Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature N (Delaware Museum, author's first 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 16 (circa) proof 177-192 1 DGR N8 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 DGR's author's proof of Signature N of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . It has no corrections.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Three copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include this author's corrected first proof, a printer's duplicate (partial), and an uncorrected first revise (the final proof).

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Reception History

Historical

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Autobiographical

Bibliographic

335 Number added in pencil in upper right, perhaps by DGR N As with doves' voices, taboring Upon their breasts, unto the King,— A kingly conquest, Nineveh! . . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway Had waxed; and like the human play Of scorn that smiling spreads away, The sunshine shivered off the day: The callous wind, it seemed to me, Swept up the shadow from the ground: And pale as whom the Fates astound, The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd: Within I knew the cry lay bound Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. And as I turned, my sense half shut Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut Go past as marshalled to the strut Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. It seemed in one same pageantry They followed forms which had been erst; To pass, till on my sight should burst That future of the best or worst When some may question which was first, Of London or of Nineveh. For as that Bull-god once did stand And watched the burial-clouds of sand, Till these at last without a hand Rose o'er his eyes, another land, And blinded him with destiny:— So may he stand again; till now, In ships of unknown sail and prow, Some tribe of the Australian plough Bear him afar,—a relic now Of London, not of Nineveh! Or it may chance indeed that when Man's age is hoary among men,— His centuries threescore and ten,— His furthest childhood shall seem then More clear than later times may be: Who, finding in this desert place This form, shall hold us for some race That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, But bowed its pride and vowed its praise Unto the God of Nineveh. The smile rose first,—anon drew nigh The thought: . . Those heavy wings spread high So sure of flight, which do not fly; That set gaze never on the sky; Those scriptured flanks it cannot see; Its crown, a brow-contracting load; Its planted feet which trust the sod: . . . (So grew the image as I trod:) O Nineveh, was this thy God,— Thine also, mighty Nineveh? <hi rend="c">WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL</hi>. <lb/>18<hi rend="i">th November</hi>, 1852. ‘Victory!’ So once more the cry must be. Duteous mourning we fulfil In God's name; but by God's will, Doubt not, the last word is still ‘Victory!’ Funeral, In the music round this pall, Solemn grief yields earth to earth; But what tones of solemn mirth In the pageant of new birth Rise and fall? For indeed, If our eyes were openèd, Who shall say what escort floats Here, which breath her nor gleam denotes,— Fiery horses, chariots Fire-footed? Trumpeter, Even thy call he may not hear; Long-known voice for ever past, Till with one more trumpet-blast God's assuring word at last Reach his ear. Multitude, Hold your breadth in reverent mood: For while earth's whole kindred stand Mute even thus on either hand, This soul's labour shall be scann'd And found good. Cherubim, Lift ye not even now your hymn? Lo! once lent for human lack, Michael's sword is rendered back. Thrills not now the starry track, Seraphim? Gabriel, Since the gift of thine ‘All hail!’ Out of Heaven no time hath brought Gift with fuller blessing fraught Than the peace which this man wrought Passing well. Be no word Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd, Say: ‘'Twas thus in His decrees Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, For His harvest's high increase Sent a sword. Veterans, He by whom the neck of France Then was given unto your heel, Timely sought, may lend as well To your sons his terrible Countenance. Waterloo! As the last grave must renew, Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,— So methinks upon thy plain Falls some presage in the rain, In the dew. And O thou, Watching with an exile's brow Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:— Lo! the saving strength of God In some new heart's English blood Slumbers now. Emperor, Is this all thy work was for?— Thus to see thy self-sought aim, Yea thy titles, yea thy name, In another's shame, to shame Bandied o'er? * Wellington, Thy great work is but begun. With quick seed his end is rife Whose long tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won.

* Date of the Coup d' E État: 2nd December, 1851.

 <hi rend="c">AN OLD SONG ENDED</hi>. ‘How should I your true love know From another one?’ ‘By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-schoon.’ ‘And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?’ ‘Lo! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come.’ ‘For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring?’ ‘He will bear a ring I gave And another ring.’ ‘How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there?’ ‘Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair.’ ‘Can you say to me some word I shall say to him?’ ‘Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim.’ <hi rend="c">WORLD'S WORTH</hi>. 'Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray; so took The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook A sad blind echo. Ever up He toiled. 'Twas a sick sway of air That autumn noon within the stair, As dizzy as a turning cup. His brain benumbed him, void and thin; He shut his eyes and felt it spin; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. He said: ‘O world, what world for me?’ He leaned unto the balcony Where the chime keeps the night and day; It hurt his brain, he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone: Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye Passed all the roofs to the stark sky, Swept with no wing, with wind alone, . Close to his feet the sky did shake With wind in pools that the rains make: The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said: ‘O world, what world for me?’ He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist: The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd. The last words paused against his ear Said from the altar: drawn round him The gathering rest was dumb and dim. And now the sacring-bell rang clear And ceased, ; and all was awe,—the breath Of God in man that warranteth The inmost utmost things of faith. He said: ‘O God, my world in Thee!’ <foreign lang="latin"> <hi rend="c">ASPECTA MEDUSA</hi> </foreign>. Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head: Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself, although It once should save as well as kill: but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. <hi rend="c">THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE</hi>. ‘Sister,’ said busy Amelotte To listless Aloÿse; ‘Along your wedding-road the wheat Bends as to hear your horse's feet, And the noonday stands still for heat.’ Amelotte laughed into the air With eyes that sought the sun: But where the walls in long brocade Were screened, as one who is afraid Sat Aloÿse within the shade. And even in shade was gleam enough To shut out full repose From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which Was like the inner altar-niche Whose dimness worship has made rich. plain type: DGR's note to the printer to print the italic in line 30 as roman. Within the window's heaped recess The light was counterchanged In blent reflexes manifold From perfume-caskets of wrought gold And gems the bride's hair could not hold All thrust together: and with these A slim-curved lute, which now, At Amelotte's sudden passing there, Was swept in somewise unaware, And shook to music the close air. Against the haloed lattice-panes The bridesmaid sunned her breast; Then to the glass turned tall and free, And braced and shifted daintily Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie . The belt was silver, and the clasp Of lozenged arm-bearings; A world of mirrored tints minute The rippling sunshine wrought into 't, That flushed her hand and warmed her foot. At least an hour had Aloÿse,— Her jewels in her hair,— Her white gown, as became a bride, Quartered in silver at each side,— Sat thus aloof, as if to hide. Over her bosom, that lay still, The vest was rich in grain, With close pearls wholly overset: Around her throat the fastenings met Of chevesayle and mantelet. Her arms were laid along her lap With the hands open: life Itself did seem at fault in her: Beneath the drooping brows, the stir Of thought made noonday heavier. Long sat she silent; and then raised Her head, with such a gasp As while she summoned breath to speak Fanned high that furnace in the cheek But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak. x Printer marks line 56 for excess inking. (Oh gather round her now, all ye Past seasons of her fear,— Sick springs, and summers deadly cold! To flight your hovering wings unfold, For now your secret shall be told. Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts Of dread detecting flame,— Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels Went past with iron clank of bells,— Draw round and render up your spells!) ‘Sister,’ said Aloÿse, ‘I had A thing to tell thee of Long since, and could not. But do thou Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow Thine heart, and I will tell thee now. Amelotte wondered with her eyes; But her heart said in her: ‘Dear Aloÿse would have me pray Because the awe she feels to-day Must need more prayers than she can say.’ So Amelotte put by the folds That covered up her feet, And knelt,—beyond the arras'd gloom And the hot window's dull perfume,— Where day was stillest in the room. ‘Queen Mary, hear,’ she said, ‘and say To Jesus the Lord Christ, This bride's new joy, which He confers, New joy to many ministers, And many griefs are bound in hers.’ The bride turned in her chair, and hid Her face against the back, And took her pearl-girt elbows in Her hands, and could not yet begin, But shuddering, uttered, ‘Urscelyn!’ Most weak she was; for as she pressed Her hand against her throat, Along the arras she let trail Her face, as if all heart did fail, And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale.