Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature P (Delaware Museum, final proof,
copy 2)Dante Gabriel Rossetti1Text courtesy of The Delaware Art MuseumPoems. A New EditionDante Gabriel RossettiF. S. EllisStrangeways and WaldenLondon1881 May 20 (circa)proof 209-2241DGRP8Library, Delaware Art Museum10 point; 6 point leading
roman
222 cm3.8 cm2 cm2.5 cm19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo)
Commentary
Introduction
This is copy 2 of the final proof of Signature P of the 1881
<hi rend="i">Poems</hi>
. It has no corrections.
Seven copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the
Delaware Art Museum. They include the corrected author's first revise proof, a printer's duplicate (uncorrected), a second revise (with one further
correction), and four copies of the final proof, all uncorrected: copy 1, copy 3 (partial), copy 4 , and this copy.
Printing History
Reception History
Historical
Literary
Translation
Autobiographical
Bibliographic
P But Alo˙se still paused. Thereon Amelotte gathered voice In somewise from the torpid fear Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear She said: ‘Speak, sister; for I hear.’ But Alo˙se threw up her neck And called the name of God:— ‘Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day! She knows how hard this is to say, Yet will not have one word away.’ Her sister was quite silent. Then Afresh:—‘Not she, dear Lord!Thou be my judge, on Thee I call!’ She ceased,—her forehead smote the wall: ‘Is there a God,’ she said, ‘at all?’ Amelotte shuddered at the soul, But did not speak. The pause Was long this time. At length the bride Pressed her hand hard against her side, And trembling between shame and pride Said by fierce effort: ‘From that night Often at nights we met: That night, his passion could but rave: The next, what grace his lips did crave I knew not, but I know I gave.’ Where Amelotte was sitting, all The light and warmth of day Were so upon her without shade, That the thing seemed by sunshine made Most foul and wanton to be said. She would have questioned more, and known The whole truth at its worst, But held her silent, in mere shame Of day. 'Twas only these words came:— ‘Sister, thou hast not said his name.’ ‘Sister,’ quoth Alo˙se, ‘thou know'st His name. I said that he Was in a manner of our kin. Waiting the title he might win, They called him the Lord Urscelyn.’ The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte Daily familiar,—heard Thus in this dreadful history,— Was dreadful to her; as might be Thine own voice speaking unto thee. The day's mid-hour was almost full; Upon the dial-plate The angel's sword stood near at One. An hour's remaining yet; the sun Will not decrease till all be done. Through the bride's lattice there crept in At whiles (from where the train Of minstrels, till the marriage-call, Loitered at windows of the wall,) Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. They clung in the green growths and moss Against the outside stone; Low like dirge-wail or requiem They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem: There was no wind to carry them. Amelotte gathered herself back Into the wide recess That the sun flooded: it o'erspread Like flame the hair upon her head And fringed her face with burning red. All things seemed shaken and at change: A silent place o' the hills She knew, into her spirit came: Within herself she said its name And wondered was it still the same. The bride (whom silence goaded) now Said strongly,—her despair By stubborn will kept underneath:— ‘Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe That curse of thine. Give me my wreath.’ ‘Sister,’ said Amelotte, ‘abide In peace. Be God thy judge, As thou hast said—not I. For me, I merely will thank God that he Whom thou hast lovčd loveth thee.’ Then Alo˙se lay back, and laughed With wan lips bitterly, Saying, ‘Nay, thank thou God for this,— That never any soul like his Shall have its portion where love is.’ Weary of wonder, Amelotte Sat silent: she would ask No more, though all was unexplained: She was too weak; the ache still pained Her eyes,—her forehead's pulse remained. The silence lengthened. Alo˙se Was fain to turn her face Apart, to where the arras told Two Testaments, the New and Old, In shapes and meanings manifold. One solace that was gained, she hid. Her sister, from whose curse Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead: Yet would not her pride have it said How much the blessing comforted. Only, on looking round again After some while, the face Which from the arras turned away Was more at peace and less at bay With shame than it had been that day. She spoke right on, as if no pause Had come between her speech: ‘That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd;’ She said; ‘the days from first to last How slow,—woe's me! the nights how fast!’ ‘From first to last it was not known: My nurse, and of my train Some four or five, alone could tell What terror kept inscrutable: There was good need to guard it well. ‘Not the guilt only made the shame, But he was without land And born amiss. He had but come To train his youth here at our homeAnd, being man, depart therefrom. ‘Of the whole time each single day Brought fear and great unrest: It seemed that all would not avail Some once,—that my close watch would fail, And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. ‘The noble maidens that I knew, My fellows, oftentimes Midway in talk or sport, would look A wonder which my fears mistook, To see how I turned faint and shook. ‘They had a game of cards, where each By painted arms might find What knight she should be given to. Ever with trembling hand I threw Lest I should learn the thing I knew. ‘And once it came. And Aure d'Honvaulx Held up the bended shield And laughed: “Gramercy for our share!— If to our bridal we but fare To smutch the blazon that we bear!” ‘But proud Denise de Villenbois Kissed me, and gave her wench The card, and said: “If in these bowers You women play at paramours, You must not mix your game with ours.” ‘And one upcast it from her hand: “Lo! see how high he'll soar!” But then their laugh was bitterest; For the wind veered at fate's behest And blew it back into my breast. ‘Oh! if I met him in the day Or heard his voice,—at meals Or at the Mass or through the hall,— A look turned towards me would appal My heart by seeming to know all. ‘Yet I grew curious of my shame, And sometimes in the church, On hearing such a sin rebuked, Have held my girdle-glass unhooked To see how such a woman looked. ‘But if at night he did not come, I lay all deadly cold To think they might have smitten sore And slain him, and as the night wore, His corpse be lying at my door. ‘And entering or going forth, Our proud shield o'er the gate Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes. With tremors and unspoken lies The year went past me in this wise. ‘About the spring of the next year An ailing fell on me; (I had been stronger till the spring;) 'Twas mine old sickness gathering, I thought; but 'twas another thing. ‘I had such yearnings as brought tears, And a wan dizziness: Motion, like feeling, grew intense; Sight was a haunting evidence And sound a pang that snatched the sense. ‘It now was hard on that great ill Which lost our wealth from us And all our lands. Accursed be The peevish fools of liberty Who will not let themselves be free! ‘The Prince was fled into the west: A price was on his blood, But he was safe. To us his friends He left that ruin which attends The strife against God's secret ends. ‘The league dropped all asunder,—lord, Gentle and serf. Our house Was marked to fall. And a day came When half the wealth that propped our name Went from us in a wind of flame. ‘Six hours I lay upon the wall And saw it burn. But when It clogged the day in a black bed Of louring vapour, I was led Down to the postern, and we fled. ‘But ere we fled, there was a voice Which I heard speak, and say That many of our friends, to shun Our fate, had left us and were gone, And that Lord Urscelyn was one. ‘That name, as was its wont, made sight And hearing whirl. I gave No heed but only to the name I held my senses, dreading them, And was at strife to look the same. ‘We rode and rode. As the speed grew, The growth of some vague curse Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me Numbed by the swiftness, but would be— That still—clear knowledge certainly. ‘Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there And the sea-wind: afar The ravening surge was hoarse and loud, And underneath the dim dawn-cloud Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. ‘From my drawn litter I looked out Unto the swarthy sea, And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd: I knew that Urscelyn was lost. ‘Then I spake all: I turned on one And on the other, and spake: My curse laughed in me to behold Their eyes: I sat up, stricken cold, Mad of my voice till all was told. ‘Oh! of my brothers, Hugues was mute, And Gilles was wild and loud, And Raoul strained abroad his face, As if his gnashing wrath could trace Even there the prey that it must chase. ‘And round me murmured all our train, Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea; Till Hugues from silence louring woke, And cried: “What ails the foolish folk? Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke?” ‘But my stern father came to them And quelled them with his look, Silent and deadly pale. Anon I knew that we were hastening on, My litter closed and the light gone. ‘And I remember all that day The barren bitter wind Without, and the sea's moaning there That I first moaned with unaware, And when I knew, shook down my hair. ‘Few followed us or faced our flight: Once only I could hear, Far in the front, loud scornful words, And cries I knew of hostile lords, And crash of spears and grind of swords. ‘It was soon ended. On that day Before the light had changed We reached our refuge; miles of rock Bulwarked for war; whose strength might mock Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. ‘Listless and feebly conscious, I Lay far within the night Awake. The many pains incurred That day,—the whole, said, seen or heard,— Stayed by in me as things deferred. ‘Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams All was passed through afresh From end to end. As the morn heaved Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved, That I might die, cursed God, and lived. ‘Many days went, and I saw none Except my women. They Calmed their wan faces, loving me; And when they wept, lest I should see, Would chaunt a desolate melody. ‘Panic unthreatened shook my blood Each sunset, all the slow Subsiding of the turbid light. I would rise, sister, as I might, And bathe my forehead through the night ‘To elude madness. The stark walls Made chill the mirk: and when We oped our curtains, to resume Sun-sickness after long sick gloom, The withering sea-wind walked the room. Through the gaunt windows the great gales Bore in the tattered clumps Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs; And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse, Were flung, wild-clamouring, in the house. ‘My hounds I had not; and my hawk, Which they had saved for me, Wanting the sun and rain to beat His wings, soon lay with gathered feet; And my flowers faded, lacking heat. ‘Such still were griefs: for grief was still A separate sense, untouched Of that despair which had become My life. Great anguish could benumb My soul,—my heart was quarrelsome. ‘Time crept. Upon a day at length My kinsfolk sat with me: That which they asked was bare and plain: I answered: the whole bitter strain Was again said, and heard again. ‘Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned The point against my breast. I bared it, smiling: “To the heart Strike home,” I said; “another dart Wreaks hourly there a deadlier smart.” ‘'Twas then my sire struck down the sword, And said with shaken lips: “She from whom all of you receive Your life, so smiled; and I forgive.” Thus, for my mother's sake, I live. But I, a mother even as she, Turned shuddering to the wall: For I said: “Great God! and what would I do, When to the sword, with the thing I knew, I offered not one life but two!”