, 
Make dreadful haste to hide me from thy face 



304 A Drama of Exile. 

And from the face of my beloved here 
For whom I am no helpmeet, quick away 
Into the new dark mystery of death ! 
I will lie still there ; 1 will make no plaint ; 
I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a word. 
Nor struggle to come back beneath the sun, 
Where, peradventure, I might sin anew 
Against thy mercy and his pleasure. Death, 
Oh, death, whate'er it be, is good enough 
For such as I am ; while for Adam here, 
No voice shall say again, in heaven or earth, 
"// is not good for him to be alone.'' 

Adam. And was it good for such a prayer to pass, 
My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual lives? 
If I am exiled, must I be bereaved ? 

Eve. 'T was an ill prayer : it shall be prayed no more. 
And God did use it like a foolishness. 
Giving no answer. Now my heart has grown 
Too high and strong for such a foolish prayer : 
Love makes it strong. And since I was the first 
In the transgression, with a steady foot 
I will be first to tread from this sword-glare 
Into the outer darkness of the waste, — 
And thus I do it. 

Adam. Thus I follow thee, 

As ere while in the sin. — What sounds ! what sounds ! 
I feel a music which comes straight from heaven, 
As tender as a watering dew. 

Eve. I think 

That angels, not those guarding Paradise, 
But the love angels, who came erst to us. 
And, when we said " GOD," fainted unawares 
Back from our mortal presence unto God, 
(As if he drew them inward in a breath,) 
His name being heard of them, — I think that they 
With sliding voices lean from heavenly towers. 
Invisible, but gracious. Hark — how soft ! 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 

Faint and tender. 

Mortal man and woman. 
Go upon your travel ! 



A Drama of Exile. 305 

Heaven assist the human 

Smoothly to unravel 
All that web of pain 

Wherein ye are holden. 
Do ye know our voices 

Chanting down the Golden? 
Do ye guess our choice is, 

Being unbeholden, 
To be barkened by you yet again ? 

This pure door of opal 

God hath shut between us, — 
Us his shining people, 

You who once have seen us 
And are blinded new ; 

Yet, across the doorway, 
Past the silence reaching, 

Farewells evermore may, 
Blessing in the teaching, 
Glide from us to you. 
First sojiichoriis. 

Think how erst your Eden, 
Day on day succeeding, 
With our presence glowed. 
We came as if the heavens were bowed 

To a milder music rare. 
Ye saw us in our solemn treading. 

Treading down the steps of cloud, 
While our wings, outspreading 

Double calms of whiteness. 
Dropped superfluous brightness 
Down from stair to stair. 
Seco7id seniichorus. 

Or oft, abrupt though tender. 

While ye gazed on space. 
We flashed our angel-splendor 
In either human face. 
With mystic lilies in our hands. 
From the atmospheric bands, 

Breaking with a sudden grace, 
We took you unaware ! 

While our feet struck glories 
Outward, smooth and fair, 

Which we stood on floorwise 



3o6 A Drama of Exile. 

Platfcrnied in mid-air. 
First semic/iorits. 

Or oft, when heaven descended, 

Stood we in our wondering sight 
In a mute apocalypse 
With dumb vibrations on our lips 
From hosannas ended. 

And grand half-vanishings 
Of the empyreal things 

Within our eyes belated. 
Till the heavenly Infinite, 

Falling off from the Created, 
Left our inward contemplation 
Opened into ministration. 
C/iorus. 

Then upon our axle turning 
Of great joy to sympathy, 
W^e sang out the morning 
Broadening up the sky ; 
Or we drew 
Our music through 
The noontide's hush and heat and shine, 
Informed with our intense Divine ! 
Interrupted vital notes 
Palpitating hither, thither, 
Burninir out into the ether. 
Sensible like fiery motes ; 
Or, whenever twilight drifted 

Through the cedar masses. 
The globed sun we lifted. 
Trailing purple, trailing gold. 

Out between the passes 
Of the mountains manifold. 
To anthems slowly sung ! 
While he, aweary, half in swoon 
For joy to hear our climbing tune 

Transpierce the stars' concentric rings, — 
The burden of his glory flung 

In broken lights upon our wings. 

[ The chant dies away confusedly 
and Lucifer appears. 

Luc. Now may all fruits be pleasant to thy lips 
Beautiful Eve I The times have somewhat changed 



A Draitia of Exile. 307 

Since thou and I had talk beneath a tree, 
Albeit ye are not gods yet. 

Eve. Adam, hold 

My right hand strongly ! It is Lucifer, — 
And we have love to lose. 

Adam. V the name of God, 

Go apart from us, thou Lucifer ! 
And leave us to the desert thou hast made 
Out of thy treason. Bring no serpent-slime 
Athwart this path kept holy to our tears, 
Or we may curse thee with their bitterness. 

Luc. Curse freely ! Curses thicken. Why, this Eve 
Who thought me once part worthy of her ear, 
And somewhat wiser than the other beasts, — • 
Drawing together her large globes of eyes. 
The light of which is throbbing in and out 
Their steadfast continuity of gaze, — 
Knots her (air eyebrows in so hard a knot. 
And down from her white heights of womanhood 
Looks on me so amazed, I scarce should fear 
To wager such an apple as she plucked. 
Against one riper from the tree of life. 
That she could curse too — as a woman may — 
Smooth in the vowels. 

Eve. So — speak wickedly : 

I like it best so. Let thy words be wounds. 
For so I shall not fear thy power to hurt ; 
Trench on the forms of good by open ill. 
For so I shall wax strong and grand with scorn. 
Scorning myself for ever trusting thee 
As far as thinking, ere a snake ate dust. 
He could speak wisdom. 

Luc. Our new gods, it seems. 

Deal more in thunders than in courtesies. 
And, sooth, mine own Olympus, which anon 
I shall build up to loud-voiced imagery 
From all the wandering visions of the world, 
May show worse railling than our lady Eve 
Pours o'er the rounding of her argent arm. 
But why should this be ? Adam pardoned Eve. 

Adam. Adam loved Eve. Jehovah pardoned both ! 

Eve. Adam forgave Eve, because loving Eve. 

Luc. So, well. Yet Adam was undone of Ev^e, 
As both were by the snake : therefore forgive. 



308 A Drama of Exile. 

In like wise, fellow-temptress, the poor snake, 
Who stung there, not so poorly ! \Aside.\ 

Eve. Hold thy wrath. 

Beloved Adam ! Let me answer him ; 
For this time he speaks truth, which we should hear, 
And asks for mercy, which I most should grant. 
In like wise, as he tells us, in like wise ! — 
And therefore I thee pardon, Lucifer, 
As freely as the streams of Eden flowed 
When we were happy by them. So, depart ; 
Leave us to walk the remnant of our time 
Out mildly in the desert. Do not seek 
To harm us any more, or scoff at us. 
Or, ere the dust be laid upon our face. 
To find there the communion of the dust 
And issue of the dust. Go ! 

Adam. At once go ! 

Lmc. Forgive ^ and go ! Ye images of clay. 
Shrunk somewhat in the mould, what jest is this ? 
What words are these to use ? By what a thought 
Conceive ye of me } Yesterday — a snake ! 
To-day — what } 

Adam. A strong spirit. 

Eve. A sad spirit. 

Adam. Perhaps a fallen angel. — Who shall say ! 

Luc. Who told thee, Adam } 

Adatn. Thou ! — the prodigy 

Of thy vast brows and melancholy eyes. 
Which comprehend the heights of some great fall. 
I think that thou hast one day worn a crown 
Under the eyes of God. 

Luc. And why of God } 

Adajn. It were no crown else. Verily, I think 
Thou'rt fallen far. I had not yesterday 
Said it so surely ; but I know to-day 
Grief by grief, sin by sin. 

Luc. A crown by a crown. 

Adam. Ay, mock me ! now I know more than I knew 
Now I know that thou art fallen below hope 
Of final re-ascent. 

Luc. Because } 

Adam. Because 

A spirit who expected to see God, 
Though at the last point of a million years. 



A Dra7na of Exile. 309 

Could dare no mockery of a ruined man 
Such as this Adam. 

Lice. Who is high and bold, — 

Be it said passing, — of a good red clay 
Discovered on some top of Lebanon, 
Or haply of Aornus, beyond sweep 
Of the black eagle's wing. A furlong lower 
Had made a meeker king for Eden. Soh ! 
Is it not possible by sin and grief 

(To give the things your names) that spirits should rise, 
Instead of falling ? 

Adam. Most impossible. 

The Highest being the Holy and the Glad, 
Whoever rises must approach delight 
And sanctity in the act. 

Luc. Ha, my clay king ! 

Thou wilt not rule by wisdom very long 
The after-generations. Earth, methinks. 
Will disinherit thy philosophy 
For a new doctrine suited to thine heirs, 
And class these present dogmas with the rest 
Of the old-w'orld traditions, — Eden fruits 
And Saurian fossils. 

Eve. Speak no more with him. 

Beloved ! it is not good to speak with him. — 
Go from us, Lucifer, and speak no more ! 
We have no pardon which thou dost not scorn. 
Nor any bliss, thou seest, for coveting. 
Nor innocence for staining. Being bereft. 
We would be alone. Go ! 

Ltfc. Ah ! ye talk the same, 

All of you, — spirits and clay, — Go, and depart ! 
In heaven they said so, and at Eden's gate. 
And here re-iterant in the wilderness. 
None saith, Stay with me, for thy face is fair ! 
None saith. Stay with me, for thy voice is sweet ! 
And yet I was not fashioned out of clay. 
Look on me, woman ! Am I beautiful .'' 

Eve. Thou hast a glorious darkness, 

Ltcc. Nothing more ? 

Eve. I think no more. 

Luc. False heart, thou thinkest more ! 
Thou canst not choose but think, as I praise God, 
Unwillingly but fully, that I stand 



3 1 o A Drama of Exile. 

Most absolute in beauty. As yourselves 

Were fashioned very good at best, so we 

Sprang very beauteous from the creant Word 

Which thrilled behind us, God himself being moved 

When that august work of a perfect shape. 

His dignities of sovran angelhood, 

Swept out into the universe, divine, 

With thunderous movements, earnest looks of gods. 

And silver-solemn clash of cymbal wings, 

Whereof was I, in motion and in form, 

A part not poorest. And yet — yet, perhaps. 

This beauty which I speak of is not here. 

As God's voice is not here, nor even my crown, — 

I do not know. What is this thought or thing 

Which I call beauty ? Is it thought or thing? 

Is it a thought accepted for a thing ? 

Or both ? or neither? — a pretext, a word ? 

Its meaning flutters in me like a flame 

Under my own breath : my perceptions reel 

Forevermore around it, and fall off. 

As if it, too, were holy. 

Eve. Which it is. 

Ada7n. The essence of all beauty I call love. 
The attribute, the evidence and end. 
The consummation to the inward sense, 
Of beauty apprehended from without, 
I still call love. As form when colorless 
Is nothing to the eye, — that pine-tree there, 
Without its black and green, being all a blank, — 
So, without love, is beauty undiscerned 
In man or angel. Angel ! rather ask 
What love is in thee, what love moves to thee, 
And what collateral love moves on with thee ; 
Then shalt thou know if thou art beautiful. 

Luc. Love ! what is love ? I lose it. Beauty and love 
I darken to the image. Beauty — love ! 

\He fades muay, while a low jmtsic 
soiuids. 

Adam. Thou art pale, Eve. 

Eve. The precipice of ill 

Down this colossal nature dizzies me : 
And hark ! the starry harmony remote 



A Drama of Exile. 311 

Seems measuring the heights from whence he fell. 

Adam. Think that we have not fallen so ! By the hope 
And aspiration, by the love and faith, 
We do exceed the stature of this angel. 

Eve. Happier we are than he is by the death. 

Adam. Or, rather, by the life of the Lord God. 
How dim the angel grows, as if that blast 
Of music swept him back into the dark ! 

\The music is stronger, gatiiering 
itself into uncertain articulation. 

Eve. It throbs in on us like a plaintive heart, 
Pressing with slow pulsations, vibrative. 
Its gradual sweetness through the yielding air, 
To such expression as the stars may use, 
Most starry-sweet and strange. With every note 
That grows more loud the angel grows more dim, 
Receding in proportion to approach, 
Until he stand afar, — a shade. 

Adam. Now, words. 

SONG OF THE MORNING STAR TO LUCIFER. 

He fades utterly away, and vanishes as it proceeds. 

Mine orbed image sinks 

Back from thee, back from thee, 
As thou art fallen, methinks. 

Back from me, back from me. 
O my light-bearer. 
Could another fairer 
Lack to thee, lack to thee } 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
I loved thee with the fiery love of stars 
Who love by burning, and by loving move 
Too near the throned Jehovah not to love. 

Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Their brows flash fast on me from gliding cars. 
Pale-passioned for my loss. 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Mine orbed heats drop cold 

Down from thee, down from thee. 
As fell thy grace of old 

Down from me, down from me. 



312 



A D ratlin of Exile 




Ah, am, Heosphoros ! 



A Drama of Exile, 313 

my light-bearer, 
Is another fairer 

Won to thee, won to thee ? 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros, 
Great love preceded loss, 
Known to thee, known to thee. 
Ah, ah ! 
Thou, breathing thy communicable grace 

Of life into my light. 
Mine astral faces, from thine angel face 

Hast inly fed. 
And flooded me with radiance overmuch 
From thy pure height. 
Ah, ah! 
Thou, with calm, floating pinions both ways spread, 
Erect, irradiated. 
Didst sting my wheel of glory 
On, on before thee, 
Along the Godlight, by a quickening touch ! 

Ha, ha ! 
Around, around, the firmamental ocean 
I swam expanding with delirious fire ! 
Around, around, around, in blind desire 
To be drawn upward to the Infinite — 
Ha, ha ! 

Until, the motion flinging out the motion 
To a keen whirl of passion and avidity, 
To a dim whirl of languor and delight, 
I wound in gyrant orbits smooth and white 

With that intense rapidity. 

Around, around, 

1 wound and interwound. 

While all the cyclic heavens about me spun. 
Stars, planets, suns, and moons dilated broad. 
Then flashed together into a single sun. 
And w^ound, and wound in one : 
And as they wound I wound, around, around. 
In a great fire I almost took for God. 

Ha, ha, Heosphoros ! 
Thine angel glory sinks 

Down from me, down from me : 
My beauty falls, methinks, 

Down from thee, down from thee. 



314 A Drama of Exile. 

O my light-bearer, 
O my path-preparer, 
Gone from me, gone from me ! 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
I cannot kindle underneath the brow 
Of this new angel here who is not thou. 
All things are altered since that time ago ; 
And if I shine at eve, I shall not know. 
I am strange, I am slow. 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Henceforward, human eyes of lovers be 
The only sweetest sight that I shall see, 
With tears between the looks raised up to me, 

Ah, ah ! 
When, having wept all night, at break of day 
Above the folded hills, they shall survey 
My light, a little trembling, in the grav, 

Ah, ah ! 
And, gazing on me, such shall comprehend. 
Through all my piteous pomp at morn or even 
And melancholy leaning out of heaven, 
That love, their own divine, may change or end, 
That love may close in loss ! 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 

Scene. — Farther on. A wild open country seen vaguely in the 
approaching night. 

Adam. How doth the wide and melancholy earth 
Gather her hills around us, gray and ghast, 
And stare with blank significance of loss 
Right in our faces ! Is the wind up } 

Eve. Nay. 

Adam. And yet the cedars and the junipers 
Rock slowly, through the mist, without a sound, 
And shapes which have no certainty of shape 
Drift duskly in and out between the pines. 
And loom along the edges of the hills. 
And lie fiat, curdling in the open ground, — 
Shadows without a body, which contract 
And lengthen as we gaze on them. 

Eve. O life, 

AVhich is not man's nor angel's ! What is this ? 

Adam. No cause for fear. The circle of God's life 
Contains all life beside. 



A Dnwia of Exile. 315 

Eve. I think the earth 

Is crazed with curse, and wanders from the sense 
Of those first laws affixed to form and space 
Or ever she knew sin. 

Adam. We will not fear : 

We were brave sinning. 

Eve. Yea, I plucked the fruit 

With eyes upturned to heaven, and seeing there 
Our god-thrones, as the tempter said, not GoD. 
My heart, which beat then, sinks. The sun hath sunk 
Out of sight with our Eden. 

Adam. ' Night is near. 

Eve. And God's curse nearest. Let us travel back. 
And stand within the sword-glare till we die. 
Believing it is better to meet death 
Than suffer desolation. 

Adatn. Nay, beloved ! 

We must not pluck death from the Maker's hand, 
As erst we plucked the apple : we must wait 
Until he gives death, as he gave us life, 
Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal gift 
Because we spoilt its sweetness with our sin. 

Eve. Ah, ah ! dost thou discern what I behold ? 

Adam. I see all. How the spirits in thine eyes 
From their dilated orbits bound before 
To meet the spectral Dread ! 

Eve. I am afraid — 

Ah, ah ! the twilight bristles wild with shapes 
Of intermittent motion, aspect vague, 
And mystic bearings, which o'ercreep the earth, 
Keeping slow time with horrors in the blood. 
How near they reach . . . and far ! How gray they move, 
Treading upon the darkness without feet. 
And fluttering on the darkness without wings ! 
Some run like dogs, with noses to the ground ; 
Some keep one path, like sheep ; some rock, like trees ; 
Some glide, like a fallen leaf ; and some flow on, 
Copious as rivers. 

Adam.. Some spring up like fire ; 

And some coil . . . 

Eve. Ah, ah ! dost thou pause to say 
Like what } — coil like the serpent, when he fell 
From all the emerald splendor of his height 
And writhed, and could not climb aq^ainst the curse,— 



3 1 6 A Drama of Exile. 

Not a ring's length. I am afraid — afraid — 
I think it is God's will to make me afraid 
Permitting these to haunt us in the place 
Of his beloved angels, gone from us 
Because we are not pure. Dear pity of God, 
That didst permit the angels to go home. 
And live no more with us who are not pure, 
Save us, too, from a loathly company. 
Almost as loathly in our eyes, perhaps. 
As ive are in the purest ! Pity us, — 
Us too I nor shut us in the dark, away 
From verity and from stability. 
Or what we name such through the precedence 
Of earth's adjusted uses ! leave us not 
To doubt, betwixt our senses and our souls, 
Which are the more distraught, and full of pain, 
And weak of apprehension ! 

Adam. Courage, sweet ! 

The mystic shapes ebb back from us and drop 
With slow concentric movement, each on each, 
Expressing wider spaces, and collapsed 
In lines more definite for imagery 
And clearer for relation, till the throng 
Of shapeless spectra merge into a few 
Distinguishable phantasms vague and grand, 
Which sweep out and around us vastily. 
And hold us in a circle and a calm. 

Eve. Strange phantasms of pale shadow ! there are twelve. 
Thou who didst name all lives, hast names for these } 

Ada?n. Methinks this is the zodiac of the earth, 
Which rounds us with a visionary dread. 
Responding with twelve shadowy signs of earth, 
In fantasque apposition and approach, 
To those celestial, constellated twelve 
Which palpitate adown the silent nights 
Under the pressure of the hand of God 
Stretched wide in benediction. At this hour 
Not a star pricketh the flat gloom of heaven ; 
But, girdling close our nether wilderness, 
The zodiac-figures of the earth loom slow. 
Drawn out, as suiteth with the place and time. 
In twelve colossal shades, instead of stars, 
Through which the ecliptic line of mystery 
Strikes bleakly with an unrelenting scope, 



A Drama of Exile. 3 1 7 

Foreshowing life and death. 

Eve. By dream, or sense, 

Do we see this ? 

Adam. Our spirits have climbed high 
By reason of the passion of our grief, 
And from the top of sense looked over sense. 
To the significance and heart of things, 
Rather than things themselves. 

Eve. And the dim twelve . . . 

Adam. Are dim exponents of the creature-life. 
As earth contains it. Gaze on them, beloved ! 
By stricter apprehension of the sight. 
Suggestions of the creatures shall assuage 
The terror of the shadows ; what is known 
Subduing the unknown, and taming it 
From all prodigious dread. That phantasm, there. 
Presents a lion, albeit twenty times 
As large as any lion, with a roar . 
Set soundless in his vibratory jaws, 
And a strange horror stirring in his mane. 
And there a pendulous shadow seems to weigh, — 
Good against ill, perchance ; and there a crab 
Puts coldly out its gradual shadow-claws. 
Like a slow blot that spreads, till all the ground 
Crawled over by it seems to crawl itself. 
A bull stands horned here, with gibbous glooms ; 
And a ram likewise ; and a scorpion writhes 
Its tail in ghastly slime, and stings the dark. 
This way a goat leaps with wild blank of beard ; 
And here fantastic fishes duskly float. 
Using the calm for waters, while their fins 
Throb out quick rhythms along the shallow air. 
While images more human — 

Eve. How he stands. 

That phantasm of a man — who is not thou ! 
Two phantasms of two men ! 

Ada7n. One that sustains. 

And one that strives, resuming, so, the ends 
Of manhood's curse of labor.^ Dost thou see 

'Adam recognizes in Aquarius the water-bearer, and Sag:ittarius \\\^ 
archer, distinct types of the man bearing and the man combating,— the 
passive and active forms of human labor. I hope that the preceding zo- 
diacal signs— transferred to the earthly shadow and representative purpose 
—of Aries, Taurus. Cancer, Leo, Libra, Scorpio. Capricornus, and Pisces, 
are sufficiently obvious to the reader. 



3i8 A Drama of Exile. 

That phantasm of a woman ? 

Eve. I have seen ; 

But look off to those small humanities^ 
Which draw me tenderly across my fear — 
Lesser and fainter than my womanhood, 
Or yet thy manhood — with strange innocence" 
Set in the misty lines of head and hand. 
They lean together ! I would gaze on them 
Longer and longer, till my watching eyes, 
As the stars do in watching any thing. 
Should light them forward from their outline vague 
To clear configuration. 

[ Two spirits, of organic and in- 
07-ganic nature, arise from the 
ground.] 



But what shapes 
Rise up between us in the open space, 
And thrust me into horror, back from hope ! 

Adam. Colossal shapes — twin sovran images. 
With a disconsolate, blank majesty 
Set in their wondrous faces ; with no look, 
And yet an aspect, — a significance 
Of individual life and passionate ends. 
Which overcomes us gazing. 

O bleak sound ! 

shadow of sound ! O phantasm of thin sound ! 
How it comes, wheeling, as the pale moth wheels,- 
Wheeling and wheeling in continuous wail 
Around the cyclic zodiac, and gains force. 

And gathers, settling coldly like a moth, 
On the wan faces of these images 
We see before us, whereby modified. 
It draws a straight line of articulate song 
From out that spiral faintness of lament. 
And by one voice expresses many griefs. 
First spirit. 

1 am the spirit of the harmless earth. 

God spake me softly out among the stars, — 
As softly as a blessing of much worth ; 
And then his smile did follow, unawares, 

1 Her maternal instinct is excited by Gemini. 



A Drai7ta of Exile. 3 1 9 

That all things fashioned so for use and duty 
Might shine anointed with his chrism of beauty — 

Yet I wail ! 
1 drave on with the worlds exultingly. 

Obliquely down the Godlight's gradual fall ; 
Individual aspect and complexity 

Of gyratory orb and interval 
Lost in the fluent motion of delight 
Toward the high ends of Being beyond sight — 
Yet I wail f 

Seco7id Spirit. 
I am the spirit of the harmless beasts, 

Of flying things, and creeping things, and swimming; 
Of all the lives, erst set at silent feasts, 

That found the love-kiss on the goblet brimming, 
And tasted in each drop within the measure 
The sweetest pleasure of their Lord's good pleasure — 

Yet I wail ! 
What a full hum of life around his lips 

Bore witness to the fulness of creation ! 
How all the grand words were full-laden ships. 

Each sailing onward from enunciation 
To separate existence, and each bearing 
The creature's power of joying, hoping, fearing ! — 
Yet I wail ! 

Eve. They wail, beloved ! they speak of glory and God, 
And they wail — wail. That burden of the song 
Drops from it like its fruit, and heavily falls 
Into the lap of silence. 

Adam. Hark, again ! 

First spirit. 
I was so beautiful, so beautiful. 

My joy stood up within me bold to add 
A word to God's, and, when his work was full, 

To " very good," responded " very glad ! " 
Filtered through roses, did the light enclose me. 
And bunches of the grape swam blue across me — 
Yet I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
I bounded with my panthers : I rejoiced 

In my young tumbling lions rolled together : 
My stag, the river at his fetlocks, poised, 

Then dipped his antlers through the golden weather 
In the same ripple which the alligator 



32 o A Drama of Exile. 



Left, in his joyous troubling of the water — 
Yet I wail ! 

First Spirit. 
O my deep waters, cataract and flood. 

What wordless triumph did your voices render ! 
O mountain-summits, where the angels stood. 

And shook from head and wing thick dews of splendor ! 
How with a holy quiet did your Earthy 
Accept that Heavenly, knowing ye were worthy ! — 
Yet I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
O my wild wood-dogs, with your listening eyes ; 

My horses ; my ground-eagles, for swift fleeing ; 
My birds, with viewless wing of harmonies ; 

My calm cold fishes of a silver being, — 
How happy were ye, living and possessing, 

fair half-souls capacious of full blessing ! — 

Yet I wail ! 
First Spirit. 

1 wail, I wail ! Now hear my charge to-day, 

Thou man, thou woman, marked as the misdoers 
By God's sword at your backs ! I lent my clay 

To make your bodies, which had grown more flowers ; 
And now, in change for what I lent, ye give me 
The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to cleave me — 
And I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! Behold ye, that I fasten 

My sorrow's fang upon your souls dishonored ? 
Accursed transgressors ! down the steep ye hasten, 

Your crown's weight on the world, to drag it downward 
Unto your ruin. Lo ! my lions scenting 
The blood of wars, roar hoarse and unrelenting — 
And I wail ! 

First Spirit. 
1 wail, I wail ! Do you hear that I wail ? 

I had no part in your transgression — none. 
My roses on the bough did bud, not pale ; 

My rivers did not loiter in the sun ; 
/ was obedient. Wherefore in my centre 
Do I thrill at this curse of death and winter } — 
Do I wail } 

Second Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! I wail in the assault 



A Drama of Exile. 32; 



Of undeserved perdition, sorely wounded 1 
My nightingale sang sweet without a fault ; 

My gentle leopards innocently bounded. 
We were obedient. What is this convulses 
Our blameless life with pangs and fever-pulses? — 
And I wail ! 

Eve. I choose God's thunder and his angels' swords 
To die by, Adam, rather than such words. 
Let us pass out, and flee. 

Adam. We cannot flee. 

This zodiac of the creatures' cruelty 
Curls round us, like a river cold and drear. 
And shuts us in, constrainmg us to hear. 

Eirst Spirit. 
I feel your steps, O wandering sinners, strike 

A sense of death to me, and undug graves ! 
The heart of earth, once calm, is trembling like 

The ragged foam along the ocean-waves ; 
The restless earthquakes rock against each other ; 
The elements moan round me, " Mother, mother " — 
And I wail ! 

SecoJid Spirit. 
Your melancholy looks do pierce me through ; 

Corruption swathes the paleness of your beauty. 
Why have ye done this thing ? What did we do 

That we should fall from bliss, as ye from duty ? 
Wild shriek the hawks, in waiting for their jesses. 
Fierce howl the wolves along the wildernesses— 
And I wail ! 

Adam. To thee, the Spirit of the harmless earth. 
To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless lives. 
Inferior creatures, but still innocent, 
Be salutation from a guilty mouth 
Yet worthy of some audience and respect 
From you who are not guilty. If we have sinned, 
God hath rebuked us, who is over us 
To give rebuke or death, and if ye wail 
Because of any suffering from our sin,— 
Ye who are under and not over us, — 
Be satisfied with God, if not with us. 
And pass out from our presence in such peace 
As we have left you, to enjoy revenge 
Such as the heavens have made you. Verily, 
There must be strife between us large as sin. 



32 2 A Drama of Exile. 

Eve. No strife, mine Adam ! Let us not stand high 
Upon the wrong we did to reach disdain, 
Who rather should be humbler evermore, 
Since self-made sadder. Adam, shall I speak, 
I who spake once to such a bitter end, — 
Shall I speak humbly now, who once was proud ? 
I, schooled by sin to more humility 
Than thou hast, O mine Adam, O my king, — 
My king, if not the world's ? 

Adam. Speak as thou wilt. 

Eve. Thus, then, my hand in thine — 

. . . Sweet, dreadful Spirits I 
I pray you humbly, in the name of God, 
Not to say of these tears, which are impure — 
Grant me such pardoning grace as can go forth 
From clean volitions toward a spotted will. 
From the wronged to the wronger, this and no more ! 
I do not ask more. I am 'ware, indeed, 
That absolute pardon is impossible 
From you to me, by reason of my sin ; 
And that I cannot evermore, as once, 
With worthy acceptation of pure joy. 
Behold the trances of the holy hills 
Beneath the leaning stars, or watch the vales 
Dew-pallid with their morning ecstasy ; 
Or hear the winds make pastoral peace between 
Two grassy uplands ; and the river-wells 
Work out their bubbling mysteries underground ; 
And all the birds sing, till for joy of song. 
They lift their trembling wings as if to heave 
The too-much weight of music from their heart 
And float it up the ether. I am 'ware 
That these things I can no more apprehend 
With a pure organ into a full delight. 
The sense of beauty and of melody 
Being no more aided in me by the sense 
Of personal adjustment to those heights 
Of what I see well formed, or hear well tuned. 
But rather coupled darkly, and made ashamed 
By my percipiency of sin and fall 
In melancholy of humiliant thoughts. 
But, oh ! fair, dreadful Spirits— albeit this. 
Your accusation must confront my soul, 
And your pathetic utterance and full gaze 



A Dra7na of Exile. 323 



Must evermore subdue me. — be content ! 

Conquer me gently, as if pitying me, 

Not to say loving ; let my tears fall thick 

As watering dews of Eden, unreproached ; 

And, when your tongues reprove me, make me smooth. 

Not ruffled, — smooth and still with your reproof, 

And, peradventure, better while more sad. 

For look to it, sweet Spirits, look well to it, 

It will not be amiss in you, who kept 

The law of your own righteousness, and keep 

The right of your own griefs to mourn themselves, 

To pity me twice fallen,— from that and this. 

From joy of place, and also right of wail ; 

" I wail " being not for me, — only " I sin. " 




The birds sing, till for joy of song, they lift thei 



R TREMBLING WINGS. 



Look to it, O sweet Spirits ! 

For was I not, 
At that last sunset seen in Paradise, 
When all the westering clouds flashed out in throngs 
Of sudden angel-faces, face by face, 
All hushed and solemn, as a thought of God 
Held them suspended,— was I not, that hour, 
The lady of the world, princess of life. 
Mistress of feast and favor } Could I touch 
A rose with my white hand, but it became 
Redder at once ? Could I walk leisurely 
Along our swarded garden, but the grass 
Tracked me with greenness } Could I stand aside 



324 A Dratna of Exile. 



A moment underneath a cornel-tree, 

But all the leaves did tremble as alive 

With songs of fifty birds who were made glad 

Because I stood there ? Could I turn to look 

With these twain eyes of mine, — now weeping fast, 

Now good for only weeping, — upon man, 

Angei, or beast, or bird, but each rejoiced 

Because I looked on him ? Alas, alas ! 

And is not this much woe, — to cry " Alas I " 

Speaking of joy ? And is not this more shame, — 

To have made the woe myself, from all that joy ? 

To have stretched my hand, and plucked it from the tree, 

And chosen it for fruit ? Nay, is not this 

Still most despair,^to have halved that bitter fruit, 

And ruined so the sweetest friend I have, 

Turning the Greatest to mine enemy ? 

Adam. I will not hear thee speak so. Hearken, Spirits 
Our God, who is the enemy of none. 
But only of their sin, hath set your hope 
And my hope in a promise on this head. 
Show reverence, then, and never bruise her more 
With unpermitted and extreme reproach. 
Lest, passionate in anguish, she fling down 
Beneath your trampling feet God's gift to us 
Of sovranty by reason and freewill, 
Sinning against the province of the soul 
To rule the soulless. Reverence her estate. 
And pass out from her presence with no words. 

Eve. O dearest heart, have patience with my heart ! 
O Spirits, have patience, 'stead of reverence. 
And let me speak ; for, not being innocent. 
It little doth become me to be proud. 
And I am prescient by the very hope 
And promise set upon me, that henceforth 
Only my gentleness shall make me great, 
My humbleness exalt me. Awful Spirits, 
Be witness that I stand in your reproof 
But one sun's length off from my happiness — 
Happy, as I have said, to look around. 
Clear to look up ! — and now ! I need not speak — 
Ye see me what I am : ye scorn me so. 
Because ye see me what I have made myself 
From God's best making ! Alas, — peace foregone, 
Love wronged, and virtue forfeit, and tears wept 



A Drama of Exile. 325 

Upon all, vainly ! Alas, me ! alas. 

Who have undone myself from all that best, 

Fairest, and sweetest, to this wretchedest, 

Saddest, and most defiled — cast out, cast down — 

What word metes absolute loss ? Let absolute loss 

Suffice you for revenge. For /, who lived 

Beneath the wings of angels yesterday, 

Wander to-day beneath the roofless world : 

/, reigning the earth's empress yesterday, 

Put off from me to-day your hate with prayers : 

/, yesterday, who answered the Lord God, 

Composed and glad as singing-birds the sun. 

Might shriek now from our dismal desert, " God, " 

And hear him make reply, " What is thy need, — 

Thou whom I cursed to-day ? " 

Adam. Eve ! 

Eve. I, at last. 

Who yesterday was helpmate and delight 
Unto mine Adam, am to-day the grief 
And curse-meet for him. And so pity us. 
Ye gentle Spirits, and pardon him and me ; 
And let some tender peace, made of our pain, 
Grow up betwixt us, as a tree might grow, 
With boughs on both sides ! in the shade of which. 
When presently ye shall behold us dead, 
For the poor sake of our humility 
Breathe out your pardon on our breathless lips. 
And drop your twilight dews against our brows, 
And stroking with mild airs our harmless hands 
Left empty of all fruit, perceive your love 
Distilling through your pity over us. 
And suffer it, self-reconciled, to pass ! 

Lucifer rises in the circle. 

Luc. Who talks here of a complement of grief } 
Of expiation wrought by loss and fall } 
Of hate subduable to pity ? Eve } 
Take counsel from thy counsellor the snake. 
And boast no more in grief, nor hope from pain. 
My docile Eve ! I teach you to despond, 
Who taught you disobedience. Look around ! 
Earth-spirits and phantasms hear you talk unmoved. 
As if ye were red clay again, and talked. 
What are your words to them ? your grief to them } 



326 A Dra7?ia of Exile. 

Your deaths, indeed, to them ? Did the hand pause 
For their sake, in the plucking of the fruit, 
That they should pause iox yoii in hating you ? 
Or will your grief or death, as did your sin, 
Bring change upon their final doom ? Behold, 
Your grief is but your sin in the rebound, 
And cannot expiate for it. 

Adam.. That is true. 

Luc. Ay ; that is true. The clay king testifies 
To the snake's counsel, — hear him ! — very true. 

Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Ltic. And certes, that is true. 

Ye wail, ye all wail. Peradventure I 
Could wail among you. O thou universe. 
That boldest sin and woe, — more room for wail ! 

Distant Starry Voice. Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! Heos- 
phoros ! 

Adam. Mark Lucifer ! He changes awfully. 

Eve. It seems as if he looked from grief to God, 
And could not see him. Wretched Lucifer ! 

Adam. How he stands — yet an angel ! 

Earth-spirits. We all wail ! 

Luc. (after a pause). Dost thou remember, Adam, 
when the curse 
Took us in Eden ? On a mountain-peak 
Half-sheathed in primal woods, and glittering 
In spasms of awful sunshine at that hour, 
A lion couched, part raised upon his paws. 
With his calm, massive face turned full on thine, 
And his mane listening. When the ended curse 
Left silence in the world, right suddenly 
He sprang up rampant, and stood straight and stiff. 
As if the new reality of death 

Were dashed against his eyes, and roared so fierce, 
(Such thick carniv^orous passion in his throat 
Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear) 
And roared so wild, and smote from all the hills 
Such fast keen echoes crumbling down the vales 
Precipitately, — that the forest beasts, 
One after one, did mutter a response 
Of savage and of sorrowful complaint 
Which trailed along the gorges. Then, at once. 
He fell back, and rolled crashing from the height 
Into the dusk of pines. 



A Driwia of Exile. 327 

Adam. It might have been. 

I heard the curse alone. 

Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Luc. That lion is the type of what I am. 
And as he fixed thee with his full-faced hate, 
And roared O Adam, comprehending doom, 
So, gazing on the face of the Unseen, 
I cry out here between the heavens and earth 
My conscience of this sin, this woe, this wrath. 
Which damn me to this depth. 

Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Eve. I wail — O God ! 

Euc. I scorn you that ye wail. 

Who use your petty griefs for pedestals 
To stand on, beckoning pity from without. 
And deal in pathos of antithesis 
Of what ye were forsooth, and what ye are I — 
I scorn you like an angel ! Yet one cry 
I, too, would drive up like a column erect. 
Marble to marble, from my heart to heaven, 
A monument of anguish to transpierce 
And overtop your vapory complaints 
Expressed from feeble woes. 

Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Luc. For, O ye heavens, ye are my witnesses. 
That I, struck out from nature in a blot. 
The outcast and the mildew of things good. 
The leper of angels, the excepted dust 
Under the common rain of daily gifts, — 
I the snake, I the tempter, I the cursed, — 
To whom the highest and the lowest alike 
Say, Go from us : we have no need of thee, — 
Was made by God like others. Good and fair 
He did create me ! ask him if not fair ; 
Ask if I caught not fair and silverly 
His blessing for chief angels on my head 
Until it grew there, a crown crystalized ; 
Ask if he never called me by my name, 
Lucifer, kindly said as " Gabriel " — 
Lucifer, soft as " Michael ! " while serene 
I, standing in the glory of the lamps. 
Answered, " My Father," innocent of shame 
And of the sense of thunder. Ha ! ye think, 
White angels in your niches, I repent. 



328 A Drama of Exile. 

And would tread down my own offences back 
To service at the footstool ? That's read wrong ! 
I cry as the beast did, that I may cry 
Expansive, not appealing ! Fallen so deep, 
Against the sides of this prodigious pit 
I cry, cry, dashing out the hands of wail 
On each side, to meet anguish everywhere, 
And to attest it in the ecstasy 
And exaltation of a woe sustained, 
Because provoked and chosen. 

Pass along 
Your wilderness, vain mortals ! Puny griefs 
In transitory shapes, be henceforth dwarfed 
To your own conscience by the dread extremes 
Of what I am and have been. If ye have fallen. 
It is but a step's fall, the whole ground beneath. 
Strewn woolly soft with promise : if ye have sinned, 
Your prayers tread high as angels ; if ye have grieved, 
Ye are too mortal to be pitiable : 
The power to die disproves the right to grieve. 
Go to ! Ye call this ruin } I half scorn 
The ill I did you ! Were ye wronged by me, 
Hated and tempted and undone of me, 
Still, what's your hurt to mine of doing hurt. 
Of hating, tempting, and so ruining } 
This sword's ///// is the sharpest, and cuts through 
The hand that wields it. 

Go ! I curse you all. 
Hate one another, — feebly, — as ye can ! 
I would not certes cut you short in hate : 
Far be it from me ! Hate on as ye can ! 
I breathe into your faces. Spirits of earth. 
As wintry blast may breathe on wintry leaves. 
And, lifting up their brownness, show beneath 
The branches bare. Beseech you, Spirits, give 
To Eve, who beggarly entreats your love 
For her and Adam when they shall be dead. 
An answer rather fitting to the sin 
Than to the sorrow, as the heavens, I trow, 
For justice' sake gave theirs. 

I curse you both, 
Adam and Eve. Say grace, as after meat, 
After my curses. May your tears fall hot 
On all the hissing scorns o' the creatures here — 



A Drama of Exile. 329 

And yet rejoice ! Increase and multiply, 

Ye in your generations, in all plagues, 

Corruptions, melancholies, poverties, 

And hideous forms of life and fears of death, 

The thought of death being alway eminent, 

Immovable, and dreadful in your life, 

And deafly and dumbly insignificant 

Of any hope beyond, as death itself. 

Whichever of you lieth dead the first. 

Shall seem to the survivor, yet rejoice ! 

My curse catch at you strongly, body and soul, 

And He find no redemption, nor the wing 

Of seraph move your way — and yet rejoice !^ — 

Rejoice, because ye have not set in you 

This hate which shall pursue you, — this fire-hate 

Which glares without, because it burns within ; 

Which kills from ashes, — this potential hate, 

Wherein I, angel, in antagonism 

To God and his reflex beatitudes, 

Moan ever in the central universe 

With the great woe of striving against Love, 

And gasp for space amid the Infinite, 

And toss for rest amid the Desertness, 

Self-orphaned by my w'ill, and self-elect 

To kingship of resistant agony 

Toward the Good round me, hating good and love, 

And willing to hate good and to hate love. 

And willing to will on so evermore. 

Scorning the Past, and damning the To come — 

Go and rejoice ! — I curse you. 

[Lucifer vanishes. 

Ear'th-spirits. 

And we scorn you ! There's no pardon 

Which can lean to you aright. 
When your bodies take the guerdon 
Of the death-curse in our sight. 
Then the bee that hummelh lowest shall transcend you ; 
Then ye shall not move an eyelid, 

Though the stars look down your eyes ; 
And the earth which ye defiled 
Shall expose you to the skies, — 
" Lo ! these kings of ours, who sought to comprehend 
you.' 



330 A Drama of Exile. 

First spirit. 

And the elements shall boldly 

All your dust to dust constrain. 
Unresistedly and coldly 

I will smite you with my rain. 
From the slowest of my frosts is no receding. 
Second Spirit. 

And my little worm, appointed 

To assume a royal part, 
He shall reign, crowned and anointed, 

O'er the noble human heart. 
Giv^e him counsel against losing of that Eden ! 
Adam. Do ye scorn us } Back your scorn 
Toward your faces gray and lorn, 

As the wind drives back the rain, 
Thus I drive with passion-strife, — 
I, who stand beneath God's sun. 
Made like God, and, though undone, 
Not unmade for love and life. 

Lo ! ye utter threats in vain. 
By my free will that chose sin, 
By mine agony within 
Round the passage of the fire, 

By the pinings which disclose 
That my native soul is higher 

Than what it chose, 
We are yet too high, O Spirits, for your disdain. 
Eve. Nay, beloved ! If these be low. 
We confront them from no height. 
We have stooped down to their level 
By infecting them with evil. 
And their scorn that meets our blow 

Scathes aright. — Amen. Let it be so. 
Earth -spirits . 

We shall triumph, triumph greatly, 

When ye lie beneath the sward. 
There our lily shall grow stately. 

