Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature S (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 257-272 1 DGR S8 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 a corrected copy of the first proof of Signature S of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . Its sequencing of the sonnets is very different from the received order, and while one of DGR's reordering changes is apparent here (on page 271), DGR must have used another (not extant) proof of the signature to record the changes that appear in the first revise proof (where yet further reorderings were made).

The removal of the sonnet on page 271 shows that DGR was correcting the proofs for both of his 1881 volumes simultaneously, at least at the point when he had this proof signature in hand. The sonnet here was transferred to <hi rend="i">Ballads and Sonnets</hi> volume, where it was put into “The House of Life” and retitled as “Soul's Beauty” . The terminal punctuation of line 4 on page 267 strongly suggests that another set of proofs for this state of the signature must have existed on which DGR changed this punctuation to a comma from the period shown here. In any case, the punctuation is a comma in the first revise proof, where DGR corrects it (back) to a period.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

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

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

488 Printer's notation in upper right. <hi rend="c">SONNETS.</hi> S blank page <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS</hi>’<lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Leonardo da Vinci</hi>. Mother, is this the darkness of the end, The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he Blesses the dead with his hand silently To his long day which hours no more offend? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. 2 Erroneous pagination number completed by hand. <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">A VENETIAN PASTORAL</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Giorgione</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">In the Louvre</hi>.) Water, for anguish of the solstice:—nay, But dip the vessel slowly,—nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush! Beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day: Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side? Let be:— Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,— Life touching lips with Immortality. <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Andrea Mantegna</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In the Louvre</hi>.) Scarcely, I think; yet it indeed may be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he Just felt their hair carried across his face As each girl passed him; nor gave ear to trace How many feet; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To know the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A secret of the wells of Life: to wit:— The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA</hi>’ <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Ingres</hi>. I. A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt: Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She doth not hear nor see—she knows of them. II. Clench thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?—or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?—or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. <hi rend="c">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">THE WINE OF CIRCE</hi>’ <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Edward Burne Jones</hi>. Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. Doth Helios here with Hecatè combine (O Circe, thou their votaress?) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign? Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, Wait; who with them in new equality To-night shall echo back the sea's dull roar With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea. <hi rend="c">MARY'S GIRLHOOD</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture</hi>.) This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all,—yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed: Because the fulness of the time was come. <hi rend="c">THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing</hi>.*) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. ‘Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel,’—did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families,— Lo! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained.

* The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. Joseph has brought the lamb and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The shoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs which Mary is gather- ing form part of the ritual.

 <hi rend="c">MARY MAGDALENE</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing</hi>.*) ‘Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house,—that banquet-house we seek; See how they kiss and enter; come thou there. This delicate day of love we two will share Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one,—hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair.’ ‘Oh loose me! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves to-day:—and oh! What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!’

* In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and isascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she seesChrist. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back.

 <hi rend="c">CASSANDRA</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing</hi>.*) I. Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra: he will go. Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe:— He most whom that fair woman arms, with show Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, Save for her Hector's form and step; as tear On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave? He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily Like crows above his crest, and at his ear Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save.

* The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kindred,as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the platformof a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helenis arming Paris; Priam soothes Hecuba; and Andromache holds thechild to her bosom.

 II. ‘O Hector, gone, gone, gone! O Hector, thee Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd; And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. Lo! long upon our hearth the brand had we, Lit for the roof-tree's ruin: and to-day The ground-stone quits the wall,—the wind hath way,— And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. O Paris, Paris! O thou burning brand, Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land.’ <hi rend="c">VENUS VERTICORDIA</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture</hi>.) She hath the apple in her hand for thee, Yet almost in her heart would hold it back; She muses, with her eyes upon the track Of that which in thy spirit they can see. Haply, ‘Behold, he is at peace,’ saith she; ‘Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,— The wandering of his feet perpetually!’ A little space her glance is still and coy; But if she give the fruit that works her spell, Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell, And her far seas moan as a single shell, And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy. <del> <hi rend="c">SIBYLLA PALMIFERA</hi>.<lb/> <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="i">(For a Picture.)</hi> </hi> </del> Under the arch of Life, where love and death, Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe, I drew it in as simply as my breath. Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath, The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw, By sea or sky or woman, to one law, The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat Following her daily of thy heart and feet, How passionately and irretrievably, In what fond flight, how many ways and days! <hi rend="c">PANDORA</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture</hi>.) What of the end, Pandora? Was it thine, The deed that set these fiery pinions free? Ah! wherefore did the Olympian consistory In its own likeness make thee half divine? Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign For ever? and the mien of Pallas be A deadly thing? and that all men might see In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine? What of the end? These beat their wings at will, The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill,— Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. Aye, clench the casket now! Whither they go Thou mayst not dare to think: nor canst thou know If Hope still pent there be alive or dead.