Poems. (Privately Printed.): Second Trial Book (partial proof), Duke U. Library Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Used with permission of the Special Collections Library, Duke University. [Poems] Dante Gabriel Rossetti F.S. Ellis Strangeways and Walden London 1869 November 15 (before 25 November) This is an incomplete copy of the Second Trial Book, first state. 113-128, 177-208, 197-198 (fragmentary pages) DGR I8, N8, O8 Duke U. Library Commentary
Introduction

These three signatures are uncorrected, although on p. 117 someone (not DGR) has made a marginal note referencing the need to add a stanza at that point. Each signature is coherent and all three come from the first printing state of the Second Trial Book. They were printed in early to mid-November 1869.

A badly mutilated proof copy of pages 197-198 comes with these proofs. It is from the same early printing run and it shows hand corrections by DGR; the latter are only partly decipherable, and much of the printed text is torn away as well. However, no additions were made to the printed text that correspond to these manuscript revisions.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Production History

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. 125-126. Troxell, “The Trial Books” , 184-187. Fraser, “The Rossetti Collection of Janet Camp Troxell” , 163-164. Burnett, <hi rend="i"> <xref doc="a.z6611.l7.rad" link="dead">The Ashley Catalogue</xref> </hi> , I. 71-72.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Some proof-sheets of the ‘Trial Books’ of the Poems, 1869, accompanied by an [A.I.S.?] from D.G. Rossetti to Theodore Watts-Dunton ------- 1869

proofs of Second Trial Book faint pencil note at top of the page in unknown hand I <hi rend="c">FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.</hi> Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night: Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence: There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; And there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. <hi rend="c">THE MOON-STAR.</hi> In a soft-complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling grey, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day? So my maiden, so my modest may Blushing cheek and gleaming eye Lifts to look my way. Where the inmost leaf is stirred With the heart-beat of the grove, Have you heard a hidden bird Cast her note above? So my lady, so my lovely love, Echoing Cupid's prompted word, Makes a tune thereof. Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height, In the moon-wrack's ebb and tide, Venus leap forth burning white, Dian pale and hide? So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, One sweet night, when fear takes flight, Shall leap against my side. <hi rend="c">SUDDEN LIGHT.</hi> I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,— How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore. Then, now,—perchance again! . . . . O round mine eyes your tresses shake! Shall we not lie as we have lain Thus for Love's sake, And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain? <hi rend="c">A LITTLE WHILE.</hi> A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I'll tell thee when the end is come How we may best forget. Nay Someone (not DGR) has written “Nay” in the left margin. “Nay” begins the first line of received stanza 2 (“Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower”), which is not present in this proof state. <hi rend="c">THE SONG OF THE BOWER.</hi> Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Deep in warm pillows (the sun's bed is colder!) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. What is it keeps me afar from thy bower,— My spirit, my body, so fain to be there? Waters engulfing or fires that devour?— Earth heaped against me or death in the air? Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days are one day to me?— Thinking, ‘I stirred not, and yet had the power,’— Yearning, ‘Ah God, if again it might be!’ Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet,— Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal shall we meet? <hi rend="c">PENUMBRA.</hi> I did not look upon her eyes, (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not gaze rebuke, Thenceforth, from stars in sky and brook. I did not take her by the hand, (Though little was to understand From touch of hand all friends might take,) Because it should not prove a flake Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. I did not listen to her voice, (Though none had noted, where at choice All might rejoice in listening,) Because no such a thing should cling In the sea-wind at evening. I did not cross her shadow once, (Though from the hollow west the sun's Last shadow runs along so far,) Because in June it should not bar My ways, at noon when fevers are. They told me she was there: but I, Who saw her not, did fear and fly The means brought nigh of seeing her. Thus must this day be bitterer, I felt; yet did not speak nor stir. So nightly shall the crows troop home One less; one less the wailings come From tongues of foam that chafe the sand; One less, from sleep's dumb quaking land, The dreams shall at my bed's foot stand. <hi rend="c">A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN.</hi> Along the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have known Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love? why, so!— Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. The grove is all a pale frail mist, The new year sucks the sun. Of all the kisses that we kissed Now which shall be the one? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love?—heigh-ho For all the sweets that all the winds can blow! The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net: And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no,— Not death, my love, no, no,— The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. <hi rend="c">EVEN SO.</hi> So it is, my dear. All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed: Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed,— Very like indeed. But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated, Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us When I was thine and thou wast mine, And all these things were thus, But all our world in us? Could we be so now? Not if all beneath heaven's pall Lay dead but I and thou, Could we be so now! <hi rend="c">BRIDAL BIRTH.</hi> As when desire, long darkling, dawns, and first The mother looks upon the newborn child, Even so my lady stood at gaze and smiled When her soul knew at length the Love it nursed. Born with her life, creature of poignant thirst And exquisite hunger, at her heart Love lay Quickening in darkness, till a voice that day Cried on him, and bonds of birth were burst. Now, shielded in his wings, our faces yearn Together, as his fullgrown feet now range The grove, and his warm hands our couch prepare: Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn Be born his children, when Death's nuptial change Leaves us for light the halo of his hair. <hi rend="c">FLAMMIFERA.</hi> O Thou who at Love's hour ecstatically Unto my lips dost evermore present The body and blood of Love in sacrament; Whom I have neared and felt thy breath to be The inmost incense of his sanctuary; Who without speech hast owned him, and intent Upon his will, thy life with mine hast blent, And murmured o'er the cup, Remember me!— O what from thee the grace, for me the prize, And what to Love the glory,—when the whole Of the deep stair thou tread'st to the dim shoal And weary water of the place of sighs, And there dost work deliverance, as thine eyes Draw up my prisoned spirit to thy soul! <hi rend="c">LOVESIGHT.</hi> When do I see thee most, beloved one? When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face, their altar, solemnize The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O Love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,— How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing? <hi rend="c">THE KISS.</hi> What smouldering senses in death's sick delay Or seizure of malign vicissitude Can rob this body of honour, or denude This soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day? For lo! even now my lady's lips did play With these my lips such consonant interlude As laurelled Orpheus longed for when he wooed The half-drawn hungering face with that last lay. I was a child beneath her touch,—a man When breast to breast we clung, even I and she,— A spirit when her spirit looked through me,— A god when all our life-breath met to fan Our life-blood, till love's emulous ardours ran, Fire within fire, desire in deity. <hi rend="c">NUPTIAL SLEEP.</hi> At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart: And as the last slow sudden drops are shed From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart. Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start Of married flowers to either side outspread From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red, Fawned on each other where they lay apart. Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams, And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away. Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day; Till from some wonder of new woods and streams He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay. <hi rend="c">SUPREME SURRENDER.</hi> To all the spirits of love that wander by Along the love-sown fallowfield of sleep My lady lies apparent; and the deep Calls to the deep; and no man sees but I. The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh, Rests there attained. Methinks proud Love must weep When Fate's control doth from his harvest reap The sacred hour for which the years did sigh. First touched, the hand now warm around my neck Taught memory long to mock desire: and lo! Across my breast the abandoned hair doth flow, Where one shorn tress long stirred the longing ache: And next the heart that trembled for its sake Lies the queen-heart in sovereign overthrow. N That called them; and they threw their tresses back, And smote their palms, and all laughed up at once, For the strong heavenly joy they had in them To hear God bless the world. Wherewith I woke: And looking round, I saw as usual That she was standing there with her long locks Pressed to her side; and her laugh ended theirs. For always when I see her now, she laughs. And yet her childish laughter haunts me too, The life of this dead terror; as in days When she, a child, dwelt with me. I must tell Something of those days yet before the end. I brought her from the city—one such day When she was still a merry loving child,— The earliest gift I mind my giving her; A little image of a flying Love Made of our coloured glass-ware, in his hands A dart of gilded metal and a torch. And him she kissed and me, and fain would know Why were his poor eyes blindfold, why the wings And why the arrow. What I knew I told Of Venus and of Cupid,—strange old tales. And when she heard that he could rule the loves Of men and women, still she shook her head And wondered; and, ‘Nay, nay,’ she murmured still, ‘So strong, and he a younger child than I!’ And then she'd have me fix him on the wall Fronting her little bed; and then again She needs must fix him there herself, because I gave him to her and she loved him so, And he should make her love me better yet, If women loved the more, the more they grew. But the fit place upon the wall was high For her, and so I held her in my arms: And each time that the heavy pruning-hook I gave her for a hammer slipped away As it would often, still she laughed and laughed And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth, Just as she hung the image on the nail, It slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground: And as it fell she screamed, for in her hand The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood. And so her laughter turned to tears: and ‘Oh!’ I said, the while I bandaged the small hand,— ‘That I should be the first to make you bleed, Who love and love and love you!’—kissing still The fingers till I got her safe to bed. And still she sobbed,—‘not for the pain at all,’ She said, ‘but for the Love, the poor good Love You gave me.’ So she cried herself to sleep. Another later thing comes back to me. 'Twas in those hardest foulest days of all, When still from his shut palace, sitting clean Above the splash of blood, old Metternich (May his soul die, and never-dying worms Feast on its pain for ever!) used to thin His year's doomed hundreds daintily, eachmonth Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think, Was when his thrift forbad the poor to take That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. The first I heard of it was a chance shot In the street here and there, and on the stones A stumbling clatter as of horse hemmed round. Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still A child; and yet that kiss was on my lips So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. For now, being always with her, the first love I had—the father's, brother's love—was changed, I think, in somewise; like a holy thought Which is a prayer before one knows of it. The first time I perceived this, I remember, Was once when after hunting I came home Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me, And sat down at my feet upon the floor Leaning against my side. But when I felt Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers So high as to be laid upon my heart, I turned and looked upon my darling there And marked for the first time how tall she was; And my heart beat with so much violence Under her cheek, I thought she could not choose But wonder at it soon and ask me why; And so I bade her rise and eat with me. And when, remembering all and counting back The time, I made out fourteen years for her And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes As of the sky and sea on a grey day, And drew her long hands through her hair, and asked me If she was not a woman; and then laughed: And as she stooped in laughing, I could see Beneath the growing throat the breasts half globed Like folded lilies deepset in the stream. Yes, let me think of her as then; for so Her image, Father, is not like the sights Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth Made to bring death to life,—the underlip Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. Her face was ever pale, as when one stoops Over wan water; and the dark crisped hair And the hair's shadow made it paler still:— Deep-serried locks, the darkness of the cloud Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. Her body bore her neck as the tree's stem Bears the top branch; and as the branch sustains The flower of the year's pride, her high neck bore That face made wonderful with night and day. Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words Fell lingeringly; and rounded finger-tips She had, that clung a little where they touched And then were gone o' the instant. Her great eyes, That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath The passionate lids, as faint, when she would speak, Had also in them hidden springs of mirth, Which under the dark lashes evermore Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low Between the water and the willow-leaves, And the shade quivers till he wins the light. I was a moody comrade to her then, For all the love I bore her. Italy, The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed Her sons' strong arms to lean on, and their hands To lop the poisonous thicket from her path, Cleaving her way to light. And from her need Had grown the fashion of my whole poor life Which I was proud to yield her, as my father Had yielded his. And this had come to be A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate To wreak, all things together that a man Needs for his blood to ripen: till at times All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still To see such life pass muster and be deemed Time's bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt, To the young girl my eyes were like my soul,— Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day. And though she ruled me always, I remember That once when I was thus and she still kept Leaping about the place and laughing, I Did almost chide her; whereupon she knelt And putting her two hands into my breast Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes? 'Tis long since I have wept for anything. I thought that song forgotten out of mind, And now, just as I spoke of it, it came All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed, Such as a blind man chaunts and his dog hears Holding the platter, when the children run To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes:— La bella donna* Piangendo disse: * She wept, sweet lady, And said in weeping: ‘What spell is keeping The stars so steady? Why does the power Of the sun's noon-hour To sleep so move me? And the moon in heaven, Stained where she passes As a worn-out glass is,— Wearily driven, Why walks she above me? ‘Stars, moon, and sun too, I'm tired of either And all together! Whom speak they unto That I should listen? For very surely, Though my arms and shoulders Dazzle beholders, And my eyes glisten, All's nothing purely! What are words said for At all about them, If he they are made for Can do without them?’ She laughed, sweet lady, And said in laughing: ‘His hand clings half in My own already! Oh! do you love me? Oh! speak of passion In no new fashion, No loud inveighings, But the old sayings You once said of me. ‘You said: “As summer, Through boughs grown brittle, Comes back a little Ere frosts benumb her,— So bring'st thou to me All leaves and flowers, Though autumn's gloomy To-day in the bowers.” ‘Oh! does he love me, When my voice teaches The very speeches He then spoke of me? Alas! what flavour Still with me lingers?’ (But she laughed as my kisses Glowed in her fingers With love's old blisses.) ‘Oh! where's one favour Left me to woo him, Whose whole poor savour Belongs not to him?’ ‘Come son fisse Le stelle in cielo! Quel fiato anelo Dello stanco sole, Quanto m'assonna! E la luna, macchiata Come uno specchio Logoro e vecchio,— Faccia affannata. Che cosa vuole? ‘Chè stelle, luna, e sole, Ciascun m'annoja E m'annojano insieme; Non me ne preme Nè ci prendo gioja. E veramente, Che le spalle sien franche E le braccia bianche E il seno caldo e tondo, Non mi fa niente. Chè cosa al mondo Posso più far di questi Se non piacciono a te, come dicesti?’ La donna rise E riprese ridendo:— ‘Questa mano che prendo E dunque mia? Tu m'ami dunque? Dimmelo ancora, Non in modo qualunque, Ma le parole Belle e precise Che dicesti pria. ‘ Siccome suole La state talora (Dicesti) un qualche istante Tornare innanzi inverno, Così ta fai ch'io scerno Le foglie tutte quante, Ben ch'io certo tenessi Per passato l'autunno. ‘Eccolo il mio alunno! Io debbo insegnargli Quei cari detti istessi Ch'ei mi disse una volta! Oimè! Che cosa dargli,’ (Ma ridea piano piano Dei baci in sulla mano,) ‘Ch'ei non m'abbia da lungo tempo tolta?’ That I should sing upon this bed!—with you To listen, and such words still left to say! Yet was it I that sang? The voice seemed hers, As on the very day she sang to me; When, having done, she took out of my hand Something that I had played with all the while And laid it down beyond my reach; and so Turning my face round till it fronted hers,— ‘Weeping or laughing, which was best?’ she said. But these are foolish tales. How should I show The heart that glowed then with love's heat, each day More and more brightly?—when for long years now The very flame that flew about the heart, And gave it fiery wings, has come to be The lapping blaze of hell's environment Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair. Yet one more thing comes back on me to-night Which I may tell you: for it bore my soul Dread firstlings of the brood that rend it now. It chanced that in our last year's wanderings We dwelt at Monza, far away from home, If home we had: and in the Duomo there I sometimes entered with her when she prayed. An Image of Our Lady stands there, wrought In marble by some great Italian hand In the great days when she and Italy Sat on one throne together: and to her And to none else my loved one told her heart. She was a woman then; and as she knelt,— Her sweet brow in the sweet brow's shadow there,— They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land (Whose work still serves the world for miracle) Made manifest herself in womanhood. Father, the day I speak of was the first For weeks that I had borne her company Into the Duomo; and those weeks had been Much troubled, for then first the glimpses came Of some impenetrable restlessness Growing in her to make her changed and cold. And as we entered there that day, I bent My eyes on the fair Image, and I said Within my heart, ‘Oh turn her heart to me!’ And so I left her to her prayers, and went To gaze upon the pride of Monza's shrine, Where in the sacristy the light still falls Upon the Iron Crown of Italy, On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet The daybreak gilds another head to crown. But coming back, I wondered when I saw That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood Alone without her; until further off, Before some new Madonna gaily decked, Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy, I saw her kneel, still praying. At my step She rose, and side by side we left the church. I was much moved, and sharply questioned her Of her transferred devotion; but she seemed Stubborn and heedless; till she lightly laughed And said: ‘The old Madonna? Aye indeed, ‘She had my old thoughts,—this one has my new.’ Then silent to the soul I held my way: And from the fountains of the public place Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles, Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air; And stately with her laugh's subsiding smile She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck And hands held light before her; and the face Which long had made a day in my life's night Was night in day to me; as all men's eyes Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread Beyond my heart to the world made for her. Ah there! my wounds will snatch my sense again: The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it Leaves my brain burning. That's the wound he gave, The Austrian whose white coat I still made match With his white face, only the two were red As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear White for a livery, that the blood may show Braver that brings them to him. So he looks Sheer o'er the field and knows his own at once. Give me a draught of water in that cup; My voice feels thick; perhaps you do not hear; But you must hear. If you mistake my words And so absolve me, I am sure the blessing Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words And so absolve me, Father, the great sin Is yours, not mine: mark this: your soul shall burn With mine for it. I have seen pictures where Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths: Shall my end be as theirs? Nay, but I know 'Tis you shall shriek in Latin. Some bell rings, Rings through my brain: it strikes the hour in hell. You see I cannot, Father; I have tried, But cannot, as you see. These twenty times Beginning, I have come to the same point And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words Which will not let you understand my tale. It is that then we have her with us here, As when she wrung her hair out in my dream To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it. Her hair is always wet, for she has kept Its tresses wrapped about her side for years; And when she wrung them round over the floor, I heard the blood between her fingers hiss; So that I sat up in my bed and screamed Once and again; and once to once, she laughed. Look that you turn not now,—she's at your back: Gather your robe up, Father, and keep close, Or she'll sit down on it and send you mad. At Iglio in the first thin shade o' the hills The sand is black and red. The black was black When what was spilt that day sank into it, And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood This night with her, and saw the sand the same. * * * * * * What would you have me tell you? Father, father, How shall I make you know? You have not known The dreadful soul of woman, who one day Forgets the old and takes the new to heart, Forgets what man remembers, and therewith Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell How the change happened between her and me. Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart When most my heart was full of her; and still In every corner of myself I sought To find what service failed her; and no less Than in the good time past, there all was hers. What do you love? Your Heaven? Conceive it spread For one first year of all eternity All round you with all joys and gifts of God; And then when most your soul is blent with it And all yields song together,—then it stands O' the sudden like a pool that once gave back Your image, but now drowns it and is clear Again,—or like a sun bewitched, that burns Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight. How could you bear it? Would you not cry out, Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears That hear no more your voice you hear the same,— ‘God! what is left but hell for company, But hell, hell, hell?’—until the name so breathed Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire? Even so I stood the day her empty heart Left her place empty in our home, while yet I knew not why she went nor where she went Nor how to reach her: so I stood the day When to my prayers at last one sight of her Was granted, and I looked on heaven made pale With scorn, and heard heaven mock me in that laugh. O sweet, long sweet! Was that some ghost of you Even as your ghost that haunts me now,—twin shapes Of fear and hatred? May I find you yet Mine when death wakes? Ah! be it even in flame, We may have sweetness yet, if you but say As once in childish sorrow: ‘Not my pain, My pain was nothing: oh your poor poor love, Your broken love!’ My Father, have I not Yet told you the last things of that last day On which I went to meet her by the sea? O God, O God! but I must tell you all. Midway upon my journey, when I stopped To buy the dagger at the village fair, I saw two cursed rats about the place I knew for spies—blood-sellers both. That day Was not yet over; for three hours to come I prized my life: and so I looked around For safety. A poor painted mountebank Was playing tricks and shouting in a crowd. I knew he must have heard my name, so I Pushed past and whispered to him who I was, And of my danger. Straight he hustled me Into his booth, as it were in the trick, And brought me out next minute with my face All smeared in patches and a zany's gown; And there I handed him his cups and balls, And swung the sand-bags round to clear the ring For half an hour. The spies came once and looked; And while they stopped, and made all sights and sounds Sharp to my startled senses, I remember A woman laughed above me. I looked up And saw where a brown handsome harlot leaned Half through a tavern window thick with vine. Some man had come behind her in the room And caught her by her arms, and she had turned With that coarse empty laugh. I saw him there Munching her neck with kisses, while the vine Crawled in her back. And three hours afterwards, When she that I had run all risks to meet Laughed as I told you, my life burned to death Within me, for I thought it like the laugh Heard at the fair. She had not left me long; But all she might have changed to, or might change to, (I know nought since—she never speaks a word—) Seemed in that laugh. Have I not told you yet, Not told you all this time what happened, Father, When I had offered her the little knife, And bade her keep it for my sake that loved her, And she had laughed? Have I not told you yet? ‘Take it,’ I said to her the second time, ‘Take it and keep it.’ And then came a fire That burnt my hand; and then the fire was blood, And sea and sky were blood and fire, and all The day was one red blindness; till it seemed Within the whirling brain's entanglement That she or I or all things bled to death. And then I found her lying at my feet And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still The look she gave me when she took the knife Deep in her heart, even as I bade her then, And fell, and her stiff bodice scooped the sand Into her bosom. And she keeps it, see, Do you not see she keeps it?—there, beneath Wet fingers and wet tresses, in her heart. For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows The little hilt of horn and pearl,—even such A dagger as our women of the coast Twist in their garters. Father, I have done: And from her side now she unwinds the thick Dark hair; all round her side it is wet through, But like the sand at Iglio does not change. Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father, I have told all: tell me at once what hope Can reach me still. For now she draws it out Slowly, and only smiles as yet: look, Father, She scarcely smiles: but I shall hear her laugh Soon, when she shows the crimson blade to God. O <hi rend="c">JENNY.</hi>

“Vengeance of Jenny's case! Fie on her! Never name her, child!”—(Mrs. Quickly.)

 Lazy laughing languid Jenny, Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, Whose head is on my knee to-night;— (Have all our dances left it light With their wild tunes?)— Ah, Jenny, queen Of kisses which the blush between Could hardly make much daintier!— Nay, Poor flower left torn since yesterday Until to-morrow leave you bare; Poor handful of bright spring-water Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face! — Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace Thus with your head upon my knee;— Whose person or whose purse may be The lodestar of your reverie? This room of yours, my Jenny, looks A change from mine so full of books, Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, So many captive hours of youth,— The hours they thieve from day and night To make one's cherished work come right, And leave it wrong for all their theft, Even as to-night my work was left: Until I vowed that since my brain And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, My feet should have some dancing too:— And thus it was I met with you. Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, For here I am. And now, sweetheart, You seem too tired to get to bed. It was a careless life I led When rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. What breeds the change,— The many aims or the few years? Because to-night it all appears Something I do not know again. The cloud's not danced out of my brain,— The cloud that made it turn and swim While hour by hour the books grew dim. Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,— For all your wealth of loosened hair, Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd And warm sweets open to the waist, All golden in the lamplight's gleam,— You know not what a book you seem, Half-read by lightning in a dream! How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, And I should be ashamed to say:— Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss! But while my thought runs on like this With wasteful whims more than enough, I wonder what you're thinking of. If of myself you think at all, What is the thought?—conjectural On sorry matters best unsolved?— Or inly is each grace revolved To fit me with a lure?—or (sad To think!) perhaps you're merely glad That I'm not drunk or ruffianly And let you rest upon my knee. For sometimes, were the truth confess'd, You're thankful for a little rest,— Glad from the crush to rest within, From the heart-sickness and the din Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch Mocks you because your gown is rich; And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak And other nights than yours bespeak; And from the wise unchildish elf, To schoolmate lesser than himself Pointing you out, what thing you are:— Yes, from the daily jeer and jar, From shame and shame's outbraving too, Is rest not sometimes sweet to you?— But most from the hatefulness of man Who spares not to end what he began, Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, Who, having used you at his will, Thrusts you aside, as when I dine I serve the dishes and the wine. Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, I've filled our glasses, let us sup, And do not let me think of you, Lest shame of yours suffice for two. What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep Your head there, so you do not sleep; But that the weariness may pass And leave you merry, take this glass. Ah! lazy lily hand, more bless'd If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd Nor ever by a glove conceal'd! Behold the lilies of the field, They toil not neither do they spin; (So doth the ancient text begin,— Not of such rest as one of these Can share.) Another rest and ease Along each summer-sated path From its new lord the garden hath, Than that whose spring in blessings ran Which praised the righteous husbandman, Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, The lilies sickened unto death. What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread Like winter on the garden-bed. But you had roses left in May,— They were not gone too. Jenny, nay, But must your roses die away? Even so; the leaves are curled apart, Still red as from the broken heart, And here's the naked stem of thorns. Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns As yet of winter. Sickness here Or want alone could waken fear,— Nothing but passion wrings a tear. Except when there may rise unsought Haply at times a passing thought Of the old days which seem to be Much older than any history That is written in any book; When she would lie in fields and look Along the ground through the blown grass, And wonder where the city was, Far out of sight, whose broil and bale They told her then for a child's tale. Jenny, you know the city now. A child can tell the tale there, how Some things which are not yet enroll'd In market-lists are bought and sold Even till the early Sunday light, When Saturday night is market-night Everywhere, be it dry or wet, And market-night in the Haymarket. Our learned London children know, Poor Jenny, all your mirth and woe; Have seen your lifted silken skirt Advertize dainties through the dirt; Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there, Round the long park, across the bridge, The cold lamps at the pavement's edge Wind on together and apart, A fiery serpent for your heart. Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud! Suppose I were to think aloud,— What if to her all this were said? Why, as a volume seldom read Being opened halfway shuts again, So might the pages of her brain Be parted at such words, and thence Close back upon the dusty sense. For is there hue or shape defin'd In Jenny's desecrated mind, Where all contagious currents meet, A Lethe of the middle street? Nay, it reflects not any face, Nor sound is in its sluggish pace, But as they coil those eddies clot, And night and day remember not. Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last!— Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast,— So young and soft and tired; so fair, With chin thus nestled in your hair, Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue As if some sky of dreams shone through! Just as another woman sleeps! Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps Of doubt and horror,—what to say Or think,—this awful secret sway, The potter's power over the clay! Of the same lump (it has been said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. My cousin Nell is fond of fun, And fond of dress, and change, and praise, So mere a woman in her ways: And if her sweet eyes rich in youth Are like her lips that tell the truth, My cousin Nell is fond of love. And she's the girl I'm proudest of. Who does not prize her, guard her well? The love of change, in cousin Nell, Shall find the best and hold it dear: The unconquered mirth turn quieter Not through her own, through others' woe: The conscious pride of beauty glow Beside another's pride in her, One little part of all they share. For Love himself shall ripen these In a kind soil to just increase Through years of fertilizing peace. Of the same lump (as it is said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. It makes a goblin of the sun. So pure,—so fall'n! How dare to think Of the first common kindred link? Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn It seems that all things take their turn; And who shall say but this fair tree May need, in changes that may be, Your children's children's charity? Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn'd! Shall no man hold his pride forewarn'd Till in the end, the Day of Days, At Judgment, one of his own race, As frail and lost as you, shall rise,— His daughter, with his mother's eyes? Each of such curdled lives alike A life for which my twelve hours strike And time must be and time must end. Hard to keep sight of! What might tend To give the thought clear presence? Well, Remember it is possible, Whether I please or do not please, That in the making each of these A separate man has lost his soul. Fair shines the gilded aureole In which our highest painters place Some living woman's simple face. And the stilled features thus descried As Jenny's long throat droops aside,— The loving underlip drawn in, The shadows where the cheeks are thin, And pure wide curve from ear to chin,— With Raffael's or Da Vinci's hand To show them to men's souls, might stand, Whole ages long, the whole world through, For preachings of what God can do. What has man done here? How atone, Great God, for this which man has done? And for the body and soul which by Man's pitiless doom must now comply With lifelong hell, what lullaby Of sweet forgetful second birth Remains? All dark. No sign on earth What measure of God's rest endows The many mansions of his house. If but a woman's heart might see Such erring heart unerringly For once! But that can never be. Like a rose shut in a book In which pure women may not look, For its base pages claim control To crush the flower within the soul; Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, Pale as transparent psyche-wings, To the vile text, are traced such things As might make lady's cheek indeed More than a living rose to read; So nought save foolish foulness may Watch with hard eyes the sure decay; And so the life-blood of this rose, Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose: Yet still it keeps such faded show Of when 'twas gathered long ago, That the crushed petals' lovely grain, The sweetness of the sanguine stain, Seen of a woman's eyes, must make Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache, Love roses better for its sake:— Only that this can never be:— Even so unto her sex is she. Yet, Jenny, looking long at you, The woman almost fades from view. A cipher of man's changeless sum Of lust, past, present, and to come, Is left. A riddle that one shrinks To challenge from the scornful sphinx. Like a toad within a stone Seated while Time crumbles on; Which sits there since the earth was curs'd For Man's transgression at the first; Which, living through all centuries, Not once has seen the sun arise; Whose life, to its cold circle charmed, The earth's whole summers have not warmed; Which always—whitherso the stone Be flung—sits there, deaf, blind, alone;— Aye, and shall not be driven out Till that which shuts him round about Break at the very Master's stroke, And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, And the seed of Man vanish as dust:— Even so within this world is Lust. Come, come, what use in thoughts like this? Poor little Jenny, good to kiss,— You'd not believe by what strange roads Thought travels, when your beauty goads A man to-night to think of toads! Jenny, wake up. . . . Why, there's the dawn! And there's an early waggon drawn To market, and some sheep that jog Bleating before a barking dog; And the old streets come peering through Another night that London knew; And all as ghostlike as the lamps. So on the wings of day decamps My last night's frolic. Glooms begin To shiver off as lights creep in Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, And the lamps doubled shade grows blue,— Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, Like a wise virgin's, all one night! And in the alcove coolly spread Glimmers with dawn your empty bed; And yonder your fair face I see Reflected lying on my knee, Where teems with first foreshadowings Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings. And somehow in myself the dawn Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep. But will it wake her if I heap These cushions thus beneath her head Where my knee was? No,—there's your bed, My Jenny, while you dream. And there I lay among your golden hair Perhaps the subject of your dreams, These golden coins. For still one deems That Jenny's flattering sleep confers New magic on the magic purse,— Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies! Between the threads fine fumes arise And shape their pictures in the brain. There roll no streets in glare and rain, Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk; But delicately sighs in musk The homage of the dim boudoir; Or like a palpitating star Thrilled into song, the opera-night Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light; Or at the carriage-window shine Rich wares for choice; or, free to dine, Whirls through its hour of health (divine For her) the concourse of the Park. And though in the discounted dark Her functions there and here are one, Beneath the lamps and in the sun There reigns at least the acknowledged belle Apparelled beyond parallel. Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. For even the Paphian Venus seems A goddess o'er the realms of love, When silver-shrined in shadowy grove: Aye, or let offerings nicely placed But hide Priapus to the waist, And whoso looks on him shall see An eligible deity. Why, Jenny, waking here alone May help you to remember one! I think I see you when you wake, And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danaë for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last, Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast Because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this? Well, of such thoughts so much I know: In my life, as in hers, they show, By a far gleam which I may near, A dark path I can strive to clear. Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear. <hi rend="c">THE PORTRAIT.</hi> This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,— Until mine eyes almost aver That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart:— And yet the earth is over her. In painting her I shrined her face Mid mystic trees, where light falls in Hardly at all; a covert place Where you might think to find a din Of doubtful talk, and a live flame Wandering, and many a shape whose name Not itself knoweth, and old dew, And your own footsteps meeting you, And all things going as they came. This page is badly mutilated. Much of its printed text is torn away, and a manuscript addition made at the foot of the page for received line 131ff. is only decipherable for a few words. The missing printed text has been supplied by the editors in brackets. Along the groun [?] the breezes [?] like a [?] The remains of three lines of manuscript addition are decipherable at the foot of the page. These lines are marked to replace received line 131. No such addition was in fact made to the printed text. Than that whose spring in blessings [ran] Which praised the righteous husbandm[an,] Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, The lilies sickened unto death. What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread Like winter on the garden-bed. But you had roses left in May,— They were not gone too. Jenny, nay, But must your roses die away? Even so; the leaves are curled apart, Still red as from the broken heart, And here's the naked stem of thorns. Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing war[ns] As yet of winter. Sickness here Or want alone could waken fe[ar,—] Nothing but passion wrin[gs a tear.] Except when there m[ay rise unsought] Haply at times [a passing thought] Of the old day[s which seem to be] Much older t[han any history] That is writ[ten in any book;] When she [would lie in fields and look] Along the [ground through the blown grass,] And wo[nder where the city was,] Far out [of sight, whose broil and bale] They [told her then for a child's tale.] This page is badly mutilated. Much of its printed text is torn away, and a manuscript addition made at the foot of the page for insertion after received line 142. is only decipherable for a few words. [?]Sunday mor [?] must, woul [?] death-bells [?] may no [?] The remains of three lines of manuscript addition are decipherable at the foot of the page. These lines are marked for insertion after received line 142. No such addition was in fact made to the printed text. [Jenny,] you know the city now. [A child] can tell the tale there, how [Some] things which are not yet enroll'd [In m]arket-lists are bought and sold Even till the early Sunday light, When Saturday night is market-night Everywhere, be it dry or wet, And market-night in the Haymarket. Our learned London children know, Poor Jenny, all your mirth and woe; Have seen your lifted silken skirt Advertize dainties through the dirt; Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there, [Round] the long park, across the bridge, [The cold lam]ps at the pavement's edge [Wind on together a]nd apart, [A fiery serpent for your] heart. [Let the thoughts pass, an emp]ty cloud! [Suppose I were to think aloud,—] [What if to her all this were said?] [Why, as a volume seldom read] [Being opened halfway shuts again,] [So might the pages of her brain] [Be parted at such words, and thence] [Close back upon the dusty sense.]