Though ye answer not a word, 
And her fragrance shall be scornful of your silence : 
While your throne ascending calmly, 

We, in heirdom of your soul, 
Flash the river, lift the palm-tree. 

The dilated ocean roll, 
By the thoughts that throbbed within you, round the islands. 



A Drama of Exile. 



ZZ^ 



Alp and torrent shall inherit 

Your significance of will, 
And the grandeur of your spirit 
Shall our broad savannahs fill ; 
In our winds your exultations shall be springing. 
Even your parlance, which in- 
veigles, 
By our rudeness shall be 
won. 
Hearts poetic in our eagles 
Shall beat up against the 
sun. 
And strike downward in articu- 
late clear singing. 



the 



Your bold speeches our W 
moth 
With his thunderous jj 
shall wield. 
Your high fancies shall c 
Mammoth 
Breathe sublimely up 
shield 
Of St. Michael at God's thront- 
who waits to speed him, 
Till the heavens' smooth- 
grooved thunder, 
Spinning back, shall 
leave them clear. 
And the angels, smiling 
wonder 
With dropt looks 
from sphere to 
sphere, 
Shall cry, "Ho, ye 
heirs of Adam! 
ye exceed him." 
Adam. Root out 
thine eyes, sweet, 
from the dreary 
ground ! 
Beloved, we may be overcome by God, 
But not by these. 

Eve. By God, perhaps, in these 




SHALL IN 

Voi-R SIGN 

OF WILL. 



(JKKLN 1 

HEKIT 

IFICANCI 



332 A Drama of Exile. 

Adam. I think not so. Had God foredoomed despair, 
He had not spoken hope. He may destroy 
Certes, but not deceive. 

Eve. Behold this rose ! 

I plucked it in our bower of Paradise 
This morning, as 1 went forth, and my heart 
Has beat against its petals all the day. 
I thought it would be always red and full. 
As when I plucked it. Is it } Ye may see. 
I cast it down to you that ye may see. 
All of you ! Count the petals lost of it. 
And note the colors fainted ! Ye may see ! 
And I am as it is, who yesterday 
Grew in the same place. Oh ye Spirits of earth, 
I almost, from my miserable heart, 
Could here upbraid you for your cruel heart, 
Which will not let me, down the slope of death. 
Draw any of your pity after me. 
Or lie still in the quiet of your looks. 
As my flow^er, there, in mine. 

\A bleak tuind, quicken id ivitk 
indistinct hnnian voices, spins 
around the earth zodiac, filling 
the circle zvith its presence and 
then, availing off into the east, 
carries the rose azvay with it. 
'Ev'E falls tip 071 her face, Adam 
stands erect. 

Adam. So verily. 

The last departs. 

Eve. So memory follows hope. 

And life both. Love said to me, " Do not die," 
And I replied, " O Love, I will not die. 
I exiled and I will not orphan Love." 
But now it is no choice of mine to die*: 
My heart throbs from me. 

Adaui. Call it straightway back ! 

Death's consummation crowns completed life, 
Or comes too early. Hope being set on thee 
For others, if for others, then for thee, — 
For thee and me. 

\^The XV I lid revolves from the east, 
and round again to the east. 



A Drama of Exile. 333 

perfinned by the Eden-rose, 
and full of voices whicJi sweep 
out into articulation as tliey 
pass 

Let thy soul shake its leaves 
To feel the mystic wind — hark ! 

Eve. I hear life. 

Infa7it Voices passing in the wind. 
Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life that we receive 
Is a warm thing- and a new, 
Which we softly bud into 
From the heart and from the brain, 
Something strange that overmuch is 

Of the sound and of the sight. 
Flowing round in trickling touches, 

With a sorrow and delight ; 
Yet is it all in vain ? 

Rock us softly, 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Youthful Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life that we achieve 
Is a loud thing and a bold. 
Which, with pulses manifold, 
Strikes the heart out full and fain, — 
Active doer, noble liver. 

Strong to struggle, sure to conquer, 
Though the vessel's prow will quiver 

At the lifting of the anchor ; 
Yet do we strive in vain ? 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Poet Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life that we conceive 
Is a clear thing and a fair. 
Which we set in crystal air 
That its beauty may be plain, 
With a breathing and a flooding 

Of the heaven-life on the whole. 
While we hear the forests budding 



334 ^ Draitia of Exile, 

To the music of the soul ; 
Yet is it tuned in vain ? 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly, 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Philosophic Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life that we perceive 
Is a great thing and a grave, 
Which for others' use we have. 
Duty-laden to remain. 
We are helpers, fellow-creatures. 
Of the right against the wrong, 
We are earnest-hearted teachers 

Of the truth which maketh strong: 
Yet do we teach in vain .'' 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly, 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Revel Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live I 
And this life that we reprieve 
Is a low thing and a light. 
Which is jested out of sight, 
And made worthy of disdain. 
Strike with bold electric laughter 
The high tops of things divine : 
Turn thy head, my brother, after, 
Lest thy tears fall in my wine ; 
For is all laughed in vain } 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Eve. I hear a sound of life, — of life like ours, 
Of laughter and of wailing, of grave speech. 
Of little plaintive voices innocent. 
Of life in separate courses, flowing out 
Like our four rivers to some outward main. 
I hear life — life ! 

Adam. And so thy cheeks have snatched 

Scarlet to paleness, and thine eyes drink fast 
Of glory from full cups, and thy moist lips 
Seem trembling, both of them, with earnest doubts 
Whether to utter words, or only smile. 



A Drama of Exile. t^ZS 

Eve. Shall I be mother of the coming life ? 
Hear the steep generations, how they fall 
Adown the visionary stairs of Time 
Like supernatural thunders, far, yet near, 
Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills ! 
Am I a cloud to these, — mother to these ? 
Earth-spirits. And bringer of the curse upon all these. 

[Eve sinks down again. 
Poet Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we h've ! 
And this life that we conceive 
Is a noble thing and high, 
Which we climb up loftily 
To view God without a stain. 
Till, recoiling where the shade is, 

We retread our steps again. 
And descend the gloomy Hades 
To resume man's mortal pain. 
Shall it be climbed in vain ? 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 
Lot'e Voices passijig. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life we would retrieve 
Is a faithful thing apart 
Which we love in, heart to heart, 
• Until one heart fitteth twain. 
" Wilt thou be one with me } " 
" I will be one with thee." 
•' Ha, ha ! we love and live ! " 
Alas ! ye love and die. 
Shriek — who shall reply ? 
For is it not loved in vain ? 
Infant Voices passing. 

Rock us softly, 
Though it be all in vain. 
Aged Voices passing. 

Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
And this life we would survive 
Is a gloomy thing and brief. 
Which, consummated in grief, 
Leaveth ashes for all gain. 
Is it not all in vain .'' 



336 A Drama of Exile. 



Infattt Voices passing. 

Rock us softly, 
Though it be all in vain. 

[ Voices die away. 

Earth-spirits. And bringer of the curse upon ail these. 

Eve. The voices of foreshown humanity- 
Die off : so let me die. 

Adam. So let us die, 

When God's will soundeth the right hour of death. 

Earth-spirits. And bringer of the curse upon all these. 

Eve. O Spirits ! by the gentleness ye use 
In winds at night, and floating clouds at noon, 
In gliding waters under lil^^-leaves, 
In chirp of crickets, and the settling hush 
A bird makes in her nest with feet and wings, — 
Fulfil your natures now ! 

Earth-spirits. Agreed, allowed ! 

We gather out our natures like a cloud. 
And thus fulfil their lightnings ! 
Thus, and thus ! 

Harken, oh, harken to us ! 

First Spirit. 
As the storm-wind blows bleakly from the norland, 
As the snow-wind beats blindly on the moorland, 
As the simoom drives hot across the desert. 
As the thunder roars deep in the Unmeasured, 
As the torrent tears the ocean-world to atoms. 
As the whirlpool grinds it fathoms below fathoms, 
Thus — and thus ! 

Second Spirit. 
As the yellow toad, that spits its poison chilly, 
As the tiger in the jungle crouching stilly, 
As the wild boar, with ragged tusks of anger. 
As the wolf-dog, with teeth of glittering clangor, 
As the vultures, that scream against the thunder, 
As the owlets, that sit, and moan asunder ; 
Thus — and thus ! 

Eve. Adam ! God ! 

Adam. Cruel, unrelenting Spirits ! 
By the power in me of the sovran soul, 
Whose thoughts keep pace yet with the angel's march, 
I charge you into silence, trample you 
Down to obedience. I am king of you I 



A Drama of Exile. 337 

Earth-spirits. 

Ha, ha ! thou art king ! 

With a sin for a crown, 

And a soul undone ! 

Thou, the antagonized, 

Tortured, and agonized, 

Held in the ring 

Of the zodiac ! 

Now, king, beware ! 

We are many and strong, 

Whom thou standest among ; 

And we press on the air, 

And w^e stifle thee back, 

And we multiply where 

Thou wouldst trample us down 

From rights of our own 

To an utter wrong. 
And from under the feet of thy scorn, 
O forlorn. 

We shall spring up like corn. 

And our stubble be strong. 
Adam. God, there is power in thee ! I make appeal 
Unto thy kingship. 

Eve. There is pity in Thee, 

O sinned against, great God ! My seed, my seed. 
There is hope set on Thee, — I cry to thee. 
Thou mystic Seed that shalt be ! — leave us not 
In agony beyond what we can bear. 
Fallen in debasement below thunder-mark, 
A mark for scorning, taunted and perplext 
By all these creatures we ruled yesterday. 
Whom thou. Lord, rulest alway ! O my Seed, 
Through the tempestuous years that rain so thick 
Betwixt my ghostly vision and thy face. 
Let me have token ! for my soul is bruised 
Before the serpent's head is. 

\A vision of Christ appears in 
the midst of the zodiac, tvtiich 
pales before the heavenly light. 
The Earth-spirits grozv grayer 
and fainter. 

Christ. I am here! 

Adam. This is God ! Curse us not, God. any more ! 



;^^S A Df'ama of Exile. 

Eve. But gazing so, so, with omnific eyes, 
Lift my soul upward till it touch thyjeet I 
Or lift it only — not to seem too proud — 
To the low height of some good angel's feet, 
For such to tread on when he walketh straight, 
And thy lips praise him ! 

Christ. Spirits of the earth, 

I meet you with rebuke for the reproach 
And cruel and unmitigated blame 
Ye cast upon your masters. True, they have sinned 
And true their sin is reckoned into loss 
For you the sinless. Yet your innocence. 
Which of you praises ? since God made your acts 
Inherent in your lives, and bound your hands 
With instincts and imperious sanctities 
From self-defacement. Which of you disdains 
These sinners, who in falling proved their height 
Above you by their liberty to fall } 
And which of you complains of loss by them. 
For whose delight and use ye have your life 
And honor in creation } Ponder it ! 
This regent and sublime Humanity, 
Though fallen, exceeds you ! this shall film your sun. 
Shall hunt your lightning to its lair of cloud. 
Turn back your rivers, footpath all your seas. 
Lay flat your forests, master with a look 
Your lion at his fasting, and fetch down 
Your eagle fiying. Nay, without this law 
Of mandom, ye would perish, — beast by beast 
Devouring, — tree by tree, with strangling roots 
And trunks set tuskwise. Ye would gaze on God 
With imperceptive blankness up the stars. 
And mutter, " Why, God, hast thou made us thus ? " 
And, pining to a sallow idiocy, 
Stagger up blindly against the ends of life, 
Then stagnate into rottenness, and drop 
Heavily — poor, dead matter — piecemeal down 
The abysmal spaces, like a little stone 
Let fall to chaos. Therefore over you 
Receive man's sceptre ! therefore be content 
To minister with voluntary grace 
And melancholy pardon every rite 
And function in you to the human hand ! 
Be ye to man as angels are to God, — 



A Drama of Exile. 339 



Servants in pleasure, singers of delight, 

Suggesters to his soul of higher things 

Than any of your highest ! So at last, 

He shall look round on you with lids too straight 

To hold the grateful tears, and thank you well, 

And bless you when he prays his secret prayers, 

And praise you, when he sings his open songs, 

For the clear song-note he has learnt in you 

Of purifying sweetness, and extend 

Across your head his golden fantasies 

Which glorify you into soul from sense. 

Go, serve him for such price ! That not in vain, 

Nor yet ignobly, ye shall serve, I place 

My word here for an oath, mine oath for act 

To be hereafter. In the name of which 

Perfect redemption and perpetual grace 

I bless you through the hope and through the peace 

Which are mine, — to the love which is myself. 

Eve. Speak on still, Christ ! Albeit thou bless me not 
In set words, I am blessed in barkening thee — 
Speak, Christ! 

Christ. Speak, Adam ! Bless the woman, man. 
It is thine office. 

Adam. Mother of the world. 

Take heart before this Presence I Lo, my voice, 
Which, naming erst the creatures, did express 
( God breathing through my breath ) the attributes 
And instincts of each creature in its name. 
Floats to the same afflatus, — floats and heaves. 
Like a water-weed that opens to a wave, 
A full-leaved prophecy affecting thee, 
Out fairly and wide. Hencefoward arise, aspire 
To all the calms and magnanimities. 
The lofty uses and the noble ends, 
The sanctified devotion and full work. 
To which thou art elect forevermore, 
First woman, wife, and mother ! 

Eve. And .first in sin. 

Adai7t. And also the sole bearer of the Seed 
Whereby sin dieth. Raise the majesties 
Of thy disconsolate brows, O well-beloved, 
And front with level eyelids the To come. 
And all the dark o' the world ! Rise, woman, rise 
To thy peculiar and best altitudes 



340 A Dra??ia of Exile. 

Of doing good and of enduring ill, 

Of comforting for ill, and teaching good, 

And reconciling all that ill and good 

Unto the patience of a constant hope, — 

Rise with thy daughters ! If sin came by thee, 

And by sin, death, the ransom-righteousness 

The heavenly life and compensative rest, 

Shall come by means of thee. If woe by thee 

Had issue to the world, thou shalt go forth 

An angel of the woe thou didst achieve, 

Found acceptable to the world instead 

Of others of that name, of whose bright steps 

Thy deed stripped bare the hills. Be satisfied : 

Something thou hast to bear through womanhood, 

Peculiar suffering answering to the sin, — 

Some pang paid down for each new human life. 

Some weariness in guarding such a life. 

Some coldness from the guarded, some mistrust 

From those thou hast too well served, from those beloved 

Too loyally some treason ; feebleness 

Within thy heart and, cruelty without. 

And pressures of an alien tyranny 

With its dynastic reasons of larger bones 

And stronger sinews. But go to ! thy love 

Shall chant itself its own beatitudes 

After its own life-working. A child's kiss 

Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad ; 

A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich ; 

A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong : 

Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense 

Of service which thou renderest. Such a crown 

I set upon thy head, — Christ witnessing 

With looks of prompting love, — to keep thee clear 

Of all reproach against the sin forgone, 

From all the generations which succeed. 

Thy hand which plucked the apple I clasp close ; 

Thy lips which spake wrong counsel I kiss close ; 

I bless thee in the name of Paradise 

And by the memory of Edenic joys 

Forfeit and lost, — by that last cypress-tree. 

Green at the gate, which thrilled as we came out ; 

And by the blessed nightingale which threw 

Its melancholy music after us ; 

And by the flowers, whose spirits flill of smells 



A Dratna of Exile. 341 



Did follow softly, plucking us behind 

Back to the gradual banks, and vernal bowers, 

And fourfold river-courses. By all these 

I bless thee to the contraries of these ; 

I bless thee to the desert and the thorns, 

To the elemental change and turbulence, 

And to the roar of the estranged beasts, 

And to the solemn dignities of grief, 

To each one of these ends, and to their END 

Of death and the hereafter. 

Eve. I accept 

For me and for my daughters this high part, 
Which lowly shall be counted. Noble work 
Shall hold me in the place of garden rest. 
And, in the place of Eden's lost delight, 
Worthy endurance of permitted pain ; 
While on my longest patience there shall wait 
Death's speechless angel, smiling in the east 
Whence cometh the cold wind. I bow myself 
Humbly henceforward on the ill I did, 
That humbleness may keep it in the shade. 
Shall it be so ? Shall I smile, saying so ? 

Seed ! O King! O God, who shall be seed,— 
What shall I say? As Eden's fountains swelled 
Brightly betwixt their banks, so swells my soul 
Betwixt thy love and power. 

And, sweetest thoughts 
Of foregone Eden, now, for the first time 
Since God said " Adam," walking through the trees, 

1 dare to pluck you, as I plucked erewhile 
The lily or pink, the rose or heliotrope. 

So pluck I you— so largely— with both hands, 
And throw you forward on the outer earth 
Wherein we are cast out, to sweeten it. 

Adam. As thou, Christ, to illume it, boldest Heaven 
Broadly over our heads. 

[ The Christ is gradually trans- 
figured, during the follotving 
phrases of dialogue, into hii- 
jnanity and suffering. 

Eve, O Saviour Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the sun ! 



342 A Drama of Exile. 

Adam. We worship in thy silence, Saviour Christ. 

Eve. Thy brows grow grander with a forecast woe ; 
Diviner, with the possible of death. 
We worship in thy sorrow, Saviour Christ. 

Adam. How do thy clear still eyes transpierce our souls. 
As gazing through them, toward the Father-throne 
In a pathetical, full Deity, 
Serenely as the stars gaze through the air 
Straight on each other ! 

Eve. O pathetic Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the moon ! 

Christ. Eternity stands alway fronting God ; 
A stern colossal image, with blind eyes. 
And grand dim lips that murmur evermore, 
God, God, God ! while the rush of life and death, 
The roar of act and thought, of evil and good, 
The avalanches of the ruining worlds 
Tolling down space, — the new worlds' genesis 
Budding in fire, — the gradual humming growth 
Of the ancient atoms and first forms of earth, 
The slow procession of the swathing seas 
And firmamental waters, and the noise 
Of the broad, fluent strata of pure airs, — 
All these flow omvard in the intervals 
Of that reiterated sound of — God ! 
Which WORD innumerous angels straightway lift 
Wide on celestial altitudes of song 
And choral adoration, and then drop 
The burden softly, shutting the last notes 
In silver wings. Howbeit, in the noon of time 
Eternity shall wax as dumb as death, 
While a new voice beneath the spheres shall cry, 
" God I Why hast thou forsaken me, my God } " 
And not a voice in heaven shall answer it. 

[ T/ie transfiguj'ation is compleh 
in sadness. 

Adam. Thy speech is of the heavenlies, yet, O Christ, 
Awfully human are thy voice and face ! 

Eve. My nature overcomes me from thine eyes. 

Christ. In the set noon of time shall one from heaven. 
An angel fresh from looking upon God, 
Descend before a woman, blessing her. 



A Drama of Exile. 343 



With perfect benediction of pure love, 
For all the world in all its elements, 
Yox all the creatures of earth, air, and sea, 
For all men in the body and in the soul. 
Unto all ends of glory and sanctity. 

Eve. O pale pathetic Christ. I worship thee ! 
I thank thee for that woman ! 

Christ. Then at last, 

I, wrapping round me your humanity. 
Which, being sustained', shall neither break nor burn 
Beneath the fire of Godhead, will tread earth. 
And ransom you and it, and set strong peace 
Betwixt you and its creatures. With my pangs 
I will confront your sins ; and, since those sins 
Have sunken to all Nature's heart from yours, 
The tears of my clean soul shall follow them. 
And set a holy passion to work clear 
Absolute consecration. In my brow 
Of kingly whiteness shall be crowned anew 
Your discrowned human nature. Look on me ! 
As I shall be uplifted on a cross 
In darkness of eclipse and anguish dread, 
So shall I lift up in my pierced hands,— 
Not into dark, but light ; not unto death, 
But life,— beyond the reach of guilt and grief, 
The whole creation. Henceforth in my name 
Take courage, O thou woman, — man, take hope ! 
Your grave shall be as smooth as Eden's sward 
Beneath the steps of your prospective thoughts, 
And, one step past it, a new Eden-gate 
Shall open on a hinge of harmony, 
And let you through to mercy. Ye shall fall 
No more within that Eden, nor pass out 
Any more from it. In which hope, move on, 
First sinners and first mourners. Live and love. 
Doing both nobly, because lowlily ; 
Live and work, strongly, because patiently ! 
And, for the deed of death, trust it to God 
That it be well done, unrepented of. 
And not to loss. And thence with constant prayers 
Fasten your souls so high, that constantly 
The smile of your heroic cheer may float 
Above all floods of earthly agonies. 
Purification being the joy of pain ! 



344 ^ Drama of Exile. 



[The vision ^Christ vanishes. 
Adam and Eve stand in an ec- 
stasy. The earth-zodiac pales 
away shade by shade, as the 
stars, star by star, shine out in 
the sky ; and the following 
chant from ///^/z^i? Eai tli-spirits 
{as they sweep back into the 
zodiac, and disappear with 
it ) accompanies the process oj 
change. 

Ea rth -spirits. 

By the mighty word thus spoken 
Both for Uving and for dying, 
We our homage oath, once broken, 
Fasten back again in sighing. 
And the creatures and the elements renew their 
covenanting. 

Here forgive us all our scorning; 
Here we promise milder duty ; 
And the evening and the morning 
Shall re-organize in beauty 
A sabbath day of sabbath joy, for universal 
chanting. 

And if, still, this melancholy 

May be strong to overcome us ; 
If this mortal and unholy 

We still fail to cast out from us ; 
If we turn upon you unaware your own dark 
influences ; 

If ye tremble when surrounded 

By our forest pine and palm trees ; 
If we cannot cure the wounded 
With our gum-trees and our balm-trees ; 
And if your souls all mournfully sit down among 
your senses, — 

Yet, O mortals do not fear us ! 

We are gentle in our languor ; 
Much more good ye shall have near us 

Than any pain or anger, 



A Drama of Exile 



345 



And our God's refracted blessing in our blessing 
shall be given. 

By the desert's endless vigil 

We will solemnize your passions; 
By the wheel of the black eagle 
We will teach you exaltations, 
When he sails against the wind, to the white 
spot up in heaven. 

Ye shall find us tender nurses 

To your weariness of nature, 
And our hands shall stroke the curse's 
Dreary furrows from the creature, 
Till your bodies shall lie smooth in death, and 
straight and slumberful. 




Then a couch we will provide vor. 

Then a couch we will provide you 

Where no summer heats shall dazzle. 
Strewing on you and beside you 
Thyme and rosemary and basil. 
And the yew-tree shall grow overhead to keep 
all safe and cool. 



Till the Holy Blood awaited 

Shall be chrism around us running, 
Whereby, newly consecrated, 



346 A Drama of Exile. 



We shall leap up in God's sunning, 
To join the spheric company which purer worlds 
assemble ; 

While, renewed by new evangels, 

Soul-consummated, made glorious, 
Ye shall brighten past the angels. 
Ye shall kneel to Christ victorious. 
And the rays around his feet beneath your sob- 
bing lips shall tremble. 

YThe phaniastic vision has all 
passed ; the earth-zodiac has 
broJzen like a belt, and is dis- 
solved f)'07n the desert. The 
Earth-spirits vanish and the 
stars shine out above. 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS, 
While Adam and Eve advance into the desert, hand in hand. 

Hear our heavenly promise 

Through your mortal passion I 
Love ye shall have from us, 

In a pure relation. 
As a fish or bird 

Swims or fhes, if moving, 
We unseen are heard 

To live on by loving. 
Far above the glances 

Of your eager eyes, 
Listen ! we are loving. 
Listen, through man's ignorances, " 
Listen, through God's mysteries, 
Listen, down the heart of things, — 
Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
Murmurous with loving. 

Through the opal door 

Listen evermore 

How we live by loving ! 

Fi'?'si semichortis. 

When your bodies therefore 
Reach the grave, their goal. 



A Drama of Exile. 347 

Softly will we care for 

Each enfranchised soul. 
Softly and unloathiy, 

Through the door of opal, 

Toward the heavenly people, 
Floated on a minor fine 
Into the full chant divine, 

We will draw you smoothly, 
While the human in the minor 
Makes the harmony diviner. 
Listen to our loving ! 

Second semichorics. 

There, a sough of glory 

Shall breathe on you as you come, 
Ruffling round the doorway 

All the light of angeldom. 
From the empyrean centre 

Heavenly voices shall repeat, 
" Souls, redeemed and pardoned, enter, 

For the chrism on you is sweet." 
And every angel in the place, 
Lovvlily shall bow his face, 

P'olded fair on softened sounds. 
Because upon your hands and feet 

He images his Master's wounds. 
Listen to our loving ! 

First semicJiorus. 
So, in the universe's 

Consummated undoing, 
Our seraphs of white mercies 

Shall hover round the ruin. 
Their wings shall stream upon the flame 
As if incorporate of the same 

In elemental fusion ; 
And calm their faces shall burn out 
With a pale and mastering thought. 
And a steadfast looking of desire 
From out between the clefts of fire, 
While they cry, in the Holy's name, 

To the final Restitution. 
Listen to our loving ! 



348 A TJrama of Exile. 

Second scin I'th o> i/s. 

So, when the day of God is 

To the thick graves accompted, 
Awaking the dead bodies, 

The angel of the trumpet 
Shall split and shatter the earth 

To the roots of the grave 
Which never before were slackened, 

And quicken the charnel birth 
With his blast so clear and brave 

That the dead shall start, and stand erect, 
And every face of the burial-place 
Shall the awful single look reflect 

Wherewith he them awakened. 
Listen to our loving I 

First semichorus. 

But wild is the horse of Death. 
He will leap up wild at the clamor 

Above and beneath. 

And where is his Tamer 

On that last day. 

When he crieth, Ha, ha ! 

To the trumpet's blare. 
And pavveth the earth's Aceldama ? 

When he tosseth his head. 

The drear-white steed. 
And ghastlily champeth the last moon-ray. 

What angel there 

Can lead him away, 
That the living may rule for the dead } 

Second semichorus. 

Yet a Tamer shall be found ! 

One more bright than seraph crowned, 

And more strong than cherub bold, 

Elder, too, than angel old. 

By his gray eternities. 

He shall master and surprise 

The steed of Death. 
For he is strong, and he is fain : 
He shall quell him with a breath, 
And shall lead him where he will, 



A Drama of Exile. 349 



With a whisper in the ear, 

P^ull of fear, 
And a hand upon the mane, 

Grand and still. 



First sonichorus. 
Through the flats of Hades, where the souls assemble. 
He will guide the Death-steed calm between their ranks, 
While, like beaten dogs, they a little moan and tremble 
To see the darkness curdle from the horse's glittering flanks. 
Through the flats of Hades, where the dreary shade is, 
Up the steep of heaven, will the Tamer guide the steed, — 
Up the spheric circles, circle above circle, 
We who count the ages shall count the tolling tread ; 
Every hoof-fall striking a blinder, blanker sparkle 
From the stony orbs, which shall show as they were dead. 

Second semichortis. 
All the way the Death-steed with tolling hoofs shall travel ; 
Ashen gray the planets shall be motionless as stones ; 
Loosely shall the systems eject their parts coeval ; 
Stagnant in the spaces shall float the pallid moons ; 
Suns that touch their apogees, reeling from their level, 
Shall run back on their axles in wild, low, broken tunes. 

Chorus. 
Up against the arches of the crystal ceiling. 
From the horse's nostrils, shall steam the blurting breath ; 
Up between the angels pale with silent feeling. 
Will the Tamer calmly lead the horse of Death. 

Semichortis. . 
Cleaving all that silence, cleaving all that glory, 
Will the Tamer lead him straightway to the Throne ; 
" Look out, O Jehovah, to this I bring before thee. 
With a hand nail-pierced, — I who am thy Son." 
Then the Eye Divinest, from the Deepest, flaming, 
On the mystic courser shall look out in fire : 
Blind the beast shall stagger where it overcame him, 
Meek as lamb at pasture, bloodless in desire. 
Down the beast shall shiver, slain amid the taming, 
And by life essential the phantasm Death expire. 

Chorus. 
Listen, man, through life and death. 
Through the dust and through the breath, 

Listen down the heart of things ! 



350 A DMma of Exile. 

Ye shall hear our mystic wings 

Murmurous with loving. 
A Voice from below. Gabriel, thou Gabriel 1 
A Voice from above. What wouldst thou with me ? 
First Voice. I heard thy voice sound in the angels' song, 
And I would give thee question. 
Second Voice. Question me ! 

First Voice. Why have I called thrice to my morning star, 
And had no answer.^ All the stars are out, 
And answer in their places. Only in vain 
I cast my voice against the outer rays 
Of my star shut in light behind the sun. 
No more reply than from a breaking string. 
Breaking when touched. Or is she not my star } 
Where is my star, my star ? Have ye cast down 
Her glory like my glory ? Has she waxed 
Mortal, like Adam } Has she learnt to hate 
Like any angel ?. 

Second Voice. She is sad for thee. 
All things grow sadder to thee, one by one. 
Angel Chorus. 

Live, work on, O Earthy ! 
By the Actual's tension 
Speed the arrow worthy 
Of a pure ascension ; 
From the low earth round you 

Reach the heights above you ; 
From the stripes that wound you 

Seek the loves that love you. 
God's divinest burneth plain 
Through the crystal diaphane 
Of our loves that love you. 
First Voice. Gabriel, O Gabriel ! 
Second Voice. What wouldst thou with me ? 
First Voice. Is it true, O thou Gabriel, that the crown 
Of sorrow which I claimed, another claims } 
That He claims that too.^ 

Second Voice. Lost one, it is true. 

First Voice. That He will be an exile from his heaven 
To lead those exiles homeward } 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. That He will be an exile by his will, 
* As I by mine election ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 



A Drama of Exile. 351 



Ft'rst Voice. That / shall stand sole exile finally,— 
Made desolate for fruition ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. Gabriel ! 

Seco7id Voice. I hearken. 

First Voice. Is it true besides, 

Aright true, that mine orient star will give 
Her name of " Bright and Morning Star " to Him, 
And take the fairness of his virtue back 
To cover loss and sadness ? 

Secotid Voice, It is true. 

First Voice. llNtrue, UNtrue ! O Morning Star, O Mine, 
Who sittest secret in a veil of light 
Far up the starry spaces, say — Untrue! 
Speak but so loud as doth a wasted moon 
To Tyrrhene waters. I am Lucifer. 

\^A pause. Silence hi the stars. 
All things grow sadder to me, one by one. 

Angel Chorus. 

Exiled human creatures, 

Let your hope grow larger, 
Larger grows the vision 

Of the new delight. 
From this chain of Nature's 

God is the Discharger, 
And the Actual's prison 

Opens to your sight. 
. Semichorus. 

Calm the stars and golden 

In a light exceeding : 
What their rays have measured 

Let your feet fulfil ! 
These are stars beholden 

By your eyes in Eden ; 
Yet across the desert, 

See them shining still ! 
Chorus. 

Future joy and far light, 

Working such relations, 
Hear us singing gently, 

Exiled is not lost I 
God, above the starlight, 

God. above the patience. 



352 A Drama of Exile. 

Shall at last present ye 
Guerdons worth the cost. 
Patiently enduring, 

Painfully surrounded, 
Listen how we love you, 

Hope the uttermost ! 
Waiting for that curing 

Which exalts the wounded, 
Hear us sing above you — 

Exiled, but not lost ! 

[ The stars shine on brightly while 
Adam and Eve pursue their 
taay into the far 7vilder?iess. 
There is a sound through the 
siletice, as of the failing tears of 
an a nee I. 



THE SERAPHIM. 



I look for Angels' songs, and hear Him cry." 

Giles Fletcher. 



PART THE FIRST. 



\It is the time of the crucifixion; and the angels of heaven have. 

departed to7vards the 'earth, except the two seraphim, Ador 

the Strong, and Zerah the Bright One. 
The place is the outer side of the shut heavenly gate ^i 

Ador. O SERAPH, pause no more ! 
Beside this gate of heaven we stand alone. 
Zerah. Of heaven I 
Ador. Our brother-hosts are gone — 
Zerah. Are gone before. 
Ador. And the golden harps the angels bore, 

To help the songs of their desire, ^ 

Still burning from their hands of fire, 

Lie, without touch or tone. 
Upon the glass-sea shore. 
Zerah. Silent upon the glass-sea shore ! 
Ador. There the Shadow from the throne, 

Formless with infinity, 

Hovers o'er the crystal sea 

AwfuUer than light derived. 

And red with those primeval heats 
Whereby all life has lived. 
Zerah. Our visible God, our heavenly seats! 
Ador. Beneath us sinks the pomp angelical. 

Cherub and seraph, powers and virtues, all. 



354 '-^'^^^^ Seraphim. 



The roar of whose descent has died 
To a still sound, as thunder into rain. 

Immeasurable space spreads, magnified 
With that thick life, along the plane 
The worlds slid out on. What a fall 
And eddy of wings innumerous, crossed 
By trailing curls that have not lost 
The glitter of the God-smile shed 
On every prostrate angel's head ! 
What gleaming-up of hands that fling 
Their homage in retorted rays, 
From high instinct of worshipping, 
And habitude of praise ! 
Zerah. Rapidly they drop below us. 
Pointed palm, and wing, and hair 
Indistinguishable, show us 
Only pulses in the air 
Throbbing with a fiery beat. 
As if a new creation heard 
Some divine and plastic word, 
And, trembling at its new-found being, 

Awakened at our feet. 
Ador. Zerah, do not wait for seeing ! 
His voice, his, that thrills us so 
As we our harpstrings, uttered Go, 
Behold the Holy i7i his woe ! 
And all are gone, save thee and — 
Zerah. Thee ! 

Ador. I stood the nearest to the throne, 
In hierarchical degree. 
What time the Voice said Go I 
And whether I was moved alone 
By the storm-pathos of the tone 
Which swept through heaven the alien name of woe. 
Or whether the subtle glory broke 
Through my strong and shielding wings, 
Bearing to my finite essence 
Incapacious of their presence, 
Infinite imaginings. 
None knoweth save the Throned who spoke ; 
But I, who at creation stood upright, 
And heard the God-breath move 
Shaping the words that lightened. " Be there light," 
Nor trembled but with love. 



The Seraphim. 355 



Now fell down shudderingly, 
My face upon the pavement whence I had towered, 
As if in mine immortal overpowered 
By God's eternity. 
Zerah. Let me wait ! let me wait ! 
Ador. Nay, gaze not backward through the gate ! 
God fills our heaven with God's own solitude 

Till all the pavements glow. 
His Godhead being no more subdued 
By itself, to glories low 

Which seraphs can sustain, 
What if thou, in gazing so, 
Shouldst behold but only one 
Attribute, the veil undone, — 
Even that to which we dare to press 
Nearest for its gentleness, — 

Ay, his love ! 
How the deep ecstatic pain 
Thy being's strength would capture ! 
Without language for the rapture. 
Without music strong to come 

And set the adoration free. 
For ever, ever, wouldst thou be 
Amid the general chorus dumb, 
God-stricken to seraphic agony. 
Or, brother, what if on thine eyes 
In vision bare should rise 
The life-fount whence his hand did gather 
With solitary force 
Our immortalities ! 
Straightway how thine own would wither. 
Falter like a human breath. 
And shrink into a point like death. 
By gazing on its source ! — 
My words have imaged dread. 
Meekly hast thou bent thine head, 
And dropt thy wings in languishment 
Overclouding foot and face. 
As if God's throne were eminent 
Before thee in the place. 
Yet not — not so, 
O loving spirit and meek, dost thou fulfil 
The supreme Will. 
Not for obeisance, but obedience. 



356 The Seraphim. 



Give motion to thy wings ! Depart from hence ! 
The Voice said, " Go ! " 
Zerah. Beloved, I depart. 
His will is as a spirit within my spirit, 
A portion of the being I inherit. 
His will is mine obedience. I resemble 
A flame all undefiled, though it tremble, 
I go and tremble. Love me, O beloved ! 

O thou, who stronger art, 
And standest ever near the Infinite, 

Pale with the light of Light, 
Love me, beloved ! — me, more newly made. 

More feeble, more afraid. 
And let me hear with mine thy pinions moved. 
As close and gentle as the loving are. 
That, love being near, heaven may not seem so far. 
Ador. I am near thee, and I love thee. 
Were I loveless, from thee gone, 
Love is round, beneath, above thee, 
God, the omnipresent one. 
Spread the wing, and lift the brow ! 
Well-beloved, what fearest thou } 
Zerah. I fear, I fear — 
Ador. What fear ? 

Zerah. The fear of earth. 

Ador. Of earth, the God-created, and God-praised 
In the hour of birth } 
Where every night the moon in light 
Doth lead the waters silver-faced } 

Where every day the sun doth lay 
A rapture to the heart of all 
The leafy and reeded pastoral, 
As if the joyous shout which burst 
From angel lips to see him first 
Had left a silent echo in his ray ? 
Zerah. Of earth, the God-created and God-curst, 
Where man is, and the thorn ; 
Where sun and moon have borne 
No light to souls forlorn ; 
Where Eden's tree of life no more uprears 
Its spiral leaves and fruitage, but instead 
The yew-tree bows its melancholy head, 
And all the undergrasses kills and sears. 
Ador. Of earth the weak, 



The Seraphim. 



357 



Made and unmade ? 

Where men that faint do strive for crowns that fade ? 
Where, having won the profit which they seek. 
They lie beside the sceptre and the gold 
With fleshless hands that cannot wield or hold, 
And the stars shine in their unwinking eyes ? 
Zerah. Of earth the bold, 

Where the blind matter wrings 
An awful potence out of impotence, 
Bowing the spiritual things 

To the things of sense ; 
Where the human will replies 
With ay and no. 
Because the human pulse is quick or slow ; 




Where every night the moon in light 
Doth lead the waters silver-faced. 

Where Love succumbs to Change, 

With only his own memories, for revenge. 

And the fearful mystery — 

Ador. Called Death ? 

Zerah. Nay, death is fearful ; but who saith 
" To die," is comprehensible. 
What's fearfuUer, thou knowest well, 
Though the utterance be not for thee. 
Lest it blanch thy lips from glory — 
Ay ! the cursed thing that moved 
A shadow of ill, long time ago. 
Across our heaven's own shining floor, 
And when it vanished some who were 



358 The Seraph ini. 



On thrones of holy empire there, 

Did reign — were seen — were— never more. 

Come nearer, O beloved ! 

Ador. I am near thee. Didst thou bear thee 
Ever to this earth ? 

Zerah. Before. 

When thrilling from his hand along 
Its lustrous path with spheric song 
The earth was deathless, sorrowless. 
Unfearing, then, pure feet might press 
The grasses brightening with their feet, 
For God's own voice did mix its sound 
In a solemn confluence oft 
With the rivers' flowing round. 
And the life-tree's waving soft. 
Beautiful new earth and strange ! 

Ador. Hast thou seen it since — the change } 

Zerah. Nay, or wherefore should I fear 

To look upon it now } 
I have beheld the ruined things 
Only in depicturings 
Of angels from an earthly mission. 
Strong- one, even upon thy brow. 
When, with task completed, given 
Back to us in that transition, 
I have beheld thee silent stand. 
Abstracted in the seraph band, 

Without a smile in heaven. 

Ador. Then thou wast not one of those 
Whom the loving Father chose 
In visionary pomp to sweep 
O'er Judaea's grassy places, 
O'er the shepherds and the sheep. 
Though thou art so tender, dimming 
All the stars except one star 
With their brighter, kinder faces ? 
And using heaven's own tune in hymning, 
While deep response from earth's own mountains ran, 
" Peace upon earth, good-will to man." 

Zerah. " Glory to God." I said amen afar. 
And those who from that earthly mission are. 

Within mine ears have told 
That the seven everlasting Spirits did hold 
With such a sweet and prodigal constraint 



The Seraphim. 359 




There is a tree ! — it hath no leaf nor root. 



The meaning- yet the mystery of the song 

What time they sang it, on their natures strong, 

That, gazing down on earth's dark steadfastness, 

And speaking the new peace in promises. 

The love and pity made their voices faint 

Into the low and tender music, keeping 

The place in heaven of what on earth is weeping. 

Ador. Peace upon earth. Come down to it. 

Zerah. Ah me ! 

I hear thereof uncomprehendingly. 
Peace where the tempest, where the sighing is, 
And worship of the idol, 'stead of His } 

Ador. Yea, peace, where He is. 

Zerah. He ! 

Say it again. 

Ador. Where He is. 

ZeraJi. Can it be 

That earth retains a tree 

Whose leaves like Eden foliage can be swayed 
By the breathing of His voice, nor shrink and fade } 

Ador. There is a tree ! — it hath no leaf nor root ; 
Upon it hangs a curse for all its fruit : 
Its shadow on His head is laid. 
For He, the crowned Son, 
Has left his crown and throne. 
Walks earth in Adam's clay, 
Eve's snake to bruise and slay — 

Zerah. Walks earth in clay ? 

Ador. And, walking in the clay which he created, 

He through it shall touch death. 
What do I utter? what conceive ? did breath 
Of demon howl it in a blasphemy ? 



360 The Seraphim. 



Or was it mine own voice, informed, dilated 
By the seven confluent Spirits. — Speak. — answer me ! 
Who said man's victim was his deity? 

Zerah. Beloved, beloved, the word came forth from thee. 
Thine eyes are rolling a tempestuous light 

Above, below, around, 
As putting thunder questions without cloud. 

Reverberate without sound, 
To universal nature's depth and height. 
The tremor of an inexpressive thought 
Too self-amazed to shape itself aloud 
O'erruns the awful curving of thy lips ; 

And while thme hands are stretched above. 

As newly they had caught 
Some litghning from the throne, or showed the Lord 

Some retributive sword. 
Thy brows do alternate with wild eclipse 
And radiance, with contrasted wrath and love, 
As God had called thee to a seraph's part, 

With a man's quailing heart. 
Ador. O heart, O heart of man ! 

O ta'en from human clay 
To be no seraph's, but Jehovah's own ! 
Made holy in the taking. 
And yet unseparate 

From death's perpetual ban. 
And human feelings sad and passionate; 
Still subject to the treacherous forsaking 
Of other hearts, and its own steadfast pain. 
O heart of man— of God ! which God has ta'en 
From out the dust, with its humanity 
Mournful and weak, yet innocent, around it. 
And bade its many pulses beating lie 
Beside that incommunicable stir 
Of Deity wherewith he interwound it. 
O man ! and is thy nature so defiled 
That all that holy heart's devout law-keeping. 
And low pathetic beat in deserts wild, 
And gushings pitiful of tender weeping 
For traitors who consigned it to such woe, — 
That all could cleanse thee not, without the flow 
Of blood, the life-blood — ///^— and streaming so? 
O earth the thundercleft, windshaken, where 
The louder voice of "blood and blood" doth rise. 



The Seraphim. 361 



Hast thou an altar for this sacrifice ? 

heaven ! O vacant throne ! 

crowned hierarchies that wear your crown 

When his is put away ! 
Are ye unshamed that ye cannot dim 
Your aUen brightness to be liker him, 
Assume a human passion, and downlay 
Your sweet secureness for congenial fears. 
And teach your cloudless ever-burning eyes 
The mystery of his tears ? 
Zcrah. I am strong, I am strong, 
Were I never to see my heaven again, 

1 would wheel to earth like the tempest rain 
Which sweeps there with an exultant sound 
To lose its life as it reaches the ground. 

