E441000C. Poems (1844).
The Monthly Review, October 1844, pp. 300–306.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 336–338.
Hearken to sentences in Miss Barrett’s preface. “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 [p. 301→] has been as serious a thing with 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 shortcomings more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the height of my aspirations,—but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done, should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere.”
Any person who may be unacquainted with the merits of this lady’s former productions, or who has been denied the pleasure of judging of her high aspirations through her works, and of the profound sense which she has everywhere manifested of what belongs to the poet’s mission, will, however, discover in the passage just now quoted, that hers is no ordinary mind, and that she is as certain to write with great earnestness as she is capable of expressing herself with remarkable energy. Indeed, it would be difficult to name within the range of the poetry of the last quarter of a century, a publication that presents so much of independent effort, of original power, and of sterling beauties, as do these volumes. They even afford abundant tokens of advancement beyond her preceding triumphs, evincing more matured confidence in her own peculiar genius, a more resolute avoidance of the obscurities both of thought and construction, and a nearer approach to the simplicities of all sorts, than was her wont. The prevailing tone of the pieces is that of a searching thoughtfulness, generally in a melancholy, but not a moody or morbid vein,—a thoughtfulness that begets thought, exalts its strains, and rewards by its strong service towards permanency while it excites. It is a bracing book, by means of force, wealth, and lofty grace; displaying much variety both of subject and of treatment. In a word, Miss Barrett unquestionably takes a position in the foremost rank of British poetesses; nor, as it appears to us, is there almost any walk in which her muse might not gather laurels, or any conquest to which she might not strain her efforts with a fair promise of acquitting herself excellently well.
Limited as we are towards the close of the month for room, we have to be contented with a few general observations, and one or two specimens that admit of being extracted with the slightest introduction. The first example is a sweet imaginative piece, most felicitous, to our thinking, in style and dress, to the title of “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.” [p. 302→]
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 mare shall swim the wind!
And the hoofs, along the sod,
Shall flash onward in a picture,
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.’ [p. 303→]
“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 strait 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 rose-bud 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 crowd that praise his deeds!
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto him I will discover
That swan’s nest among the weeds.” [p. 304→]
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,—
Tied her 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 weeds!
A more soaring and sterner effort, called “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 ravens 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. [p. 305→]
Have ye left the mountain places,
Oreads wild, her 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 ever more, 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 changing 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. [p. 306→]
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 the 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 adjuré 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.
Reviewed:
Poems (EBB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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