Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
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CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
 
From “Aurora Leigh”
 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–61)
 
 
MOTHERLESS

I WRITE. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatch’d up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;        5
She could not bear the joy of giving life—
The mother’s rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconcil’d and fraterniz’d my soul        10
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,—
As restless as a nest-deserted bird        15
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children (to be just.)        20
They know a simple, merry, tender knack
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,
And stringing pretty words that make no sense,
And kissing full sense into empty words;
Which things are corals to cut life upon,        25
Although such trifles: children learn by such,
Love’s holy earnest in a pretty play,
And get not over-early solemniz’d,—
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love’s Divine,
Which burns and hurts not,—not a single bloom,—        30
Become aware and unafraid of Love.
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as well
—Mine did, I know,—but still with heavier brains,
And wills more consciously responsible,
And not as wisely, since less foolishly;        35
So mothers have God’s license to be miss’d.
 
BOOKS

Or else I sat on in my chamber green,
And liv’d my life, and thought my thoughts, and pray’d
My prayers without the vicar; read my books,
Without considering whether they were fit        40
To do me good. Mark, there. We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits … so much help
By so much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge        45
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book’s pro-found,
Impassion’d for its beauty and salt of truth—
’T is then we get the right good from a book.
 
THE POETS

I had found the secret of a garret-room
Pil’d high with cases in my father’s name;        50
Pil’d high, pack’d large,—where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,        55
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning’s dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books!        60
        At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.
        As the earth
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires
Have reach’d and prick’d her heart, and, throwing flat        65
The marts and temples, the triumphal gates
And towers of observation, clears herself
To elemental freedom—thus, my soul,
At poetry’s divine first finger touch,
Let go conventions and sprang up surpris’d,        70
Convicted of the great eternities
Before the worlds.
        What ’s this, Aurora Leigh,
You write so of the poets, and not laugh?
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after dark,        75
Exaggerators of the sun and moon,
And soothsayers in a tea-cup?
        I write so
Of the only truth-tellers, now left to God,—
The only speakers of essential truth,        80
Oppos’d to relative, comparative,
And temporal truths; the only holders by
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;
The only teachers who instruct mankind,
From just a shadow on a charnel wall,        85
To find man’s veritable stature out,
Erect, sublime,—the measure of a man,
And that ’s the measure of an angel, says
The apostle.
 
THE FERMENT OF NEW WINE

And so, like most young poets, in a flush
        90
Of individual life, I pour’d myself
Along the veins of others, and achiev’d
Mere lifeless imitations of live verse,
And made the living answer for the dead,
Profaning nature. “Touch not, do not taste,        95
Nor handle,”—we ’re too legal, who write young:
We beat the phorminx till we hurt our thumbs,
As if still ignorant of counterpoint;
We call the Muse … “O Muse, benignant Muse!”—
As if we had seen her purple-braided head        100
With the eyes in it start between the boughs
As often as a stag’s. What make-believe,
With so much earnest! what effete results,
From virile efforts! what cold wire-drawn odes,
From such white heats! bucolics, where the cows        105
Would scare the writer if they splash’d the mud
In lashing off the flies,—didactics, driven
Against the heels of what the master said;
And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps
A babe might blow between two straining cheeks        110
Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh;
And elegiac griefs, and songs of love,
Like cast-off nosegays pick’d up on the road,
The worse for being warm: all these things, writ
On happy mornings, with a morning heart,        115
That helps for love, is active for resolve,
Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient forms
Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young blood.
The wine-skins, now and then, a little warp’d,
Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles in.        120
Spare the old bottles!—spill not the new wine.
 
By Keats’s soul, the man who never stepp’d
In gradual progress like another man,
But, turning grandly on his central self,
Enspher’d himself in twenty perfect years        125
And died, not young,—(the life of a long life,
Distill’d to a mere drop, falling like a tear
Upon the world’s cold cheek to make it burn
For ever;) by that strong excepted soul,
I count it strange, and hard to understand,        130
That nearly all young poets should write old;
That Pope was sexagenarian at sixteen,
And beardless Byron academical,
And so with others. It may be, perhaps,
Such have not settled long and deep enough        135
In trance, to attain to clairvoyance,—and still
The memory mixes with the vision, spoils,
And works it turbid.
        Or perhaps, again
In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx,        140
The melancholy desert must sweep round,
Behind you, as before.—
        For me, I wrote
False poems, like the rest, and thought them true,
Because myself was true in writing them.        145
I, peradventure, have writ true ones since
With less complacence.
 
ENGLAND

Whoever lives true life, will love true love.
I learn’d to love that England. Very oft,
Before the day was born, or otherwise        150
Through secret windings of the afternoons,
I threw my hunters off and plunged myself
Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag
Will take the waters, shivering with the fear
And passion of the course. And when, at last        155
Escap’d,—so many a green slope built on slope
Betwixt me and the enemy’s house behind,
I dar’d to rest, or wander,—like a rest
Made sweeter for the step upon the grass,—
And view the ground’s most gentle dimplement,        160
(As if God’s finger touch’d but did not press
In making England!) such an up and down
Of verdure,—nothing too much up or down,
A ripple of land; such little hills, the sky
Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields climb;        165
Such nooks of valleys, lin’d with orchises,
Fed full of noises by invisible streams;
And open pastures, where you scarcely tell
White daisies from white dew,—at intervals
The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing out        170
Self-pois’d upon their prodigy of shade,—
I thought my father’s land was worthy too
Of being my Shakespear’s.…
…Breaking into voluble ecstacy,
I flatter’d all the beauteous country round,        175
As poets use … the skies, the clouds, the fields,
The happy violets hiding from the roads
The primroses run down to, carrying gold,—
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows push out
Impatient horns and tolerant churning mouths        180
’Twixt dripping ash-boughs,—hedgerows all alive
With birds and gnats and large white butterflies
Which look as if the May-flower had sought life
And palpitated forth upon the wind,—
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist,        185
Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills,
And cattle grazing in the water’d vales,
And cottage-chimneys smoking from the woods,
And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere,
Confus’d with smell of orchards. “See,” I said,        190
“And see! is God not with us on the earth?
And shall we put Him down by aught we do?
Who says there ’s nothing for the poor and vile
Save poverty and wickedness? behold!”
And ankle-deep in English grass I leap’d,        195
And clapp’d my hands, and call’d all very fair.
 
“BY SOLITARY FIRES”

        O MY God, my God,
O supreme Artist, who as sole return
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work,
Demandest of us just a word … a name,        200
“My Father!”—thou hast knowledge, only thou,
How dreary ’t is for women to sit still
On winter nights by solitary fires,
And hear the nations praising them far off,
Too far! ay, praising our quick sense of love,        205
Our very heart of passionate womanhood,
Which could not beat so in the verse without
Being present also in the unkiss’d lips,
And eyes undried because there ’s none to ask
The reason they grew moist.        210
        To sit alone,
And think, for comfort, how, that very night,
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face
With sweet half-listenings for each other’s breath,
Are reading haply from some page of ours,        215
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks had touch’d,
When such a stanza, level to their mood,
Seems floating their own thoughts out—“So I feel
For thee,”—“And I, for thee: this poet knows
What everlasting love is!”—how, that night        220
A father issuing from the misty roads
Upon the luminous round of lamp and hearth
And happy children, having caught up first
The youngest there until it shrunk and shriek’d
To feel the cold chin prick its dimple through        225
With winter from the hills, may throw i’ the lap
Of the eldest (who has learn’d to drop her lids
To hide some sweetness newer than last year’s)
Our book and cry, … “Ah you, you care for rhymes;
So here be rhymes to pore on under trees,        230
When April comes to let you! I ’ve been told
They are not idle as so many are,
But set hearts beating pure as well as fast:
It ’s yours, the book; I ’ll write your name in it,—
That so you may not lose, however lost        235
In poet’s lore and charming reverie,
The thought of how your father thought of you
In riding from the town.”
        To have our books
Apprais’d by love, associated with love,        240
While we sit loveless! is it hard, you think?
At least ’t is mournful. Fame, indeed, ’t was said,
Means simply love. It was a man said that.
And then there ’s love and love: the love of all
(To risk, in turn, a woman’s paradox,)        245
Is but a small thing to the love of one.
You bid a hungry child be satisfied
With a heritage of many corn-fields: nay,
He says he ’s hungry,—he would rather have
That little barley-cake you keep from him        250
While reckoning up his harvests. So with us.
 
ROMNEY AND AURORA

But oh, the night! oh, bitter-sweet! oh, sweet!
O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy
Of darkness! O great mystery of love,—
In which absorb’d, loss, anguish, treason’s self        255
Enlarges rapture,—as a pebble dropp’d
In some full wine-cup, over-brims the wine!
While we two sate together, lean’d that night
So close, my very garments crept and thrill’d
With strange electric life; and both my cheeks        260
Grew red, then pale, with touches from my hair
In which his breath was; while the golden moon
Was hung before our faces as the badge
Of some sublime inherited despair,
Since ever to be seen by only one,—        265
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh,
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a smile,—
“Thank God, who made me blind, to make me see!
Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls,
Which rul’st for evermore both day and night!        270
I am happy.”
        I flung closer to his breast,
As sword that, after battle, flings to sheathe;
And, in that hurtle of united souls,
The mystic motions, which in common moods        275
Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on us,
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth spin,
And all the starry turbulence of worlds
Swing round us in their audient circles, till
If that same golden moon were overhead        280
Or if beneath our feet, we did not know.
 

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