I am strong, I am strong. 

Away from mine inward vision swim 

The shining seats of my heavenly birth, 

I see but his, I see but him — 

The Maker's steps on his cruel earth. 

Will the bitter herbs of earth grow sweet 

To me, as trodden by his feet } 

Will the vexed accurst humanity, 

As worn by him, begin to be 

A blessed, yea, a sacred thing. 

For love and awe and ministering } 

1 am strong, I am strong. 
By our angel ken shall we survey 

His loving smile through his woful clay } 

I am swift, I am strong, 
The love is bearing me along. 
Ador. One love is bearing us along. 



PART THE SECOND. 

\Mid-air above Judcca. Ador and Zerah are a little apart from 
the visible angelic hosts.] 

Ador. Beloved, dost thou see } 

Zerah. Thee — thee. 

Thy burning eyes already are 

Grown wild and mournful as a star 



362 The Seraphim. 



Whose occupation is for aye 
To look upon the place of clay 

Whereon thou lookest now. 
Thy crown is fainting on thy brow- 
To the likeness of a cloud, 
The forehead's self a little bowed 
From its aspect high and holy, 
As it would in meekness meet 
Some seraphic melancholy : 
Thy very wings that lately flung 
An outline clear do flicker here 
. And wear to each a shadow hung. 
Dropped across thy feet. 
In these strange contrasting glooms 
Stagnant with the scent of tombs, 
Seraph faces, O my brother. 
Show awfully to one another. 
Ador. Dost thou see ? 
Zerah. Even so : I see 

Our empyreal company, 
Alone the memory of their brightness 
Left in them, as in thee. 
The circle upon circle, tier on tier. 
Piling earth's hemisphere 
With heavenly infiniteness, 
Above us and around. 
Straining the whole horizon like a bow : 
Their songful lips divorced from all sound, 
A darkness gliding down their silvery glances, 
Bowing their steadfast solemn countenances 
As if they heard God speak, and could not glow. 
Ador. Look downward ! dost thou see } 
Zerah. And wouldst thou press that vision on my words .•' 
Doth not earth speak enough 
Of change and of undoing. 
Without a seraph's witness ? Oceans rough 
W^ith tempest, pastoral swards 
Displaced by fiery deserts, mountains ruing 
The bolt fallen yesterday, 

That shake their piny heads, as who would say 
" We are too beautiful for our decay " — • 
.Shall seraphs speak of these things } 
Let alone 
Earth to her earthly moan I 



The Seraphim. 363 



Voice of all things. Is there no moan but hers ? 

Ador. Hearest thou the attestation 
Of the roused universe 
Like a desert Hon shaking 
Dews of silence from its mane ? 
With an irrepressive passion 

Uprising at once, 
Rising up and forsaking 
Its solemn state in the circle of suns, 

To attest the pain 
Of him who stands (O patience sweet !) 
In his own handprints of creation. 
With human feet ? 

Voice of all things. Is there no moan but ours ? 

Zerah. Forms, Spaces, Motions wide, 

meek, insensate things, 

O congregated matters ! who inherit 

Instead of vital powers 

Impulsions God-supplied ; 

Instead of influent spirit, 

A clear informing beauty ; 

Instead of creature-duty 

Submission calm as rest. 

Lights, without feet or wings, 

In golden courses sliding ! 

Glooms, stagnantly subsiding. 
Whose lustrous heart away was prest 
Into the argent stars ! 

Ye crystal, tirmamental bars 

That hold the skyey waters free 

From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 

Airs universal ! thunders lorn 

That wait your lightnings in cloud-cave 

Hewn out by the winds ! O brave 

And subtle elements ! the Holy 

Hath charged me by your voice with folly.^ 
Enough, the mystic arrow leaves its wound. 
Return ye to your silences inborn. 
Or to your inarticulated sound. 

Ador. Zerah ! 

Zerah. Wilt thou rebuke ! 
God hath rebuked me, brother. I am weak. 

1 " His angels he charged with folly." — Job iv. 18. 



364 The Seraphim. 



Ador. Zerah, my brother Zerah ! could I speak 
Of thee, 'twould be of love to thee. 

Zerah. Thy look 

Is fixed on earth, as mine upon thy face. 
Where shall I seek His } 

I have thrown 
One look upon earth, but one. 
Over the blue mountain lines, 
Over the forests of palms and pines, 
Over the harvest-lands golden, 
Over the valleys that fold in 
The gardens and vines — 

He is not there. 
All these are unworthy 
Those footsteps to bear. 

Before which, bowing down 
I would fain quench the stars of my crown 
In the dark of the earthy. 
Where shall I seek him } 

No reply .'* 
Hath language left thy lips, to place 

Its vocal in thine eye ? 
Ador, Ador ! are we come 
To a double portent, that 
Dumb matter grows articulate, 
And songful seraphs dumb. ^ 
Ador, Ador I 
Ador. I constrain 

The passion of my silence. None 
Of those places gazed upon 
Are gloomy enow to fit his pain. 
Unto Him whose forming word 
Gave to nature flower and sward, 
She hath given back again 
For the myrtle, the thorn, 
For the sylvan calm, the human scorn. 
Still, still, reluctant seraph, gaze beneath ! 
There is a city — 

Zerah. Temple and tower. 

Palace and purple, would droop like a flower, 
( Or a cloud at our breath ) 
If He neared in his state 
The outermost gate. 
Ador. Ah me, not so 



The Seraphim. 365 



In the state of a king did the victim go ! 
And Thou who hangest mute of speech 
'Twixt heaven and earth, with forehead yet 
Stained by the bloody sweat, 
God ! man-! thou hast forgone thy throne in each. 
Zerah. Thine eyes behold him ! 
Ador. _ Yea, below. 

Track the gazing of mine eyes, 
Naming God within thine heart 
That its weakness may depart, 

And the vision rise ! 
Seest thou yet, beloved ? 
Zerah. I see 

Beyond the city, crosses three. 
And mortals three that hang thereon 
'Ghast and silent to the sun. 
Round them blacken and welter and press 
Staring multitudes whose father 
Adam was, whose brows are dark 
With his Cain's corroded mark, 
Who curse with looks. Nay— let me rather 
Turn unto the wilderness ! 
Ador. Turn not ! God dwells with men. 
Zerah. Above 

He dwells with angels, and they love. 
Can these love } With the living's pride 
They stare at those who die, who hang 
In their sight and die. They bear the streak 
Of the crosses' shadow, black not wide. 
To fall on their heads, as it swerves aside 
When the victims' pang 
Makes the dry wood creak. 
Ador. The cross — the cross ! 
Zerah. A woman kneels 

The mid cross under, 
With white lips asunder. 
And motion on each. 
They throb as she feels, 
With a spasm, not a speech ; 
And her lids, close as sleep. 
Are less calm, for the eyes 
Have made room there to weep 
Drop on drop— 
Ador. Weep? Weep blood, 



366 The Seraphim. 



All women, all men ! 

He sweated it, He, 

For your pale womanhood 

And base manhood. Agree 

That these water-tears, then. 

Are vain, mocking like laughter. 

Weep blood ! Shall the flood 
Of salt curses, whose foam is the darkness, on roll 
Forward, on from the strand of the storm-beaten years, 
And back from the rocks of the horrid hereafter, 
And up in a coil from the present's wrath-spring. 
Yea, down from the windows of heaven opening. 
Deep calling to deep as they meet on His soul — 

And men weep only tears? 
Zerah. Little drops in the lapse ! 

And yet, Ador, perhaps 

It is all that they can. 

Tears ! the lovingest man 

Has no better bestowed 

Upon man. 
Ador. Nor on God. 

Zerah. Do all-givers need gifts ? 

If the Giver said " Giv-e," the first motion would slay 
Our Immortals, the echo would ruin away 
The same worlds which he made. 
Why, what angel uplifts 

Such a music, so clear, 

It may seem in God's ear 
Worth more than a woman's hoarse weeping.^ And thus, 
Pity tender as tears I above thee would speak, 
Thou woman that weepest ! weep unscorned of us ! 
I, the tearless and pure, am but loving and weak. 

Ador. Speak low, my brother, low, — and not of love 
Or human or angelic ! Rather stand 
Before the throne of that Supreme above. 
In whose infinitude the secrecies 
Of thine own being lie hid, and lift thine hand 
Exultant, saying, " Lord God, I am wise ! " 
Than utter here, " I love." 

Zerah. And yet thine eyes 

Do utter it. They melt in tender light, — 
The tears of heaven. 
Ador. Of heaven. Ah, me ! 

Zerah. Ador! 



The Seraphim. 367 



Ador. Say on ! 

Zerah. The crucified are three. 

Beloved, they are unlike. 

Ador. Unlike. 

Zerah. For one 

Is as a man who has sinned, and still 
Doth wear the wicked will, 
The hard, malign life-energy. 
Tossed outward, in the parting soul's disdain, 
On brow and lip that cannot change again. 

Ador. And one — 

Zerah. Has also sinned. 

And yet (O marvel !) doth the Spirit-wind 
Blow white those waters ? Death upon his face 

Is rather shine than shade, — 
A tender shine by looks beloved made : 
He seemeth dying in a quiet place, 
And less by iron wounds in hands and feet 
Than heart-broke by new joy too sudden and sweet. 

Ador. And ONE ! — 

Zerah. And one !— 

Ador. Why dost thou pause ? 

Zerah. God ! God I 

Spirit of my spirit ! who movest 
Through seraph veins in burning deity 
To light the quenchless pulses ! — 

Ador. But hast trod 

The depths of love in thy peculiar nature, 
And not in any thou hast made and lovest 
In narrow seraph hearts ! — 

Zerah. Above, Creator ! 

Within, Upholder ! 

Ador. And below, below. 

The creature's and the upholden's sacrifice ! 

Zerah. Why do I pause } 

Ador. There is a silentness 

That answers thee enow, 
That, like a brazen sound 
Excluding others, doth ensheathe us round : 
Hear it. It is not from the visible skies, 

Though they are still, 
Unconscious that their own dropped dews express 
The light of heaven on every earthly hill. 
It is not from the hills, though calm and bare 



368 The Seraphim. 

They, since their first creation, 
Through midnight cloud or morning's glittering air. 
Or the deep deluge blindness, toward the place 
Whence thrilled the mystic word's creative grace, 
And whence again shall come 
The word that uncreates. 
Have lift their brows in voiceless expectation. 
It is not from the places that entomb 
Man's dead, though common Silence there dilates 
Her soul to grand proportions, worthily 
To fill life's vacant room. 
Not there — not there. 
Not yet within those chambers lieth He, 
A dead one in his living world ; his south 
And west winds blowing over earth and sea, 
And not a breath on that creating mouth. 
But now a silence keeps 
(Not death's, nor sleep's) 
The lips whose whispered word 
Might roll the thunders round reverberated. 
Silent art thou, O my Lord, 
Bowing down thy stricken head ! 
Fearest thou a groan of thine 
WouM make the pulse of thy creation fail 
As thine own pulse } — would rend the veil 
Of visible things, and let the flood 
Of the unseen Light, the essential God, 
Rush in to whelm the undivine } 
Thy silence, to my thinking, is as dread. 
Zerah. O silence ! 

Ado7'. Doth it say to thee — the name. 

Slow-learning seraph } 

Zerah. I have learnt. 

Ador. The flame 

Perishes in thine eyes. 

Zerah. He opened his, 

And looked. I cannot bear — 

Ador. Their agony } 

Zerah. Their love. God's depth is in them. From his brows 
White, terrible in meekness, didst thou see 

The lifted eyes unclose } 
He is God, seraph ! Look no more on me, 
O God — I am not God. 

Ador. The loving is 



The Seraphim. 369 



Sublimed within them by the sorrowful. 
In heaven we could sustain them. 

Zerah. Heaven is dull, 

Mine Ador, to man's earth. The light that burns 
In fluent, refluent motion 
Along the crystal ocean ; 
The springing of the golden harps between 
The bowery wings, in fountains of sweet sound ; 
The winding, wandering music that returns 
Upon itself, exultingly self-bound 
In the great spheric round 
Of everlasting praises ; 
The God-thoughts in our midst that intervene, 
Visibly flashing from the supreme throne 

Full in seraphic faces 
Till each astonishes the other, growri 
More beautiful with worship and delight— 
My heaven ! my home of heaven ! my infinite 
Heaven choirs ! what are ye to this dust and death, 
This cloud, this cold, these tears, this failing breath, 
Where God's immortal love now issueth 
In this man's woe ? 
Ador. His eyes are very deep, yet calm. 
Zerah. No more 

On me, Jehovah-man— 

Ador. Calm-deep. They show 

A passion which is tranquil. They are seeing 
No earth, no heaven, no men that slay and curse. 

No seraphs that adore ; 
Their gaze is on the invisible, the dread, 
The things we cannot view or think or speak, 
Because we are too happy, or too weak, — 
The sea of ill for which the universe 
With all its piled space, can find no shore, 
With all its life no living foot to tread. 
But he, accomplished in Jehovah-being, 
Sustains the gaze adown. 
Conceives the vast despair. 
And feels the billowy griefs come up to drown, 
Nor fears, nor faints, nor fails, till all be finished. 
Zerah. Thus, do I find Thee thus ? 
My undiminished 
And undiminishable God !— my God ! 
The echoes are still tremulous along 



37© The Seraph i7n. 



The heavenly mountains, of the latest sonj^^ 
Thy manifested glory swept abroad 
In rushing past our lips : they echo aye 

" Creator, thou art strong T 
Creator, thou art blessed over all." 
By what new utterance shall I now recall, 
Unteaching the heaven-echoes ? dare I say, 
" Creator, thou art feebler than thy work ! 
Creator, thou art sadder than thy creature ! 

A worm, and not a man. 

Yea, no worm, but a curse " ? 
I dare not so mine heavenly phrase reverse. 
Albeit the piercing thorn and thistle-fork 

(Whose seed disordered ran 
From Eve's hand trembling when the curse did reach her 
Be garnered darklier in thy soul, the rod 
That smites thee never blossoming, and thou 
Grief-bearer for thy world, with unkinged brow — 
I leave to men their song of Ichabod : 
I have an angel-tongue — 1 know but praise. 

Ador. Hereafter shall the blood-bought captives raise 
The passion-song of blood. 

Zerah. And we, extend 

Our holy vacant hands towards the throne, 
Crying, " We have no music." 

Ador. Rather, blend 

Both musics into one. 
The sanctities and sanctified above 
Shall each to each, with lifted looks serene, 

Their shining faces lean, 

And mix the adoring breath. 
And breathe the full thanksgiving. 

Zerah. But the love — 

The love, mine Ador ! 

Ador. Do we love not ? 

Zerah. Yea, 

But not as man shall ! not with life for death, 
New-throbbing through the startled being ; not 
With strange astonished smiles, that ever may 
Gush passionate, like tears, and fill their place ; 
Nor yet with speechless memories of what 
Earth's winters were, enverduring the green 

Of every heavenly palm 

Whose windless, shadeless calm 



The Seraphim. 371 



Moves only at the breath of the Unseen. 
Oh, not with this blood on us, and this face, 
Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it bore 
In our behalf, and tender evermore. 
With nature all our own, upon us gazing-, 
Nor yet with these forgiving hands upraising 
Their unreproachful wounds, alone to bless ! 
Alas, Creator ! shall we love thee less 
Than mortals shall ? 

Ador. Amen ! so let it be. 

We love in our proportion to the bound 
Thine infinite our finite set around, 
And that is finitely, thou infinite, 
And worthy infinite love ! And our delight 
Is watching the dear love poured out to thee 
From ever fuller chalice. Blessed they, 
Who love thee more than we do : blessed we. 
Viewing that love which shall exceed even this, 
And winning in the sight a double bliss 
For all so lost in love's supremacy. 
The bliss is better. Only on the sad 

Cold earth there are who say 
It seemeth better to be great than glad. 
The bliss is better. Love him more, O man. 
Than sinless seraphs can ! 

Ze7-ah. Yea, love him more ! 

Voices of the angelic multitude. Yea, more ! 

Ador. The loving word 

Is caught by those from whom we stand apart ; 
For silence hath no deepness in her heart 
Where love's low name low breathed would not be heard 
By angels, clear as thunder. 

Angelic Voices. Love him more. 

Ador. Sweet voices, swooning o'er 
The music which ye make ! 
Albeit to love there were not ever given 
A mournful sound wheo uttered out of heaven, 
That angel-sadness ye w^ould fitly take 
Of love be silent now ! We gaze adown 
Upon the incarnate Love who wears no crown. 

Zerah. No crown ! the woe instead 
Is heavy on his head, 
Pressing inward on his brain 
With a hot and clinging pain 



372 The Seraphim. 



Till all tears are prest away, 
And clear and calm his vision may 
Peruse the black abyss. 
No rod, no sceptre, is 
Holden in his fingers pale : 
They close instead upon the nail. 

Concealing the sharp dole, 
Never stirring to put by 

The fair hair peaked with blood, 
Drooping forward from the rood 

Helplessly, heavily. 
On the cheek that waxeth colder, 
Whiter ever, and the shoulder 
Where the government was laid. 
His glory made the heavens afraid : 
Will he not unearth this cross from its hole ? 
His pity makes his piteous state ; 
Will he be uncompassionate 
Alone to his proper soul ? 
Yea, will he not lift up 
His lips from the bitter cup. 
His brows from the dreary weight. 
His hand from the clinching cross. 
Crying, " My Father, give to me 
Again the joy I had with thee 
Or ere this earth was made for loss " ? 

No stir — no sound. 
The love and woe being interwound. 

He cleaveth to the woe, 
And putteth forth heaven's strength below — 

To bear. 
Ador. And that creates his anguish now, 
Which made his glory there. 
Zerah. Shall it need be so ? 

Awake, thou Earth ! behold, — 
Thou, uttered forth of old 
In all thy life-emotion, 
In all thy vernal noises ; 
In the rollings of thine ocean. 
Leaping founts, and rivers running, 
In thy woods' prophetic heaving 
Ere the rains a stroke have given ; 
In the winds' exultant voices 
When they feel the hills anear ; 



The Seraphhn. 373 



In the firmamental sunning, 

And the tempest which rejoices 
Thy full heart with an awful cheer ! 

Thou, uttered forth of old, 
And with all thy music rolled 
In a breath abroad 
By the breathing God ! 
Awake ! He is here ! behold ! 
Even thoit — 

Beseems it good 
To thy vacant vision dim, 
That the deadly ruin should 
For thy sake encompass him ? 
That the Master-word should lie 
A mere silence, while his own 

Processive harmony, 
The faintest echo of his lightest tone 
Is sweeping in a choral triumph by ? 

Awake ! emit a cry ! 

And say, albeit used 

From Adam's ancient years 

To falls of acrid tears, 

To frequent sighs unloosed. 

Caught back to press again 

On bosoms zoned with pain, — 

To corses still and sullen 

The shine and music dulling 

With closed eyes and ears 

That nothing sweet can enter, 

Com moving thee no less 

With that forced quietness 

Than the earthquake in thy centre — 

Thou hast not learnt to bear 

This new divine despair ! 

These tears that sink into thee. 

These dying eyes that view thee. 

This dropping blood from lifted rood, 

They darken and undo thee. 
Thou canst not presently sustain this corse- 
Cry, cry, thou hast not force ! 

Cry, thou wouldst fainer keep 

Thy hopeless charnels deep, 

Thyself a general tomb 

Where the first and the second Death 



374 '^^^^ Seraphim. 

Sit gazing face to face, 
And mar each other's breath, 
While silent bones through all the place 
'Neath sun and moon do faintly glisten, 

And seem to lie and listen 
For the tramp of the coming Doom. 

Is it not meet 
That they who erst the Eden fruit did eat 

Should champ the ashes ? 
That they who wrap them in the thunder-cloud 
Should wear it as a shroud, 
Perishing by its flashes ? 
That they who vexed the lion should be rent ? 
Cry, cry, " I will sustain my punishment. 
The sin being mine, but take away from me 
This visioned dread — this Man — this Deity ! " 
The Earth. I have groaned ; I have travailed : I am weary. 
I am blind with my own grief, and cannot see. 
As clear-eyed angels can, his agony ; 
And what I see 1 also can sustain. 
Because his power protects me from his pain. 
I have groaned ; I have travailed : I am dreary, 
Harkening the thick sobs of my children's heart : 

How can I say " Depart " 
To that Atoner making calm and free } 

Am I a God as he. 
To lay down peace and power as willingly .'' 

Ador. He looked for some to pity : there is none. 
All pity is within him, and not for him. 
His earth is iron under him, and o'er him 
His skies are brass. 
His seraphs cry, "Alas ! " 
With hallelujah voice that cannot weep. 
And man, for whom the dreadful work is done . . . 

Scornful Voices from the Earth. If verily this be the 

Eternal's son — 
Ador. Thou hearest. Man is grateful. 
Zerah. * Can I hear, 

Nor darken into man, and cease forever 
My seraph smile to wear } 

Was it for such 
It pleased him to overleap 
His glory with his love, and sever 
From the God-light and the throne, 



The Seraphim. 



37.S 



And all angels bowing down, 
From whom his every look did touch 
New notes of joy on the unworn string 
Of an eternal worshipping ? 

For such he left his heaven ? 

There, though never bought by blood 
And tears, we gave him gratitude : 
We loved him there, though unforgiven. 




His Seraphs cry " Alas 



A dor. 



The light is riven 
Above, around, 
And down in lurid fragments tiung, 
That catch the mountain-peak and stream 

With momentary gleam. 
Then perish in the water and the ground. 
River and waterfall, 
Forest and wilderness. 



376 The Scrap hiffi. 



Mountain and city, are together wrung 
Into one shape, and that is shapelessness : 
The darkness stands for all. 
Zerah. The pathos hath the day undone : 
The death-look of his eyes 
Hath overcome the sun. 
And made it sicken in its narrow skies. 
Ador. Is it to death } He dieth. 
Zerah. Through the dark 

He still, he only, is discernible. 
The naked hands and feet transfixed stark, 
The countenance of patient anguish white. 

Do make themselves a light 
More dreadful than the glooms which round them dwel 
And therein do they shine. 

Ador. God ! Father-God ! 

Perpetual Radiance on the radiant throne ! 
Uplift the lids of inward deity, 
Flashing abroad 
Thy burning Infinite ! 
Light up this dark where there is nought to see 
Except the unimagined agony 
Upon the sinless forehead of the Son ! 

Zerah. God, tarry not ! Behold, enow 
Hath he wandered as a stranger, 
Sorrowed as a victim. Thou 
Appear for him, O Father ! 
Appear for him, Avenger ! 
Appear for him. Just One and Holy One, 

For he is holy and just ! 
At once the darkness and dishonor rather 
To the ragged jaws of hungry chaos rake. 
And hurl aback to ancient dust 
These mortals that make blasphemies 
With their made breath, this earth and skies 
That only grow a little dim, 
Seeing their curse on him. 
But him, of all forsaken. 
Of creature and of brother, 
Never wilt thou forsake ! 
Thy living and thy loving cannot slacken 
Their firm essential hold upon each other. 
And well thou dost remember how his part 
Was still to lie upon thy breast, and be 



The Seraphim. 377 



Partaker of the light that dwelt in thee 

Ere sun or seraph shone ; 
And how, while silence trembled round the throne, 
Thou countedst by the beatings of his heart 
The moments of thine own eternity. 

Awaken, 
O right hand with the lightnings ! Again gather 
His glory to thy glory ! What estranger, 
What ill supreme in evil, can be thrust 
Between the faithful Father and the Son ? 
Appear for him, O Father ! 
Appear for him, Avenger ! 
Appear for him. Just One and Holy One, 
For he is holy and just ! 
Ador. Thy face upturned toward the throne is dark ; 
Thou hast no answer, Zerah. 

Zerah. No reply, 

O unforsaking Father? 

Ador. Hark ! 

Instead of downward voice, a cry 
Is uttered from beneath. 
Zerah. And by a sharper sound than death 
Mine immortality is riven. 
The heavy darkness which doth tent the sky 
Floats backward as by a sudden wind ; 
But I see no light behind ; 
But I feel the farthest stars are all 
Stricken and shaken. 
And I know a shadow sad and broad 

Doth fall— doth fall 
On our vacant thrones in heaven. 

Voice from the Cross. MY GOD, MY GOD, 
Why hast thou me forsaken ? 

The Earth. Ah me, ah me, ah me ! the dreadful why '. 
My sin is on thee, sinless one ! Thou art 
God-orphaned for my burden on thy head. 
Dark sin, white innocence, endurance dread ! 
■ Be still within your shrouds, my buried dead, 
Nor work with this quick horror round mine heart. 
Zerah. He hath forsaken Him. I perish. 
Ador. Hold 

Upon his name ! we perish not. Of old 
His will— 

Zerah. I seek his will. Seek, seraphim ! 



378 The Seraphiin. 



My God, my God ! where is it ? Doth that curse 
Reverberate spare us, seraph or universe ? 
He hath forsaken Him. 

Ador. He cannot fail. 

Angel Voices. We faint, we droop ; 
Our love doth tremble like fear. 

Voices of Fallen Angels frojn the Earth, Do we prevail } 
Or are we lost .'' Hath not the ill we did 

Been heretofore our good ? 
Is it not ill that One, all sinless, should 
Hang heavy with all curses on a cross } 
Nathless, that cry ' With huddled faces hid 
Within the empty graves which men did scoop 
To hold more damned dead, we shudder through 
What shall exalt us, or undo, — 
Our triumph, or our loss. 

Voice from the Cross. It is finished. 

Zerah. Hark, again I 

Like a victor speaks the slain. 

Angel Voices. Finished be the trembling vain ! 

Ador. Upward, like a well-loved son, 
Looketh He, the orphaned One. 

Angel Voices. Finished is the mystic pain. 

Voices of Fallen Angels. His deathly forehead at the word 
Gleameth like a seraph sword. 

Angel Voices. Finished is the demon reign. 

Ador. His breath, as living God, createth ; 
His breath, as dying man, completeth. 

Angel Voices. Finished work his hands sustain. 

The Earth. In mine ancient sepulchres. 
Where my kings and prophets freeze, 
Adam dead four thousand years, 
Unawakened by the universe's 
Everlasting moan. 
Aye his ghastly silence mocking — 
Unawakened by his children's knocking 
At his old sepulchral stone, 

" Adam, Adam, all this curse is 

Thine and on us yet ! " — 
Unawakened by the ceaseless tears 
Wherewith they made his cerement wet, 

" Adam, must thy curse remain ? " — 
Starts with sudden life and hears. 
Through the slow dripping of the caverned eaves, — 



77/6' Seraphim. ^y^ 



Angel Voices. Finished is his bane. 
Voice from the Cross. Father ! my spirit to thine 

HANDS IS GIVEN. 

Ador. Hear the wailing winds that be 
By wings of unclean spirits made ! 

They in that last look survej^ed 
The love they lost in losing heaven, 
And passionately flee 

With a desolate cry that cleaves 

The natural storms, though they are lifting 

God's strong cedar-roots like leaves. 

And the earthquake and the thunder, 

Neither keeping either under. 

Roar and hurtle through the glooms. 

And a few pale stars are drifting 

Past the dark to disappear, 

What time, from the splitting tombs 

Gleamingly the dead arise. 

Viewing with their death-calmed eyes 

The elemental strategies, 

To witness, victory is the Lord's. 

Hear the wail o' the spirits ! hear ! 

Zerah. I hear alone the memory of his words. 



EPILOGUE. 
I. 



My song is done. 
My voice that long hath faltered shall be still. 
The mystic darkness drops from Calvary's hil 
Into the common light of this day's sun. 



II. 



I see no more thy cross, O holy Slain ! 
I hear no more the horror and the coil 

Of the great world's turmoil 
Feeling thy countenance too still —nox veil 
Of demons sweeping past it to their prison. 



380 The Seraphim. 



The skies that turned to darkness with thy pain 

Make now a summer's day ; 
And on my changed ear that sabbath bell 
Records how Christ is risen. 

III. 

And I — ah, what am I 

To counterfeit, with faculty earth-darkened, 

Seraphic brows of light, 
And seraph language never used nor barkened ? 
Ah me ! what word that seraphs say, could come 
From mouth so used to sighs, so soon to lie 
Sighless, because then breathless, in the tomb? 

IV. 

Bright ministers of God and grace, of grace 

Because of God ! — whether ye bow adown 

In your own heaven, before the living face 

Of Him who died, and deathless wears the crown, 

Or whether at this hour ye haply are 

Anear, around me, hiding in the night 

Of this permitted ignorance your light, 

This feebleness to spare, — 
Forgive me, that mine earthly heart should dare 
Shape images of unincarnate spirits, 
And lay upon their burning lips a thought 
Cold with the weeping which mine earth inherits. 
And though ye find in such hoarse music, wrought 
To copy yours, a cadence all the while 
Of sin and sorrow, only pitying smile ! 

Ye know to pity, well. 



/, too, may haply smile another day 
At the fair recollection of this lay. 
When God may call me in your midst to dv/ell, 
To hear your most sweet music's miracle. 
And see your wondrous faces. May it be ! 
For his remembered sake, the Slain on rood. 
Who rolled his earthly garment red in blood 
(Treading the wine-press) that the weak, like me, 
Before his heavenly throne should walk in white. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND 



FROM THE GREEK OF ^SCHYLUS. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

Prometheus. Heph^stus. 

OcEANUS. . lo, daughter of Inachus. 

Hermes. 

Strength and Force. 
Chorus of Ocean Nymphs. 

Scene. — Strength and Force, Heph^stus and Prome- 
theus, at the Rocks. 

Strength. We reach the utmost Hmit of the earth, — 
The Scythian track, the desert without man. 
And now, Hephcestus, thou must needs fulfil 
The mandate of our Father, and with links 
Indissoluble of adamantine chains 
Fasten against this beetling precipice 
This guilty god. Because he filched away 
Thine own bright flower, the glory of plastic fire, 
And gifted mortals with it, — such a sin 
It doth behoove he expiate to the gods. 
Learning to accept the empery of Zeus. 
And leave off his old trick of loving man. 

Hephcestus. O Strength and Force, for you our Zeus's 
will 
Presents a deed for doing, no more ! — But /, 
I lack your daring, up this storm-rent chasm 
To fix with violent hands a kindred god, 
Howbeit necessity compels me so 
That I must dare it, and our Zeus commands 
With a most inevitable word. Ho, thou ! 
High-thoughted son of Themis, who is sage ! 



382 Prometheus Bound. 

Thee loath, I loath must rivet fast in chains 
Against this rocky height unclomb by man, 
Where never human voice nor face shall find 
Out thee who lov'st them ; and thy beauty's flower, 
Scorched in the sun's clear heat, shall fade away. 
Night shall come up with garniture of stars 
To comfort thee with shadow, and the sun 
Disperse with retrickt beams the morning-frosts ; 
But through all changes, sense of present woe 
Shall vex thee sore, because with none of them 
There comes a hand to free. Such fruit is plucked 
From love of man ! And in that thou, a god, 
Didst brave the wrath of gods, and give away 
Undue respect to mortals, for that crime 
Thou art adjudged to guard this joyless rock. 
Erect, unslumbering, bending not the knee. 
And many a cry and unavailing moan 
To utter on the air. For Zeus is stern. 
And new-made kings are cruel. 

Strength. Be it so. 

Why loiter in vain pity ? Why not hate 
A god the gods hate ?'— one, too, who betrayed 
Thy glory unto men ? 

Hephcestus. An awful thing 

Is kinship joined to friendship. 

StreJigth. Grant it be : 

Is disobedience to the Father's word 
A possible thing } Dost quail not more for that ? 

Hephastus. Thou, at least, art a stern one, ever bold. 

Strength. Why, if I wept, it were no remedy ; 
And do not thou spend labor on the air 
To bootless uses. 

HephcEstus. Cursed handicraft ! 
I curse and hate thee, O my craft ! 

Strength. Why hate 

Thy craft most plainly innocent of all 
These pending ills ? 

Hephcestus. I would some other hand 

Were here to work it I 

Strength. All wt)rk hath its pain. 

Except to rule the gods. There is none free 
Except King Zeus. 

HephcEstus. I know it very well ; 

I argue not against it. 



Prometheus Bound, 383 

Strength. Why not, then, 

Make haste and lock the fetters over him. 
Lest Zeus behold thee lagging ? 

HephcEstus. Here be chains. 

Zeus may behold these. 

Streftgth. Seize him ; strike amain ; 

Strike with the hammer on each side his hands ; 
Rivet him to the rock. 

Hephaestus. The work is done, 

And thoroughly done. 

Strength. Still faster grapple him ; 

Wedge him in deeper ; leave no inch to stir. 
He's terrible for finding a way out 
From the irremediable. 

HephcEstus. Here's an arm, at least, 

Grappled past freeing. 

Strength. Now, then, buckle me 

The other securely. Let this wise one learn 
He's duller than our Zeus. 

Hephastus. Oh, none but he 

Accuse me justly. 

Strength. Now, straight through the chest, 
Take him and bite him with the clenching tooth 
Of the adamantine wedge, and rivet him. 

HephcBstus. Alas, Prometheus, what thou sufferest here 
I sorrow over. 

Streftgth. Dost thou flinch again, 
And breathe groans for the enemies of Zeus } 
Beware lest thine own pity find thee out. 

Hephcestus. Thou dost behold a spectacle that turns 
The sight o' the eyes to pity. 

Strength. ' I behold 

A sinner suffer his sin's penalty. 
But lash the thongs about his sides. 

Hephcestus. So much 

I must do. Urge no farther than I must. 

Strength. Ay, but I will urge ! and, with shout on shout, 
Will hound thee at this quarry. Get thee down. 
And ring amain the iron round his legs. 

Hephcestus. That work was not long doing. 

Strength. Heavily now 

Let falf the strokes upon the perforant gyves ; 
For he who rates the work has a heavy hand. 

Hephastus. Thy speech is savage as thy shape. 



384 Prometheus Bound. 

Strength. Be thou 

Gentle and tender, but revile not me 

For the firm will and the untruckling hate. 
Hephcestus. Let us go. He is netted round with chains. 
Strength. Here, now, taunt on I and, having spoiled the 
gods 

Of honors, crown withal thy mortal men 

Who live a whole day out. Why, how could they 

Draw off from thee one single of thy griefs } 

Methinks the Daemons gave thee a wrong name, 

Prometheus, which means Providence, because 

Thou dost thyself need providence to see 

Thy roll and ruin from the top of doom. 
Prometheus {alone). O holy /Ether, and swift-winged 
Winds, 

And River-wells, and Laughter innumerous 

Of yon sea-waves ! Earth, mother of us all, 

And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you, — 

Behold me a god, what I endure from gods ! 
Behold, with throe on throe. 
How, wasted by this woe, 
I wrestle down the myriad years of time ! 

Behold how, fast around me, 
The new King of the happy ones sublime 
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me ! 
Woe, woe ! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's 
I cover with one groan. And where is found me 

A limit to these sorrows ? 
And yet v^'hat word do I say ? I have foreknown 
Clearly all things that should be ; nothing done 
Comes sudden to my soul ; and I must bear 
What is ordained with patience, being aware 
Necessity doth front the universe 
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse 
Which strikes me now I find it hard to brave 
In silence or in speech. Because I gave 
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul 
To this compelling fate. Because I stole 
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went 
Over the ferule's brim, and manward sent 
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment. 
That sin I expiate in this agony. 
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanchmg sky. 
Ah, ah me ! what a sound ! 



Prometheus Bound. 



385 



What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen 

Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between, 

Sweeping up to this rock where the Earth has her bound, 

To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain. 

Lo, a god in the anguish, a god 
in the chain ! 
The god Zeus hateth sore. 
And his gods hate again, 
vs many as tread on his glori- 
fied floor, 
Ijecause I loved mortals too 

much evermore. 
Alas me ! what a murmur and 
motion I hear. 
As of birds flying near ! 
And the air undersings 
The light stroke of their 
wings. 
And all life that approaches I 
wait for in fear. 

Chorus of Sea-nymphs, \st 
strophe. 
Fear nothing ! our troop 
Floats lovingly up 
With a quick -oaring 

stroke 
Of wings steered to the 
rock. 
Having softened the soul of 

our father below. 
For the gales of swift-bear- 
ing have sent me a sound, 
And the clank of the iron, 
the malletted blow. 

Smote down the pro- 
found 
Of my caverns of old, 
And struck the red light in a blush from my brow. 
Till I sprang up unsandalled, in haste to behold. 
And rushed forth on my chariot of wings manifold. 




#• 



Behold me A god, what 



FROM GODS 



Prometheus. Alas me ! alas me ! 
Ye offspring of Tethys, who bore at her breast 



386 Prometheus Bound. 

Many children, and eke of Oceanus, he, 
Coiling- still around earth with perpetual unrest ! 
Behold me and see 

How transfixed with the fang- 

Of a fetter I hang 
On the high-jutting rocks of this fissure, and keep 
An uncoveted watch o'er the world and the deep. 

Chorus, \st antistrophe. 
1 behold thee, Prometheus ; yet now, yet now, 
A terrible cloud whose rain is tears 
Sweeps over mine eyes that witness how 

Thy body appears 
Hung awaste on the rocks by infrangible chains; 
For new is the hand, new the rudder, that steers 
The ship of Olympus through surge and wind. 
And of old things passed, no track is behind. 

Provietheus. Under earth, under Hades, 

Where the home of the shade is. 
All into the deep, deep Tartarus, 
I would he had hurled me adown. 
I would he had plunged me, fastened thus 
In the knotted chain, with the savage clang, 
All into the dark, where there should be none. 
Neither god nor another, to laugh and see. 

But now the winds sing through and shake 
The hurtling chains wherein I hang, 
And I in my naked sorrows make 
Much mirth for my enemy. 

Chorus, 2d strophe. 
Nay ! who of the gods hath a heart so stern 
As to use thy woe for a mock and mirth } 
Who would not turn more mild to learn 

Thy sorrows ? who of the heaven and earth 
Save Zeus } But he 
Right wrathfully 
Bears on his sceptral soul unbent, 
And rules thereby the heavenly seed, 
Nor will he pause till he content 
His thirsty heart in a finished deed, 
Or till Another shall appear. 
To win by fraud, to seize by fear, 
The hard-to-be-captured gov^ernment. 



Prometheus Bound. 387 

Prometheus. Yet even of me he shall have need, 
That monarch of the blessed seed, — 
Of me, of me who now am cursed 

By his fetters dire, — 
To wring- my secret out withal, 

And learn by whom his sceptre shall 
Be filched from him, as was at first 
His heavenly fire. 
But he never shall enchant me 

With his honey-lipped persuasion ; 
Never, never, shall he daunt me. 
With the oath and threat of passion, 
Into speaking as they want me. 
Till he loose this savage chain. 

And accept the expiation 
Of my. sorrow in his pain. 

Chorus, 2d antistrophe. 
Thou art, sooth, a brave god, 

And, for all thou hast borne 
From the stroke of the rod. 

Nought relaxest from scorn. 
But thou speakest unto me 

Too free and unworn ; 
And a terror strikes through me 

And festers my soul, 

And I fear, in the roll 
Of the storm, for thy fate 

In the Ship far from shore ; 
Since the son of Saturnus is hard in his hate, 
And unmoved in his heart evermore. 

Prometheus. I know that Zeus is stern ; 
I know he metes his justice by his will ; 
And yet his soul shall learn 
More softness w^hen once broken by this ill ; 
And, curbing his unconquerable vaunt. 
He shall rush on in fear to meet with me 
Who rush to meet with him in agony. 
To issues of harmonious covenant. 

Chorus. Remove the veil from all things, and relate 
The story to us, — of what crime accused, 
Zeus smites thee with dishonorable pangs. 
Speak, if to teach us do not grieve thyself. 



3^^ Prometheus Bound. 

Prometheus. The utterance of these things is torture to me, 
But so, too, is their silence : each way Hes 
Woe strong as fate. 

When gods began with wrath, 
And war rose up between their starry brows, 
Some choosing to cast Chronos from his throne 
That Zeus might king it there, and some in haste 
With opposite oaths, that they would have no Zeus 
To rule the gods forever, — I, who brought 
The counsel I thought meetest, could not move 
The Titans, children of the Heaven and Earth, 
What time, disdaining in their rugged souls 
My subtle machinations, they assumed 
It was an easy thing for force to take 
The mastery of fate. My mother, then. 
Who is called not only Themis, but Earth too, 
(Her single beauty joys in many names) 
Did teach me with reiterant prophecy 
What future should be, and how conquering gods 
Should not prevail by strength and violence, 
But by guile only. When I told them so. 
They would not deign to contemplate the truth 
On all sides round ; whereat I deemed it best 
To lead my willing mother upwardly, 
And set my Themis face to face with Zeus 
As willing to receive her. Tartarus, 
With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
Because I gave that counsel, covers up 
The antique Chronos and his siding hosts, • 
And, by that counsel helped, the king of gods 
Hath recompensed me with these bitter pangs ; 
For kingship wears a cancer at the heart, — 
Distrust in friendship. Do ye also ask 
What crime it is for which he tortures me.^ 
That shall be clear before you. When at first 
He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
Made various gifts of glory to the gods. 
And dealt the empire out. Alone of men. 
Of miserable men, he took no count. 
But yearned to sweep their track off from the world. 
And plant a newer race there. Not a god 
Resisted such desire, except myself. 
/ dared it ! / drew mortals back to light, 
From meditated ruin deep as hell ! 



Prometheus Bound. 389 

For which wrong I am bent down in these pangs 

Dreadful to suffer, mournful to behold, 

And I who pitied man am thought myself 

Unworthy of pity ; while I render out 

Deep rhythms of anguish 'neath the harping hand 

That strikes me thus, — a sight to shame your Zeus ! 

Chorus. Hard as thy chains, and cold as all these rocks, 
Is he, Prometheus, who withholds his heart 
From joining in thy woe. I yearned before 
To fly this sight ; and, now I gaze on it, 
I sicken inwards. 

Prometheus. To my friends, indeed, 
I must be a sad sight. 

Chorus. And didst thou sin 

No more than so ? 

Prometheus. I did restrain besides 
My mortals from premeditating death. 

Chorus. How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of 
death } 

Prometheus. I set blind Hopes to inhabit in their house. 

Chorus. By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well. 

Prometheus. I gave them also fire. 

Chorus. And have they now. 

Those creatures of a day, the red-eyed fire } 

Proinetheus. They have, and shall learn by it many arts. 

Chorus. And truly for such sins Zeus tortures thee. 
And will remit no anguish ? Is there set 
No limit before thee to thine agony } 

Prometheus. No other — only what seems good to HIM. 

Chorus. And how will it seem good } what hope remains ? 
Seest thou not that thou hast sinned } But that thou hast 

sinned 
It glads me not to speak of, and grieves thee ; 
Then let it pass from both, and seek thyself 
Some outlet from distress. 

Prometheus. It is in truth 

An easy thing to stand aloof from pain, 
And lavish exhortation and advice 
On one vexed sorely by it. I have known 
All in prevision. By my choice, my choice, 
I freely sinned, — I will confess my sin, — 
And, helping mortals, found mine own despair. 
I did not think indeed that I should pine 
Beneath such pangs against such skyey rocks, 



39 o Prometheus Bound. 



Doomed to this drear hill, and no neighboring 
Of any life. But mourn not ye for griefs 
I bear to-day : hear rather, dropping down 
To the plain, how other woes creep on to me, 
And learn the consummation of my doom. 
Beseech you, nymphs, beseech you, grieve for me 
Who now am grieving ; for Grief walks the earth. 
And sits down at the foot of each by turns. 

Chorus. We hear the deep clash of thy words, 
Prometheus, and obey. 

And I spring with a rapid foot away 

From the rushing car and the holy air, 
The track of birds ; 

And I drop to the rugged ground, and there 
Await the tale of thy despair. 

Ocean us enters. 

Oceanus, I reach the bourne of my weary road 
Where I may see and answer thee, 
Prometheus, in thine agony. 
On the back of the quick-winged bird I glode, 
And I bridled him in 
With the will of a god. 
Behold, thy sorrow aches in me 

Constrained by the force of kin. 
Nay, though that tie were all undone. 
For the life of none beneath the sun 
Would I seek a larger benison 

Than I seek for thine. 
And thou shalt learn my words are truth, 
That no fair parlance of the mouth 

Grows falsely out of mine. 
Now give me a deed to prove my faith ; 
For no faster friend is named in breath 

Than I, Oceanus, am thine. 
Promeiheus. Ha ! what has brought thee } Hast thou 
also come 
To look upon my woe ? How hast thou dared 
To leave the depths called after thee } the caves 
Self-hewn, and self-roofed with spontaneous rock, 
To visit Earth, the mother of my chain } 
Hast come, indeed, to view my doom, and mourn 
That I should sorrow thus } Gaze on, and see 



Priwietheus Bound. 



391 



How I, the fast friend of your Zeus, — how I 
The erector of the empire in his hand, 
Am bent beneath that hand in this despair. 

Oceanus. Prometheus, I behold ; and I would fain 
Exhort thee, though already subtle enough, 
To a better wisdom. Titan, know thyself, 
And take new softness to thy manners, since 
A new king rules the gods. If words like these. 
Harsh words and trenchant, thou wilt fling abroad, 
Zeus haply, though he sit so far and high. 
May hear thee do it, and so this wrath of his. 
Which now affects thee fiercely, shall appear 
A mere child's sport at vengeance. Wretched god, 
Rather dismiss the passion which thou hast, 
And seek a change from grief. Perhaps I seem 
To address thee with old saws and outworn sense ; 
Yet such a curse, Prometheus, surely waits . 
On lips that speak too proudly : thou, meantime, 
Art none the meeker, nor dost yield a jot 
To evil circumstance, preparing still 
To swell the account of grief with other griefs 
Than what are borne. Beseech thee, use me, then, 
For counsel : do not spurn against the pricks, 
Seeing that who reigns, reigns by cruelty 
Instead of right. And now I go' from hence, 
And will endeavor if a power of mine 
Can break thy fetters through. For thee — be calm, 
And smooth thy words from passion. Knowest thou not 
Of perfect knowledge, thou who knowest too much, 
That, where the tongue wags, ruin never lags } 

Prometheus. I gratulate thee who hast shared and 
dared 
All things with me, except their penalty. 
Enough so ! leave these thoughts. It cannot be 
That thou shouldst move him. He may not be moved ; 
And thou, beware of sorrow on this road. 

Oceanus. Ay ! ever wiser for another's use 
Than thine. The event, and not the prophecy. 
Attests it to me. Yet, where now I rush, 
Thy wisdom hath no power to drag me back, 
Because I glory, glory, to go hence. 
And win for thee deliverance from thy pangs. 
As a free gift from Zeus. 

Prometheus. Why there, again, 



392 Prometheus Bound. 

I give thee gratulation and applause. 

Thou lackest no good will. But, as for deeds. 

Do naught ! 'twere all done vainly, helping naught, 

Whatever thou w^ouldst do. Rather take rest, " 

And keep thyself from evil. If I grieve, 

I do not therefore wish to multiply 

The griefs of others. Verily, not so ! 

For still my brother's doom doth vex my soul, — 

My brother Atlas, standing in the west, 

Shouldering the column of the heaven and earth, 

A difficult burden ! I have also seen. 

And pitied as I saw, the earth-born one, 

The inhabitant of old Cilician caves, 

The great war-monster of the hundred heads, 

(All taken and bowed beneath the violent Hand) 

Typhon the fierce, who did resist the gods, 

And, hissing slaughter from his dreadful jaws. 

Flash out ferocious glory from his eyes 

As if to storm the throne of Zeus. Whereat, 

The sleepless arrow of Zeus flew straight at him. 

The headlong bolt of thunder-breathing flame. 

And struck him downward from his eminence 

Of exultation ; through the very soul 

It struck him, and his strength was withered up 

To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now he lies, 

A helpless trunk, supinely, at full length 

Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 

By roots of ^tna, high upon whose tops 

Hephaestus sits, and strikes the flashing ore. 

From thence the rivers of fire shall burst away 

Hereafter, and devour with savage jaws 

The equal plains of fruitful Sicily, 

Such passion he shall boil back in hot darts 

Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame. 

Fallen Typhon, howsoever struck and charred 

By Zeus's bolted thunder. But for thee. 

Thou art not so unlearned as to need 

My teaching ; let thy knowledge save thyself. 

/ quaff the full cup of a present doom, 

And wait till Zeus hath quenched his will in wrath. 

Oceaiius. Prometheus, art thou ignorant of this. 
That words do medicine anger ? 

Prometheus. If the word 

With seasonable softness touch the soul. 



Pro77icthcus Bound. 



393 



And, where the parts are ulcerous, sear them not 
By any rudeness. 

Oceanus. With a noble aim 
To dare as nobly — is there harm in that ? 
Uost thou discern it ? Teach me. 

Prometheus. I discern 

Vain aspiration, unresultive work. 

Oceanus. Then suffer me to bear the brunt of this, 
Since it is profitable that one who is wise 
Should seem not wise at all. 

Promethetis. And such would seem 

My very crime. 




FUO.M THF.XCE THE RHERS OF FIRE SHAI.I, BURST AWAY. 



Oceanus. In truth thine argument 
Sends me back home. 

Prometheus. Lest any lament for me 

Should cast thee down to hate. 

Oceanus. The hate of him 

Who sits a new king on the absolute throne } 

Prometheus. Beware of him, lest thine heart grieve by 

him. 
Oceanus. Thy doom, Prometheus, be my teacher ! 

Prometheus. CiO ! 

Depart ! Beware ! And keep the mind thou hast. 



394 Pi'omcthcus Bound. 

Oceanus. Thy words drive after, as I rush before. 
Lo, my four-footed bird sweeps smooth and wide 
The flats of air with balanced pinions, glad 
To bend his knee at home in the ocean-stall. 

[Oceanus departs. 

C/iori(s, is/ strophe 
I moan thy fate, I moan for thee, 

Prometheus ! From my eyes too tender 
Drop after drop incessantly 

The tears of my heart's pity render 
My cheeks wet from their fountains free ; 
Because that Zeus, the stern and cold. 

Whose law is taken from his breast, 

Uplifts his sceptre manifest 
Over the gods of old. 

\st antisirophe. 

All the land is moaning 
With a murmured plaint to-day ; 

All the mortal nations 

Having habitations 
In the holy Asia 

Are a dirge entoning 
For thine honor and thy brothers', 
Once majestic beyond others 

In the old belief, — 
Now are groaning in the groaning 

Of thy deep-voiced grief. 

id strophe. 
Mourn the maids inhabitant 

Of the Colchian land, 
Who with white, calm bosoms stand 

In the battle's roar: 
Mourn the Scythian tribes that haunt 
The verge of earth, Mjeotis' shore. 

2d ajitistrophc. 
Yea ! Arabia's battle crown, 
And dwellers in the beetling town 
Mt. Caucasus sublimely nears — 
An iron squadron, thundering down 
With the sharp-prowed spears. 



Fromdhcus Bjund. 395 

But one other before have I seen to remain 

By invincible pain, 
Bound and vanquished, — one Titan ! 'twas Atlas, who bears 
In a curse from the gods, by that strength of his own 

Which he evermore wears, 
The weight of the heaven on his shoulder alone, 

While he sighs up the stars ; 
And the tides of the ocean wail, bursting their bars ; 

Murmurs still the profound. 
And black Hades roars up through the chasm of the ground, 
And the fountains of pure-running rivers moan low 

In a pathos of woe. 
Prometheus. Beseech you, think not I am silent thus 
Through pride or scorn, I only gnaw my heart 
With meditation, seeing myself so wronged. 
For see — their honors to these new-made gods, 
What other gave but I, and dealt them out 
With distribution ? Ay ! but here I am dumb ; 
For here I should repeat your knowledge to you. 
If I spake aught. List rather to the deeds 
I did for mortals ; how, being fools before, 
I made them wise and true in aim of soul. 
And let me tell you, — not as taunting men. 
But teaching you the intention of my gifts, — 
How, first beholding, they beheld in vain. 
And, hearing, heard not, but, like shapes in dreams, 
Mixed all things wildly down the tedious time, 
Nor knew to build a house against the sun 
With wicketed sides, nor any wood-craft knew, 
But lived, like silly ants, beneath the ground 
In hollow caves unsunned. There came to them 
No steadfast sign of winter, nor of spring 
Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of fruit. 
But blindly and lawlessly they did all things, 
Until I taught them how the stars do rise 
And set in mystery, and devised for them 
Number, the inducer of philosophies, 
The synthesis of letters, and, beside, 
The artificer of all things, memory. 
That sweet muse-mother. I was first to yoke 
The servile beasts in couples, carrying 
An heirdom of man's burdens on their backs. 
I joined to chariots, steeds, that love the bit 
They champ at, — the chief pomp of golden ease. 



396 Prometheus Bound. 

And none but I originated ships, 
The seaman's chariots, wanderings on the brine 
With linen wings. And I — oh, miserable I — 
Who did devise for mortals all these arts, 
Have no device left now to save myself 
From the woe I suffer. 

Chorus. Most unseemly woe 

Thou sufferest, and dost stagger from the sense 
Bewildered I Like a bad leech falling sick, 
Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find the drugs 
Required to save thyself. 

Prometheus. Harken the rest, 

And marvel further, what more arts and means 
I did invent, — this, greatest : if a man 
Fell sick, there was no cure, nor esculent 
Nor chrism nor liquid, but for lack of drugs 
Men pined and wasted, till I showed them all 
Those mixtures of emollient remedies 
Whereby they might be rescued from disease. 
I fixed the various rules of mantic art. 
Discerned the vision from the common dream. 
Instructed them in vocal auguries 
Hard to interpret, and defined as plain 
The wayside omens, — flights of crook-clawed birds,- 
Showed which are by their nature fortunate. 
And which not so, and what the food of each. 
And what the hates, affections, social needs 
Of all to one another,— taught what sign 
Of visceral lightness, colored to a shade. 
May charm the genial gods, and what fair spots 
Commend the lung and liver. Burning so 
The limbs incased in fat, and the long chine, 
I led my mortals on to an art abstruse, 
And cleared their eyes to the image in the fire, 
Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now of this. 
For the other helps of man hid underground. 
The iron and the brass, silver and gold, 
Can any dare affirm he found them out 
Before me } None, I know I unless he choose 
To lie in his vaunt. In one word learn the whole, — 
That all arts came to mortals from Prometheus. 

Chorus. Give mortals now no inexpedient help, 
Neglecting thine own sorrow. I have hope still 
To see thee, breaking from the fetter here, 



Prometheus Bound. ,Qy 



Stand up as strong as Zeus. 

Prometheus. This ends not thus. 

The oracular fate ordains. I must be bowed 
By infinite woes and pangs to escape this chain 
Necessity is stronger than mine art. 

Chorus. Who holds the helm of that Necessity ? 

'^''''Furier' '^^'^ threefold Fates and the unforgetting 

Chorus. Is Zeus less absolute than these are ^ 

Prometheus. Yea 

And therefore cannot fly what is ordained. 

Chorus. What is ordained for Zeus, except to be 
A king forever } 

Prometheus. 'Tis too early yet 
For thee to learn it : ask no more 

^P^'''''- Perhaps 

1 hy secret may be something holy } 

Prometheus. Turn 

To another matter : this, it is not time 
To speak abroad, but utterly to veil 
In silence. For by that same secret kept, 
I scape this chain's dishonor, and its woe. 

Chorus, 1st strophe. 
Never, oh never, 
May Zeus, the all-giver, 
Wrestle down from his throne 
In that might of his own 
To antagonize mine ! 
Nor let me delay 
As I bend on my way 
Toward the gods of the shrine 
Where the altar is full 
Of the blood of the bull. 
Near the tossing brine 
Of Ocean my father. 
May no sin be sped in the word that is said, 
But my vow be rather 
Consummated, 
• Nor evermore fail, nor evermore pine. 

1st antistrophe. 
'Tis sweet to have 
Life lengthened out 



398 Prometheus Bound. 

With hopes proved brave 

By the very doubt, 
Till the spirit infold 
Those manifest joys which were foretold. 
But I thrill to behold 

Thee, victim doomed, 
By the countless cares 
And the drear despairs 
Forever consumed, — 
And all because thou, who art fearless now 

Of Zeus above, 
Didst overflow for mankind below 
With a free-souled, reverent love. 

Ah, friend, behold and see ! 
What's all the beauty of humanity .' 

Can it be fair ? 
What's all the strength ? Is it strong ? 

And what hope can they bear. 
These dying livers, living one day long ? 
Ah, seest thou not, my friend, 
How feeble and slow, 
And like a dream, doth go 
This poor blind manhood, drifted from its end ? 
And how no mortal wranglings can confuse 
The harmony of Zeus } 

Prometheus, I have learnt these things 
From the sorrow in thy face. 

Another song did fold its wings 
Upon my lips in other days. 

When round the bath and round the bed 
The hymeneal chant instead 

I sang for thee, and smiled, 
And thou didst lead, with gifts and vows, 

Hesione, my father's child, 
To be thy w^edded spouse. 

Jo enters. 

lo. What land is this ? what people is here ? 
And who is he that writhes, I see, 

In the rock-hung chain ? 
Now what is the crime that hath brought thee to pain ? 
Now what is the land — make answer free — 



Prometheus Bound. 399 

Which I wander through in my wrong and fear ? 

Ah, ah, ah me ! 
The gad-fly stingeth to agony I . 
O Earth, keep off that phantasm pale 
Of earth-born Argus !— ah ! I quail 

When my soul descries 
That herdsman with the myriad eyes 
W^hich seem, as he comes, one crafty eye. 
Graves hide him not, though he should die ; 
But he doggeth me in my misery 
From the roots of death,' on high, on high ; 
And along the sands of the siding deep. 
All famine-worn, he follows me. 
And his waxen reed doth undersound 

The waters round. 
And giveth a measure that giveth sleep. 

Woe, woe, woe ! 
Where shall my weary course be done ? 
What wouldst thou with me, Saturn's son ? 
And in what have I sinned, that I should go 
Thus yoked to grief by thine hand forever ? 
Ah, ah ! dost vex me so 

That I madden and shiver 
Stung through with dread ? 
Flash the fire down to burn me ! 
Heave the earth up to cover me ! 
Plunge me in the deep, with the salt waves over me. 
That the sea-beasts may be fed ! 

king do not spurn me 

In my prayer ! 
For this w^andering everlonger, evermore. 

Hath overworn me. 
And I know not on what shore 

1 may rest from my despair. 

Chorus. Hearest thou w'hat the ox-horned maiden saith ? 

Prometheus. How could I choose but harken what she 
saith. 
The frenzied maiden ? — Inachus's child ? — 
Who love-warms Zeus's heart, and now is lashed 
By Here's hate along the unending ways ? 

lo. Who taught thee to articulate that name, — 



400 Prometheus Bound » 

My father's ? Speak to his child 
By grief and shame defiled ! 
Who art thou, victim, thou who dost acclaim 
Mine anguish in true words on the wide air, 
And callest, too, by name the curse that came 

From Here unaware, 
To waste and pierce me with its maddening goad ? 

Ah, ah, I leap 
With the pang of the hungry ; I bound on the road ; 
I am driven by my doom ; 
I am overcome 
By the wrath of an enemy strong and deep ! 
Are any of those who have tasted pain, 

Alas ! as wretched as I ? 
Now tell me plain, doth aught remain 
For my soul to endure beneath the sky ? 
Is there any help to be holpen by ? 
If knowledge be in thee, let it be said ! 

Cry aloud — cry 
To the wandering, woful maid. 

Prometheus. Whatever thou wouldst learn, I will declare 
No riddle upon my lips, but such straight words 
As friends should use to each other when they talk. 
Thou seest Prometheus, who gave mortals fire. 

lo. O common help of all men, known of all, 
O miserable Prometheus, for what cause 
Dost thou endure thus } 

Prometheus. I have done with wail 
For my own griefs but lately. 

lo. Wilt thou not 

Vouchsafe the boon to me } 

Prometheus. Say what thou wilt. 

For I vouchsafe all. 

lo. Speak, then, and reveal 

Who shut thee in this chasm. 

Prometheus. The will of Zeus, 

The hand of his Hephaestus. 

lo. And what crime 

Dost expiate so ? 

Prometheus. Enough for thee I have told 
In so much only. 

lo. Nay, but show besides 

The limit of my wandering, and the time 
Which yet is lacking to fulfil my grief. 



P7'077ietheus Bou?id. 401 



Prometheus. Why, not to know were better than to know 
For such as thou. 

lo. Beseech thee, blind me not 

To that which I must suffer. 

Prometheus. If I do. 

The reason is not that I grudge a boon. 

lo. What reason, then, prevents thy speaking out ? 

Prometheus. No grudgmg, but a fear to break thine heart. 

lo. Less care for me, 1 pray thee. Certainty 
I count for advantage. 

Prometheus. Thou wilt have it so, 

And therefore I must speak. Now hear — 

Chorus. Not yet. 

Give half the guerdon my way. Let us learn 
First what the curse is that befell the maid, 
Her own voice telling her own wasting woes : 
The sequence of that anguish shall await 
The teaching of thy lips. 

Prometheus. It doth behoove 

That thou, maid lo, shouldst vouchsafe to these 
The grace they pray, — the more, because they are called 
Thy father's sisters ; since to open out 
And mourn out grief, where it is possible 
To draw a tear from the audience, is a work 
That pays its own price well. 

Jo. I cannot choose 

But trust you, nymphs, and tell you all ye ask. 
In clear words, though I sob amid my speech 
In speaking of the storm-curse sent from Zeus, 
And of my beauty, from which height it took 
Its swoop on me, poor wretch ! left thus deformed 
And monstrous to your eyes. For evermore 
Around my virgin-chamber, wandering went 
The nightly visions which entreated me 
With syllabled smooth sweetness, — " Blessed maid, 
Why lengthen out thy maiden hours, when fate 
Permits the noblest spousal in the world } 
When Zeus burns with the arrow of thy love. 
And fain would touch thy beauty.^ — Maiden, thou 
Despise not Zeus ! depart to Lerne's mead 
That's green around thy father's flocks .and stalls, 
Until the passion of the heavenly Eye 
Be quenched in sight." Such dreams did all night long 
Constrain me, — me, unhappy! — till I dared 



402 Profnetheiis Bound. 

To tell my father how they trod the dark 

With visionary steps. Whereat he sent 

His frequent heralds to the Pythian fane, 

And also to Dodona, and inquired 

How best, by act or speech, to please the gods. 

The same returning brought back oracles 

Of doubtful sense, indefinite response, 

Dark to interpret ; but at last there came 

To Inachus an answer that was clear, 

Thrown straight as any bolt, and spoken out,— 

This : " He should drive me from my home and land, 

And bid me wander to the extreme verge 

Of all the earth ; or, if he willed it not. 

Should have a thunder with a fiery eye 

Leap straight from Zeus to burn up all his race 

To the last root of it." By which Loxian word 

Subdued, he drove me forth, and shut me out, 

He loath, me loath ; but Zeus's violent bit 

Compelled him to the deed : when instantly 

My body and soul were changed and distraught, 

And, horned as ye see, and spurred along 

By the fanged insect, with a maniac leap 

1 rushed on to Cenchrea's limpid stream. 

And Lerne's fountain-water. There, the earth-born. 

The herdsman Argus, most immitigable 

Of wrath, did find me out, and track me out 

With countless eyes set staring at my steps ; 

And though an unexpected sudden doom 

Drew him from life, I, curse-tormented still. 

Am driven from land to land before the scourge 

The gods hold o'er me. So thou hast heard the past 

And, if a bitter future thou canst tell. 

Speak on. I charge thee, do not flatter me, 

Through pity, with false words ; for in my mind 

Deceivmg works more shame than torturing doth. 

Chorus. 
Ah, silence here ! 
Nevermore, nevermore, 
Would I languish for 
The stranger's word 
To thrill in mine ear — 
Nevermore for the wrong and the woe and the fear 
So hard to behold, 



Prometheus Bound. 403 

vSo cruel to bear, 
Piercing my soul with a double-edged sword 

Of a sliding cold. 

Ah, Fate ! ah, me ! 

I shudder to see 
This wandering maid in her agony. 

