The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1

Part 13

Chapter 131,685 wordsPublic domain

He dwelt alone, and sun and moon Were witness that he made Rejection of his humanness Until they seemed to fade; His face did so, for he did grow Of his own soul afraid.

II.

The self-poised God may dwell alone With inward glorying, But God's chief angel waiteth for A brother's voice, to sing; And a lonely creature of sinful nature It is an awful thing.

III.

An awful thing that feared itself; While many years did roll, A lonely man, a feeble man, A part beneath the whole, He bore by day, he bore by night That pressure of God's infinite Upon his finite soul.

IV.

The poet at his lattice sate, And downward lookèd he. Three Christians wended by to prayers, With mute ones in their ee; Each turned above a face of love And called him to the far chapèlle With voice more tuneful than its bell: But still they wended three.

There journeyed by a bridal pomp, A bridegroom and his dame; He speaketh low for happiness, She blusheth red for shame: But never a tone of benison From out the lattice came.

VI.

A little child with inward song, No louder noise to dare, Stood near the wall to see at play The lizards green and rare-- Unblessed the while for his childish smile Which cometh unaware.

PART THE FOURTH.

SHOWING HOW ROSALIND FARED BY THE KEEPING OF THE VOW.

In death-sheets lieth Rosalind As white and still as they; And the old nurse that watched her bed Rose up with "Well-a-day!" And oped the casement to let in The sun, and that sweet doubtful din Which droppeth from the grass and bough Sans wind and bird, none knoweth how-- To cheer her as she lay.

II.

The old nurse started when she saw Her sudden look of woe: But the quick wan tremblings round her mouth In a meek smile did go, And calm she said, "When I am dead, Dear nurse it shall be so.

III.

"Till then, shut out those sights and sounds, And pray God pardon me That I without this pain no more His blessed works can see! And lean beside me, loving nurse, That thou mayst hear, ere I am worse, What thy last love should be."

IV.

The loving nurse leant over her, As white she lay beneath; The old eyes searching, dim with life, The young ones dim with death, To read their look if sound forsook The trying, trembling breath.

"When all this feeble breath is done, And I on bier am laid, My tresses smoothed for never a feast, My body in shroud arrayed, Uplift each palm in a saintly calm, As if that still I prayed.

VI.

"And heap beneath mine head the flowers You stoop so low to pull, The little white flowers from the wood Which grow there in the cool, Which _he_ and I, in childhood's games, Went plucking, knowing not their names, And filled thine apron full.

VII.

"Weep not! _I_ weep not. Death is strong, The eyes of Death are dry! But lay this scroll upon my breast When hushed its heavings lie, And wait awhile for the corpse's smile Which shineth presently.

VIII.

"And when it shineth, straightway call Thy youngest children dear, And bid them gently carry me All barefaced on the bier; But bid them pass my kirkyard grass That waveth long anear.

IX.

"And up the bank where I used to sit And dream what life would be, Along the brook with its sunny look Akin to living glee,-- O'er the windy hill, through the forest still, Let them gently carry me.

"And through the piny forest still, And down the open moorland Round where the sea beats mistily And blindly on the foreland; And let them chant that hymn I know, Bearing me soft, bearing me slow, To the ancient hall of Courland.

XI.

"And when withal they near the hall, In silence let them lay My bier before the bolted door, And leave it for a day: For I have vowed, though I am proud, To go there as a guest in shroud, And not be turned away."

XII.

The old nurse looked within her eyes Whose mutual look was gone; The old nurse stooped upon her mouth, Whose answering voice was done; And nought she heard, till a little bird Upon the casement's woodbine swinging Broke out into a loud sweet singing For joy o' the summer sun: "Alack! alack!"--she watched no more, With head on knee she wailèd sore, And the little bird sang o'er and o'er For joy o' the summer sun.

PART THE FIFTH.

SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS BROKEN.

The poet oped his bolted door The midnight sky to view; A spirit-feel was in the air Which seemed to touch his spirit bare Whenever his breath he drew; And the stars a liquid softness had, As alone their holiness forbade Their falling with the dew.

II.

They shine upon the steadfast hills, Upon the swinging tide, Upon the narrow track of beach And the murmuring pebbles pied: They shine on every lovely place, They shine upon the corpse's face, As _it_ were fair beside.

III.

It lay before him, humanlike, Yet so unlike a thing! More awful in its shrouded pomp Than any crownèd king: All calm and cold, as it did hold Some secret, glorying.

IV.

A heavier weight than of its clay Clung to his heart and knee: As if those folded palms could strike He staggered groaningly, And then o'erhung, without a groan, The meek close mouth that smiled alone, Whose speech the scroll must be.

* * * * *

THE WORDS OF ROSALIND'S SCROLL.

"I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years. I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

"Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change _this_ smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth--thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

"But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks, the proofs of life The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

"I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips, In the anguish none could see: They whispered oft, 'She sleepeth soft'-- But I only prayed for thee.

"Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still, Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

"I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless."

* * * * *

Bow lower down before the throne, Triumphant Rosalind! He boweth on thy corpse his face, And weepeth as the blind: 'Twas a dread sight to see them so, For the senseless corpse rocked to and fro With the wail of his living mind.

VI.

But dreader sight, could such be seen, His inward mind did lie, Whose long-subjected humanness Gave out its lion-cry, And fiercely rent its tenement In a mortal agony.

VII.

I tell you, friends, had you heard his wail, 'Twould haunt you in court and mart, And in merry feast until you set Your cup down to depart-- That weeping wild of a reckless child From a proud man's broken heart.

VIII.

O broken heart, O broken vow, That wore so proud a feature! God, grasping as a thunderbolt The man's rejected nature, Smote him therewith i' the presence high Of his so worshipped earth and sky That looked on all indifferently-- A wailing human creature.

IX.

A human creature found too weak To bear his human pain-- (May Heaven's dear grace have spoken peace To his dying heart and brain!) For when they came at dawn of day To lift the lady's corpse away, Her bier was holding twain.

They dug beneath the kirkyard grass, For born one dwelling deep; To which, when years had mossed the stone, Sir Roland brought his little son To watch the funeral heap: And when the happy boy would rather Turn upward his blithe eyes to see The wood-doves nodding from the tree, "Nay, boy, look downward," said his father, "Upon this human dust asleep. And hold it in thy constant ken That God's own unity compresses (One into one) the human many, And that his everlastingness is The bond which is not loosed by any: That thou and I this law must keep, If not in love, in sorrow then,-- Though smiling not like other men, Still, like them we must weep."

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON