The Angel in the House by Coventry Patmore

THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE INTRODUCTION. There could be but one answer to the suggestion of Mr. Coventry Patmore that his “Angel in the House” might usefully have a place in this “National Library.” The suggestion was made with the belief that wide and cheap diffusion would not take from the value of a copyright
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  • 1854
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There could be but one answer to the suggestion of Mr. Coventry Patmore that his “Angel in the House” might usefully have a place in this “National Library.” The suggestion was made with the belief that wide and cheap diffusion would not take from the value of a copyright library edition, while the best use of writing is fulfilled by the spreading of verse dedicated to the sacred love of home. The two parts of the Poem appeared in 1854 and 1856, were afterwards elaborately revised, and have since obtained a permanent place among the Home Books of the English People. Our readers will join, surely, in thanks to the author for the present he has made us.

H. M.





‘Mine is no horse with wings, to gain The region of the spheral chime;
He does but drag a rumbling wain,
Cheer’d by the coupled bells of rhyme; And if at Fame’s bewitching note
My homely Pegasus pricks an ear,
The world’s cart-collar hugs his throat, And he’s too wise to prance or rear.’


Thus ever answer’d Vaughan his Wife,
Who, more than he, desired his fame; But, in his heart, his thoughts were rife How for her sake to earn a name.
With bays poetic three times crown’d, And other college honours won,
He, if he chose, might be renown’d, He had but little doubt, she none;
And in a loftier phrase he talk’d
With her, upon their Wedding-Day, (The eighth), while through the fields they walk’d, Their children shouting by the way.
‘Not careless of the gift of song,
Nor out of love with noble fame,
I, meditating much and long
What I should sing, how win a name, Considering well what theme unsung,
What reason worth the cost of rhyme, Remains to loose the poet’s tongue
In these last days, the dregs of time, Learn that to me, though born so late,
There does, beyond desert, befall (May my great fortune make me great!)
The first of themes, sung last of all. In green and undiscover’d ground,
Yet near where many others sing,
I have the very well-head found
Whence gushes the Pierian Spring.’


Then she: ‘What is it, Dear? The Life Of Arthur, or Jerusalem’s Fall?’
‘Neither: your gentle self, my Wife, And love, that grows from one to all.
And if I faithfully proclaim
Of these the exceeding worthiness, Surely the sweetest wreath of Fame
Shall, to your hope, my brows caress; And if, by virtue of my choice
Of this, the most heart-touching theme That ever tuned a poet’s voice,
I live, as I am bold to dream,
To be delight to many days,
And into silence only cease
When those are still, who shared their bays With Laura and with Beatrice,
Imagine, Love, how learned men
Will deep-conceiv’d devices find, Beyond my purpose and my ken,
An ancient bard of simple mind.
You, Sweet, his Mistress, Wife, and Muse, Were you for mortal woman meant?
Your praises give a hundred clues
To mythological intent!
And, severing thus the truth from trope, In you the Commentators see
Outlines occult of abstract scope,
A future for philosophy!
Your arm’s on mine! these are the meads In which we pass our living days;
There Avon runs, now hid with reeds, Now brightly brimming pebbly bays;
Those are our children’s songs that come With bells and bleatings of the sheep; And there, in yonder English home,
We thrive on mortal food and sleep!’ She laugh’d. How proud she always was
To feel how proud he was of her!
But he had grown distraught, because The Muse’s mood began to stir.


His purpose with performance crown’d, He to his well-pleased Wife rehears’d, When next their Wedding-Day came round,
His leisure’s labour, ‘Book the First.’



I.–The Impossibility.

Lo, love’s obey’d by all. ‘Tis right
That all should know what they obey, Lest erring conscience damp delight,
And folly laugh our joys away.
Thou Primal Love, who grantest wings And voices to the woodland birds,
Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words!

II.–Love’s Really.

I walk, I trust, with open eyes;
I’ve travell’d half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies
Much vanity and some remorse;
I’ve lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho’ match’d like hand and glove; I’ve blush’d for love’s abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love;
Nor unto love, sole mortal thing
Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing,
Unworthy of a serious song;
And love is my reward; for now,
When most of dead’ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow,
Its odour quickens all my brain.