Prometheus. Grief is too quick in thee, and fear too full : 
Be patient till thou hast learnt the rest. 

Chorus. Speak : teach, 

To those who are sad already, it seems sweet, 
By clear foreknowledge to make perfect, pain. 

Prometheus. The boon ye asked me first was lightly won ; 
For first ye asked the story of this maid's grief, 
As her own lips might tell it. Now remains 
To list what other sorrows she so young 
Must bear from Here. Inachus's child, 
O thou ! drop down thy soul my weighty words. 
And measure out the landmarks which are set 
To end thy wandering. Toward the orient sun 
First turn thy face from mine, and journey on 
Along the desert-flats till thou shalt come 
Where Scythia's shepherd-peoples dwell aloft. 
Perched in wheeled wagons under woven roofs. 
And twang the rapid arrow past the bow. 
Approach them not, but, siding in thy course 
The rugged shore-rocks resonant to the sea, 
Depart that country. On the left hand dwell 
The iron-workers, called the Chalybes, 
Of whom beware, for certes they are uncouth. 
And nowise bland to strangers. Reaching so 
The stream Hybristes (well the scorner called). 
Attempt no passage, — it is hard to pass, — 
Or ere thou come to Caucasus itself, 
That highest of mountains, where the river leaps 
The precipice in his strength. Thou must toil up 
Those mountain-tops that neighbor with the stars. 
And tread the south way, and draw near, at last, 
The Amazonian host that hateth man, 
Inhabitants of Themiscyra, close 
Upon Thermodon, where the sea's rough jaw 
Doth gnash at Salmydessa, and provide 
A cruel host to seamen, and to ships 
A stepdame. They, with unreluctant hand. 



404 Prometheus Bound. 

Shall lead thee on and on till thou arrive 

Just where the ocean-gates show narrowest 

On the Cimmerian isthmus. Leaving which, 

Behooves thee swim with fortitude of soul 

The strait Masotis. Ay, and evermore 

That traverse shall be famous on men's lips, 

That strait called Bosphorus, the horned one's road. 

So named because of thee, who so wilt pass 

From Europe's plain to Asia's continent. 

How think ye, nymphs ? the king of gods appears 

Impartial in ferocious deeds .'' Behold ! 

The god desirous of this mortal's love 

Hath cursed her with these wanderings. Ah, fair child. 

Thou hast met a bitter groom for bridal troth ! 

For all thou yet hast heard can only prove 

The incompleted prelude of thv doom. 

Id. Ah, ah ! 

Prometheus. Is't thy turn now to shriek and moan ? 
How wilt thou, when thou hast barkened what remains ? 

Chorus. Besides the grief thou hast told, can aught 
remain } 

Prometheus. A sea of foredoomed evil worked to storm. 

lo. What boots my life, then ? why not cast myself 
Down headlong from this miserable rock, 
That, dashed against the flats, I may redeem 
My soul from sorrow } Better once to die 
Than day by day to suffer. 

Prometheus. Verily, 

It would be hard for thee to bear my woe 
For whom it is appointed not to die. 
Death frees from woe ; but I before me see 
In all my far prevision not a bound 
To all I suffer, ere that Zeus shall fall 
From being a king. 

lo. And can it ever be 

That Zeus shall fall from empire } 

Prometheus. Thou, methinks, 

Wouldst take some joy to see it. 

lo. Could I choose } 

I who endure such pangs now, by that god ! 

Prometheus. Learn from me, therefore, that the event 
shall be. 

lo. By whom shall his imperial sceptred hand 
Be emptied so } 



Proi7ietheus Botmd. 405 

Prometheus. Himself shall spoil himself, 
Through his idiotic counsels. 

lo. How? declare, 

Unless the word bring evil. 

Prometheus. He shall wed. 

And in the marriage-bond be joined to grief. 

lo. A heavenly bride, or human } Speak it out, 
If it be utterable. 

Prometheus. Why should I say which } 
It ought not to be uttered, verily. 

Id. Then 

It is his wife shall tear him from his throne .'* 

Pro7netheus. It is his wife shall bear a son to him 
More mighty than the father. 

lo. From this doom 

Hath he no refuge .'' 

Prometheus. None : or ere that I 
Loosed from these fetters — 

lo. Yea ; but who shall loose 

While Zeus is adverse ? 

Prometheus. One who is born of thee : 
It is ordained so. 

lo. What is this thou sayest ? 

A son of mine shall liberate thee from woe ? 

Prometheus. After ten generations count three more, 
And find him in the third. 

lo. The oracle 

Remains obscure. 

Prometheus. And search it not to learn 
Thine own griefs from it. 

To. Point me not to a good 

To leave me straight bereaved. 

Prometheus. I am prepared 

To grant thee one of two things. 

lo. But which two } 

Set them before me ; grant me power to choose. 

Pro7netheus. I grant it ; choose now ! Shall I name aloud 
What griefs remain to wound thee, or what hand 
Shall save me out of mine } 

Chorus. Vouchsafe, O god, 

The one grace of the twain to her who prays. 
The next to me, and turn back neither prayer 
Dishonored by denial. To herself 
Recount the future wandering of her feet ; 



4o6 Prometheus Bound. 



Then point me to the looser of thy chain, 
Because I yearn to know him. 

Prometheus. Since ye will, 

Of absolute will, this knowledge, I will set 
No contrary against it, nor keep back 
A word of all ye ask for. lo, first 
To thee I must relate thy wandering course 
Far winding. As I tell it, write it down 
In thy soul's book of memories. When thou hast past 
The refluent bound that parts two continents, 
Track on the footsteps of the orient sun 
In his own fire across the roar of seas, — 
Fly till thou hast reached the Gorgonsean flats 
Beside Cisthene. There the Phorcides, 
Three ancient maidens, live, with shape of swan, 
One tooth between them, and one common eye, 
On whom the sun doth never look at all 
With all his rays, nor evermore the moon 
When she looks through the night. Anear to whom 
Are the Gorgon sisters three, enclothed with wings, 
With twisted snakes for ringlets, man-abhorred : 
There is no mortal gazes in their face. 
And gazing can breathe on. I speak of such 
To guard thee from their horror. Ay, and list 
Another tale of a dreadful sight : beware 
The Griffins, those unbarking dogs of Zeus, 
Those sharp-mouthed dogs ! — and the Arimaspian host 
Of one-eyed horsemen, habiting beside 
The river of Pluto that runs bright with gold : 
Approach them not, beseech thee. Presently 
Thou'lt come to a distant land, a dusky tribe 
Of dwellers at the fountain of the Sun, 
Whence flows the River ^thiops ; wind along 
Its banks, and turn off at the cataracts, 
Just as the Nile pours from the Bybline hills 
His holy and sweet wave : his course shall guide 
Thine own to that triangular Nile-ground 
Where, lo, is ordained for thee and thine 
A lengthened exile. Have I said in this 
Aught darkly or incompletely ? — now repeat 
The question, make the knowledge fuller ! Lo, 
I have more leisure than I covet here. 

Chorus. If thou canst tell us aught that's left untold, 
Or loosely told ; of her most dreary flight, 



Prometheus Bound. 407 



Declare it straight ; but, if thou hast uttered all, 
Grant us that latter grace for which we prayed. 
Remembering how we prayed it. 

Prometheus. She has heard 

The uttermost of her wandering. There it ends. 
But, that she may be certain not to have heard 
All vainly, I will speak what she endured 
Ere coming hither, and invoke the past 
To prove my prescience true. And so— to leave 
A multitude of words, and pass at once 
To the subject of thy course— when thou hadst gone 
To those Molossian plains which sweep around 
Dodona shouldering Heaven, whereby the fane 
Of Zeus Thesprotian keepeth oracle, 
And, wonder past belief, where oaks do wave 




The Gorgon sisteks three 



Articulate adjurations — (ay, the same 

Saluted thee in no perplexed phrase, 

But clear with glory, noble wife of Zeus 

That shouldst be, there some sweetness took thy sense!) 

Thou didst rush further onward, stung along 

The ocean-shore, toward Rhea's mighty bay. 

And, tost back from it, wast tost to "it again 

In stormy evolution : and know well. 

In coming time that hollow of the sea 

Shall bear the name Ionian, and present 

A monument of lo's passage through, 

Unto all mortals. Be these words the signs 

Of my soul's power to look beyond the veil 

Of visible things. The rest to you and her 

I will declare in common audience, nvmphs, 

Returning thither where my speech brake off. 

There is a town, Canobus, built upon 



4o8 Prometheus Bound. 

The earth's fair margin, at the mouth of Nile, 

And on the mound washed up by it : lo, there 

Shall Zeus give back to thee thy perfect mind. 

And only by the pressure and the touch 

Of a hand not terrible ; and thou to Zeus 

Shalt bear a dusky son who shall be called 

Thence Epaphus, Touched. That son shall pluck the fruit 

Of all that land wide-watered by the flow 

Of Nile ; but after him, when counting out 

As far as the fifth full generation, then 

Full fifty maidens, a fair woman-race. 

Shall back to Argos turn reluctantly, 

To fly the proffered nuptials of their kin, 

Their father's brothers. These being passion-struck, 

Like falcons bearing hard on flying doves. 

Shall follow hunting at a quarry of love 

They should not hunt ; till envious Heaven maintain 

A curse betwixt that beauty and their desire. 

And Greece receive them, to be overcome 

In murtherous woman-war by fierce red hands 

Kept savage by the night. For every wife 

Shall slay a husband, dyeing deep in blood 

The sword of a double edge — (I wish indeed 

As fair a marriage-joy to all my foes !) 

One bride alone shall fail to smite to death 

The head upon her pillow, touched with love. 

Made impotent of purpose, and impelled 

To choose the lesser evil, — shame on her cheeks. 

Than blood-guilt on her hands ; which bride shall bear 

A royal race in Argos. Tedious speech 

Were needed to relate particulars 

Of these things ; 'tis enough that from her seed 

Shall spring the strong He, famous with the bow, 

Whose arm shall break my fetters off. Behold, 

I\Iy mother Themis, that old Titaness, 

Delivered to me such an oracle ; 

But how and when, I should be long to speak, 

And thou, in hearing, wouldst not gain at all. 

lo. Eleleu, eleleu ! 

How the spasm and the pain. 
And the fire on the brain. 
Strike, burning me through ! 

How the sting of the curse, all aflame as it flew, 
Pricks me onward again I 



Prometheus Bound. 409 



How my heart in its terror is spurning my breast, 
And my eyes like the wheels of a chariot roll round ! 
! am whirled from my course, to the east, to the west. 
In the whirlwind of frenzy all madly invvound ; 
And my mouth is unbridled for anguish and hate, 
And my words beat in vain, in wild storms of unrest, 
On the sea of my desolate fate. 

lo rtishes out. 

Ch ones, — strophe. 
Oh, wise was he, oh, wise was he, 
Who first within his spirit knew, 
And with his tongue declared it true. 
That love comes best that comes unto 

The equal of degree ! 
And that the poor and that the low- 
Should seek no love from those above. 
Whose souls are fluttered with the flow 
Of airs about their golden height. 
Or proud because they see arow 
Ancestral crowns of light. 

Afitistrophe. 
Oh, never, never, may ye. Fates, 

Behold me with your awful eyes 

Lift mine too fondly up the skies 
Where Zeus upon the purple waits ! 

Nor let me step too near, too near. 
To any suitor bright from heaven ; 

Because I see, because I fear, 
This loveless maiden vexed and laden 
By this fell curse of Here, driven 

On wanderings dread and drear. 

Epode. 
Nay, grant an equal troth instead 

Of nuptial love, to bind me by ! 
It will not hurt, I shall not dread 

To meet it in reply. 
But let not love from those above 
Revert and fix me, as I said, 

With that inevitable Eye ! 
I have no sword to fight that fight, 
I have no strength to tread that path, 



4IO 



Prometheus Bound. 



I know not if my nature hath 
The power to bear, I cannot see 
Whither from Zeus's infinite 
I have the power to flee. 

Prometheus. Yet Zeus, albeit most absolute of will, 
Shall turn to meekness, — such a marriage-rite 
He holds in preparation, which anon, 
Shall thrust him headlong from his gerent seat 
Adown the abysmal void ; and so the curse 
His father Chronos muttered in his fall, 
As he fell from his ancient throne and cursed, 
Shall be accomplished wholly. No escape 
From all that ruin shall the filial Zeus 
Find granted to him from any of his gods. 
Unless I teach him. I the refuge know, 
And I, the means. Now, therefore, let him sit 
And brave the imminent doom, and fix his faith 
On his supernal noises hurtling on 
With restless hand the bolt that breathes out fire ; 
For these things shall not help him, none of them, 
Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 
To shame, and lower than patience : such a foe 
He doth himself prepare against himself, 
A wonder of unconquerable hate, 
An organizer of sublimer fire 
Than glares in lightnings, and of grander sound 
Than aught the thunder rolls, out-thundering it. 
With power to shatter in Poseidon's fist 
The trident-spear, which, while it plagues the sea, 
Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, and Zeus, 
Precipitated thus, shall learn at length 
The difference betwixt rule and servitude. 

Chorus. Thou makest threats for Zeus of thy desires. 

Prometheus. I tell you all these things shall be fulfilled 
Even so as I desire them. 

Chorus. Must we, then, 

Look out for one shall come to master Zeus ? 

Prometheus. These chains weigh lighter than his sor- 
rows shall. 

Chorus. How art thou not afraid to utter such words } 

Prometheus. What should / fear, who cannot die ? 

Chorus. But he 

Can visit thee with dreader woe than death's. 



Prometheus Bound. ^jj 



Promet/icHs. Why. let him do it ! I am here, prepared 
tor all things and their pangs. 

<<^horiis. The wise are they 

Who reverence Adrasteia. 

Pronetheiis. Reverence thou, 

Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever reigns. 
Whenever reigning ! But for me, your Zeus 
Is less than nothing. Let him act and reign 
His brief hour out according to his will : 
He will not, therefore, rule the gods too long. 
But lo I I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
That new-made menial of the new-crowned king : 
He, doubtless, comes to announce to us something new. 

Hermes enters. 

Hermes. I speak to thee, the sophist, the talker-down 
Of scorn by scorn, the sinner against gods. 
The reverencer of men, the thief of fire,— 
I speak to thee and adjure thee : Zeus requires 
Thy declaration of what marriage-rite 
Thus moves thy vaunt, and shall hereafter cause 
His fall from empire. Do not wrap thy speech 
In riddles, but speak cleaiiv. Never cast 
Ambiguous paths, Prometheus, for my feet. 
Since Zeus, thou mayst perceive, is scarcely won 
To mercy by such means. 

Prometheus. A speech well-mouthed 

In the utterance, and full-minded in the sense. 
As doth befit a servant of the gods ! 
New gods, ye newly reign, and think, forsooth. 
\ e dwell in towers too high for any dart 
To carry a wound there ! Have I not stood by 
While two kings fell from thence ? and shall I 'not 
Behold the third, the same who rules you now. 
Fall, shamed to sudden ruin ? Do I seem 
To tremble and quail before vour modern gods ? 
Far be it from me ! For thyself, depart ; 
Re-tread thy steps in haste. To all thou hast asked 
I answer nothing. 

Her Dies. Such a wind of jjride 

Impelled thee of yore full sail upon these rocks. 

Prometheus. I wt)uld not barter— learn thou soothlv 
that !-- 



412 Prometheus Bound. 



My suffering for thy service. I maintain 
It is a nobler thing to serve these rocks 
Than live a faithful slave to father Zeus. 
Thus upon scorners I retort their scorn. 

Hermes. It seems that thou dost glory in thy despair. 

Prometheus. I glory } Would my foes did glory so, 
And I stood by to see them ! — naming whom, 
Thou art not unremembered. 

Hermes. Dost thou charge 

Me also with the blame of thy mischance ? 

Prometheus. I tell thee I loathe the universal gods. 
Who, for the good I gave them, rendered back 
The ill of their injustice. 

Hermes. Thou art mad. 

Thou art raving, Titan, at the fever-height. 

Prometheus. If it be madness to abhor my foes. 
May I be mad ! 

Hermes. If thou wert prosperous, 
Thou wouldst be unendurable. 

Prometheus. Alas ! 

Hermes. Zeus knows not that word. 

Prometheus. But maturing Time 

Teaches all things. 

Hermes. Howbeit, thou hast not learnt 
The wisdom yet, thou needest. 

Prometheus. If I had, 

I should not talk thus with a slave like thee. 

Hermes. No answer thou vouchsafest, I believe. 
To the great Sire's requirement. 

Prometheus. Verily 

I owe him grateful service, and should pay it. 

Hermes. Why thou dost mock me, Titan, as I stood 
A child before thy face. 

Prometheus. No child, forsooth. 

But yet more foolish than a foolish child. 
If thou expect that I should answer aught 
Thy Zeus can ask. No torture from his hand, 
Nor any machination in the world, 
Shall force my utterance ere he loose, himself. 
These cankerous fetters from me. For the rest, 
Let him now hurl his blanching lightnings down, 
And with his white-winged snows, and mutterings deep 
Of subterranean thunders, mix all things. 
Confound them in disorder. None of this 



Fro7)ietheus Boimd. 413 



Shall bend my sturdy will, and make me speak 
The name of his dethroner who shall come. 

Hermes. Can this avail thee ? Look to it ! 

Pronietheus. Long ago 

It was looked forward to, precounselled of. 

Hermes. Vain god, take righteous courage ! Dare for 
once 
To apprehend and front thine agonies 
With a just prudence. 

Prometheus. Vainly dost thou chafe 
My soul with exhortations, as yonder sea 
Goes beating on the rock. Oh ! think no more 
That I, fear-struck by Zeus to a woman's mind, 
Will supplicate him, loathed as he is, 
With feminine upliftings of my hands, 
To break these chains. Far from me be the thought I 

Hermes. I have indeed, methinks, said much in vain, 
For still thy heart beneath my showers of prayers 
Lies dry and hard, nay, leaps like a young horse 
Who bites against the new bit in his teeth. 
And tugs and struggles against the new-tried rein, 
Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of all, 
Which sophism is ; since absolute will disjoined 
From perfect mind is worse than weak. Behold, 
Unless my words persuade thee, what a blast 
And whirlwind of inevitable woe 
Must sweep persuasion through thee ! For at hrst 
The Father will split up this jut of rock 
With the great thunder and the bolted flame, 
And hide thy body where a hinge of stone 
Shall catch it like an arm ; and, when thou hast passed 
A long black time within, thou shalt come out 
To front the sun while Zeus's winged hound. 
The strong, carnivorous eagle, shall wheel down 
To meet thee, self-called to a daily feast. 
And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear off 
The long rags of thy flesh, and batten deep 
Upon thy dusky liver. Do not look 
For any end, moreover, to this curse. 
Or ere some god appear to accept thy pangs 
On his own head vicarious, and descend 
With unreluctant step the darks of hell 
And gloomy abysses around Tartarus. 
Then ponder this, — this threat is not a growth 



414 Froinetheus Bound. 

Of vain invention ; it is spoken and meant : 
King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie, 
Consummating the utterance by the act. 
So, look to it, thou ! take heed, and nevermore 
Forget g'ood counsel to indulge self-will. 

Chorus. Our Hermes suits his reasons to the times, 
At" least I think so, since he bids thee drop 
Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield to him! 
When the wise err, their wisdom makes their shame. 

Prometheus. Unto me the foreknower, this mandate of 
power 
He cries, to reveal it. 
What's strange in my fate, if I suffer from hate 

At the hour that I feel it } 
Let the locks of the lightning, all bristling and whitening. 

Flash, coiling me round. 
While the ether goes surging 'neath thunder and scourging 

Of wild winds unbound ! 
Let the blast of the firmament whirl from its place 

The earth rooted below. 
And the brine of the ocean, in rapid emotion. 

Be driven in the face 
Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk to and fro ! 
Let him hurl me anon into Tartarus — on — 

To the blackest degree. 
With Necessity's vortices strangling me down ; 
But he cannot join death to a fate meant for vie ! 

Hermes. Why, the w^ords that he speaks and the thoughts 
that he thinks 
Are maniacal ! — add. 
If the Fate who hath bound him should loose not the links. 
He were utterly mad. 
Then depart ye who groan with him. 
Leaving to moan with him ; 
Go in haste ! lest the roar of the thunder anearing 
Should blast you to idiocy, living and hearing. 

Chorus. Change thy speech for another, thy thought for 

a new. 
If to move me and teach me indeed be thy care ; 
For thy words swerve so far from the royal and true 
That the thunder of Zeus seems more easy to bear. 
How ! couldst teach me to venture such vileness ? behold ! 

I choose with this victim this anguish foretold ! 
I recoil from the traitor in haste and disdain, 



Prometheus Bound. 415 

And I know that the curse of the treason is worse 
Than the pang of the chain, 

Hermes. Then remember, O nymphs, what I tell you 
before. 

Nor, when pierced by the arrows that Ate will throw you, 
Cast blame on your fate, and declare evermore 

That Zeus thrust you on anguish he did not foreshow you. 
Nay, verily, nay ! for ye perish anon 

For your deed, by your choice. By no blindness of doubt. 
No abruptness of doom, but by madness alone, 

In the great net of Ate, whence none cometh out. 
Ye are wound and undone. 

Prouiethens. Ay ! in act now, in word now no more. 
Earth is rocking in space. 
And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar. 

And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face. 
And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round. 

And the blasts of the winds universal leap free. 
And blow each upon each with a passion of sound, 

And ether goes mingling in storm with the sea. 
Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread. 

From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along. 
Oh my mother's fair glory ! O Ether, enringing 
All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing ! 
Dost see how I suffer this wrong ? 



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j^ DEC 88 

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