E501130C. Poems (1850).
The Weekly News, 30 November 1850, p. 1142.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 16, 324–325.
The name of Elizabeth Barrett has long been a favourite among all those who find a charm in depth and subtlety of thought, delicacy and truth of sentiment, and a lyric power of passion and imagination rare in any poetry,—unexampled in any poetry written by woman. A few years back, as some of our readers may recollect, Miss Barrett became the wife of Mr. Robert Browning, whose name is not less known than her own, as one of the most vigorous and original of our poets. This new edition of her works is, on every account, a gratifying appearance, not only as introducing us to several new and very beautiful productions of her genius, but also as affording a proof that the taste for poetry of a high, and in some respects recondite, order, has spread beyond the limits of the selected few, and made its way into the hearts of the great public.
It does not fall within the scope of our present purpose to do more than notice the new poems contained in the present volumes; these are numerous, comprising, besides original pieces, a translation of the “Prometheus Bound,“ of Æschylus, never hitherto published, although, as the authoress informs us, once privately circulated in another and less complete form: this translation bears no mark of a woman’s hand,—it is rugged, massive, and sublime, as befits the grand old fate-drama which the genius of Æschylus moulded out of the immortal agony of the beneficent Titan. We shall confine our extracts, however, to the original poems, as being more characteristic of the combined depth and tenderness of Mrs. Browning’s genius.
We would, especially, call attention to the blending of profound passion with spiritual purity, which is so remarkable in the following passages, taken at random from a series of love sonnets which unite the burning fervour of Shakspeare and the liquid sweetness of Camoens, with a delicacy of manner peculiar to Mrs. Browning:—
[there follows extracts of four sonnets in full, but I just give the first lines:]
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up, … those laurels on thine head,
O my beloved, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off, then! Go.
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never more
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore,
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes, the tears of two.
Beloved, my beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sate alone here in the snow,
And saw no foot-print, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice; .. but link by link
Went courting all my chains, as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand.... Why, thus I drink
Of life’s great cup of wonder. Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,—nor ever call
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,
And ever since it grew more clear and white;
How to world greetings … quick with its “Oh, list,”
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here plainer to my sight
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed,
Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third, upon my lips was folded down,
In perfect purple state! Since when, indeed,
I have been proud, and said, “My love, my own.”
Poetry, such as this, speaks for itself, without the needless comment of commendatory criticism. The women of England have reason to be proud of Mrs. Browning; nor do we know where, in the annals of any literature, to seek a poetess who has more fairly earned a high and enduring position among the laureled celebrities of the world.
We think that a public recognition of this fact would have been no ungraceful tribute from the ministers of a female sovereign. No one, indeed, can deny that the laurel has been justifiably bestowed on its present wearer; but some may be disposed to think that an opportunity has been missed of paying a graceful compliment to her Majesty by awarding to female genius the royal homage of the Laureateship.
Reviewed:
Poems (EBB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1850.
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