III.–The Poet’s Confidence.

The richest realm of all the earth
Is counted still a heathen land:
Lo, I, like Joshua, now go forth
To give it into Israel’s hand.
I will not hearken blame or praise; For so should I dishonour do
To that sweet Power by which these Lays Alone are lovely, good, and true;
Nor credence to the world’s cries give, Which ever preach and still prevent
Pure passion’s high prerogative
To make, not follow, precedent.
From love’s abysmal ether rare
If I to men have here made known
New truths, they, like new stars, were there Before, though not yet written down.
Moving but as the feelings move,
I run, or loiter with delight,
Or pause to mark where gentle Love
Persuades the soul from height to height. Yet, know ye, though my words are gay
As David’s dance, which Michal scorn’d. If kindly you receive the Lay,
You shall be sweetly help’d and warn’d.



Once more I came to Sarum Close,
With joy half memory, half desire, And breathed the sunny wind that rose
And blew the shadows o’er the Spire, And toss’d the lilac’s scented plumes,
And sway’d the chestnut’s thousand cones, And fill’d my nostrils with perfumes,
And shaped the clouds in waifs and zones, And wafted down the serious strain
Of Sarum bells, when, true to time, I reach’d the Dean’s, with heart and brain That trembled to the trembling chime.


‘Twas half my home, six years ago.
The six years had not alter’d it: Red-brick and ashlar, long and low,
With dormers and with oriels lit. Geranium, lychnis, rose array’d
The windows, all wide open thrown; And some one in the Study play’d
The Wedding-March of Mendelssohn. And there it was I last took leave:
‘Twas Christmas: I remember’d now The cruel girls, who feign’d to grieve,
Took down the evergreens; and how The holly into blazes woke
The fire, lighting the large, low room, A dim, rich lustre of old oak
And crimson velvet’s glowing gloom. No change had touch’d Dean Churchill: kind, By widowhood more than winters bent,
And settled in a cheerful mind,
As still forecasting heaven’s content. Well might his thoughts be fix’d on high, Now she was there! Within her face
Humility and dignity
Were met in a most sweet embrace. She seem’d expressly sent below
To teach our erring minds to see
The rhythmic change of time’s swift flow As part of still eternity.
Her life, all honour, observed, with awe Which cross experience could not mar,
The fiction of the Christian law
That all men honourable are;
And so her smile at once conferr’d
High flattery and benign reproof; And I, a rude boy, strangely stirr’d,
Grew courtly in my own behoof.
The years, so far from doing her wrong, Anointed her with gracious balm,
And made her brows more and more young With wreaths of amaranth and palm.


Was this her eldest, Honor; prude,
Who would not let me pull the swing; Who, kiss’d at Christmas, call’d me rude, And, sobbing low, refused to sing?
How changed! In shape no slender Grace, But Venus; milder than the dove;
Her mother’s air; her Norman face;
Her large sweet eyes, clear lakes of love. Mary I knew. In former time
Ailing and pale, she thought that bliss Was only for a better clime,
And, heavenly overmuch, scorn’d this. I, rash with theories of the right,
Which stretch’d the tether of my Creed, But did not break it, held delight
Half discipline. We disagreed.
She told the Dean I wanted grace.
Now she was kindest of the three, And soft wild roses deck’d her face.
And, what, was this my Mildred, she To herself and all a sweet surprise?
My Pet, who romp’d and roll’d a hoop? I wonder’d where those daisy eyes
Had found their touching curve and droop.


Unmannerly times! But now we sat
Stranger than strangers; till I caught And answer’d Mildred’s smile; and that
Spread to the rest, and freedom brought. The Dean talk’d little, looking on,
Of three such daughters justly vain. What letters they had had from Bonn,
Said Mildred, and what plums from Spain! By Honor I was kindly task’d
To excuse my never coming down
From Cambridge; Mary smiled and ask’d Were Kant and Goethe yet outgrown?
And, pleased, we talk’d the old days o’er; And, parting, I for pleasure sigh’d.
To be there as a friend, (since more), Seem’d then, seems still, excuse for pride; For something that abode endued
With temple-like repose, an air
Of life’s kind purposes pursued
With order’d freedom sweet and fair. A tent pitch’d in a world not right
It seem’d, whose inmates, every one, On tranquil faces bore the light
Of duties beautifully done,
And humbly, though they had few peers, Kept their own laws, which seem’d to be The fair sum of six thousand years’
Traditions of civility.



