The Angel in the House - Coventry Patmore 2 стр.

One morning, after Church, I walkd
   Alone with Mary on the lawn,
And felt myself, howeer we talkd,
   To grave themes delicately drawn.
When she, delighted, found I knew
   More of her peace than she supposed,
Our confidences heavenwards grew,
   Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed.
Our former faults did we confess,
   Our ancient feud was more than heald,
And, with the womans eagerness
   For amity full-signd and seald,
She, offering up for sacrifice
   Her hearts reserve, brought out to show
Some verses, made when she was ice
   To all but Heaven, six years ago;
Since happier grown!  I took and read
   The neat-writ lines.  She, void of guile,
Too late repenting, blushd, and said,
   I must not think about the style.

Day after day, until to-day,
   Imaged the others gone before,
The same dull task, the weary way,
   The weakness pardond oer and oer,
The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,
   For joys well-nigh forgotten life,
The restless heart, which, when I knelt,
   Made of my worship barren strife.
Ah, whence to-days so sweet release,
   This clearance light of all my care,
This conscience free, this fertile peace,
   These softly folded wings of prayer,
This calm and more than conquering love,
   With which nought evil dares to cope,
This joy that lifts no glance above,
   For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?
O, happy time, too happy change,
   It will not live, though fondly nurst!
Full soon the sun will seem as strange
   As now the cloud which seems dispersed.

She from a rose-tree shook the blight;
   And well she knew that I knew well
Her grace with silence to requite;
   And, answering now the luncheon bell,
I laughd at Mildreds laugh, which made
   All melancholy wrong, its mood
Such sweet self-confidence displayd,
   So glad a sense of present good.

I laughd and sighd: for I confess
   I never went to Ball, or Fête,
Or Show, but in pursuit express
   Of my predestinated mate;
And thus to me, who had in sight
   The happy chance upon the cards,
Each beauty blossomd in the light
   Of tender personal regards;
And, in the records of my breast,
   Red-letterd, eminently fair,
Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,
   By turns till then had been my care:
At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud,
   At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,
At Ely four, in London two,
   Two at Bowness, in Paris none,
And, last and best, in Sarum three;
   But dearest of the whole fair troop,
In judgment of the moment, she
   Whose daisy eyes had learnd to droop.
Her very faults my fancy fired;
   My loving will, so thwarted, grew;
And, bent on worship, I admired
   Whateer she was, with partial view.
And yet when, as to-day, her smile
   Was prettiest, I could not but note
Honoria, less admired the while,
   Was lovelier, though from love remote.

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
   The destined maid; some hidden hand
Unveils to him that loveliness
   Which others cannot understand.
His merits in her presence grow,
   To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow
   The authentic airs of Paradise.
For joy of her he cannot sleep;
   Her beauty haunts him all the night;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
   For wonder, worship, and delight.
O, paradox of love, he longs,
   Most humble when he most aspires,
To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs
   From her he honours and desires.
Her graces make him rich, and ask
   No guerdon; this imperial style
Affronts him; he disdains to bask,
   The pensioner of her priceless smile.
He prays for some hard thing to do,
   Some work of fame and labour immense,
To stretch the languid bulk and thew
   Of loves fresh-born magnipotence.
No smallest boon were bought too dear,
   Though barterd for his love-sick life;
Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,
   To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife
He notes how queens of sweetness still
   Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;
How, self-consignd with lavish will,
   They ask but love proportionate;
How swift pursuit by small degrees,
   Loves tactic, works like miracle;
How valour, clothed in courtesies,
   Brings down the haughtiest citadel;
And therefore, though he merits not
   To kiss the braid upon her skirt,
His hope, discouraged neer a jot,
   Out-soars all possible desert.

Strong passions mean weak will, and he
   Who truly knows the strength and bliss
Which are in love, will own with me
   No passion but a virtue tis.
Few hear my word; it soars above
   The subtlest senses of the swarm
Of wretched things which know not love,
   Their Psyche still a wingless worm.
Ice-cold seems heavens noble glow
   To spirits whose vital heat is hell;
And to corrupt hearts even so
   The songs I sing, the tale I tell.
These cannot see the robes of white
   In which I sing of love.  Alack,
But darkness shows in heavenly light,
   Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!

You love?  Thats high as you shall go;
   For tis as true as Gospel text,
Not noble then is never so,
   Either in this world or the next.

Grown weary with a weeks exile
   From those fair friends, I rode to see
The church-restorings; lounged awhile,
   And met the Dean; was askd to tea,
And found their cousin, Frederick Graham
   At Honors side.  Was I concernd,
If, when she sang, his colour came,
   That mine, as with a buffet, burnd?
A man to please a girl! thought I,
   Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds
Of wrath, so hid as she was by,
   Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!

