The Angel in the House

CANTO X

Church to Church

PRELUDES

IThe Joyful WisdomWould Wisdom for herself be woo’d,   And wake the foolish from his dream,She must be glad as well as good,   And must not only be, but seem.Beauty and joy are hers by right;   And, knowing this, I wonder lessThat she’s so scorn’d, when falsely dight   In misery and ugliness.What’s that which Heaven to man endears,   And that which eyes no sooner seeThan the heart says, with floods of tears,   ‘Ah, that’s the thing which I would be!’Not childhood, full of frown and fret;   Not youth, impatient to disownThose visions high, which to forget   Were worse than never to have known;Not worldlings, in whose fair outside   Nor courtesy nor justice fails,Thanks to cross-pulling vices tied,   Like Samson’s foxes, by the tails;Not poets; real things are dreams,   When dreams are as realities,And boasters of celestial gleams   Go stumbling aye for want of eyes;Not patriots or people’s men,   In whom two worse-match’d evils meetThan ever sought Adullam’s den,   Base conscience and a high conceit;Not new-made saints, their feelings iced,   Their joy in man and nature gone,Who sing ‘O easy yoke of Christ!’   But find ’tis hard to get it on;Not great men, even when they’re good;   The good man whom the time makes great,By some disgrace of chance or blood,   God fails not to humiliate;Not these: but souls, found here and there,   Oases in our waste of sin,Where everything is well and fair,   And Heav’n remits its discipline;Whose sweet subdual of the world   The worldling scarce can recognise,And ridicule, against it hurl’d,   Drops with a broken sting and dies;Who nobly, if they cannot know   Whether a ’scutcheon’s dubious fieldCarries a falcon or a crow,   Fancy a falcon on the shield;Yet, ever careful not to hurt   God’s honour, who creates success,Their praise of even the best desert   Is but to have presumed no less;Who, should their own life plaudits bring,   Are simply vex’d at heart that suchAn easy, yea, delightful thing   Should move the minds of men so much.They live by law, not like the fool,   But like the bard, who freely singsIn strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,   And finds in them, not bonds, but wings.Postponing still their private ease   To courtly custom, appetite,Subjected to observances,   To banquet goes with full delight;Nay, continence and gratitude   So cleanse their lives from earth’s alloy,They taste, in Nature’s common food,   Nothing but spiritual joy.They shine like Moses in the face,   And teach our hearts, without the rod,That God’s grace is the only grace,   And all grace is the grace of God.IIThe DevicesLove, kiss’d by Wisdom, wakes twice Love,   And Wisdom is, thro’ loving, wise.Let Dove and Snake, and Snake and Dove,   This Wisdom’s be, that Love’s device.

GOING TO CHURCH

1I woke at three; for I was bid   To breakfast with the Dean at nine,And thence to Church.  My curtain slid,   I found the dawning Sunday fine,And could not rest, so rose.  The air   Was dark and sharp; the roosted birdsCheep’d, ‘Here am I, Sweet; are you there?’   On Avon’s misty flats the herdsExpected, comfortless, the day,   Which slowly fired the clouds above;The cock scream’d, somewhere far away;   In sleep the matrimonial doveWas crooning; no wind waked the wood,   Nor moved the midnight river-damps,Nor thrill’d the poplar; quiet stood   The chestnut with its thousand lamps;The moon shone yet, but weak and drear,   And seem’d to watch, with bated breath,The landscape, all made sharp and clear   By stillness, as a face by death.2My pray’rs for her being done, I took   Occasion by the quiet hourTo find and know, by Rule and Book,   The rights of love’s beloved power.3Fronting the question without ruth,   Nor ignorant that, evermore,If men will stoop to kiss the Truth,   She lifts them higher than before,I, from above, such light required   As now should once for all destroyThe folly which at times desired   A sanction for so great a joy.4Thenceforth, and through that pray’r, I trod   A path with no suspicions dim.I loved her in the name of God,   And for the ray she was of Him;I ought to admire much more, not less   Her beauty was a godly grace;The mystery of loveliness,   Which made an altar of her face,Was not of the flesh, though that was fair,   But a most pure and living lightWithout a name, by which the rare   And virtuous spirit flamed to sight.If oft, in love, effect lack’d cause   And cause effect, ’twere vain to soarReasons to seek for that which was   Reason itself, or something more.My joy was no idolatry   Upon the ends of the vile earth bent,For when I loved her most then I   Most yearn’d for more divine content.That other doubt, which, like a ghost,   In the brain’s darkness haunted me,Was thus resolved: Him loved I most,   But her I loved most sensibly.Lastly, my giddiest hope allow’d   No selfish thought, or earthly smirch;And forth I went, in peace, and proud   To take my passion into Church;Grateful and glad to think that all   Such doubts would seem entirely vainTo her whose nature’s lighter fall   Made no divorce of heart from brain.5I found them, with exactest grace   And fresh as Spring, for Spring attired;And by the radiance in her face   I saw she felt she was admired;And, through the common luck of love,   A moment’s fortunate delay,To fit the little lilac glove,   Gave me her arm; and I and they(They true to this and every hour,   As if attended on by Time),Enter’d the Church while yet the tower   Was noisy with the finish’d chime.6Her soft voice, singularly heard   Beside me, in her chant, withstoodThe roar of voices, like a bird   Sole warbling in a windy wood;And, when we knelt, she seem’d to be   An angel teaching me to pray;And all through the high Liturgy   My spirit rejoiced without allay,Being, for once, borne clearly above   All banks and bars of ignorance,By this bright spring-tide of pure love,   And floated in a free expanse,Whence it could see from side to side,   The obscurity from every partWinnow’d away and purified   By the vibrations of my heart.

CANTO XI

The Dance

PRELUDES

IThe Daughter of EveThe woman’s gentle mood o’erstept   Withers my love, that lightly scansThe rest, and does in her accept   All her own faults, but none of man’s.As man I cannot judge her ill,   Or honour her fair station less,Who, with a woman’s errors, still   Preserves a woman’s gentleness;For thus I think, if one I see   Who disappoints my high desire,‘How admirable would she be,   Could she but know how I admire!’Or fail she, though from blemish clear,   To charm, I call it my defect;And so my thought, with reverent fear   To err by doltish disrespect,Imputes love’s great regard, and says,   ‘Though unapparent ’tis to me,Be sure this Queen some other sways   With well-perceiv’d supremacy.’Behold the worst!  Light from above   On the blank ruin writes ‘Forbear!Her first crime was unguarded love,   And all the rest, perhaps, despair.’Discrown’d, dejected, but not lost,   O, sad one, with no more a nameOr place in all the honour’d host   Of maiden and of matron fame,Grieve on; but, if thou grievest right,   ’Tis not that these abhor thy state,Nor would’st thou lower the least the height   Which makes thy casting down so great.Good is thy lot in its degree;   For hearts that verily repentAre burden’d with impunity   And comforted by chastisement.Sweet patience sanctify thy woes!   And doubt not but our God is just,Albeit unscathed thy traitor goes,   And thou art stricken to the dust.That penalty’s the best to bear   Which follows soonest on the sin;And guilt’s a game where losers fare   Better than those who seem to win.IIAurea Dicta’Tis truth (although this truth’s a star   Too deep-enskied for all to see),As poets of grammar, lovers are   The fountains of morality.Child, would you shun the vulgar doom,   In love disgust, in death despair?Know, death must come and love must come,   And so for each your soul prepare.Who pleasure follows pleasure slays;   God’s wrath upon himself he wreaks;But all delights rejoice his days   Who takes with thanks, and never seeks.The wrong is made and measured by   The right’s inverted dignity.Change love to shame, as love is high   So low in hell your bed shall be.How easy to keep free from sin!   How hard that freedom to recall!For dreadful truth it is that men   Forget the heavens from which they fall.Lest sacred love your soul ensnare,   With pious fancy still infer‘How loving and how lovely fair   Must He be who has fashion’d her!’Become whatever good you see,   Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from viewThe grace of which you may not be   The subject and spectator too.Love’s perfect blossom only blows   Where noble manners veil defectAngels maybe familiar; those   Who err each other must respect.Love blabb’d of is a great decline;   A careless word unsanctions sense;But he who casts Heaven’s truth to swine   Consummates all incontinence.Not to unveil before the gaze   Of an imperfect sympathyIn aught we are, is the sweet praise   And the main sum of modesty.

THE DANCE

1‘My memory of Heaven awakes!   She’s not of the earth, although her light,As lantern’d by her body, makes   A piece of it past bearing bright.So innocently proud and fair   She is, that Wisdom sings for gleeAnd Folly dies, breathing one air   With such a bright-cheek’d chastity;And though her charms are a strong law   Compelling all men to admire,They go so clad with lovely awe   None but the noble dares desire.He who would seek to make her his   Will comprehend that souls of graceOwn sweet repulsion, and that ’tis   The quality of their embraceTo be like the majestic reach   Of coupled suns, that, from afar,Mingle their mutual spheres, while each   Circles the twin obsequious star;And, in the warmth of hand to hand,   Of heart to heart, he’ll vow to noteAnd reverently understand   How the two spirits shine remote;And ne’er to numb fine honour’s nerve,   Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,Nor fail by courtesies to observe   The space which makes attraction felt;Nor cease to guard like life the sense   Which tells him that the embrace of loveIs o’er a gulf of difference   Love cannot sound, nor death remove.’2This learn’d I, watching where she danced,   Native to melody and light,And now and then toward me glanced,   Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight.3Ah, love to speak was impotent,   Till music did a tongue confer,And I ne’er knew what music meant,   Until I danced to it with her.Too proud of the sustaining power   Of my, till then, unblemish’d joy.My passion, for reproof, that hour   Tasted mortality’s alloy,And bore me down an eddying gulf;   I wish’d the world might run to wreck,So I but once might fling myself   Obliviously about her neck.I press’d her hand, by will or chance   I know not, but I saw the raysWithdrawn, which did till then enhance   Her fairness with its thanks for praise.I knew my spirit’s vague offence   Was patent to the dreaming eyeAnd heavenly tact of innocence,   And did for fear my fear defy,And ask’d her for the next dance.  ‘Yes.’   ‘No,’ had not fall’n with half the force.She was fulfill’d with gentleness,   And I with measureless remorse;And, ere I slept, on bended knee   I own’d myself, with many a tear,Unseasonable, disorderly,   And a deranger of love’s sphere;Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,   We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;And, rising, found its brightness all   The brighter through the tears of ruth.4Nor was my hope that night made less,   Though order’d, humbled, and reproved;Her farewell did her heart express   As much, but not with anger, moved.My trouble had my soul betray’d;   And, in the night of my despair,My love, a flower of noon afraid,   Divulged its fulness unaware.I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,   Could my glad mind have creditedThat influence had to me been given   To affect her so, I should have saidThat, though she from herself conceal’d   Love’s felt delight and fancied harm,They made her face the jousting field   Of joy and beautiful alarm.

CANTO XII

The Abdication

PRELUDES

IThe ChaceShe wearies with an ill unknown;   In sleep she sobs and seems to float,A water-lily, all alone   Within a lonely castle-moat;And as the full-moon, spectral, lies   Within the crescent’s gleaming arms,The present shows her heedless eyes   A future dim with vague alarms.She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,   For, life-in-life not yet begun,Too many are its mysteries   For thought to fix on any one.She’s told that maidens are by youths   Extremely honour’d and desired;And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,   What bliss to be so much admired!’The suitors come; she sees them grieve;   Her coldness fills them with despair;She’d pity if she could believe;   She’s sorry that she cannot care.But who now meets her on her way?   Comes he as enemy or friend,Or both?  Her bosom seems to say,   He cannot pass, and there an end.Whom does he love?  Does he confer   His heart on worth that answers his?Or is he come to worship her?   She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!Advancing stepless, quick, and still,   As in the grass a serpent glides,He fascinates her fluttering will,   Then terrifies with dreadful strides.At first, there’s nothing to resist;   He fights with all the forms of peace;He comes about her like a mist,   With subtle, swift, unseen increase;And then, unlook’d for, strikes amain   Some stroke that frightens her to death,And grows all harmlessness again,   Ere she can cry, or get her breath.At times she stops, and stands at bay;   But he, in all more strong than she,Subdues her with his pale dismay,   Or more admired audacity.She plans some final, fatal blow,   But when she means with frowns to kill,He looks as if he loved her so,   She smiles to him against her will.How sweetly he implies her praise!   His tender talk, his gentle tone,The manly worship in his gaze,   They nearly make her heart his own.With what an air he speaks her name;   His manner always recollectsHer sex, and still the woman’s claim   Is taught its scope by his respects.Her charms, perceived to prosper first   In his beloved advertencies,When in her glass they are rehearsed,   Prove his most powerful allies.Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,   When a bold youth so swift pursues,And siege of tenderest courtesy,   With hope perseverant, still renews!Why fly so fast?  Her flatter’d breast   Thanks him who finds her fair and good;She loves her fears; veil’d joys arrest   The foolish terrors of her blood;By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,   Vanquish’d, takes warmth from his desire;She makes it more, with hidden art,   And fuels love’s late dreaded fire.The generous credit he accords   To all the signs of good in herRedeems itself; his praiseful words   The virtues they impute confer.Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,   She’s three times gentler than before;He gains a right to call her his,   Now she through him is so much more;’Tis heaven where’er she turns her head;   ’Tis music when she talks; ’tis airOn which, elate, she seems to tread,   The convert of a gladder sphere!Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,   Behold his tokens next her breast,At all his words and sighs perceived   Against its blythe upheaval press’d!But still she flies.  Should she be won,   It must not be believed or thoughtShe yields; she’s chased to death, undone,   Surprised, and violently caught.IIDeniedThe storm-cloud, whose portentous shade   Fumes from a core of smother’d fire,His livery is whose worshipp’d maid   Denies herself to his desire.Ah, grief that almost crushes life,   To lie upon his lonely bed,And fancy her another’s wife!   His brain is flame, his heart is lead.Sinking at last, by nature’s course,   Cloak’d round with sleep from his despair,He does but sleep to gather force   That goes to his exhausted care.He wakes renew’d for all the smart.   His only Love, and she is wed!His fondness comes about his heart,   As milk comes, when the babe is dead.The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,   His own allegiant thoughts despise;And far into the shining morn   Lazy with misery he lies.IIIThe ChurlThis marks the Churl: when spousals crown   His selfish hope, he finds the grace,Which sweet love has for ev’n the clown,   Was not in the woman, but the chace.

THE ABDICATION

1From little signs, like little stars,   Whose faint impression on the senseThe very looking straight at mars,   Or only seen by confluence;From instinct of a mutual thought,   Whence sanctity of manners flow’d;From chance unconscious, and from what   Concealment, overconscious, show’d;Her hand’s less weight upon my arm,   Her lowlier mien; that match’d with this;I found, and felt with strange alarm   I stood committed to my bliss.2I grew assured, before I ask’d,   That she’d be mine without reserve,And in her unclaim’d graces bask’d,   At leisure, till the time should serve,With just enough of dread to thrill   The hope, and make it trebly dear;Thus loth to speak the word to kill   Either the hope or happy fear.3Till once, through lanes returning late,   Her laughing sisters lagg’d behind;And, ere we reach’d her father’s gate,   We paused with one presentient mind;And, in the dim and perfumed mist,   Their coming stay’d, who, friends to me,And very women, loved to assist   Love’s timid opportunity.4Twice rose, twice died my trembling word;   The faint and frail Cathedral chimesSpake time in music, and we heard   The chafers rustling in the limes.Her dress, that touch’d me where I stood,   The warmth of her confided arm,Her bosom’s gentle neighbourhood,   Her pleasure in her power to charm;Her look, her love, her form, her touch,   The least seem’d most by blissful turn,Blissful but that it pleased too much,   And taught the wayward soul to yearn.It was as if a harp with wires   Was traversed by the breath I drew;And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,   She, answering, own’d that she loved too.5Honoria was to be my bride!   The hopeless heights of hope were scaledThe summit won, I paused and sigh’d,   As if success itself had fail’d.It seem’d as if my lips approach’d   To touch at Tantalus’ reward,And rashly on Eden life encroach’d,   Half-blinded by the flaming sword.The whole world’s wealthiest and its best,   So fiercely sought, appear’d when found,Poor in its need to be possess’d,   Poor from its very want of bound.My queen was crouching at my side,   By love unsceptred and brought low,Her awful garb of maiden pride   All melted into tears like snow;The mistress of my reverent thought,   Whose praise was all I ask’d of fame,In my close-watch’d approval sought   Protection as from danger and blame;Her soul, which late I loved to invest   With pity for my poor desert,Buried its face within my breast,   Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.

Book II

THE PROLOGUE

1Her sons pursue the butterflies,   Her baby daughter mocks the dovesWith throbbing coo; in his fond eyes   She’s Venus with her little Loves;Her footfall dignifies the earth,   Her form’s the native-land of grace,And, lo, his coming lights with mirth   Its court and capital her face!Full proud her favour makes her lord,   And that her flatter’d bosom knows.She takes his arm without a word,   In lanes of laurel and of rose.Ten years to-day has she been his.   He but begins to understand,He says, the dignity and bliss   She gave him when she gave her hand.She, answering, says, he disenchants   The past, though that was perfect; heRejoins, the present nothing wants   But briefness to be ecstasy.He lands her charms; her beauty’s glow   Wins from the spoiler Time new rays;Bright looks reply, approving so   Beauty’s elixir vitæ, praise.Upon a beech he bids her mark   Where, ten years since, he carved her name;It grows there with the growing bark,   And in his heart it grows the same.For that her soft arm presses his   Close to her fond, maternal breast;He tells her, each new kindness is   The effectual sum of all the rest!And, whilst the cushat, mocking, coo’d,   They blest the days they had been wed,At cost of those in which he woo’d,   Till everything was three times said;And words were growing vain, when Briggs,   Factotum, Footman, Butler, Groom,Who press’d the cyder, fed the pigs,   Preserv’d the rabbits, drove the brougham,And help’d, at need, to mow the lawns,   And sweep the paths and thatch the hay,Here brought the Post down, Mrs. Vaughan’s   Sole rival, but, for once, to-day,Scarce look’d at; for the ‘Second Book,’   Till this tenth festival kept close,Was thus commenced, while o’er them shook   The laurel married with the rose.2‘The pulse of War, whose bloody heats   Sane purposes insanely work,Now with fraternal frenzy beats,   And binds the Christian to the Turk,And shrieking fifes’—3      But, with a roar,   In rush’d the Loves; the tallest roll’dA hedgehog from his pinafore,   Which saved his fingers; Baby, bold,Touch’d it, and stared, and scream’d for life,   And stretch’d her hand for Vaughan to kiss,Who hugg’d his Pet, and ask’d his wife,   ‘Is this for love, or love for this?’But she turn’d pale, for, lo, the beast,   Found stock-still in the rabbit-trap,And feigning so to be deceased,   And laid by Frank upon her lap,Unglobed himself, and show’d his snout,   And fell, scatt’ring the Loves amain,With shriek, with laughter, and with shout;   And, peace at last restored again,The bard, who this untimely hitch   Bore with a calm magnanimous,(The hedgehog rolled into a ditch,   And Venus sooth’d), proceeded thus:

CANTO I

Accepted

PRELUDES

IThe Song of SongsThe pulse of War, whose bloody heats   Sane purposes insanely work,Now with fraternal frenzy beats,   And binds the Christian to the Turk,And shrieking fifes and braggart flags,   Through quiet England, teach our breathThe courage corporate that drags   The coward to heroic death.Too late for song!  Who henceforth sings,   Must fledge his heavenly flight with moreSong-worthy and heroic things   Than hasty, home-destroying war.While might and right are not agreed,   And battle thus is yet to wage,So long let laurels be the meed   Of soldier as of poet sage;But men expect the Tale of Love,   And weary of the Tale of Hate;Lift me, O Muse, myself above,   And let the world no longer wait!IIThe KitesI saw three Cupids (so I dream’d),   Who made three kites, on which were drawn,In letters that like roses gleam’d,   ‘Plato,’ ‘Anacreon,’ and ‘Vaughan.’The boy who held by Plato tried   His airy venture first; all sail,It heav’nward rush’d till scarce descried,   Then pitch’d and dropp’d for want of tail.Anacreon’s Love, with shouts of mirth   That pride of spirit thus should fall,To his kite link’d a lump of earth,   And, lo, it would not soar at all.Last, my disciple freighted his   With a long streamer made of flowers,The children of the sod, and this   Rose in the sun, and flew for hours.IIIOrpheusThe music of the Sirens found   Ulysses weak, though cords were strong;But happier Orpheus stood unbound,   And shamed it with a sweeter song.His mode be mine.  Of Heav’n I ask,   May I, with heart-persuading might,Pursue the Poet’s sacred task   Of superseding faith by sight,Till ev’n the witless Gadarene,   Preferring Christ to swine, shall knowThat life is sweetest when it’s clean.   To prouder folly let me showEarth by divine light made divine;   And let the saints, who hear my word,Say, ‘Lo, the clouds begin to shine   About the coming of the Lord!’IVNearest the DearestTill Eve was brought to Adam, he   A solitary desert trod,Though in the great society   Of nature, angels, and of God.If one slight column counterweighs   The ocean, ’tis the Maker’s law,Who deems obedience better praise   Than sacrifice of erring awe.VPerspectiveWhat seems to us for us is true.   The planet has no proper light,And yet, when Venus is in view,   No primal star is half so bright.

ACCEPTED

1What fortune did my heart foretell?   What shook my spirit, as I woke,Like the vibration of a bell   Of which I had not heard the stroke?Was it some happy vision shut   From memory by the sun’s fresh ray?Was it that linnet’s song; or but   A natural gratitude for day?Or the mere joy the senses weave,   A wayward ecstasy of life?Then I remember’d, yester-eve   I won Honoria for my Wife.2Forth riding, while as yet the day   Was dewy, watching Sarum Spire,Still beckoning me along my way,   And growing every minute higher,I reach’d the Dean’s.  One blind was down,   Though nine then struck.  My bride to be!And had she rested ill, my own,   With thinking (oh, my heart!) of me?I paced the streets; a pistol chose,   To guard my now important lifeWhen riding late from Sarum Close;   At noon return’d.  Good Mrs. Fife,To my, ‘The Dean, is he at home?’   Said, ‘No, sir; but Miss Honor is;’And straight, not asking if I’d come,   Announced me, ‘Mr. Felix, Miss,’To Mildred, in the Study.  There   We talk’d, she working.  We agreedThe day was fine; the Fancy-Fair   Successful; ‘Did I ever readDe Genlis?’  ‘Never.’  ‘Do!  She heard   I was engaged.’  ‘To whom?’  ‘Miss FryWas it the fact?’  ‘No!’  ‘On my word?’   ‘What scandal people talk’d!’  ‘Would IHold out this skein of silk.’  So pass’d   I knew not how much time away.‘How were her sisters?’  ‘Well.’  At last   I summon’d heart enough to say,‘I hoped to have seen Miss Churchill too.’   ‘Miss Churchill, Felix!  What is this?I said, and now I find ’tis true,   Last night you quarrell’d!  Here she is.’3She came, and seem’d a morning rose   When ruffling rain has paled its blush;Her crown once more was on her brows;   And, with a faint, indignant flush,And fainter smile, she gave her hand,   But not her eyes, then sate apart,As if to make me understand   The honour of her vanquish’d heart.But I drew humbly to her side;   And she, well pleased, perceiving meLiege ever to the noble pride   Of her unconquer’d majesty,Once and for all put it away;   The faint flush pass’d; and, thereupon,Her loveliness, which rather lay   In light than colour, smiled and shone,Till sick was all my soul with bliss;   Or was it with remorse and ireOf such a sanctity as this   Subdued by love to my desire?