The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2

THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY

FIRST PART

I"Onora, Onora," – her mother is calling,She sits at the lattice and hears the dew fallingDrop after drop from the sycamores ladenWith dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden,"Night cometh, Onora."IIShe looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees,To the limes at the end where the green arbour is —"Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her,While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her,Night cometh – Onora!"IIIShe looks up the forest whose alleys shoot onLike the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is doneAnd the choristers sitting with faces aslantFeel the silence to consecrate more than the chant —"Onora, Onora!"IVAnd forward she looketh across the brown heath —"Onora, art coming?" – what is it she seeth?Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wistTo dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist —"My daughter!" Then overVThe casement she leaneth, and as she doth soShe is 'ware of her little son playing below:"Now where is Onora?" He hung down his headAnd spake not, then answering blushed scarlet-red, —"At the tryst with her lover."VIBut his mother was wroth: in a sternness quoth she,"As thou play'st at the ball art thou playing with me?When we know that her lover to battle is gone,And the saints know above that she loveth but oneAnd will ne'er wed another?"VIIThen the boy wept aloud; 't was a fair sight yet sadTo see the tears run down the sweet blooms he had:He stamped with his foot, said – "The saints know I liedBecause truth that is wicked is fittest to hide:Must I utter it, mother?"VIIIIn his vehement childhood he hurried withinAnd knelt at her feet as in prayer against sin,But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as he —"Oh! she sits with the nun of the brown rosary,At nights in the ruin —IX"The old convent ruin the ivy rots off,Where the owl hoots by day and the toad is sun-proof,Where no singing-birds build and the trees gaunt and greyAs in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted one way —But is this the wind's doing?X"A nun in the east wall was buried aliveWho mocked at the priest when he called her to shrive,And shrieked such a curse, as the stone took her breath,The old abbess fell backwards and swooned unto deathWith an Ave half-spoken.XI"I tried once to pass it, myself and my hound,Till, as fearing the lash, down he shivered to ground —A brave hound, my mother! a brave hound, ye wot!And the wolf thought the same with his fangs at her throatIn the pass of the Brocken.XII"At dawn and at eve, mother, who sitteth thereWith the brown rosary never used for a prayer?Stoop low, mother, low! If we went there to see,What an ugly great hole in that east wall must beAt dawn and at even!XIII"Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even?Who meet by that wall, never looking to heaven?O sweetest my sister, what doeth with theeThe ghost of a nun with a brown rosaryAnd a face turned from heaven?XIV"Saint Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams and erewhileI have felt through mine eyelids the warmth of her smile;But last night, as a sadness like pity came o'er her,She whispered – 'Say two prayers at dawn for Onora:The Tempted is sinning.'"XV"Onora, Onora!" they heard her not coming,Not a step on the grass, not a voice through the gloaming;But her mother looked up, and she stood on the floorFair and still as the moonlight that came there before,And a smile just beginning:XVIIt touches her lips but it dares not ariseTo the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes,And the large musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorrySing on like the angels in separate gloryBetween clouds of amber;XVIIFor the hair droops in clouds amber-coloured till stirredInto gold by the gesture that comes with a word;While – O soft! – her speaking is so interwoundOf the dim and the sweet, 't is a twilight of soundAnd floats through the chamber.XVIII"Since thou shrivest my brother, fair mother," said she"I count on thy priesthood for marrying of me,And I know by the hills that the battle is done.That my lover rides on, will be here with the sun,'Neath the eyes that behold thee."XIXHer mother sat silent – too tender, I wis,Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss:But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought —"O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought!If he cometh, who told thee?"XX"I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear,"By the beauty upon them, that HE is anear:Did they ever look so since he bade me adieu?Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true,As Saint Agnes in sleeping!"XXIHalf-ashamed and half-softened the boy did not speak,And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek:She bowed down to kiss him: dear saints, did he seeOr feel on her bosom the BROWN ROSARY,That he shrank away weeping?

SECOND PART

A bed. Onora, sleeping. Angels, but not nearFirst AngelMust we stand so far, and sheSo very fair?Second AngelAs bodies be.First AngelAnd she so mild?Second AngelAs spirits whenThey meeken, not to God, but men.First AngelAnd she so young, that I who bringGood dreams for saintly children, mightMistake that small soft face to-night,And fetch her such a blessèd thingThat at her waking she would weepFor childhood lost anew in sleep.How hath she sinned?Second AngelIn bartering love;God's love for man's.First AngelWe may reproveThe world for this, not only her:Let me approach to breathe awayThis dust o' the heart with holy air.Second AngelStand off! She sleeps, and did not pray.First AngelDid none pray for her?Second AngelAy, a child, —Who never, praying, wept before:While, in a mother undefiled,Prayer goeth on in sleep, as trueAnd pauseless as the pulses do.First AngelThen I approach.Second AngelIt is not WILLED.First AngelOne word: is she redeemed?Second AngelNo more!The place is filled.[Angels vanishEvil Spirit (in a Nun's garb by the bed)Forbear that dream – forbear that dream! too near to heaven it leaned.Onora (in sleep)Nay, leave me this – but only this! 't is but a dream, sweet fiend!Evil SpiritIt is a thought.Onora (in sleep)A sleeping thought – most innocent of good:It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot if it would.I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work,I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk.Evil SpiritForbear that dream – forbear that dream!Onora (in sleep)Nay, let me dream at least.That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast:I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun,With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done.Evil SpiritForbear that dream – forbear that dream!Onora (in sleep)Nay, sweet fiend, let me go:I never more can walk with him, oh, never more but so!For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk-yard stone,Oh, deep and straight! oh, very straight! they move at nights alone:And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly,"Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!"Evil SpiritForbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign.Onora (in sleep)Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine.I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying,I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in:What shall I do – tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing?Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowan?Evil SpiritThou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost standAmong the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand,And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind,Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind.Onora (in sleep)I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause;I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause:The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze,While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze.Evil SpiritMore calm and free, speak out to me why such a vow was made.Onora (in sleep)Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid.Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die —I wish I were a young dead child and had thy company!I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child,And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled!The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain,For death itself I did not fear – 't is love that makes the pain:Love feareth death. I was no child, I was betrothed that day;I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away.How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone,And feel mine own betrothed go by – alas! no more mine own —Go leading by in wedding pomp some lovely lady brave,With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white in grave?How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne,And hear him say to her – to her! that else he loveth none?Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake,As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take,That hers, forsooth, were heavenly eyes – ah me, while very dimSome heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven!) would darken down to him!Evil SpiritWho told thee thou wast called to death?Onora (in sleep)I sate all night beside thee:The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee,And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and weak,And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak.I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlornStrewn round us like a dead world's shroud in ghastly fragments torn:And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flappingwing,We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels murmuring:We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven,And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of heaven.And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer,For if she has no need of Him, He has no need of her."Evil SpiritSpeak out to me, speak bold and free.Onora (in sleep)And then I heard thee say —"I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to stay!Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree,Since if thou hast no need of Him, He has no need of thee:And if thou wilt forgo the sight of angels, verilyThy true love gazing on thy face shall guess what angels be;Nor bride shall pass, save thee" … Alas! – my father's hand's a-cold,The meadows seem …Evil SpiritForbear the dream, or let the vow be told.Onora (in sleep)I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads,By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds,This rosary brown which is thine own, – lost soul of buried nun!Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone, —I vowed upon thy rosary brown, – and, till such vow should break,A pledge always of living days 't was hung around my neck —I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!),I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe.Evil SpiritAnd canst thou prove …Onora (in sleep)O love, my love! I felt him near again!I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this?Yet when he came, I wept his name – and the angels heard but his.Evil SpiritWell done, well done!Onora (in sleep)Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine, —Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine!She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,And her breath comes in sobs, while she stares through the night;There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before,Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor:But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and, freeFrom the death-clasp, close over – the BROWN ROSARY.

THIRD PART

I'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bellRings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle,And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,And the sacristans slyly are jesting asideAt the work shall be doing;IIWhile down through the wood rides that fair company,The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at onceAll the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce,"And so endeth a wooing!"IIIAnd the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way,With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say;Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,And the little quick smiles come and go with her breathWhen she sigheth or speaketh.IVAnd the tender bride-mother breaks off unawareFrom an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before,She seeth her little son stand at the door:Is it play that he seeketh?VIs it play, when his eyes wander innocent-wildAnd sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child?He trembles not, weeps not; the passion is done,And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sunOn his head like a glory.VI"O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried,"But in fairness and vileness who matcheth the bride?O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whomFor the courage and woe can ye match with the groomAs ye see them before ye?"VIIOut spake the bride's mother, "The vileness is thineIf thou shame thine own sister, a bride at the shrine!"Out spake the bride's lover, "The vileness be mineIf he shame mine own wife at the hearth or the shrineAnd the charge be unprovèd.VIII"Bring the charge, prove the charge, brother! speak it aloud:Let thy father and hers hear it deep in his shroud!"– "O father, thou seest, for dead eyes can see,How she wears on her bosom a BROWN ROSARY,O my father belovèd!"IXThen outlaughed the bridegroom, and outlaughed withalBoth maidens and youths by the old chapel-wall:"So she weareth no love-gift, kind brother," quoth he,"She may wear an she listeth a brown rosary,Like a pure-hearted lady."XThen swept through the chapel the long bridal train;Though he spake to the bride she replied not again:On, as one in a dream, pale and stately she wentWhere the altar-lights burn o'er the great sacrament,Faint with daylight, but steady.XIBut her brother had passed in between them and her,And calmly knelt down on the high-altar stair —Of an infantine aspect so stern to the viewThat the priest could not smile on the child's eyes of blueAs he would for another.XIIHe knelt like a child marble-sculptured and whiteThat seems kneeling to pray on the tomb of a knight,With a look taken up to each iris of stoneFrom the greatness and death where he kneeleth, but noneFrom the face of a mother.XIII"In your chapel, O priest, ye have wedded and shrivenFair wives for the hearth, and fair sinners for heaven;But this fairest my sister, ye think now to wed,Bid her kneel where she standeth, and shrive her instead:O shrive her and wed not!"XIVIn tears, the bride's mother, – "Sir priest, unto theeWould he lie, as he lied to this fair company."In wrath, the bride's lover, – "The lie shall be clear!Speak it out, boy! the saints in their niches shall hear:Be the charge proved or said not!"XVThen serene in his childhood he lifted his face,And his voice sounded holy and fit for the place, —"Look down from your niches, ye still saints, and seeHow she wears on her bosom a BROWN ROSARY!Is it used for the praying?"XVIThe youths looked aside – to laugh there were a sin —And the maidens' lips trembled from smiles shut within.Quoth the priest, "Thou art wild, pretty boy! Blessed sheWho prefers at her bridal a brown rosaryTo a worldly arraying."XVIIThe bridegroom spake low and led onward the brideAnd before the high altar they stood side by side:The rite-book is opened, the rite is begun,They have knelt down together to rise up as one.Who laughed by the altar?XVIIIThe maidens looked forward, the youths looked around,The bridegroom's eye flashed from his prayer at the sound;And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were,Gazing cold at the priest without gesture of prayer,As he read from the psalter.XIXThe priest never knew that she did so, but stillHe felt a power on him too strong for his will:And whenever the Great Name was there to be read,His voice sank to silence – THAT could not be said,Or the air could not hold it.XX"I have sinnèd," quoth he, "I have sinnèd, I wot" —And the tears ran adown his old cheeks at the thought:They dropped fast on the book, but he read on the same,And aye was the silence where should be the Name, —As the choristers told it.XXIThe rite-book is closed, and the rite being doneThey, who knelt down together, arise up as one:Fair riseth the bride – Oh, a fair bride is she,But, for all (think the maidens) that brown rosary,No saint at her praying!XXIIWhat aileth the bridegroom? He glares blank and wide;Then suddenly turning he kisseth the bride;His lips stung her with cold; she glanced upwardly mute:"Mine own wife," he said, and fell stark at her footIn the word he was saying.XXIIIThey have lifted him up, but his head sinks away,And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine and grey.Leave him now where he lieth – for oh, never moreWill he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor!Let his bride gaze upon him.XXIVLong and still was her gaze while they chafèd him thereAnd breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her,But when they stood up – only they! with a startThe shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart:She has lived, and forgone him!XXVAnd low on his body she droppeth adown —"Didst call me thine own wife, belovèd – thine own?Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warmTo the world's cold without thee! Come, keep me from harmIn a calm of thy teaching!"XXVIShe looked in his face earnest-long, as in soothThere were hope of an answer, and then kissed his mouth,And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly, —"Now, O God, take pity – take pity on me!God, hear my beseeching!"XXVIIShe was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day:Wild she sprang to her feet, – "I surrender to theeThe broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary, —I am ready for dying!"XXVIIIShe dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved groundWhere it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-soundCrept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim, —As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymnAnd moaned in the trying.

