Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature M (Delaware Museum, first proof, copy 1) 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 12 (circa) proof 161-176 1 DGR M8 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 the copy of the first proof of Signature M of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> , with the full set of corrections by DGR. The other copy, also corrected by DGR, has many fewer revisions. This copy shows the major change called for on page 170, shifting the poem “Youth and Lordship (Italian Street Song)” from its position following “A Last Confession” to its (received) position at the end of the volume, and with the relative relation of DGR's translation to the Italian song reversed.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Six copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include this fully corrected first author's proof, a partially corrected the duplicate of the first proof, two first revises, the author's copy and the printer's copy, and two final revise proofs, copy 1 and its duplicate.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

M 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 grew 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-shouldered 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 on him, as now He munched 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 eclipse, that she Or I or all things bled or burned to death. And then I found her laid against my feet And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still Her look in falling. For 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 steel to God. This must be removed. It cancome (followed by the enclosed MS The Leaf) before the last translation (Francesca da Rimini) at end of the book. Only the English must be thereprintedastext &theItalianasfootnote DGR's note to the printer <foreign lang="italian"> <hi rend="c">GIOVENTÙ E SIGNORÌA</hi>.</foreign> È giovine il signore, Ed ama molta e cose,— I canti, le rose, La forza e l'amore. ---------- Translated version of the poem appears in two columns at bottom of page. * <hi rend="c">YOUTH AND LORDSHIP</hi>. My young lord's the lover Of earth and sky above, Of youth's sway and youth's play, Of songs and flowers and love. Yet for love's desire Green youth lacks the daring; Though one dream of fire, All his hours ensnaring, Burns the boy past bearing,— The dream that girls inspire. My young lord's the lover Of every burning thought That Love's will, that Love's skill Within his breast has wrought. Lovely girl, look on him, Soft as music's measure; Yield him, when you've won him, Joys and tears toys at pleasure; But to win your treasure, Softly look upon him. My young lord's the lover Of every tender grace That woman, to woo man, Can wear in form or face. Take him to your bosom Now, girl, or never; Let not your new blossom Of sweet kisses sever; Only guard for ever Your boast within your bosom. My young lord's the lover Of every secret thing, Love-hidden, love-bidden This day to banqueting. Lovely girl, with vaunting Never tempt to-morrow: From all shapes enchanting Any joy can borrow, Still the spectre Sorrow Rises up for haunting. And now my lord's the lover Of ah! so many a sweet,— Of roses, of spouses, As many as love may greet. Quel du che più vuole Ancor non osa: Ahi più che il sole, Più ch' ogni rosa, La cara cosa, Donna a gioiv re. È giovine il signore, Ed ama quelle cose Che ardor dispose In cuore all' amore. Bella fanciulla, Guardalo in viso; Non mancar nulla, Motto o sorriso; Ma viso a viso, Guarda a gradire. È giovine il signore, Ed ama tutte cose. , Vi ezzose, giojose, Ter nenti all' amore. Prendilo in braccio Adesso o mai; Per più mi taccio, Chè tu lo sai; Bacialo e l'avrai, Ma non lo dire. È giovine il signore, Ed ama ben le cose Che Amor nascose, Che mostragli Amore. Deh trionfando Non farne pin ruova; Ahimè! che g quando Gioja più giova, Allor si trova Presso al finire. È giovine il signore. , Ed ama tante cose, Le rose, le spose, Quanti e gli dona Amore. <hi rend="c">THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH</hi>. In our Museum galleries To-day I lingered o'er the prize Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes,— Her Art for ever in fresh wise From hour to hour rejoicing me. Sighing I turned at last to win Once more the London dirt and din; And as I made the swing-door spin And issued, they were hoisting in A wingèd beast from Nineveh. A human face the creature wore, And hoofs behind and hoofs before, And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, A dead disbowelled mystery; : The mummy of a buried faith Stark from the charnel without scathe, Its wings stood for the light to bathe,— Such fossil cerements as might swathe The very corpse of Nineveh. The print of its first rush-wrapping, Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. What song did the brown maidens sing, From purple mouths alternating, When that was woven languidly? What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd, What songs has the strange image heard? In what blind vigil stood interr'd For ages, till an English word Broke silence first at Nineveh? Oh when upon each sculptured court, Where even the wind might not resort,— O'er which Time passed, of like import With the wild Arab boys at sport,— A living face looked in to see:— O seemed it not—the spell once broke— As though the carven warriors woke, As though the shaft the string forsook, The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, And there was life in Nineveh? On London stones our sun anew The beast's recovered shadow threw. (No shade that plague of darkness knew, No light, no shade, while older grew By ages the old earth and sea.) Lo thou! could all thy priests have shown Such proof to make thy godhead known? From their dead Past thou liv'st alone; And still thy shadow is thine own Even as of yore in Nineveh. That day whereof we keep record, When near thy city-gates the Lord Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd, This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd Even thus this shadow that I see. This shadow has been shed the same From sun and moon,—from lamps which came For prayer,—from fifteen days of flame, The last, while smouldered to a name Sardanapalus' Nineveh. small caps DGR's correction for “Rome” in line 80 X printer's mark signaling the correction called for in line 80 Within thy shadow, haply, once Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons Smote him between the altar-stones: Or pale Semiramis her zones Of gold, her incense brought to thee, In love for grace, in war for aid: . . . . Ay, and who else? . . . . till 'neath thy shade Within his trenches newly made Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd— Not to thy strength—in Nineveh.* Now, thou poor god, within this hall Where the blank windows blind the wall From pedestal to pedestal, The kind of light shall on thee fall Which London takes the day to be: While school-foundations in the act Of holiday, three files compact, Shall learn to view thee as a fact Connected with that zealous tract: ‘Rome,—Babylon and Nineveh.’

* During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their servicesin the shadow of the great bulls. (Layard's ‘ Nineveh, ’ ch. ix.)