E440824A. Poems (1844).
The Athenæum, 24 August 1844, pp. 763–764.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 320–324.
Whatever be the place which will be finally adjudged to Miss Barrett among the poetesses of England, there can be no question as to the earnest aspiration she brings to the completion of her verse, or the holy aims to which it is devoted. Between her poems and the slighter lyrics of most of the sisterhood, there is all the difference which exists between the putting on of “sinning-robes” for altar-service, and the taking up lute or harp to enchant an indulgent circle of friends and kindred. There is truth as well as emphasis in the few lines which close the preface to these new volumes:—
“In any case, while my poems are full of faults,—as I go forward to my critics, and confess,—they have my heart and life in them,—they are not empty shells. If it must be said of me that I have contributed immemorable verses to the many rejected by the age, it cannot at least be said that I have done so in a light and irresponsible spirit. Poetry has been as serious a thing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing: there has been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistook pleasure for the final cause of poetry; nor leisure, for the hour of the poet. I have done my work, so far, as work,—not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being,—but as the completest expression of that being, to which I could attain,—and as work I offer it to the public,—feeling its short-comings more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the height of my aspiration,—but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done, should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere.”
We at least feel the force of this appeal; since it is borne out by the tendency of every line which Miss Barrett has ever written. Much of her verse is profoundly, some of it passionately melancholy; but it is never morbid. She thinks more of the duties than of the sufferings of genius.
“In the ‘Vision of Poets,’” she says, “I have endeavoured to indicate the necessary relations of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice. In the eyes of the living generation, the poet is at once a richer and poorer man than he used to be; he wears better broad-cloth, but speaks no more oracles: and the evil of this social incrustation over a great idea, is eating deeper and more fatally into our literature, than either readers or writers may apprehend fully. I have attempted to express in this poem my view of the mission of the poet, of the self-abnegation implied in it, of the great work involved in it, of the duty and glory of what Balzac has beautifully and truly called ‘la patience angélique du génie;’ and of the obvious truth, above all, that if knowledge is power, suffering should be acceptable as a part of knowledge.”
These are golden words; and, we may add, acted up to by their speaker as far as the fruits of her artistic life permit us to judge. Through every strife she looks forward to the reconciliation—beyond every storm, to the repose. There is no depth of the heart, according to her, which faith and knowledge cannot illumine; no agony of the affections which may not be overcome by the bravery of patience. Miss Barrett’s themes may be too often sad: the natural consequence of a life which the public has been told is, one of ill-health and retirement; but the tenderest spirit will arise from her book ennobled by lofty teachings, rather than wrung by “its fellowship with clay.”
So much for the mind of these extraordinary volumes: now as to the manner of the authoress. Reserving, it may be for separate consideration, “The Drama of Exile,” and “The Vision of Poets,” (both of them confessedly mystical in their purpose and treatment)—there appears to us a decided effort on Miss Barrett’s part, since she last met her critics (vide Ath. No. 558), to clear her verse of the entanglements which formerly obscured some of its finest passages. “The Romaunt of the Page,” for instance, is much simplified since we quoted it from “Finden’s Tableaux,” and now stands foremost among “Records of Woman,” to be added to the beautiful lyrics in which Joanna Baillie, and Mrs. Hemans, and many another earnest songstress, has honoured herself in her sex. “The Lay of the Brown Rosary,” a thrilling goblin fantasy, has also, if we mistake not, been touched here and there— every touch taking off some speck or setting some grace free. But the new poems strike us as yet more emphatically betokening advance, though still the execution is not always equal to the conception. We should have liked to have robbed some of its stanzas from “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” in which Miss Barrett, for once inconsistent with her high-hearted preface, gives broad lands and a rare lady to a lowly-born man of letters, and the deep, natural, delicate passion of which swept us along like a current as we read (Heaven send it do not set many a young rhymester dreaming!)—but in preference, we will take something less transcendental; and this shall be from “The Rhyme of the Duchess May,” a ballad with a burden, of which the following is the preamble:
In the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun—
Toll slowly!
