Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature T (Delaware Museum, first proof (author's copy)) 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 273-288 1 DGR T8 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 first author's proof (with corrections) of Signature T of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . DGR's note to the printer on the final page shows that during the proofing process he was adding poems from manuscript copies. As the other proofs demonstrate, however, some of these additions he subsequently decided to cancel. In the case of this proof signature, DGR added the “Filii Filia” sonnet pair from a manuscript copy, but deleted it from the proofs after the second revise.

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 corrected author's first proof, a printer's duplicate, a corrected first revise and a duplicate with incomplete corrections, a second revise, and a final uncorrected proof.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

T <hi rend="c">ON THE ‘VITA NUOVA’ OF DANTE</hi>. As he that loves oft looks on the dear form And guesses how it grew to womanhood, And gladly would have watched the beauties bud And the mild fire of precious life wax warm:— So I, long bound within the threefold charm Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm. At length within this book I found pourtrayed Newborn that Paradisal Love of his, And simple like a child; with whose clear aid I understood. To such a child as this, Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade Offence: ‘for lo! of such my kingdom is.’ <hi rend="c">DANTIS TENEBRÆ</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">In Memory of my Father</hi>.) And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, That also on thy son must Beatrice Decline her eyes according to her wont, Accepting me to be of those that haunt The vale of magical dark mysteries Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt Trembles in music? This is that steep land Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height Seem piled to climb. These things I understand: For here, where day still soothes my lifted face, On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. <hi rend="c">BEAUTY AND THE BIRD</hi>. She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd Outside his cage close to the window-blind; Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, Piped low to her of sweet companionships. And when he made an end, some seed took she And fed him from her tongue, which rosily Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead, A grain,—who straightway praised her name in song: Even so, when she, a little lightly red, Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng Of inner voices praise her golden head. <hi rend="c">A MATCH WITH THE MOON</hi>. Weary already, weary miles to-night I walked for bed: and so, to get some ease, I dogged the flying moon with similes. And like a wisp she doubled on my sight In ponds; and caught in tree-tops like a kite; And in a globe of film all vapourish liquorish Swam full-faced like a silly silver-fish;— Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent My wizened shadow craning round at me, And jeered, ‘So, step the measure,—one, two, three!’— And if I faced on her, looked innocent. But just at parting, halfway down a dell, She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. <hi rend="c">TRANSLATIONS.</hi> blank page <del> <hi rend="c">THREE TRANSLATIONS</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">FROM FRANÇOIS VILLON, 1450.</hi> </del> <add>The Ballad of Dead Ladies<lb/> (<hi rend="u">François Villon</hi>, 1430)</add> <lb/> <del> <hi rend="c">I.<lb/>THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES.</hi> <lb/> <add>(Franc</add> </del> Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,— She whose beauty was more than human?... But where are the snows of yester-year? Where's Héloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine?... But where are the snows of yester-year? White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,— Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,— And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,— Mother of God, where are they then? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this Save with thus much for an overword,— But where are the snows of yester-year? <del> <hi rend="c">II. <lb/>TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY</hi>.</del> <add>To Death, of Hhis Lady.<lb/>(<hi rend="u">François Villon</hi>.)</add> Death, of thee do I make my moan, Who hadst my lady away from me, Nor wilt assuage thine enmity Till with her life thou hast mine own; For since that hour my strength has flown. Lo! what wrong was her life to thee, Death? Two we were, and the heart was one; Which now being dead, dead I must be, Or seem alive as lifelessly As in the choir the painted stone, Death! <del>III. <lb/> <hi rend="c">HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY</hi>.</del> <add>His Mother's Service to Our Lady<lb/> (<hi rend="u">François Villon</hi>.)</add> Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,— I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, Albeit in nought I be commendable. But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are; Without the which (as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. Even in this faith I choose to live and die. Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious. Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. Even in this faith I choose to live and die. A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore. Within my parish-cloister I behold A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore: One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,— Thou of whom all must ask it even as I; And that which faith desires, that let it see. For in this faith I choose to live and die. O excellent Virgin Princess! thou didst bear King Jesus, the most excellent comforter, Who even of this our weakness craved a share And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare, And in this faith I choose to live and die. <hi rend="c">JOHN OF TOURS</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">Old French</hi>.) John of Tours is back with peace, But he comes home ill at ease. ‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son; Your wife has borne you a little one.’ ‘Go now, mother, go before, Make me a bed upon the floor; ‘Very low your foot must fall, That my wife hear not at all.’ As it neared the midnight toll, John of Tours gave up his soul. ‘Tell me now, my mother my dear, What's the crying that I hear?’ ‘Daughter, it's the children wake Crying with their teeth that ache.’ ‘Tell me though, my mother my dear, What's the knocking that I hear?’ ‘Daughter, it's the carpenter Mending planks upon the stair.’ ‘Tell me too, my mother my dear, What's the singing that I hear?’ ‘Daughter, it's the priests in rows Going round about our house.’ ‘Tell me then, my mother my dear, What's the dress that I should wear?’ ‘Daughter, any reds or blues, But the black is most in use.’ ‘Nay, but say, my mother my dear, Why do you fall weeping here?’ ‘Oh! the truth must be said,— It's that John of Tours is dead.’ ‘Mother, let the sexton know That the grave must be for two; ‘Aye, and still have room to spare, For you must shut the baby there.’ <hi rend="c">MY FATHER'S CLOSE</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Old French</hi>.) Inside my father's close, (Fly away O my heart away!) Sweet apple-blossom blows So sweet. Three kings' daughters fair, (Fly away O my heart away!) They lie below it there So sweet. ‘Ah!’ says the eldest one, (Fly away O my heart away!) ‘I think the day's begun So sweet.’ Printer's marks to correct type in line 13 and alignment in lines 24 and 26. ‘Ah!’ says the second one, (Fly away O my heart away!) ‘Far off I hear the drum So sweet.’ ‘Ah!’ says the youngest one, (Fly away O my heart away!) ‘It's my true love, my own, So sweet. ‘Oh! if he fight and win,’ (Fly away O my heart away!) ‘I keep my love for him, So sweet: Oh! let him lose or win, He hath it still complete.’ Please send the last fewpages (as in M S) and wind up. D. G. Rossetti Also Title & Contents DGR's note to the printer at the foot of the page <hi rend="c">BEAUTY</hi>. <lb/>(<hi rend="i">A combination from Sappho</hi>.) I. Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, A-top on the topmost twig,—which the pluckers forgot, somehow,— Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. II. Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound, Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground.