110. EBB to George Goodin Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 1, 98–100.
To my sweet George
On his birthday
Hope End July 15th 1820. [1]
Where Helicons soft streamlets glide
Oer the gently blooming shore
Rolling its pure sparkling tide
Its sweet rasplendant [sic] silv’ry fountain
Softly murmuringly oer
The flowery turf of that blest mountain!
And near, where those pure waters gush
The margin of that heavenly river
The sweetly budding flow’rets blush
Breathing incense thus, for ever.!!
She stood aloft, the Goddess Queen
With downcast eye and pensive mien;
The muse who loves the tender sigh
The tear which trembles in the eye
In all the sympathy of woe!
Twas hers to swell the mournful heart
Dispair grief sorrow to impart
And bid the pure drop flow–
Within her lovely hand she bore
The soul inspiring lyre!
But ah! in her cold grasp no more
Those strings had power to fire!
The lay no longer now beguiled
But ofttimes oer the silver wire
The wind abruptly broke,
But in that thrilling chord awoke
A strain so desolately wild,
That all appalled the Sisters stand
And none dare snatch it from her hand!
2
For as Calliope lay sleeping
Rest upon the soft turf seeking,
Urania from her sacred breast
Snatched the celestial lyre–
No spirit in that hour of rest
The injured Maid could fire
Nor did she ope her heavy eyes
Till that pale Muse had ta’en the glorious prize!
3
And thus she stood and boldly dared
(Tho weak, unarmed, and unprepared)
That bright celestial sacred throng
With steady look of stern command
To tune upon those strings a song
Or snatch it from her hand!
In haste, abashed, they backward drew
Till instant from the trembling throng
An airy form now trips along
And oer the green turf flew!!
Life sparkled in that radiant eye
Pale melancholys foe
And as that bright glance flashes by
Oh who would think of woe?
And oer her shoulders fair the ambiant tresses flow!
4
She siezed she grasped the sacred lyre
And swept the echoing strings
Those notes the joyous sisters fire
And all Parnassus sings!
“I come from those delightful glades
Where ne’er I meet alloy
I come from Hope End’s fragrant shades
Upon a blest employ
Sisters I come from thence, my name is Joy!
I come not sisters to oppress!
For ah! tis Georgy’s birth to day
I come to celebrate and bless
Then all your might display
And wake the song!
Call happiness and blue eyed pleasure
And hope and gladness without measure
A festive throng!
Bless my George and oer his head
Delight and heavenly blessings shed
Awake the song!”
The strain was hushed yet echo lingers
And air enchanted floats—
Around her fairy fingers
To catch those last pure dying notes!
My George farewell the lay’s no more
Accept, I once must beg, my humble strain,
Thy Sisters lowly verse is past, is oer–
And yet a Sister’s love a Sisters’s prayers remain!!
Your affectionate Ba.
Address, on integral page: Master G G Barrett.
Docket, in unidentified hand: July 1820.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Huntington Library.
1. His fourth birthday.
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