Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature E (Delaware Museum, first revise proof) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Text courtesy of The Delaware Art Museum Poems. A New Edition Dante Gabriel Rossetti F. S. Ellis Strangeways and Walden London 1881 May 15 (circa) proof 49-64 1 DGR E8 Library, Delaware Art Museum 10 point; 6 point leading roman 22 2 cm 3.8 cm 2 cm 2.5 cm 19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo) Commentary
Introduction

This is an uncorrected copy of the first revise of Signature E. It carries DGR's corrections from the first author's proof.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Four copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include this uncorrected first revise; the corrected author's first proof; a duplicate first proof with printer's corrections; and another uncorrected copy of this first revise.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

E He said, from life and death gone home. Amen: even so, Lord Jesus, come! But oh! what human tongue can speak That day when Michael came* to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, Its covenant with Gabriel Endured at length unto the end? What human thought can apprehend That mystery of motherhood When thy Beloved at length renew'd The sweet communion severèd,— His left hand underneath thine head And His right hand embracing thee?— Lo! He was thine, and this is He! Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, That lets me see her standing up Where the light of the Throne is bright? Unto the left, unto the right, The cherubim, succinct, conjoint, Float inward to a golden point,

* A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death.

 And from between the seraphim The glory issues for a hymn. O Mary Mother, be not loth To listen,—thou whom the stars clothe, Who seëst and mayst not be seen! Hear us at last, O Mary Queen! Into our shadow bend thy face, Bowing thee from the secret place, O Mary Virgin, full of grace! <hi rend="c">DANTE AT VERONA</hi>. ‘Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread,—how steep his path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs.’ ( <hi rend="i">Div. Com. Parad.</hi> xvii.) ‘Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.’ ( <hi rend="i">Div. Com. Purg.</hi> xxx.) OF Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. Follow his feet's appointed way;— But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey:—nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. ‘And if I go, who stays?’—so rose His scorn:—‘and if I stay, who goes?’ ‘Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay:’ (The curled lips mutter): ‘and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in.’ Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. Arriving only to depart, From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand His body bore his burning heart That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,— The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase,— ‘Even I, even I am Beatrice.’ At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend; The ushers on his path would bend At ingoing as at going out; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles, Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart strings round the wall Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to yield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One heart the false hearts made her doubt, One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh! if his Florence could but come, A lily-sceptred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais: Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all: All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— And hand achieve ere heart could rest That high adventure of her quest? How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went; And at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth, How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile! Also her lips should turn his way And murmur: ‘O thou tried and true, With whom I wept the long years through! What shall it profit if I say, Thee I remember? Nay, through thee All ages shall remember me.’ Peace, Dante, peace! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song: But lo! as children of man's earth, Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The Poet's name due honour found. Watch we his steps. He comes upon The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem, Saying, ‘Messer Dante, pardon me,’— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. ‘Donne che avete’* . . . Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd

* ‘Donne che avete intelletto d'amore:’—the first canzone of the <foreign lang="italian">‘Vita Nuova.’</foreign>

His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said: Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. For then the voice said in his heart, ‘Even I, even I am Beatrice;’ And his whole life would yearn to cease: Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow; and if the sun fell there, Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne,— Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st,— A window often wept against: The window thou, a youth, hast sought, Flushed in the limpid eventime, Ending with daylight the day's rhyme Of her; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee—the lamp untrimmed to write— In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport, No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six-and-twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere,—you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got Just nothing in his wits but war: Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy (Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) To mark his ‘Viva Cane!’ scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.*

* Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, wasnow his fellow-guest at Verona.

 Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. But Dante recked not of the wine; Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, ‘the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,’— Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplex'd If any day that could come next