Whether this Cousin was the cause
   I know not, but I seemd to see,
The first time then, how fair she was,
   How much the fairest of the three.
Each stoppd to let the other go;
   But, time-bound, he arose the first.
Stayd he in Sarum long?  If so
   I hoped to see him at the Hurst.
No: he had calld here, on his way
   To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant,
His ship, was; he should leave next day,
   For two years cruise in the Levant.

Had love in her yet struck its germs?
   I watchd.  Her farewell showd me plain
She loved, on the majestic terms
   That she should not be loved again;
And so her cousin, parting, felt.
   Hope in his voice and eye was dead.
Compassion did my malice melt;
   Then went I home to a restless bed.
I, who admired her too, could see
   His infinite remorse at this
Great mystery, that she should be
   So beautiful, yet not be his,
And, pitying, longd to plead his part;
   But scarce could tell, so strange my whim,
Whether the weight upon my heart
   Was sorrow for myself or him.

She was all mildness; yet twas writ
   In all her grace, most legibly,
He thats for heaven itself unfit,
   Let him not hope to merit me.
And such a challenge, quite apart
   From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus
To sweet repentance moved my heart,
   And made me more magnanimous,
And led me to review my life,
   Inquiring where in aught the least,
If question were of her for wife,
   Ill might be mended, hope increasd.
Not that I soard so far above
   Myself, as this great hope to dare;
And yet I well foresaw that love
   Might hope where reason must despair;
And, half-resenting the sweet pride
   Which would not ask me to admire,
Oh, to my secret heart I sighd,
   That I were worthy to desire!

As drowsiness my brain relievd,
   A shrill defiance of all to arms,
Shriekd by the stable-cock, receivd
   An angry answer from three farms.
And, then, I dreamd that I, her knight,
   A clarions haughty pathos heard,
And rode securely to the fight,
   Cased in the scarf she had conferrd;
And there, the bristling lists behind,
   Saw many, and vanquishd all I saw
Of her unnumberd cousin-kind,
   In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;
Smitten, the warriors somehow turnd
   To Sarum choristers, whose song,
Mixd with celestial sorrow, yearnd
   With joy no memory can prolong;
And phantasms as absurd and sweet
   Merged each in each in endless chace,
And everywhere I seemd to meet
   The haunting fairness of her face.

Lo, when the Lord made North and South
   And sun and moon ordained, He,
Forthbringing each by word of mouth
   In order of its dignity,
Did man from the crude clay express
   By sequence, and, all else decreed,
He formd the woman; nor might less
   Than Sabbath such a work succeed.
And still with favour singled out,
   Marrd less than man by mortal fall,
Her disposition is devout,
   Her countenance angelical;
The best things that the best believe
   Are in her face so kindly writ
The faithless, seeing her, conceive
   Not only heaven, but hope of it;
No idle thought her instinct shrouds,
   But fancy chequers settled sense,
Like alteration of the clouds
   On noondays azure permanence;
Pure dignity, composure, ease
   Declare affections nobly fixd,
And impulse sprung from due degrees
   Of sense and spirit sweetly mixd.
Her modesty, her chiefest grace,
   The cestus clasping Venus side,
How potent to deject the face
   Of him who would affront its pride!
Wrong dares not in her presence speak,
   Nor spotted thought its taint disclose
Under the protest of a cheek
   Outbragging Natures boast the rose.
In mind and manners how discreet;
   How artless in her very art;
How candid in discourse; how sweet
   The concord of her lips and heart;
How simple and how circumspect;
   How subtle and how fancy-free;
Though sacred to her love, how deckd
   With unexclusive courtesy;
How quick in talk to see from far
   The way to vanquish or evade;
How able her persuasions are
   To prove, her reasons to persuade;
How (not to call true instincts bent
   And womans very nature, harm),
How amiable and innocent
   Her pleasure in her power to charm;
How humbly careful to attract,
   Though crownd with all the soul desires,
Connubial aptitude exact,
   Diversity that never tires.

Boon Nature to the woman bows;
   She walks in earths whole glory clad,
And, chiefest far herself of shows,
   All others help her, and are glad:
No splendour neath the skys proud dome
   But serves for her familiar wear;
The far-fetchd diamond finds its home
   Flashing and smouldering in her hair;
For her the seas their pearls reveal;
   Art and strange lands her pomp supply
With purple, chrome, and cochineal,
   Ochre, and lapis lazuli;
The worm its golden woof presents;
   Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,
All doff for her their ornaments,
   Which suit her better than themselves;
And all, by this their power to give,
   Proving her right to take, proclaim
Her beautys clear prerogative
   To profit so by Edens blame.

That nothing here may want its praise,
   Know, she who in her dress reveals
A fine and modest taste, displays
   More loveliness than she conceals.

