E451100B. Poems (1844).
The Student, and Young Men’s Advocate, November 1845, pp. 428–431.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 11, 350–351.
Volumes of poems are “plentiful as blackberries.” Each week—nay, almost each day gives birth to a “new poem” or “poems.” Poetry, by courtesy so called, deluges us. We cannot open a review but “A New Poem,” “Second Series of Ballads,” “Poems from Eastern or Western Sources,” “Minor Poems,” “Fugitive Verses,” or something of that complexion meet our eyes—the weekly papers teem with them—the shop windows display no other ware. A foreigner would certainly imagine us the most poetic of nations; and this age, the age of poetry par excellence. But no; poets—we speak in the true sense of the term—a poet is a rara avis, consequently of poetry we have but little.
One of the few richly deserving the name of poet, whose works are of the undying, is Miss Barrett. The gift of inspiration has been truly, sacredly appreciated by her. Poetry has been her work, not her pastime. Faithfully has her work hitherto been done; and God grant her fragile form (for she has been a life-long sufferer) may be strengthened to enable her to carry on her work of progression.
It has been often said that poets are the world’s teachers and reformers. Let those who doubt the truth of this assertion turn to Shakspeare and Milton, who have been England’s best and greatest teachers, reformers and enlighteners. The poets have ever been the civilizers, the humanizers of the world. If “music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” how much more can poetry—the music of the heart—soften, refine, and elevate, aye, and strengthen without hardening the character! ’Tis from the poetry within us we learn to resist external ills; and every human heart has its poetry, though to few alone is granted the power to give it an expression, to make it a reality, to penetrate the hearts of millions with their hearts’ language—their poetry.
To Miss Barrett this power has been granted. Her poems are of the [p. 429→] elevating, the refining, of the enduring. Not only for the amusement of an idle hour will they be read; they are “of such stuff” as will not only please the imaginations, but will rouse and generate thought, will dwell with us, work into our very nature, till they become a portion of ourselves, influencing us to good, and mingling in our aspirations towards all that is high and holy: and such is ever the tendency of poetry.
Not only to elevate, but to awaken sympathy with and for the suffering—the poor—has been Miss Barrett’s aim. Witness her “Cry of the Human,” which, though long for an extract, I cannot refrain from giving entire.
THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.
“There is no God,” the foolish saith,
But none, “There is no sorrow;”
And nature oft the cry of faith
In bitter need will borrow.
Eyes, which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, “God be pitiful,”
Who ne’er said, “God be praised.”
Be pitiful, O God!
The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming;
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
As help were in the human.
Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind,
We spirits tremble under!
The hills have echoes; but we find
No answer for the thunder.
Be pitiful, O God!
The battle hurtles on the plains;
Earth feels new scythes upon her:
We reap our brothers for the wains;
And call the harvest, honour:
Draw face to face, front line to line,
One image all inherit;
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
Clay, clay—and spirit, spirit.
Be pitiful, O God!
The plague runs festering through the town,
And never a bell is tolling;
And corpses, jostled ’neath the moon,
Nod to the dead-carts rolling!
The young child calleth for the cup,
The strong man brings it weeping;
The mother from her babe looks up,
And shrieks away its sleeping.
Be pitiful, O God!
The plague of gold strikes far and near,
And deep and strong it enters;
This purple chimar which we wear
Makes madder than the centaur’s.
Our thoughts grow black, our words grow strange;
We cheer the pale gold-diggers;
Each soul is worth so much on ’Change,
And marked, like sheep, with figures.
Be pitiful, O God! [p. 430→]
The curse of gold upon the land,
The lack of bread enforces;
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
Like nine of Death’s white horses!
The rich preach “rights,” and future days,
And hear no angel scoffing;
The poor die mute, with starving gaze
On corn-ships in the offing.
Be pitiful, O God!
We meet together at the feast,
To private mirth betake us;
We stare down in the wine-cup, lest
Some vacant chair should shake us!
We name delight, and pledge it round,
“It shall be ours to morrow!”
God’s seraphs! do your voices sound
As sad in naming sorrow?
Be pitiful, O God!
We sit together, with the skies,
The steadfast skies, above us;
We look into each other’s eyes,
“And how long will you love us?”
The eyes grow dim with prophecy,
The voices, low and breathless,
“Till death us part!” O words, to be
Our best for love the deathless!
Be pitiful, O God!
We tremble by the harmless bed
Of one loved and departed;
Our tears drop on the lips that said
Last night, “Be stronger hearted!”
O God,—to clasp those fingers close,
And yet to feel so lonely!
To see a light on dearest brows,
Which is the daylight only!
Be pitiful, O God!
The happy children come to us,
And look up in our faces:
They ask us—Was it thus, and thus,
When we were in their places?
We cannot speak:—we see anew
The hills we used to live in;
And feel our mother’s smile press through
The kisses she is giving.
Be pitiful, O God!
We pray together at the kirk,
For mercy, mercy, solely;
Hands weary with the evil work,
We lift them to the Holy!
The corpse is calm below our knee;
Its spirit, bright before Thee;
Between them, worse than either, we
Without the rest or glory!
Be pitiful, O God!
We leave the communing of men,
The murmur of the passions;
And live alone, to live again
With endless generations. [p. 431→]
Are we so brave? The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors;
And, glassed therein, our spirits high
Recoil from their own terrors.
Be pitiful, O God!
We sit on hills our childhood wist,
Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding!
The sun strikes, through the farthest mist,
The city’s spire to golden.
The city’s golden spire it was,
When hope and health were strongest;
But now it is the churchyard grass,
We look upon the longest.
Be pitiful, O God!
And soon all vision waxeth dull;
Then whispers, “He is dying:”
We cry no more, “Be pitiful!”
We have no strength for crying!
No strength, no need! Then, soul of mine,
Look up and triumph rather;
Lo! in the depth of God’s Divine,
The Son adjures the Father.
Be Pitiful, O God!
Her “Drama of Exile,” her longest poem, which though perhaps inferior as a whole to many of her minor, contains many beautiful passages. The character of Eve is exquisite—her self-reproach—her submissiveness to Adam, on whom she has brought chastisement—her patient endurance of the scorn—the bitter revilings cast upon her by the earth’s spirits, are most touchingly, delicately given, with the true woman’s feeling. And, in bold contrast to Eve’s gentleness, is given Adam’s ire and scorn, which he flings back upon the spirits, and his less patient endurance, yet more hopeful nature, to struggle with the ills to which he had so recently become heir.
Widely differing as we do from the author’s religious views, we can yet admire and appreciate the result of that religion given us in this “Drama of Exile.” Before concluding this brief sketch of one so well deserving an abler pen, we will just mention by name one or two of the poems which are more perfect than others, inasmuch as they are more free from the pedantics which occasionally mar the beauty and force of her versification: these are “The Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” “Rhyme of the Duchess May,” and “Bertha in the Lane.” The sonnets are very beautiful, and would alone entitle her to the hallowed name of poet. We conclude with one which impressed us most.
GRIEF
I tell you, hopless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air,
Bent upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blenching vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to Death.
Reviewed:
Poems (EBB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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