Poems. (Privately Printed.): First Trial Book (partial), Princeton/Troxell (copy 2) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Used with permission of Princeton University. From the Princeton University Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections. All rights reserved. Redistribution or republication in any medium requires express written consent from Princeton University Library. Permissions inquiries should be addressed to Associate University Librarian, Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library. [Poems. (Privately Printed.)] Strangeways and Walden London 1869 October 3 This is a partial copy of the first state of the First Trial Book. 106, 107, 149-154, 156, 167 DGR DGR Princeton University Library, Troxell Collection. 23301 Commentary
Introduction

The First Trial Book is the fourth integral set of prepublication printings toward the work that would eventually appear as the <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw"> <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> </xref> of 1870. Its printing in this the first state of the Trial Book was completed on or just before 3 October, but revisions made therein were quickly incoporated into the second state. A second copy of this first state of the trial book exists in the British Library (Ashley 1393). The ten pages of this partial copy apparently come from an originally integral proof copy that included as well the other partial set of proofs in the Princeton/Troxell collection. Two perfect copies of the second state of the trial book exist: the so-called Losh copy (in the Princeton/Troxell collection), and the Fitzwilliam copy.

A separate set of proofs for the first two poems in this trial book was pulled late in September; this proof is bound with William Bell Scott's copy of the Penkill Proofs, also housed in the Princeton/Troxell collection.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

This set of pages exhibits no manuscript corrections.

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Lewis, <hi rend="i"> <xref doc="a.z1024.l49.rad" link="dead" from="186">The Trial Book Fallacy</xref> </hi> , 186. Wise, <hi rend="i">The Ashley Library</hi> , VIII. 171-176. Troxell, “The Trial Books” , 184-185. Fraser, “The Rossetti Collection of Janet Camp Troxell” , 162. Burnett, <hi rend="i"> <xref doc="a.z6611.l7.rad" link="dead">The Ashley Catalogue</xref> </hi> , I. 71-72.

Pages missing from proofs. <hi rend="c">LOST DAYS.</hi> The lost days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The throats of men in Hell, who thirst alway? I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. ‘I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?’ ‘And I—and I—thyself,’ (lo! each one saith,) ‘And thou thyself to all eternity!’ blank page <hi rend="c">DEATH'S SONGSTERS.</hi> When first that horse, within whose populous womb The birth was Death, o'ershadowed Troy with fate, Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight, Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home: She whispered, ‘Friends, I am alone; come, come!’ Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid, And on his comrades' quivering mouths he laid His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb. The same was he who, lashed to his own mast, There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves, Beside the sirens' singing island pass'd, Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves. . . . Say, soul,—are songs of Death no heaven to thee, Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory? blank page <hi rend="c">DEATH-IN-LOVE.</hi> There came an image in Life's retinue That had Love's wings and bore his gonfalon: Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon, O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue! Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to, Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power Sped trackless as the immemorable hour When birth's dark portal groaned and all was new. But a veiled woman followed, and she caught The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,— Then plucked a feather from the bearer's wing, And held it to his lips that stirred it not, And said to me, ‘Behold, there is no breath: I and this Love are one, and I am Death.’ blank page <hi rend="c">WILLOWWOOD.</hi> <lb/> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Four Sonnets.</hi>) I. I sat with Love upon a woodside well, Leaning across the water, I and he; Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me, But touched his lute wherein was audible The certain secret thing he had to tell: Only our mirrored eyes met silently In the low wave; and that sound came to be The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell. And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers; And with his foot and with his wing-feathers He swept the spring that watered my heart's drouth. Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair, And as I stooped, her own lips rising there Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth. II. And now Love sang: but his was such a song, So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free, As souls disused in death's sterility May sing when the new birthday tarries long. And I was made aware of a dumb throng That stood aloof, one form by every tree, All mournful forms, for each was I or she, The shades of those our days that had no tongue. They looked on us, and knew us and were known; While fast together, alive from the abyss, Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss; And pity of self through all made broken moan Which said, ‘For once, for once, for once alone!’ And still Love sang, and what he sang was this:— III. ‘O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood, That walk with hollow faces burning white; What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood, What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night, Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite Your lips to that their unforgotten food, Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light! Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood, With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red: Alas! if ever such a pillow could Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead,— Better all life forget her than this thing, That Willowwood should hold her wandering!’ IV. So sang he: and as meeting rose and rose Together cling through the wind's wellaway Nor change at once, yet near the end of day The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain glows,— So when the song died did the kiss unclose; And her face fell back drowned, and was as grey As its grey eyes; and if it ever may Meet mine again I know not if Love knows. Only I know that I leaned low and drank A long draught from the water where she sank, Her breath and all her tears and all her soul: And as I drank I know I felt Love's face Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace, Till both our heads were in his aureole. <hi rend="c">STILLBORN LOVE.</hi> The hour which might have been yet might not be, Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea? Bondchild of all consummate joys set free, It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before The house of Love, hears through the echoing door His hours elect in choral consonancy. But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand Together tread at last the immortal strand With eyes where burning memory lights love home? Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned And leaped to them and in their faces yearned:— ‘I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’ blank page <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS</hi>’<lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Leonardo da Vinci.</hi> Mother, is this the darkness of the end, The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he Blesses the dead with his hand silently To his long day which hours no more offend? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. blank page Q <hi rend="c">THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Design.</hi>*) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. ‘Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel,’—did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families,— Lo! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained.

* The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl ofblood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel.Joseph has brought the lamb and Elizabeth lights the pyre. Theshoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs which Mary is gather-ing form part of the ritual.

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