And the oldest ringer said, “Ours is music for the Dead,
When the rebecks are all done.”
Six abeiles i’ the kirkyard grow, on the northside in a row,—
Toll slowly!
And the shadows of their tops, rock across the little slopes
Of the grassy graves below.
On the south side and the west, a small river runs in haste,—
Toll slowly!
And between the river flowing, and the fair green trees a growing,
Do the dead lie at their rest.
On the east I sate that day, up against a willow grey:—
Toll slowly!
Through the rain of willow-branches, I could see the low hill-ranges,
And the river on its way.
There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly,—
Toll slowly!
While the trees’ and rivers’ voices flowed between the solemn noises,—
Yet death seemed more loud to me.
There, I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the time
Toll slowly!
And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin,
Like a rhythmic fate sublime.
Our lame prose must tell the beginning of the sad legend. Duchess May, the heiress, had been betrothed, when a child, to “Lord Leigh, the churl,” son of her guardian, but refused when a woman to hold to the contract, and rode away with Sir Guy of Linteged. The churl stormed the castle only three months after her bridal—and the leaguer was maintained till there was no longer chance of keeping out the foe. But the lady, unaware of the peril, laughed at his coarse threats and menaces, and bade her bower women attire her gorgeously. The minstrel shall now take up the tale:—
O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,—
Toll slowly!
On the tower the castle’s lord leant in silence on his sword,
With an anguish in his breast.
With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean down passionate,—
Toll slowly!
They have almost sapped the wall,—they will enter therewithal,
With no knocking at the gate.
Then the sword he leant upon shivered—snapped upon the stone,—
Toll slowly!
“Sword,” he thought, with inward laugh, “ill thou servest for a staff,
When thy nobler use is done!
“Sword, thy nobler use is done!—tower is lost, and shame begun:”—
Toll slowly!
“If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech,
We should die there, each for one.
“If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall,—
Toll slowly!
“But if I die here alone,—then I die, who am but one,
And die nobly for them all.
“Five true friends lie for my sake—in the moat and in the brake,”—
Toll slowly!
“Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast,
And none of these will wake.
“And no more of this shall be!—heart-blood weighs too heavily,”—
Toll slowly!
“And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave
Heaped around and over me.
“Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith,”—
Toll slowly!
“Since my pale young sister’s cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks,
Though never a word she saith—
“These shall never die for me—life-blood falls too heavily:”—
Toll slowly!
“And if I die here apart,—o’er my dead and silent heart
They shall pass out safe and free.
The terrible resolve is taken; the Lord of Linteged will have his steed caparisoned, and brought up to the top of the giddy tower:—
They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear,—
Toll slowly!
Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors;
But they goad him up the stair.
Then from out her bower-chambère, did the Duchess May repair,—
Toll slowly!
“Tell me now what is your need,” said the lady, “of this steed,
That ye goad him up the stair?”
Calm she stood! unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe,—
Toll slowly!
And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass,
Had not time enough to go.
“Get thee back, sweet Duchess May! hope is gone like yesterday,”—
Toll slowly!
“One half-hour completes the breach; and thy lord grows wild of speech.—
Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray.
“In the east tower, high’st of all,—loud he cries for steed from stall,”—
Toll slowly!
‘He would ride as far,’ quoth he, ‘as for love and victory,
Though he rides the castle wall.’
“And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall.”—
Toll slowly!
“Wifely prayer meets deathly need! may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead,
If he rides the castle wall.”
Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor,—
Toll slowly!
And tear after tear you heard, fall distinct as any word
Which you might be listening for.
“Get thee in, thou soft ladiè!—here is never a place for thee!”—
Toll slowly!
“Braid thine hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan
May find grace with Leigh of Leigh.”
She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face,—
Toll slowly!
Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look
Right against the thunder-place.
And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i’ the stone beside,—
Toll slowly!
“Go to, faithful friends, go to!—Judge no more what ladies do,—
No, nor how their lords may ride!”
Then the good steed’s rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke:—
Toll slowly!
Soft he neighed to answer her; and then followed up the stair,
For the love of her sweet look.
Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair around,—
Toll slowly!
Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by step beside her treading,
Did he follow, meek as hound [p. 764→]
On the east tower, high’st of all,—there, where never a hoof did fall,—
Toll slowly!
Out they swept, a vision steady,—noble steed and lovely lady,
Calm as if in bower or stall!
Down she knelt at her lord’s knee, and she looked up silently,—
Toll slowly!
And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her eyes,
Which he could not bear to see.
Quoth he, “Get thee from this strife,—and the sweet saints bless thy life!”—
Toll slowly!
“In this hour, I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed—
But not of my noble wife.”
Quoth she, “Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun:”—
Toll slowly!
“But by all my womanhood,—which is proved so true and good,
I will never do this one.
“Now by womanhood’s degree, and by wifehood’s verity,”—
Toll slowly!
“In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed,
Thou hast also need of me.
“By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardiè,”—
Toll slowly!
“If this hour, on castle wall, can be room for steed from stall,
Shall be also room for me.
“So the sweet saints with me be” (did she utter solemnly),—
Toll slowly!
“If a man, this eventide, on this castle wall will ride,
He shall ride the same with me.”
We will go no further with this wild and sad ditty of the stormy old time. We look wistfully at “Bertha in the Lane,” a village tragedy, which may pair off with Mr. Tennyson’s “New Year’s Eve,”—but, for variety sake, shall take—
The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.
So the dreams depart,
So the fading phantoms flee,
And the sharp reality
Now must act its part.
Westwood’s “Beads from a Rosary.”
Little Ellie sits alone
Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side, on the grass:
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by;
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow—
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,—
And the smile, she softly useth,
Fills the silence like a speech;
While she thinks what shall be done,—
And the sweetest pleasure, chooseth,
For her future within reach!
Little Ellie in her smile
Chooseth … “I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile;
And to him I will discover
That swan’s nest among the reeds.
And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath,—
And the lute he plays upon,
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
And the steed, it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind!
And the hoofs, along the sod,
Shall flash onward in a pleasure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face!
He will say, “O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in;
And I kneel here for thy grace.”
Then, ay, then—he shall kneel low,—
With the red-roan steed anear him
Which shall seem to understand—
Till I answer, “Rise, and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.”
Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say—
Nathless, maiden-brave, “Farewell,”
I will utter and dissemble—
“Light to-morrow, with to-day.”
Then he will ride through the hills,
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong!
To make straight distorted wills,—
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
Three times shall a young foot-page
Swim the stream, and climb the mountain,
And kneel down beside my feet—
“Lo! my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity’s counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?”
And the first time, I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,—
And the second time, a glove!
But the third time—I may bend
From my pride, and answer—“Pardon—
If he comes to take my love.”
Then the young foot-page will run—
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee!
“I am a duke’s eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,—
But, O Love, I love but thee!”
“He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover,
Through the crowds that praise his deeds!
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto him I will discover
That swan’s nest among the weeds.”
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,—
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe—
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm-tree copse
Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads—
Past the boughs she stoops—and stops!
Lo! the wild swan had deserted—
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow!
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could show him never—never,
That swan’s nest among the reeds!
Our extracts would be incomplete were we not to show our authoress in one of her bolder flights. We find her inspired by Schiller’s [“]Götter Griechenlands,” to attempt a lyric in a mood opposite to that lament for Paganism. Some such task was proposed to herself by Mrs. Hemans, and partially wrought out; and those who interest themselves in the various developements of female genius, cannot do better than compare that lady’s “Antique Greek Lament,” and one or two other poems, with—
The Dead Pan.
* * * * *
Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas
Said the old Hellenic tongue!
Said the hero-oaths, as well as
Poets’ songs the sweetest sung!
Have ye grown deaf in a day?
Can ye speak not yea or nay—
Since Pan is dead?
