The Angel in the House

‘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.’

Thus 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.

‘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.’

Then 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 theme That ever tuned a poet’s voice, I live, as I am bold to dream, To be delight to many days, And into silence only cease When 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 see Outlines 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.

His 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.

I. The Impossibility.

Lo, 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!

II. Love’s Really.

I 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 wrong To 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.

III. The Poet’s Confidence.

The 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 do To 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 prevent Pure passion’s high prerogative To make, not follow, precedent. From love’s abysmal ether rare If I to men have here made known New 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.

Once 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.

’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 now The cruel girls, who feign’d to grieve, Took down the evergreens; and how The 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 face Humility and dignity Were met in a most sweet embrace. She seem’d expressly sent below To teach our erring minds to see The 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.

Was 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 bliss Was 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, she To 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.

Unmannerly times! But now we sat Stranger than strangers; till I caught And 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 down From 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 air Of 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 be The fair sum of six thousand years’ Traditions of civility.

CANTO II. Mary And Mildred.

PRELUDES.

I. The Paragon.

WHEN 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 raise That 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 times With 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 throne Of 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.