The Angel in the House
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Book I
THE PROLOGUE
1‘Mine is no horse with wings, to gain The region of the spheral chime;He does but drag a rumbling wain, Cheer’d by the coupled bells of rhyme;And if at Fame’s bewitching note My homely Pegasus pricks an ear,The world’s cart-collar hugs his throat, And he’s too wise to prance or rear.’2Thus ever answer’d Vaughan his Wife, Who, more than he, desired his fame;But, in his heart, his thoughts were rife How for her sake to earn a name.With bays poetic three times crown’d, And other college honours won,He, if he chose, might be renown’d, He had but little doubt, she none;And in a loftier phrase he talk’d With her, upon their Wedding-Day,(The eighth), while through the fields they walk’d, Their children shouting by the way.3‘Not careless of the gift of song, Nor out of love with noble fame,I, meditating much and long What I should sing, how win a name,Considering well what theme unsung, What reason worth the cost of rhyme,Remains to loose the poet’s tongue In these last days, the dregs of time,Learn that to me, though born so late, There does, beyond desert, befall(May my great fortune make me great!) The first of themes, sung last of all.In green and undiscover’d ground, Yet near where many others sing,I have the very well-head found Whence gushes the Pierian Spring.’4Then she: ‘What is it, Dear? The Life Of Arthur, or Jerusalem’s Fall?’‘Neither: your gentle self, my Wife, And love, that grows from one to all.And if I faithfully proclaim Of these the exceeding worthiness,Surely the sweetest wreath of Fame Shall, to your hope, my brows caress;And if, by virtue of my choice Of this, the most heart-touching themeThat ever tuned a poet’s voice, I live, as I am bold to dream,To be delight to many days, And into silence only ceaseWhen those are still, who shared their bays With Laura and with Beatrice,Imagine, Love, how learned men Will deep-conceiv’d devices find,Beyond my purpose and my ken, An ancient bard of simple mind.You, Sweet, his Mistress, Wife, and Muse, Were you for mortal woman meant?Your praises give a hundred clues To mythological intent!And, severing thus the truth from trope, In you the Commentators seeOutlines occult of abstract scope, A future for philosophy!Your arm’s on mine! these are the meads In which we pass our living days;There Avon runs, now hid with reeds, Now brightly brimming pebbly bays;Those are our children’s songs that come With bells and bleatings of the sheep;And there, in yonder English home, We thrive on mortal food and sleep!’She laugh’d. How proud she always was To feel how proud he was of her!But he had grown distraught, because The Muse’s mood began to stir.5His purpose with performance crown’d, He to his well-pleased Wife rehears’d,When next their Wedding-Day came round, His leisure’s labour, ‘Book the First.’CANTO I
The Cathedral Close
PRELUDES
IThe ImpossibilityLo, love’s obey’d by all. ’Tis right That all should know what they obey,Lest erring conscience damp delight, And folly laugh our joys away.Thou Primal Love, who grantest wings And voices to the woodland birds,Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words!IILove’s ReallyI walk, I trust, with open eyes; I’ve travell’d half my worldly course;And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse;I’ve lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho’ match’d like hand and glove;I’ve blush’d for love’s abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love;Nor unto love, sole mortal thing Of worth immortal, done the wrongTo count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song;And love is my reward; for now, When most of dead’ning time complain,The myrtle blooms upon my brow, Its odour quickens all my brain.IIIThe Poet’s ConfidenceThe richest realm of all the earth Is counted still a heathen land:Lo, I, like Joshua, now go forth To give it into Israel’s hand.I will not hearken blame or praise; For so should I dishonour doTo that sweet Power by which these Lays Alone are lovely, good, and true;Nor credence to the world’s cries give, Which ever preach and still preventPure passion’s high prerogative To make, not follow, precedent.From love’s abysmal ether rare If I to men have here made knownNew truths, they, like new stars, were there Before, though not yet written down.Moving but as the feelings move, I run, or loiter with delight,Or pause to mark where gentle Love Persuades the soul from height to height.Yet, know ye, though my words are gay As David’s dance, which Michal scorn’d.If kindly you receive the Lay, You shall be sweetly help’d and warn’d.THE CATHEDRAL CLOSE
1Once more I came to Sarum Close, With joy half memory, half desire,And breathed the sunny wind that rose And blew the shadows o’er the Spire,And toss’d the lilac’s scented plumes, And sway’d the chestnut’s thousand cones,And fill’d my nostrils with perfumes, And shaped the clouds in waifs and zones,And wafted down the serious strain Of Sarum bells, when, true to time,I reach’d the Dean’s, with heart and brain That trembled to the trembling chime.2’Twas half my home, six years ago. The six years had not alter’d it:Red-brick and ashlar, long and low, With dormers and with oriels lit.Geranium, lychnis, rose array’d The windows, all wide open thrown;And some one in the Study play’d The Wedding-March of Mendelssohn.And there it was I last took leave: ’Twas Christmas: I remember’d nowThe cruel girls, who feign’d to grieve, Took down the evergreens; and howThe holly into blazes woke The fire, lighting the large, low room,A dim, rich lustre of old oak And crimson velvet’s glowing gloom.No change had touch’d Dean Churchill: kind, By widowhood more than winters bent,And settled in a cheerful mind, As still forecasting heaven’s content.Well might his thoughts be fix’d on high, Now she was there! Within her faceHumility and dignity Were met in a most sweet embrace.She seem’d expressly sent below To teach our erring minds to seeThe rhythmic change of time’s swift flow As part of still eternity.Her life, all honour, observed, with awe Which cross experience could not mar,The fiction of the Christian law That all men honourable are;And so her smile at once conferr’d High flattery and benign reproof;And I, a rude boy, strangely stirr’d, Grew courtly in my own behoof.The years, so far from doing her wrong, Anointed her with gracious balm,And made her brows more and more young With wreaths of amaranth and palm.3Was this her eldest, Honor; prude, Who would not let me pull the swing;Who, kiss’d at Christmas, call’d me rude, And, sobbing low, refused to sing?How changed! In shape no slender Grace, But Venus; milder than the dove;Her mother’s air; her Norman face; Her large sweet eyes, clear lakes of love.Mary I knew. In former time Ailing and pale, she thought that blissWas only for a better clime, And, heavenly overmuch, scorn’d this.I, rash with theories of the right, Which stretch’d the tether of my Creed,But did not break it, held delight Half discipline. We disagreed.She told the Dean I wanted grace. Now she was kindest of the three,And soft wild roses deck’d her face. And, what, was this my Mildred, sheTo herself and all a sweet surprise? My Pet, who romp’d and roll’d a hoop?I wonder’d where those daisy eyes Had found their touching curve and droop.4Unmannerly times! But now we sat Stranger than strangers; till I caughtAnd answer’d Mildred’s smile; and that Spread to the rest, and freedom brought.The Dean talk’d little, looking on, Of three such daughters justly vain.What letters they had had from Bonn, Said Mildred, and what plums from Spain!By Honor I was kindly task’d To excuse my never coming downFrom Cambridge; Mary smiled and ask’d Were Kant and Goethe yet outgrown?And, pleased, we talk’d the old days o’er; And, parting, I for pleasure sigh’d.To be there as a friend, (since more), Seem’d then, seems still, excuse for pride;For something that abode endued With temple-like repose, an airOf life’s kind purposes pursued With order’d freedom sweet and fair.A tent pitch’d in a world not right It seem’d, whose inmates, every one,On tranquil faces bore the light Of duties beautifully done,And humbly, though they had few peers, Kept their own laws, which seem’d to beThe fair sum of six thousand years’ Traditions of civility.CANTO II
Mary And Mildred
PRELUDES
IThe ParagonWhen I behold the skies aloft Passing the pageantry of dreams,The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft, A couch for nuptial Juno seems,The ocean broad, the mountains bright, The shadowy vales with feeding herds,I from my lyre the music smite, Nor want for justly matching words.All forces of the sea and air, All interests of hill and plain,I so can sing, in seasons fair, That who hath felt may feel again.Elated oft by such free songs, I think with utterance free to raiseThat hymn for which the whole world longs, A worthy hymn in woman’s praise;A hymn bright-noted like a bird’s, Arousing these song-sleepy timesWith rhapsodies of perfect words, Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes.But when I look on her and hope To tell with joy what I admire,My thoughts lie cramp’d in narrow scope, Or in the feeble birth expire;No mystery of well-woven speech, No simplest phrase of tenderest fall,No liken’d excellence can reach Her, thee most excellent of all,The best half of creation’s best, Its heart to feel, its eye to see,The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome.Nay, might I utter my conceit, ’Twere after all a vulgar song,For she’s so simply, subtly sweet, My deepest rapture does her wrong.Yet is it now my chosen task To sing her worth as Maid and Wife;Nor happier post than this I ask, To live her laureate all my life.On wings of love uplifted free, And by her gentleness made great,I’ll teach how noble man should be To match with such a lovely mate;And then in her may move the more The woman’s wish to be desired,(By praise increased), till both shall soar, With blissful emulations fired.And, as geranium, pink, or rose Is thrice itself through power of art,So may my happy skill disclose New fairness even in her fair heart;Until that churl shall nowhere be Who bends not, awed, before the throneOf her affecting majesty, So meek, so far unlike our own;Until (for who may hope too much From her who wields the powers of love?)Our lifted lives at last shall touch That happy goal to which they move;Until we find, as darkness rolls Away, and evil mists dissolve,That nuptial contrasts are the poles On which the heavenly spheres revolve.IILove at LargeWhene’er I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before,Though like a ship frost-bound and far Withheld in ice from the ocean’s roar,Third-winter’d in that dreadful dock, With stiffen’d cordage, sails decay’d,And crew that care for calm and shock Alike, too dull to be dismay’d,Yet, if I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before,Then is my sadness banish’d far, And I am like that ship no more;Or like that ship if the ice-field splits, Burst by the sudden polar Spring,And all thank God with their warming wits, And kiss each other and dance and sing,And hoist fresh sails, that make the breeze Blow them along the liquid sea,Out of the North, where life did freeze, Into the haven where they would be.IIILove and DutyAnne lived so truly from above, She was so gentle and so good,That duty bade me fall in love, And ‘but for that,’ thought I, ‘I should!’I worshipp’d Kate with all my will, In idle moods you seem to seeA noble spirit in a hill, A human touch about a tree.IVA DistinctionThe lack of lovely pride, in her Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs,And still the maid I most prefer Whose care to please with pleasing comes.MARY AND MILDRED
1One morning, after Church, I walk’d Alone with Mary on the lawn,And felt myself, howe’er we talk’d, To grave themes delicately drawn.When she, delighted, found I knew More of her peace than she supposed,Our confidences heavenwards grew, Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed.Our former faults did we confess, Our ancient feud was more than heal’d,And, with the woman’s eagerness For amity full-sign’d and seal’d,She, offering up for sacrifice Her heart’s reserve, brought out to showSome verses, made when she was ice To all but Heaven, six years ago;Since happier grown! I took and read The neat-writ lines. She, void of guile,Too late repenting, blush’d, and said, I must not think about the style.2‘Day after day, until to-day, Imaged the others gone before,The same dull task, the weary way, The weakness pardon’d o’er and o’er,‘The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt, For joy’s well-nigh forgotten life,The restless heart, which, when I knelt, Made of my worship barren strife.‘Ah, whence to-day’s so sweet release, This clearance light of all my care,This conscience free, this fertile peace, These softly folded wings of prayer,‘This calm and more than conquering love, With which nought evil dares to cope,This joy that lifts no glance above, For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?‘O, happy time, too happy change, It will not live, though fondly nurst!Full soon the sun will seem as strange As now the cloud which seems dispersed.’3She from a rose-tree shook the blight; And well she knew that I knew wellHer grace with silence to requite; And, answering now the luncheon bell,I laugh’d at Mildred’s laugh, which made All melancholy wrong, its moodSuch sweet self-confidence display’d, So glad a sense of present good.4I laugh’d and sigh’d: for I confess I never went to Ball, or Fête,Or Show, but in pursuit express Of my predestinated mate;And thus to me, who had in sight The happy chance upon the cards,Each beauty blossom’d in the light Of tender personal regards;And, in the records of my breast, Red-letter’d, eminently fair,Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest, By turns till then had been my care:At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud, At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,At Ely four, in London two, Two at Bowness, in Paris none,And, last and best, in Sarum three; But dearest of the whole fair troop,In judgment of the moment, she Whose daisy eyes had learn’d to droop.Her very faults my fancy fired; My loving will, so thwarted, grew;And, bent on worship, I admired Whate’er she was, with partial view.And yet when, as to-day, her smile Was prettiest, I could not but noteHonoria, less admired the while, Was lovelier, though from love remote.CANTO III
Honoria
PRELUDES
IThe LoverHe meets, by heavenly chance express, The destined maid; some hidden handUnveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand.His merits in her presence grow, To match the promise in her eyes,And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise.For joy of her he cannot sleep; Her beauty haunts him all the night;It melts his heart, it makes him weep For wonder, worship, and delight.O, paradox of love, he longs, Most humble when he most aspires,To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs From her he honours and desires.Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial styleAffronts him; he disdains to bask, The pensioner of her priceless smile.He prays for some hard thing to do, Some work of fame and labour immense,To stretch the languid bulk and thew Of love’s fresh-born magnipotence.No smallest boon were bought too dear, Though barter’d for his love-sick life;Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer, To vanquish heaven, and call her WifeHe notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;How, self-consign’d with lavish will, They ask but love proportionate;How swift pursuit by small degrees, Love’s tactic, works like miracle;How valour, clothed in courtesies, Brings down the haughtiest citadel;And therefore, though he merits not To kiss the braid upon her skirt,His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot, Out-soars all possible desert.IILove a VirtueStrong passions mean weak will, and he Who truly knows the strength and blissWhich are in love, will own with me No passion but a virtue ’tis.Few hear my word; it soars above The subtlest senses of the swarmOf wretched things which know not love, Their Psyche still a wingless worm.Ice-cold seems heaven’s noble glow To spirits whose vital heat is hell;And to corrupt hearts even so The songs I sing, the tale I tell.These cannot see the robes of white In which I sing of love. Alack,But darkness shows in heavenly light, Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!IIIThe AttainmentYou love? That’s high as you shall go; For ’tis as true as Gospel text,Not noble then is never so, Either in this world or the next.HONORIA
1Grown weary with a week’s exile From those fair friends, I rode to seeThe church-restorings; lounged awhile, And met the Dean; was ask’d to tea,And found their cousin, Frederick Graham At Honor’s side. Was I concern’d,If, when she sang, his colour came, That mine, as with a buffet, burn’d?A man to please a girl! thought I, Retorting his forced smiles, the shroudsOf wrath, so hid as she was by, Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!2Whether this Cousin was the cause I know not, but I seem’d to see,The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three.Each stopp’d to let the other go; But, time-bound, he arose the first.Stay’d he in Sarum long? If so I hoped to see him at the Hurst.No: he had call’d here, on his way To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant,His ship, was; he should leave next day, For two years’ cruise in the Levant.3Had love in her yet struck its germs? I watch’d. Her farewell show’d me plainShe loved, on the majestic terms That she should not be loved again;And so her cousin, parting, felt. Hope in his voice and eye was dead.Compassion did my malice melt; Then went I home to a restless bed.I, who admired her too, could see His infinite remorse at thisGreat mystery, that she should be So beautiful, yet not be his,And, pitying, long’d to plead his part; But scarce could tell, so strange my whim,Whether the weight upon my heart Was sorrow for myself or him.4She was all mildness; yet ’twas writ In all her grace, most legibly,‘He that’s for heaven itself unfit, Let him not hope to merit me.’And such a challenge, quite apart From thoughts of love, humbled, and thusTo sweet repentance moved my heart, And made me more magnanimous,And led me to review my life, Inquiring where in aught the least,If question were of her for wife, Ill might be mended, hope increas’d.Not that I soar’d so far above Myself, as this great hope to dare;And yet I well foresaw that love Might hope where reason must despair;And, half-resenting the sweet pride Which would not ask me to admire,‘Oh,’ to my secret heart I sigh’d, ‘That I were worthy to desire!’5As drowsiness my brain reliev’d, A shrill defiance of all to arms,Shriek’d by the stable-cock, receiv’d An angry answer from three farms.And, then, I dream’d that I, her knight, A clarion’s haughty pathos heard,And rode securely to the fight, Cased in the scarf she had conferr’d;And there, the bristling lists behind, Saw many, and vanquish’d all I sawOf her unnumber’d cousin-kind, In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;Smitten, the warriors somehow turn’d To Sarum choristers, whose song,Mix’d with celestial sorrow, yearn’d With joy no memory can prolong;And phantasms as absurd and sweet Merged each in each in endless chace,And everywhere I seem’d to meet The haunting fairness of her face.CANTO IV
The Morning Call
PRELUDES
IThe Rose of the WorldLo, when the Lord made North and South And sun and moon ordained, He,Forthbringing each by word of mouth In order of its dignity,Did man from the crude clay express By sequence, and, all else decreed,He form’d the woman; nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed.And still with favour singled out, Marr’d less than man by mortal fall,Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical;The best things that the best believe Are in her face so kindly writThe faithless, seeing her, conceive Not only heaven, but hope of it;No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense,Like alteration of the clouds On noonday’s azure permanence;Pure dignity, composure, ease Declare affections nobly fix’d,And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d.Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus’ side,How potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride!Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint discloseUnder the protest of a cheek Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose.In mind and manners how discreet; How artless in her very art;How candid in discourse; how sweet The concord of her lips and heart;How simple and how circumspect; How subtle and how fancy-free;Though sacred to her love, how deck’d With unexclusive courtesy;How quick in talk to see from far The way to vanquish or evade;How able her persuasions are To prove, her reasons to persuade;How (not to call true instinct’s bent And woman’s very nature, harm),How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm;How humbly careful to attract, Though crown’d with all the soul desires,Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires.IIThe TributeBoon Nature to the woman bows; She walks in earth’s whole glory clad,And, chiefest far herself of shows, All others help her, and are glad:No splendour ’neath the sky’s proud dome But serves for her familiar wear;The far-fetch’d diamond finds its home Flashing and smouldering in her hair;For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supplyWith purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli;The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves;And all, by this their power to give, Proving her right to take, proclaimHer beauty’s clear prerogative To profit so by Eden’s blame.IIICompensationThat nothing here may want its praise, Know, she who in her dress revealsA fine and modest taste, displays More loveliness than she conceals.THE MORNING CALL
1‘By meekness charm’d, or proud to allow A queenly claim to live admired,Full many a lady has ere now My apprehensive fancy fired,And woven many a transient chain; But never lady like to this,Who holds me as the weather-vane Is held by yonder clematis.She seems the life of nature’s powers; Her beauty is the genial thoughtWhich makes the sunshine bright; the flowers, But for their hint of her, were nought.’2A voice, the sweeter for the grace Of suddenness, while thus I dream’d,‘Good morning!’ said or sang. Her face The mirror of the morning seem’d.Her sisters in the garden walk’d, And would I come? Across the HallShe led me; and we laugh’d and talk’d, And praised the Flower-show and the Ball;And Mildred’s pinks had gain’d the Prize; And, stepping like the light-foot fawn,She brought me ‘Wiltshire Butterflies,’ The Prize-book; then we paced the lawn,Close-cut, and with geranium-plots, A rival glow of green and red;Than counted sixty apricots On one small tree; the gold-fish fed;And watch’d where, black with scarlet tans, Proud Psyche stood and flash’d like flame,Showing and shutting splendid fans; And in the prize we found its name.3The sweet hour lapsed, and left my breast A load of joy and tender care;And this delight, which life oppress’d, To fix’d aims grew, that ask’d for pray’r.I rode home slowly; whip-in-hand And soil’d bank-notes all ready, stoodThe Farmer who farm’d all my land, Except the little Park and Wood;And with the accustom’d compliment Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer,I, my own steward, took my rent, Three hundred pounds for half the year;Our witnesses the Cook and Groom, We sign’d the lease for seven years more,And bade Good-day; then to my room I went, and closed and lock’d the door,And cast myself down on my bed, And there, with many a blissful tear,I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed The maiden who had grown so dear;Thank’d God who had set her in my path; And promised, as I hoped to win,That I would never dim my faith By the least selfishness or sin;Whatever in her sight I’d seem I’d truly be; I’d never blendWith my delight in her a dream ’Twould change her cheek to comprehend;And, if she wish’d it, I’d prefer Another’s to my own success;And always seek the best for her With unofficious tenderness.4Rising, I breathed a brighter clime, And found myself all self above,And, with a charity sublime, Contemn’d not those who did not love:And I could not but feel that then I shone with something of her grace,And went forth to my fellow men My commendation in my face.