Do ye leave your rivers flowing
All alone, O Naiades,
While your drenched locks dry slow in
This cold feeble sun and breeze?—
Not a word the Naiads say,
Though the rivers run for aye.
For Pan is dead.
From the gloaming of the oak wood,
O ye Dryads, could ye flee?
At the rushing thunderstroke, would
No sob tremble through the tree?—
Not a word the Dryads say,
Though the forests wave for aye.
For Pan is dead.
Have ye left the mountain places,
Oreads wild, for other tryst?
Shall we see no sudden faces
Strike a glory through the mist?
Not a sound the silence thrills,
Of the everlasting hills.
Pan, Pan is dead.
O twelve gods of Plato’s vision,
Crowned to starry wanderings,—
With your chariots in procession,
And your silver clash of wings!
Very pale ye seem to rise,
Ghosts of Grecian deities—
Now Pan is dead.
Jove! that right hand is unloaded,
Whence the thunder did prevail:
While in idiocy of godhead,
Thou art staring the stars pale!
And thine eagle, blind and old,
Roughs his feathers in the cold.
Pan, Pan is dead.
Where, O Juno, is the glory
Of thy regal look and tread?
Will they lay, for evermore, thee,
On thy dim, straight, golden bed?
Will thy queendom all lie hid
Meekly under either lid?
Pan, Pan is dead.
Ha, Apollo! Floats his golden
Hair, all mist-like where he stands;
While the Muses hang enfolding
Knee and foot with faint wild hands?
’Neath the clanging of thy bow,
Niobe looked lost as thou!
Pan, Pan is dead.
Shall the casque with its brown iron,
Pallas’ broad blue eyes, eclipse,—
And no hero take inspiring
From the God-Greek of her lips?
’Neath her olive dost thou sit,
Mars the mighty, cursing it?
Pan, Pan is dead.
Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther
He swoons,—bound with his own vines!
And his Mænads slowly saunter,
Head aside, among the pines,
While they murmur dreamingly,—
“Evohe—ah—evohe—”!
Ah, Pan is dead.
Neptune lies beside the trident,
Dull and senseless as a stone:
And old Pluto deaf and silent
Is cast out into the sun.
Ceres smileth stern thereat,—
“We all now are desolate—”
Now Pan is dead.
Aphrodite! dead and driven
As thy native foam, thou art;
With the cestus long done heaving
On the white calm of thine heart!
Ai Adonis! At that shriek,
Not a tear runs down her cheek—
Pan, Pan is dead.
And the Loves, we used to know from
One another,—huddled lie,
Frore as taken in a snow-storm,
Close beside her tenderly,—
As if each had weakly tried
Once to kiss her as he died.
Pan, Pan is dead.
What, and Hermes! Time enthralleth
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus,—
And the ivy blindly crawleth
Round thy brave caduceus?
Hast thou no new message for us,
Full of thunder and Jove-glories?
Nay! Pan is dead.
Crowned Cybele’s great turret
Rocks and crumbles on her head:
Roar the lions of her chariot
Toward the wilderness, unfed:
Scornful children are not mute,—
“Mother, mother, walk a-foot—
Since Pan is dead.”
In the fiery-hearted centre
Of the solemn universe,
Ancient Vesta,—who could enter
To consume thee with this curse?
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee,
O thou palsied Mystery!
For Pan is dead.
Gods! we vainly do adjure you,—
Ye return nor voice nor sign:
Not a votary could secure you
Even a grave for your Divine!
Not a grave, to show thereby,
Here these grey old gods do lie!
Pan, Pan is dead.
Here we must stop. We have been so often indebted to Miss Barrett’s kindness, that it behoved us to prove the high opinion expressed in the outset of this article by letting her volumes speak for themselves. Though they have done this eloquently, musically, and loftily, they contain still many other voices (to speak figuratively), to which we can give no utterance. Assuredly they ought to be sought for—respectfully by men, affectionately by women; as remarkable manifestations of female power.
[Henry Fothergill Chorley]
Reviewed:
Poems (EBB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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