I.–The Paragon.

When I behold the skies aloft
Passing the pageantry of dreams,
The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft, A couch for nuptial Juno seems,
The ocean broad, the mountains bright, The shadowy vales with feeding herds,
I from my lyre the music smite,
Nor want for justly matching words. All forces of the sea and air,
All interests of hill and plain,
I so can sing, in seasons fair,
That who hath felt may feel again. Elated oft by such free songs,
I think with utterance free to raise That hymn for which the whole world longs, A worthy hymn in woman’s praise;
A hymn bright-noted like a bird’s,
Arousing these song-sleepy times
With rhapsodies of perfect words,
Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes. But when I look on her and hope
To tell with joy what I admire,
My thoughts lie cramp’d in narrow scope, Or in the feeble birth expire;
No mystery of well-woven speech,
No simplest phrase of tenderest fall, No liken’d excellence can reach
Her, thee most excellent of all,
The best half of creation’s best,
Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest,
Its aim and its epitome.
Nay, might I utter my conceit,
‘Twere after all a vulgar song,
For she’s so simply, subtly sweet,
My deepest rapture does her wrong. Yet is it now my chosen task
To sing her worth as Maid and Wife; Nor happier post than this I ask,
To live her laureate all my life. On wings of love uplifted free,
And by her gentleness made great, I’ll teach how noble man should be
To match with such a lovely mate; And then in her may move the more
The woman’s wish to be desired,
(By praise increased), till both shall soar, With blissful emulations fired.
And, as geranium, pink, or rose
Is thrice itself through power of art, So may my happy skill disclose
New fairness even in her fair heart; Until that churl shall nowhere be
Who bends not, awed, before the throne Of her affecting majesty,
So meek, so far unlike our own;
Until (for who may hope too much
From her who wields the powers of love?) Our lifted lives at last shall touch
That happy goal to which they move; Until we find, as darkness rolls
Away, and evil mists dissolve,
That nuptial contrasts are the poles On which the heavenly spheres revolve.

II.–Love at Large.

Whene’er I come where ladies are,
How sad soever I was before,
Though like a ship frost-bound and far Withheld in ice from the ocean’s roar, Third-winter’d in that dreadful dock,
With stiffen’d cordage, sails decay’d, And crew that care for calm and shock
Alike, too dull to be dismay’d,
Yet, if I come where ladies are,
How sad soever I was before,
Then is my sadness banish’d far,
And I am like that ship no more;
Or like that ship if the ice-field splits, Burst by the sudden polar Spring,
And all thank God with their warming wits, And kiss each other and dance and sing, And hoist fresh sails, that make the breeze Blow them along the liquid sea,
Out of the North, where life did freeze, Into the haven where they would be.

III.–Love and Duty.

Anne lived so truly from above,
She was so gentle and so good,
That duty bade me fall in love,
And ‘but for that,’ thought I, ‘I should!’ I worshipp’d Kate with all my will,
In idle moods you seem to see
A noble spirit in a hill,
A human touch about a tree.

IV.–A Distinction.

The lack of lovely pride, in her
Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs, And still the maid I most prefer
Whose care to please with pleasing comes.



One morning, after Church, I walk’d
Alone with Mary on the lawn,
And felt myself, howe’er we talk’d, 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 heal’d, And, with the woman’s eagerness
For amity full-sign’d and seal’d, She, offering up for sacrifice
Her heart’s 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, blush’d, 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 pardon’d o’er and o’er,

‘The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt, For joy’s well-nigh forgotten life,
The restless heart, which, when I knelt, Made of my worship barren strife.

‘Ah, whence to-day’s 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 laugh’d at Mildred’s laugh, which made All melancholy wrong, its mood
Such sweet self-confidence display’d, So glad a sense of present good.


I laugh’d and sigh’d: for I confess
I never went to Ball, or Fete,
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 blossom’d in the light
Of tender personal regards;
And, in the records of my breast,
Red-letter’d, 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 learn’d to droop. Her very faults my fancy fired;
My loving will, so thwarted, grew; And, bent on worship, I admired
Whate’er 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.

CANTO III.–Honoria


I.–The Lover.

He meets, by heavenly chance express, The destined maid; seine 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 love’s fresh-born magnipotence. No smallest boon were bought too dear,
Though barter’d 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-consign’d with lavish will,
They ask but love proportionate;
How swift pursuit by small degrees, Love’s 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 ne’er a jot,
Out-soars all possible desert.

II.–Love a Virtue.

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 heaven’s 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!

III.–The Attainment.

You love? That’s 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 week’s exile
From those fair friends, I rode to see The church-restorings; lounged awhile,
And met the Dean; was ask’d to tea, And found their cousin, Frederick Graham At Honor’s side. Was I concern’d,
If, when she sang, his colour came, That mine, as with a buffet, burn’d?
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 seem’d to see,
The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three.
Each stopp’d to let the other go;
But, time-bound, he arose the first. Stay’d he in Sarum long? If so
I hoped to see him at the Hurst.
No: he had call’d 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 watch’d. Her farewell show’d 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, long’d 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 that’s 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 increas’d. Not that I soar’d 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 sigh’d,
‘That I were worthy to desire!’


As drowsiness my brain reliev’d,
A shrill defiance of all to arms, Shriek’d by the stable-cock, receiv’d
An angry answer from three farms. And, then, I dream’d that I, her knight, A clarion’s haughty pathos heard,
And rode securely to the fight,
Cased in the scarf she had conferr’d; And there, the bristling lists behind,
Saw many, and vanquish’d all I saw Of her unnumber’d cousin-kind,
In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;
Smitten, the warriors somehow turn’d To Sarum choristers, whose song,
Mix’d with celestial sorrow, yearn’d With joy no memory can prolong;
And phantasms as absurd and sweet
Merged each in each in endless chace, And everywhere I seem’d to meet
The haunting fairness of her face.



I.–The Rose of the World.

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 form’d the woman; nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed.
And still with favour singled out,
Marr’d 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 noonday’s azure permanence;
Pure dignity, composure, ease
Declare affections nobly fix’d,
And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d.
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 Nature’s 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 deck’d 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 instinct’s bent
And woman’s very nature, harm),
How amiable and innocent
Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract,
Though crown’d with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact,
Diversity that never tires.

II.–The Tribute.

Boon Nature to the woman bows;
She walks in earth’s whole glory clad, And, chiefest far herself of shows,
All others help her, and are glad: No splendour ‘neath the sky’s proud dome But serves for her familiar wear;
The far-fetch’d 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 beauty’s clear prerogative
To profit so by Eden’s 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 charm’d, 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 nature’s 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 dream’d, ‘Good morning!’ said or sang. Her face
The mirror of the morning seem’d. Her sisters in the garden walk’d,
And would I come? Across the Hall She led me; and we laugh’d and talk’d,
And praised the Flower-show and the Ball; And Mildred’s pinks had gain’d 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 watch’d where, black with scarlet tans, Proud Psyche stood and flash’d 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 oppress’d, To fix’d aims grew, that ask’d for pray’r. I rode home slowly; whip-in-hand
And soil’d bank-notes all ready, stood The Farmer who farm’d all my land,
Except the little Park and Wood;
And with the accustom’d 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 sign’d the lease for seven years more, And bade Good-day; then to my room
I went, and closed and lock’d the door, And cast myself down on my bed,
And there, with many a blissful tear, I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed
The maiden who had grown so dear; Thank’d 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 I’d seem
I’d truly be; I’d never blend
With my delight in her a dream
‘Twould change her cheek to comprehend; And, if she wish’d it, I’d prefer
Another’s 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,
Contemn’d 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.



I.–The Comparison.

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, virtue’s badge; she fails More graciously than he succeeds.
Her spirit, compact of gentleness,
If Heaven postpones or grants her pray’r, Conceives no pride in its success,
And in its failure no despair;
But his, enamour’d of its hurt,
Baffled, blasphemes, or, not denied, Crows from the dunghill of desert,
And wags its ugly wings for pride. He’s never young nor ripe; she grows
More infantine, auroral, mild,
And still the more she lives and knows The lovelier she’s express’d a child.
Say that she wants the will of man
To conquer fame, not check’d 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
Adorn’d with undeficient grace,
Her happy virtues taking hands,
Each smiling in another’s 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.

II.–Love in Tears.

If fate Love’s 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 veil’d 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
She’s drawn herself by what she attracts.



I went not to the Dean’s 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 esteem’d,
How far removed from heavenly right; What pettiness their trouble seem’d,
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 kiss’d her stolen glove,
And sigh’d 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 beggar’s 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 nature’s source, Which is but love, seems most of all
Well-pleased to harry true love’s course; How, many times, it comes to pass
That trifling shades of temperament, Affecting only one, alas,
Not love, but love’s 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 o’ercloud, 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 fulfill’d, we know not where.


While thus I grieved, and kiss’d 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 learn’d and practised Purcell’s 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 wager’d 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 uncrown’d 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 earth’s 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 heart’s 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-sanction’d, 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 Lover’s care;
He’s heart-sick with a longing sweet To make her happy as she’s 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 sigh’d, 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, o’er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
To hurt the hope that she’d be mine.


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


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! she’d 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
Wish’d 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 pray’r Had help’d, should help, my suit, yet he Left all to me, his passive share
Consent and opportunity.
My chance, he hoped, was good: I’d won Some name already; friends and place
Appear’d 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 pass’d away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say
Mine was a choice I could not rue.


He ceased, and gave his hand. He had won (And all my heart was in my word),
From me the affection of a son,
Whichever fortune Heaven conferr’d! Well, well, would I take more wine? Then go To her; she makes tea on the lawn
These fine warm afternoons. And so
We went whither my soul was drawn; And her light-hearted ignorance
Of interest in our discourse
Fill’d me with love, and seem’d to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force,
As, through the flowery mazes sweet, Fronting the wind that flutter’d blythe, And loved her shape, and kiss’d her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach’d, all mildness and young trust, And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love’s feast its choicest gust, A vague, faint augury of despair.




How vilely ’twere to misdeserve
The poet’s gift of perfect speech, In song to try, with trembling nerve,
The limit of its utmost reach,
Only to sound the wretched praise
Of what to-morrow shall not be;
So mocking with immortal bays
The cross-bones of mortality!
I do not thus. My faith is fast
That all the loveliness I sing
Is made to bear the mortal blast,
And blossom in a better Spring.
Doubts of eternity ne’er cross
The Lover’s mind, divinely clear; FOR EVER is the gain or loss
Which maddens him with hope or fear: So trifles serve for his relief,
And trifles make him sick and pale; And yet his pleasure and his grief
Are both on a majestic scale.
The chance, indefinitely small,
Of issue infinitely great,
Eclipses finite interests all,
And has the dignity of fate.


How long shall men deny the flower
Because its roots are in the earth, And crave with tears from God the dower
They have, and have despised as dearth, And scorn as low their human lot,
With frantic pride, too blind to see That standing on the head makes not
Either for ease or dignity!
But fools shall feel like fools to find (Too late inform’d) that angels’ mirth Is one in cause, and mode, and kind
With that which they profaned on earth.



To soothe my heart I, feigning, seized A pen, and, showering tears, declared
My unfeign’d passion; sadly pleased Only to dream that so I dared.
Thus was the fervid truth confess’d, But wild with paradox ran the plea.
As wilfully in hope depress’d,
Yet bold beyond hope’s warranty:


‘O, more than dear, be more than just, And do not deafly shut the door!
I claim no right to speak; I trust
Mercy, not right; yet who has more? For, if more love makes not more fit,
Of claimants here none’s more nor less, Since your great worth does not permit
Degrees in our unworthiness.
Yet, if there’s aught that can be done With arduous labour of long years,
By which you’ll say that you’ll be won, O tell me, and I’ll dry my tears.
Ah, no; if loving cannot move,
How foolishly must labour fail!
The use of deeds is to show love;
If signs suffice let these avail: Your name pronounced brings to my heart
A feeling like the violet’s breath, Which does so much of heaven impart
It makes me amorous of death;
The winds that in the garden toss
The Guelder-roses give me pain,
Alarm me with the dread of loss,
Exhaust me with the dream of gain; I’m troubled by the clouds that move;
Tired by the breath which I respire; And ever, like a torch, my love,
Thus agitated, flames the higher; All’s hard that has not you for goal;
I scarce can move my hand to write, For love engages all my soul,
And leaves the body void of might; The wings of will spread idly, as do
The bird’s that in a vacuum lies; My breast, asleep with dreams of you,
Forgets to breathe, and bursts in sighs; I see no rest this side the grave,
No rest nor hope, from you apart; Your life is in the rose you gave,
Its perfume suffocates my heart;
There’s no refreshment in the breeze; The heaven o’erwhelms me with its blue; I faint beside the dancing seas;
Winds, skies, and waves are only you; The thought or act which not intends
You service seems a sin and shame; In that one only object ends
Conscience, religion, honour, fame. Ah, could I put off love! Could we
Never have met! What calm, what ease! Nay, but, alas, this remedy
Were ten times worse than the disease! For when, indifferent, I pursue
The world’s best pleasures for relief, My heart, still sickening back to you,
Finds none like memory of its grief; And, though ’twere very hell to hear
You felt such misery as I,
All good, save you, were far less dear! Than is that ill with which I die
Where’er I go, wandering forlorn,
You are the world’s love, life, and glee: Oh, wretchedness not to be borne
If she that’s Love should not love me!’


I could not write another word,
Through pity for my own distress; And forth I went, untimely stirr’d
To make my misery more or less.
I went, beneath the heated noon
To where, in her simplicity,
She sate at work; and, as the Moon
On AEtna smiles, she smiled on me. But, now and then, in cheek and eyes,
I saw, or fancied, such a glow
As when, in summer-evening skies,
Some say, ‘It lightens,’ some say, ‘No.’ ‘Honoria,’ I began–No more.
The Dean, by ill or happy hap,
Came home; and Wolf burst in before, And put his nose upon her lap.




What’s that, which, ere I spake, was gone? So joyful and intense a spark
That, whilst o’erhead the wonder shone, The day, before but dull, grew dark.
I do not know; but this I know,
That, had the splendour lived a year, The truth that I some heavenly show
Did see, could not be now more clear. This know I too: might mortal breath
Express the passion then inspired, Evil would die a natural death,
And nothing transient be desired; And error from the soul would pass,
And leave the senses pure and strong As sunbeams. But the best, alas,
Has neither memory nor tongue!


An idle poet, here and there,
Looks round him; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair,
Is duller than a witling’s jest.
Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget; but, either way,
That and the Child’s unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day.


Not in the crises of events,
Of compass’d hopes, or fears fulfill’d, Or acts of gravest consequence,
Are life’s delight and depth reveal’d. The day of days was not the day;
That went before, or was postponed; The night Death took our lamp away
Was not the night on which we groan’d. I drew my bride, beneath the moon,
Across my threshold; happy hour!
But, ah, the walk that afternoon
We saw the water-flags in flower!


Lo, there, whence love, life, light are pour’d, Veil’d with impenetrable rays,
Amidst the presence of the Lord
Co-equal Wisdom laughs and plays. Female and male God made the man;
His image is the whole, not half; And in our love we dimly scan
The love which is between Himself.


Spirit of Knowledge, grant me this:
A simple heart and subtle wit
To praise the thing whose praise it is That all which can be praised is it.



Breakfast enjoy’d, ‘mid hush of boughs And perfumes thro’ the windows blown;
Brief worship done, which still endows The day with beauty not its own;
With intervening pause, that paints Each act with honour, life with calm
(As old processions of the Saints
At every step have wands of palm), We rose; the ladies went to dress,
And soon return’d with smiles; and then, Plans fix’d, to which the Dean said ‘Yes,’ Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain. We past my house (observed with praise
By Mildred, Mary acquiesced),
And left the old and lazy greys
Below the hill, and walk’d the rest.


The moods of love are like the wind,
And none knows whence or why they rise: I ne’er before felt heart and mind
So much affected through mine eyes. How cognate with the flatter’d air,
How form’d for earth’s familiar zone, She moved; how feeling and how fair
For others’ pleasure and her own! And, ah, the heaven of her face!
How, when she laugh’d, I seem’d to see The gladness of the primal grace,
And how, when grave, its dignity! Of all she was, the least not less
Delighted the devoted eye;
No fold or fashion of her dress
Her fairness did not sanctify.
I could not else than grieve. What cause? Was I not blest? Was she not there?
Likely my own? Ah, that it was:
How like seem’d ‘likely’ to despair!


And yet to see her so benign,
So honourable and womanly,
In every maiden kindness mine,
And full of gayest courtesy,
Was pleasure so without alloy,
Such unreproved, sufficient bliss, I almost wish’d, the while, that joy
Might never further go than this. So much it was as now to walk,
And humbly by her gentle side
Observe her smile and hear her talk, Could it be more to call her Bride?
I feign’d her won: the mind finite, Puzzled and fagg’d by stress and strain To comprehend the whole delight,
Made bliss more hard to bear than pain. All good, save heart to hold, so summ’d
And grasp’d, the thought smote, like a knife, How laps’d mortality had numb’d
The feelings to the feast of life; How passing good breathes sweetest breath; And love itself at highest reveals
More black than bright, commending death By teaching how much life conceals.


But happier passions these subdued,
When from the close and sultry lane, With eyes made bright by what they view’d, We emerged upon the mounded Plain.
As to the breeze a flag unfurls,
My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced By those same gusts that shook her curls And vex’d the ribbon at her waist.
To the future cast I future cares;
Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free, And laugh’d at the presumptuous airs
That with her muslins folded me;
Till, one vague rack along my sky,
The thought that she might ne’er be mine Lay half forgotten by the eye
So feasted with the sun’s warm shine.


By the great stones we chose our ground For shade; and there, in converse sweet, Took luncheon. On a little mound
Sat the three ladies; at their feet I sat; and smelt the heathy smell,
Pluck’d harebells, turn’d the telescope To the country round. My life went well, For once, without the wheels of hope;
And I despised the Druid rocks
That scowl’d their chill gloom from above, Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks
The lightness of immortal love.
And, as we talk’d, my spirit quaff’d The sparkling winds; the candid skies
At our untruthful strangeness laugh’d; I kiss’d with mine her smiling eyes;
And sweet familiarness and awe
Prevail’d that hour on either part, And in the eternal light I saw
That she was mine; though yet my heart Could not conceive, nor would confess
Such contentation; and there grew More form and more fair stateliness
Than heretofore between us two.




Man must be pleased; but him to please Is woman’s pleasure; down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
She casts her best, she flings herself. How often flings for nought, and yokes
Her heart to an icicle or whim,
Whose each impatient word provokes
Another, not from her, but him;
While she, too gentle even to force His penitence by kind replies,
Waits by, expecting his remorse,
With pardon in her pitying eyes;
And if he once, by shame oppress’d, A comfortable word confers,
She leans and weeps against his breast, And seems to think the sin was hers;
And whilst his love has any life,
Or any eye to see her charms,
At any time, she’s still his wife,
Dearly devoted to his arms;
She loves with love that cannot tire; And when, ah woe, she loves alone,
Through passionate duty love springs higher, As grass grows taller round a stone.


Is nature in thee too spiritless,
Ignoble, impotent, and dead,
To prize her love and loveliness
The more for being thy daily bread? And art thou one of that vile crew
Which see no splendour in the sun, Praising alone the good that’s new,
Or over, or not yet begun?
And has it dawn’d on thy dull wits
That love warms many as soft a nest, That, though swathed round with benefits, Thou art not singularly blest?
And fail thy thanks for gifts divine, The common food of many a heart,
Because they are not only thine?
Beware lest in the end thou art
Cast for thy pride forth from the fold, Too good to feel the common grace
Of blissful myriads who behold
For evermore the Father’s face.


Give thanks. It is not time misspent; Worst fare this betters, and the best, Wanting this natural condiment,
Breeds crudeness, and will not digest. The grateful love the Giver’s law;
But those who eat, and look no higher, From sin or doubtful sanction draw
The biting sauce their feasts require. Give thanks for nought, if you’ve no more, And, having all things, do not doubt
That nought, with thanks, is blest before Whate’er the world can give, without.