FOURTH PART

Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk:"I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk.I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro,Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below.All things are the same, but I, – only I am dreary,And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary."Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the springAnd smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering:The bees will find out other flowers – oh, pull them, dearest mine,And carry them and carry me before Saint Agnes' shrine."– Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring,And her and them all mournfully to Agnes' shrine did bring.She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her head —"The picture is too calm for me– too calm for me," she said:"The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may lay,For those are used to look at heaven, – but I must turn away,Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gazeOn God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face."She spoke with passion after pause – "And were it wisely doneIf we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so strong,And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong?To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and heaven, —A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven?A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast, —Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!"Then breaking into tears, – "Dear God," she cried, "and must we seeAll blissful things depart from us or ere we go to Thee?We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the wind?Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind?Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need thee on that road,But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 'God.'"Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever musèd thus,"The bees will find out other flowers, – but what is left for us?"But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee,– "Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?"She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,So tenderly, so tenderly – she needed not to speak.The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more.The woman fair who placed it there had died an hour before.Both perished mute for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach.O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!

A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES

ISeven maidens 'neath the midnightStand near the river-seaWhose water sweepeth white aroundThe shadow of the tree;The moon and earth are face to face,And earth is slumbering deep;The wave-voice seems the voice of dreamsThat wander through her sleep:The river floweth on.IIWhat bring they 'neath the midnight,Beside the river-sea?They bring the human heart whereinNo nightly calm can be, —That droppeth never with the wind,Nor drieth with the dew:Oh, calm in God! thy calm is broadTo cover spirits too.The river floweth on.IIIThe maidens lean them overThe waters, side by side,And shun each other's deepening eyes,And gaze adown the tide;For each within a little boatA little lamp hath put,And heaped for freight some lily's weightOr scarlet rose half shut.The river floweth on.IVOf shell of cocoa carvenEach little boat is made;Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower,And carries a hope unsaid;And when the boat hath carried the lampUnquenched till out of sight,The maiden is sure that love will endure;But love will fail with light.The river floweth on.VWhy, all the stars are readyTo symbolize the soul,The stars untroubled by the wind,Unwearied as they roll;And yet the soul by instinct sadReverts to symbols low —To that small flame, whose very nameBreathed o'er it, shakes it so!The river floweth on.VISix boats are on the river,Seven maidens on the shore,While still above them steadfastlyThe stars shine evermore.Go, little boats, go soft and safe,And guard the symbol spark!The boats aright go safe and brightAcross the waters dark.The river floweth on.VIIThe maiden Luti watchethWhere onwardly they float:That look in her dilating eyesMight seem to drive her boat:Her eyes still mark the constant fire,And kindling unawaresThat hopeful while, she lets a smileCreep silent through her prayers.The river floweth on.VIIIThe smile – where hath it wandered?She riseth from her knee,She holds her dark, wet locks away —There is no light to see!She cries a quick and bitter cry —"Nuleeni, launch me thine!We must have light abroad to-night,For all the wreck of mine."The river floweth on.IX"I do remember watchingBeside this river-bedWhen on my childish knee was leanedMy dying father's head;I turned mine own to keep the tearsFrom falling on his face:What doth it prove when Death and LoveChoose out the self-same place?"The river floweth on.X"They say the dead are joyfulThe death-change here receiving:Who say – ah me! who dare to sayWhere joy comes to the living?Thy boat, Nuleeni! look not sad —Light up the waters rather!I weep no faithless lover whereI wept a loving father."The river floweth on.XI"My heart foretold his falsehoodEre my little boat grew dim;And though I closed mine eyes to dreamThat one last dream of him,They shall not now be wet to seeThe shining vision go:From earth's cold love I look aboveTo the holy house of snow."2The river floweth on.XII"Come thou – thou never knewestA grief, that thou shouldst fear one!Thou wearest still the happy lookThat shines beneath a dear one:Thy humming-bird is in the sun,3Thy cuckoo in the grove,And all the three broad worlds, for theeAre full of wandering love."The river floweth on.XIII"Why, maiden, dost thou loiter?What secret wouldst thou cover?That peepul cannot hide thy boat,And I can guess thy lover;I heard thee sob his name in sleep,It was a name I knew:Come, little maid, be not afraid,But let us prove him true!"The river floweth on.XIVThe little maiden cometh,She cometh shy and slow;I ween she seeth through her lidsThey drop adown so low:Her tresses meet her small bare feet,She stands and speaketh nought,Yet blusheth red as if she saidThe name she only thought.The river floweth on.XVShe knelt beside the water,She lighted up the flame,And o'er her youthful forehead's calmThe fitful radiance came: —"Go, little boat, go soft and safe,And guard the symbol spark!"Soft, safe doth float the little boatAcross the waters dark.The river floweth on.XVIGlad tears her eyes have blinded,The light they cannot reach;She turneth with that sudden smileShe learnt before her speech —"I do not hear his voice, the tearsHave dimmed my light away,But the symbol light will last to-night,The love will last for aye!"The river floweth on.XVIIThen Luti spake behind her,Outspake she bitterly —"By the symbol light that lasts to-night,Wilt vow a vow to me?"Nuleeni gazeth up her face,Soft answer maketh she —"By loves that last when lights are past,I vow that vow to thee!"The river floweth on.XVIIIAn earthly look had LutiThough her voice was deep as prayer —"The rice is gathered from the plainsTo cast upon thine hair:4But when he comes his marriage-bandAround thy neck to throw,Thy bride-smile raise to meet his gaze,And whisper, —There is one betrays,While Luti suffers woe."The river floweth on.XIX"And when in seasons after,Thy little bright-faced sonShall lean against thy knee and askWhat deeds his sire hath done, —Press deeper down thy mother-smileHis glossy curls among,View deep his pretty childish eyes,And whisper, —There is none denies,While Luti speaks of wrong."The river floweth on.XXNuleeni looked in wonder,Yet softly answered she —"By loves that last when lights are past,I vowed that vow to thee:But why glads it thee that a bride-day beBy a word of woe defiled?That a word of wrong take the cradle-songFrom the ear of a sinless child?""Why?" Luti said, and her laugh was dread,And her eyes dilated wild —"That the fair new love may her bridegroom prove,And the father shame the child!"The river floweth on.XXI"Thou flowest still, O river,Thou flowest 'neath the moon;Thy lily hath not changed a leaf,5Thy charmèd lute a tune:He mixed his voice with thine and hisWas all I heard around;But now, beside his chosen bride,I hear the river's sound."The river floweth on.XXII"I gaze upon her beautyThrough the tresses that enwreathe it;The light above thy wave, is hers —My rest, alone beneath it:Oh, give me back the dying lookMy father gave thy water!Give back – and let a little loveO'erwatch his weary daughter!"The river floweth on.XXIII"Give back!" she hath departed —The word is wandering with her;And the stricken maidens hear afarThe step and cry together.Frail symbols? None are frail enowFor mortal joys to borrow! —While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat,She weepeth dark with sorrow.The river floweth on.