Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature T (Delaware Museum, first revise proof (copy 2)) 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 18 (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 a duplicate corrected copy of the first revise proof of Signature T of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . The revisions in this duplicate are less complete than in the other copy.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Six copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include the correctedauthor's first proof, a printer's duplicate, this corrected first revise and a duplicate with more complete corrections, an uncorrected second revise, and a final uncorrected proof.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

T <hi rend="c">ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">NATIONS</hi>. Not that the earth is changing, O my God! Nor that the seasons totter in their walk,— Not that the virulent ill of act and talk Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod,— Not therefore are we certain that the rod Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; though now Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, So many kings:—not therefore, O my God!— But because Man is parcelled out in men To-day; because, for any wrongful blow, No man not stricken asks, ‘I would be told Why thou dost thus;’ but his heart whispers then, ‘He is he, I am I.’ By this we know That our earth falls asunder, being old. <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="center"> <hi rend="c">FILII FILIA</hi>. </hi> <hi rend="center">I. <add>An Old Picture.</add> </hi> The lilies stand before her like a swan, screen Through which, upon this warm and solemn day, God surely hears. For there she kneels to pray, Who bore our Bourne of prayer—Mary the Queen. She was Faith's Present, parting what had been From what began with her and is for aye: On either side God's twofold system lay— With meek bowed face a virgin prayed between. So prays she, and the Dove flies in to her, And she has turned. Within the porch is one Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile. Heavy with heat, the plants yield shadow there, The loud flies cross each other in the sun, And the aisle-pillars meet the poplar-aisle. <hi rend="center">II. <add>A Wayside Shrine.</add> </hi> Upon a sun-scorched road when noon was deep I passed a little consecrated shrine, Where among simple pictures, ranged in line, The Blessed Mary holds her Son asleep. To kneel here, shepherd-children leave their sheep, When silence broods at heart of the sunshine, And again kneel here in the day's decline; And here, when their life ails them, come to weep. Night being full, I passed on the same road By the same shrine. Within, a lamp was lit, Which through the depth of utter darkness glow'd. Thus, after heat of life, when doubts arise Dire m-hurtling, Faith's pure lamp must beam on it,— How oft unlit, alas! unfir'd in man,— how oft that dies! <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 liqou uorish 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. blank page <hi rend="c">TRANSLATIONS.</hi> blank page <hi rend="c">THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">François Villon</hi>, 14<del>5</del> <add>3</add>0.) 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, Save with thus much for an overword,— But where are the snows of yester-year? <hi rend="c">TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">François Villon</hi>.) 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! 2 Correction of the pagination's first character. <hi rend="c">HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">François Villon</hi>.) 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.’