The Angel in the House - Coventry Patmore 3 стр.

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.

I went not to the Deans unbid:
   I would not have my mystery,
From her so delicately hid,
   The guess of gossips at their tea.
A long, long week, and not once there,
   Had made my spirit sick and faint,
And lack-love, foul as love is fair,
   Perverted all things to complaint.
How vain the world had grown to be!
   How mean all people and their ways,
How ignorant their sympathy,
   And how impertinent their praise;
What they for virtuousness esteemd,
   How far removed from heavenly right;
What pettiness their trouble seemd,
   How undelightful their delight;
To my necessity how strange
   The sunshine and the song of birds;
How dull the clouds continual change,
   How foolishly content the herds;
How unaccountable the law
   Which bade me sit in blindness here,
While she, the sun by which I saw,
   Shed splendour in an idle sphere!
And then I kissd her stolen glove,
   And sighd to reckon and define
The modes of martyrdom in love,
   And how far each one might be mine.
I thought how love, whose vast estate
   Is earth and air and sun and sea,
Encounters oft the beggars fate,
   Despised on score of poverty;
How Heaven, inscrutable in this,
   Lets the gross general make or mar
The destiny of love, which is
   So tender and particular;
How nature, as unnatural
   And contradicting natures source,
Which is but love, seems most of all
   Well-pleased to harry true loves course;
How, many times, it comes to pass
   That trifling shades of temperament,
Affecting only one, alas,
   Not love, but loves success prevent;
How manners often falsely paint
   The man; how passionate respect,
Hid by itself, may bear the taint
   Of coldness and a dull neglect;
And how a little outward dust
   Can a clear merit quite oercloud,
And make her fatally unjust,
   And him desire a darker shroud;
How senseless opportunity
   Gives baser men the better chance;
How powers, adverse else, agree
   To cheat her in her ignorance;
How Heaven its very self conspires
   With man and nature against love,
As pleased to couple cross desires,
   And cross where they themselves approve.
Wretched were life, if the end were now!
   But this gives tears to dry despair,
Faith shall be blest, we know not how,
   And love fulfilld, we know not where.

While thus I grieved, and kissd her glove,
   My man brought in her note to say,
Papa had hid her send his love,
   And would I dine with them next day?
They had learnd and practised Purcells glee,
   To sing it by to-morrow night.
The Postscript was: Her sisters and she
   Inclosed some violets, blue and white;
She and her sisters found them where
   I wagerd once no violets grew;
So they had won the gloves.  And there
   The violets lay, two white, one blue.

Most rare is still most noble found,
   Most noble still most incomplete;
Sad law, which leaves King Love uncrownd
   In this obscure, terrestrial seat!
With bale more sweet than others bliss,
   And bliss more wise than others bale,
The secrets of the world are his.
   And freedom without let or pale.
O, zealous good, O, virtuous glee,
   Religious, and without alloy,
O, privilege high, which none but he
   Who highly merits can enjoy;
O, Love, who art that fabled sun
   Which all the world with bounty loads,
Without respect of realms, save one,
   And gilds with double lustre Rhodes;
A day of whose delicious life,
   Though full of terrors, full of tears,
Is better than of other life
   A hundred thousand million years;
Thy heavenly splendour magnifies
   The least commixture of earths mould,
Cheapens thyself in thine own eyes,
   And makes the foolish mocker bold.

What if my pole-star of respect
   Be dim to others?  Shall their Nay,
Presumably their own defect,
   Invalidate my hearts strong Yea?
And can they rightly me condemn,
   If I, with partial love, prefer?
I am not more unjust to them,
   But only not unjust to her.
Leave us alone!  After awhile,
   This pool of private charity
Shall make its continent an isle,
   And roll, a world-embracing sea;
This foolish zeal of lip for lip,
   This fond, self-sanctiond, wilful zest,
Is that elect relationship
   Which forms and sanctions all the rest;
This little germ of nuptial love,
   Which springs so simply from the sod,
The root is, as my song shall prove,
   Of all our love to man and God.

What measure Fate to him shall mete
   Is not the noble Lovers care;
Hes heart-sick with a longing sweet
   To make her happy as shes fair.
Oh, misery, should she him refuse,
   And so her dearest good mistake!
His own success he thus pursues
   With frantic zeal for her sole sake.
To lose her were his life to blight,
   Being loss to hers; to make her his,
Except as helping her delight,
   He calls but incidental bliss;
And holding life as so much pelf
   To buy her posies, learns this lore:
He does not rightly love himself
   Who does not love another more.

Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,
   When you, you wonder why, love none.
We love, Fool, for the good we do,
   Not that which unto us is done!

Most rare is still most noble found,
   Most noble still most incomplete;
Sad law, which leaves King Love uncrownd
   In this obscure, terrestrial seat!
With bale more sweet than others bliss,
   And bliss more wise than others bale,
The secrets of the world are his.
   And freedom without let or pale.
O, zealous good, O, virtuous glee,
   Religious, and without alloy,
O, privilege high, which none but he
   Who highly merits can enjoy;
O, Love, who art that fabled sun
   Which all the world with bounty loads,
Without respect of realms, save one,
   And gilds with double lustre Rhodes;
A day of whose delicious life,
   Though full of terrors, full of tears,
Is better than of other life
   A hundred thousand million years;
Thy heavenly splendour magnifies
   The least commixture of earths mould,
Cheapens thyself in thine own eyes,
   And makes the foolish mocker bold.

What if my pole-star of respect
   Be dim to others?  Shall their Nay,
Presumably their own defect,
   Invalidate my hearts strong Yea?
And can they rightly me condemn,
   If I, with partial love, prefer?
I am not more unjust to them,
   But only not unjust to her.
Leave us alone!  After awhile,
   This pool of private charity
Shall make its continent an isle,
   And roll, a world-embracing sea;
This foolish zeal of lip for lip,
   This fond, self-sanctiond, wilful zest,
Is that elect relationship
   Which forms and sanctions all the rest;
This little germ of nuptial love,
   Which springs so simply from the sod,
The root is, as my song shall prove,
   Of all our love to man and God.

What measure Fate to him shall mete
   Is not the noble Lovers care;
Hes heart-sick with a longing sweet
   To make her happy as shes fair.
Oh, misery, should she him refuse,
   And so her dearest good mistake!
His own success he thus pursues
   With frantic zeal for her sole sake.
To lose her were his life to blight,
   Being loss to hers; to make her his,
Except as helping her delight,
   He calls but incidental bliss;
And holding life as so much pelf
   To buy her posies, learns this lore:
He does not rightly love himself
   Who does not love another more.

Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,
   When you, you wonder why, love none.
We love, Fool, for the good we do,
   Not that which unto us is done!

The Ladies rose.  I held the door,
   And sighd, as her departing grace
Assured me that she always wore
   A heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
   I dreaded, oer the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
   To hurt the hope that shed be mine.

Towards my mark the Deans talk set:
   He praised my Notes on Abury,
Read when the Association met
   At Sarum; he was pleased to see
I had not stoppd, as some men had,
   At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hoped the business was not bad
   I came about: then the wine passd.

A full glass prefaced my reply:
   I loved his daughter, Honor; I told
My estate and prospects; might I try
   To win her?  At my words so bold
My sick heart sank.  Then he: He gave
   His glad consent, if I could get
Her love.  A dear, good Girl! shed have
   Only three thousand pounds as yet;
More bye and bye.  Yes, his good will
   Should go with me; he would not stir;
He and my father in old time still
   Wishd I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take
   Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make
   Or alter others destinies,
That, though his blessing and his prayr
   Had helpd, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
   Consent and opportunity.
My chance, he hoped, was good: Id won
   Some name already; friends and place
Appeard within my reach, but none
   Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom
   They invest their vanities admired;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
   For good to work will be desired.
Twas so with one now passd away;
   And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say
   Mine was a choice I could not rue.