Endow the fool with sun and moon,
Being his, he holds them mean and low, But to the wise a little boon
Is great, because the giver’s so.



I stood by Honor and the Dean,
They seated in the London train.
A month from her! yet this had been, Ere now, without such bitter pain.
But neighbourhood makes parting light, And distance remedy has none;
Alone, she near, I felt as might
A blind man sitting in the sun;
She near, all for the time was well; Hope’s self, when we were far apart,
With lonely feeling, like the smell Of heath on mountains, fill’d my heart. To see her seem’d delight’s full scope,
And her kind smile, so clear of care, Ev’n then, though darkening all my hope, Gilded the cloud of my despair.


She had forgot to bring a book.
I lent one; blamed the print for old; And did not tell her that she took
A Petrarch worth its weight in gold. I hoped she’d lose it; for my love
Was grown so dainty, high, and nice, It prized no luxury above
The sense of fruitless sacrifice.


The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death, Link catching link, the long array,
With ponderous pulse and fiery breath, Proud of its burthen, swept away;
And through the lingering crowd I broke, Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick, Beheld, far off, the little smoke
Along the landscape kindling quick.


What should I do, where should I go,
Now she was gone, my love! for mine She was, whatever here below
Cross’d or usurp’d my right divine. Life, without her, was vain and gross,
The glory from the world was gone, And on the gardens of the Close
As on Sahara shone the sun.
Oppress’d with her departed grace,
My thoughts on ill surmises fed;
The harmful influence of the place
She went to fill’d my soul with dread. She, mixing with the people there,
Might come back alter’d, having caught The foolish, fashionable air
Of knowing all, and feeling nought. Or, giddy with her beauty’s praise,
She’d scorn our simple country life, Its wholesome nights and tranquil days.
And would not deign to be my Wife. ‘My Wife,’ ‘my Wife,’ ah, tenderest word! How oft, as fearful she might hear,
Whispering that name of ‘Wife,’ I heard The chiming of the inmost sphere.


I pass’d the home of my regret.
The clock was striking in the hall, And one sad window open yet,
Although the dews began to fall.
Ah, distance show’d her beauty’s scope! How light of heart and innocent
That loveliness which sicken’d hope And wore the world for ornament!
How perfectly her life was framed;
And, thought of in that passionate mood, How her affecting graces shamed
The vulgar life that was but good!


I wonder’d, would her bird be fed,
Her rose-plots water’d, she not by; Loading my breast with angry dread
Of light, unlikely injury.
So, fill’d with love and fond remorse, I paced the Close, its every part
Endow’d with reliquary force
To heal and raise from death my heart. How tranquil and unsecular
The precinct! Once, through yonder gate, I saw her go, and knew from far
Her love-lit form and gentle state. Her dress had brush’d this wicket; here
She turn’d her face, and laugh’d, with light Like moonbeams on a wavering mere.
Weary beforehand of the night,
I went; the blackbird, in the wood
Talk’d by himself, and eastward grew In heaven the symbol of my mood,
Where one bright star engross’d the blue.




Would 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 less
That 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 see
Than 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 disown
Those 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 meet Than 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 field Carries 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 such
An 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 sings In 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.


Love, 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.



I 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 birds
Cheep’d, ‘Here am I, Sweet; are you there?’ On Avon’s misty flats the herds
Expected, comfortless, the day,
Which slowly fired the clouds above; The cock scream’d, somewhere far away;
In sleep the matrimonial dove
Was 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.


My pray’rs for her being done, I took Occasion by the quiet hour
To find and know, by Rule and Book, The rights of love’s beloved power.


Fronting 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 destroy The folly which at times desired
A sanction for so great a joy.


Thenceforth, 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 light
Without 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 soar Reasons 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 vain
To her whose nature’s lighter fall
Made no divorce of heart from brain.


I 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.


Her soft voice, singularly heard
Beside me, in her chant, withstood The 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 part
Winnow’d away and purified
By the vibrations of my heart.




The woman’s gentle mood o’erstept
Withers my love, that lightly scans The 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,