By meekness charmd, or proud to allow
   A queenly claim to live admired,
Full many a lady has ere now
   My apprehensive fancy fired,
And woven many a transient chain;
   But never lady like to this,
Who holds me as the weather-vane
   Is held by yonder clematis.
She seems the life of natures powers;
   Her beauty is the genial thought
Which makes the sunshine bright; the flowers,
   But for their hint of her, were nought.

A voice, the sweeter for the grace
   Of suddenness, while thus I dreamd,
Good morning! said or sang.  Her face
   The mirror of the morning seemd.
Her sisters in the garden walkd,
   And would I come?  Across the Hall
She led me; and we laughd and talkd,
   And praised the Flower-show and the Ball;
And Mildreds pinks had gaind the Prize;
   And, stepping like the light-foot fawn,
She brought me Wiltshire Butterflies,
   The Prize-book; then we paced the lawn,
Close-cut, and with geranium-plots,
   A rival glow of green and red;
Than counted sixty apricots
   On one small tree; the gold-fish fed;
And watchd where, black with scarlet tans,
   Proud Psyche stood and flashd like flame,
Showing and shutting splendid fans;
   And in the prize we found its name.

The sweet hour lapsed, and left my breast
   A load of joy and tender care;
And this delight, which life oppressd,
   To fixd aims grew, that askd for prayr.
I rode home slowly; whip-in-hand
   And soild bank-notes all ready, stood
The Farmer who farmd all my land,
   Except the little Park and Wood;
And with the accustomd compliment
   Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer,
I, my own steward, took my rent,
   Three hundred pounds for half the year;
Our witnesses the Cook and Groom,
   We signd the lease for seven years more,
And bade Good-day; then to my room
   I went, and closed and lockd the door,
And cast myself down on my bed,
   And there, with many a blissful tear,
I vowd to love and prayd to wed
   The maiden who had grown so dear;
Thankd God who had set her in my path;
   And promised, as I hoped to win,
That I would never dim my faith
   By the least selfishness or sin;
Whatever in her sight Id seem
   Id truly be; Id never blend
With my delight in her a dream
   Twould change her cheek to comprehend;
And, if she wishd it, Id prefer
   Anothers to my own success;
And always seek the best for her
   With unofficious tenderness.

Rising, I breathed a brighter clime,
   And found myself all self above,
And, with a charity sublime,
   Contemnd not those who did not love:
And I could not but feel that then
   I shone with something of her grace,
And went forth to my fellow men
   My commendation in my face.

Where she succeeds with cloudless brow,
   In common and in holy course,
He fails, in spite of prayer and vow
   And agonies of faith and force;
Or, if his suit with Heaven prevails
   To righteous life, his virtuous deeds
Lack beauty, virtues badge; she fails
   More graciously than he succeeds.
Her spirit, compact of gentleness,
   If Heaven postpones or grants her prayr,
Conceives no pride in its success,
   And in its failure no despair;
But his, enamourd of its hurt,
   Baffled, blasphemes, or, not denied,
Crows from the dunghill of desert,
   And wags its ugly wings for pride.
Hes never young nor ripe; she grows
   More infantine, auroral, mild,
And still the more she lives and knows
   The lovelier shes expressd a child.
Say that she wants the will of man
   To conquer fame, not checkd by cross,
Nor moved when others bless or ban;
   She wants but what to have were loss.
Or say she wants the patient brain
   To track shy truth; her facile wit
At that which he hunts down with pain
   Flies straight, and does exactly hit.
Were she but half of what she is,
   He twice himself, mere love alone,
Her special crown, as truth is his,
   Gives title to the worthier throne;
For love is substance, truth the form;
   Truth without love were less than nought;
But blindest love is sweet and warm,
   And full of truth not shaped by thought,
And therefore in herself she stands
   Adornd with undeficient grace,
Her happy virtues taking hands,
   Each smiling in anothers face.
So, dancing round the Tree of Life,
   They make an Eden in her breast,
While his, disjointed and at strife,
   Proud-thoughted, do not bring him rest.

If fate Loves dear ambition mar,
   And load his breast with hopeless pain,
And seem to blot out sun and star,
   Love, won or lost, is countless gain;
His sorrow boasts a secret bliss
   Which sorrow of itself beguiles,
And Love in tears too noble is
   For pity, save of Love in smiles.
But, looking backward through his tears,
   With vision of maturer scope,
How often one dead joy appears
   The platform of some better hope!
And, let us own, the sharpest smart
   Which human patience may endure
Pays light for that which leaves the heart
   More generous, dignified, and pure.

They safely walk in darkest ways
   Whose youth is lighted from above,
Where, through the senses silvery haze,
   Dawns the veild moon of nuptial love.
Who is the happy husband?  He
   Who, scanning his unwedded life,
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,
   Twas faithful to his future wife.

Fatal in force, yet gentle in will,
   Defeats, from her, are tender pacts,
For, like the kindly lodestone, still
   Shes drawn herself by what she attracts.