Rose Mary (the Beryl Songs) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 By permission of the British Library Beryl Song I, II, III Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1880 January fair copy 3 holograph leaves written on one side each British Library MS adds. 45353 folios 23-27 manuscripts in the Morris papers three leaves of ruled cream laid paper 18 x 22.8 cm Commentary
Introduction

These holograph fair copies of the “Beryl” songs were written years after the body of the ballad had been completed in 1871. DGR made these copies in January 1880, when he completed the composition of the songs.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

25 Number written in upper right. Beryl-Song. I.<lb/> (to follow Part I.) ------ We whose home is the Beryl, Fire-spirits of dread desire, Who entered in By a secret sin, 'Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile,— We cry, Woe to thee, mother! What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, That she & none other Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? What were her eyes But the fiend's own spies, O mother, And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet & seër? Go to her, mother, Even thou, yea thou and none other, Thou, from the Beryl: Her fee must thou take her, Her fee that We send, & make her, Even in this hour, her sin's unsheltered avower. Whose steed did neigh, Riderless, bridle-less, At her gate before it was day? Lo! where doth hover The soul of her lover? She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver,— Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, Yet blind, ah! blind to his peril! For stole not We in By Through a love-linked sin, To whom all powers at war with ours are sterile,— Fire-spirits of dread desire, We whose home is the Beryl? ------ 26 Number written in upper right. Beryl-Song II. (to follow Part II.) ------- We whose throne is the Beryl, Dire-gifted spirits of fire, Who for a twin Leash Sorrow to Sin, Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— We cry,—O desolate daughter! Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other Than last night's slaughter. Awake & tremble, for our curses assemble! What more, that thou know'st not yet,— That life nor death shall forget? No help from Heaven,—thy woes heart-riven are sterile! O, once a maiden, With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden? It waits for thee, It looms, it must be, O lost among women,— It comes and thou canst not flee. Amen to the omen, Says the voice of the Beryl. Thou sleep'st? Awake,— What dar'st thou yet for his sake, Who each for other did God's own Future imperil? Dost dare to live,— What! live to cower with songs each hour must give? Say, wilt thou die? Yea, with thy lover 'neath Hell's cloud-cover to fly,— Hopeless, yet not apart, Cling heart to heart, And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together? Shall this be so? There thou shalt meet him, but may'st thou greet him? ah no! He loves, but thee he hoped never more to see,— He sighed as he died, But with never a thought for thee. Alone! Alone, for ever alone,— Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate foreshown! Lo! have not We leashed the twin Of endless Sorrow to Sin,— Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— Dire-gifted spirits of fire, We whose throne is the Beryl? ------ 27 Number written in upper right. Beryl-Song III (to follow Part III) -------- We, cast forth from the Beryl, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile,— Woe! must We behold this mother Find grace in her dead child's face, & doubt of none other But that perfect pardon, alas! hath assured her guerdon? Woe! must We behold this daughter, Made clean from the soil of sin wherewith We had fraught her, Shake off a man's blood like water? Write up her story On the Gate of Heaven's glory, Whom there We behold so fair in shining apparel, And beneath her the ruin Of our own undoing! Alas, the Beryl! We had for a foeman But one weak woman; In one day's strife, Her hope fell dead from her life; And yet no iron, Her soul to environ, Could this manslayer, this false soothsayer imperil! Lo, where she bows In the Holy House! Who now shall dissever her soul from its joy for ever, While every ditty Of love & plentiful pity Fills the White City, And the floor of Heaven to her feet for ever is given? Hark, a voice cries “Flee!” Woe! woe! what shelter have We, Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, We, cast forth from the Beryl? ---------