"Put the broidery-frame away,
For my sewing is all done!
The last thread is used to-day,
And I need not join it on.
Though the clock stands at the noon,
I am weary! I have sewn
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown.
"Sister, help me to the bed,
And stand near me, dearest-sweet,
Do not shrink nor be afraid,
Blushing with a sudden heat!
No one standeth in the street?--
By God's love I go to meet,
Love I thee with love complete.
"Lean thy face down! drop it in
These two hands, that I may hold
'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin,
Stroking back the curls of gold.
'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth--
Larger eyes and redder mouth
Than mine were in my first youth!
"Thou art younger by seven years--
Ah!--so bashful at my gaze,
That the lashes, hung with tears,
Grow too heavy to upraise?
I would wound thee by no touch
Which thy shyness feels as such--
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much?
"Have I not been nigh a mother
To thy sweetness--tell me, dear?
Have we not loved one another
Tenderly, from year to year;
Since our dying mother mild
Said _with accents undefiled_,[32]
'Child, be mother to this child!'
"Mother, mother, up in heaven,
Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
All the gifts required of me;--
Hope that bless'd me, bliss that crown'd,
Love, that left me with a wound,
Life itself, that turneth round!
"Mother, mother, thou art kind,
Thou art standing in the room,--
In a molten glory shrined,
That rays off into the gloom!
But thy smile is bright and bleak
Like cold waves--I cannot speak;
I sob in it, and grow weak.
"Ghostly mother, keep aloof
One hour longer from my soul--
For I still am thinking of
Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,
When the night hides every thing.
"Little sister, thou art pale!
Ah! I have a wandering brain--
But I lose that fever-bale,
And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer--closer still!
I have words thine ear to fill,--
And would kiss thee at my will.
"Dear, I heard thee in the spring,
Thee and Robert--through the trees,
When we all went gathering
Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seem'd to trickle through the shade.
"What a day it was, that day!
Hills and vales did openly
Seem to heave and throb away,
At the sight of the great sky:
And the silence, as it stood
In the glory's golden flood,
Audibly did bud--and bud!
"Through the winding hedgerows green,
How we wander'd, I and you,--
With the bowery tops shut in,
And the gates that show'd the view--
How we talk'd there! thrushes soft
Sang our pauses out,--or oft
Bleatings took them, from the croft.
"Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.
"I sate down beneath the beech
Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain:
And I bless'd you full and free,
With a smile stoop'd tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.
"But the sound grew into word
As the speakers drew more near--
Sweet, forgive me that I heard
What you wish'd me not to hear.
Do not weep so--do not shake--
Oh,--I heard thee, Bertha, make
Good true answers for my sake.
"Yes, and HE too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouch'd by blame.
Could he help it, if my hand
He had claim'd with hasty claim?
That was wrong perhaps--but then
Such things be--and will, again!
Women cannot judge for men.
"Had he seen thee, when he swore
He would love but me alone?
Thou wert absent,--sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.
"Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, Dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds,
Flying straightway to the light:
Mine are older.--Hush!--Look out--
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!
"And that hour--beneath the beech,--
When I listen'd in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,
That he owed me all _esteem_,--
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain--
"I fell flooded with a Dark,
In the silence of a swoon--
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night,--I saw the moon:
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seem'd to wonder what I was.
"And I walk'd as if apart
From myself, when I could stand--
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand,--
Somewhat coldly,--with a sense
Of fulfill'd benevolence,
And a 'poor thing' negligence.
"And I answer'd coldly too,
When you met me at the door;
And I only _heard_ the dew
Dripping from me to the floor:
And the flowers I bade you see,
Were too wither'd for the bee,--
As my life, henceforth, for me.
"Do not weep so--dear--heart-warm!
It was best as it befell!
If I say he did me harm,
I speak wild,--I am not well.
All his words were kind and good--
_He esteem'd me!_ Only blood
Runs so faint in womanhood.
"Then I always was too grave,--
Liked the saddest ballads sung,--
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces, who die young.
I had died, Dear, all the same--
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.
"We are so unlike each other,
Thou and _I_; that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.
"I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root!
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot--
_I_, like May-bloom on thorn tree--
_Thou_, like merry summer-bee!
Fit, that _I_ be pluck'd for _thee_.
"Yet who plucks me?--no one mourns--
I have lived my season out,--
And now die of my own thorns
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.
"Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?
Some one might be waiting for
Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best!--So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road--
Not to cross the sight of God.
"Colder grow my hands and feet--
When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary be spread--
That if any friend should come,
(To see _thee_, sweet!) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.
"And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave--where it will light
All the Dark up, day and night.
"On that grave, drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woollen shroud I wear,
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun--
Or forget me--smiling on!
"Art thou near me? nearer? so!
Kiss me close upon the eyes--
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly as it used to rise--
When I watch'd the morning-gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.
"So--no more vain words be said!
The hosannas nearer roll--
Mother, smile now on thy Dead--
I am death-strong in my soul!
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!
"Jesus, Victim, comprehending
Love's divine self-abnegation--
Cleanse my love in its self-spending,
And absorb the poor libation!
Wind my thread of life up higher,
Up through angels' hands of fire!--
I aspire while I expire!"
The following extract from a little poem entitled "Sleeping and
Watching," is very touching in its simplicity. Miss Barrett is watching
over a slumbering child. How softly does the spirit of the watcher
overshadow the cradle with the purest influences of its own sanctified
sorrows, while she thus speaks!--
"_I_, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you?
Or sigh further to foretell
All that may undo you?
Nay, keep smiling, little child,
Ere the sorrow neareth,--
_I_ will smile too! Patience mild
Pleasure's token weareth.
Nay, keep sleeping, before loss;
I shall sleep though losing!
As by cradle, so by cross,
Sure is the reposing.
"And God knows, who sees us twain,
Child at childish leisure,
I am near as tired of pain
As you seem of pleasure;--
Very soon too, by his grace
Gently wrapt around me,
Shall I show as calm a face,
Shall I sleep as soundly!
Differing in this, that _you_
Clasp your playthings sleeping,
While my hand shall drop the few
Given to my keeping;
"Differing in this, that _I_
Sleeping, shall be colder,
And in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder!
Differing in this beside
(Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move, and open wide
Eyes of wonder toward me?)--
That while I draw you withal
From your slumber, solely,--
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
With reveillie holy!"
After having perused these extracts, it must be impossible for any one
to deny that Miss Barrett is a person gifted with very extraordinary
powers of mind, and very rare sensibilities of heart. She must surely be
allowed to take her place among the female writers of England as a
poetess of no ordinary rank; and if she does not already overtop them
all, may she one day stand forth as the queen of that select and
immortal sisterhood! It is in her power to do so if she pleases.
It is now our duty to revert to the principal poem in the collection,
respecting which we have already ventured to pronounce rather an
unfavourable opinion. The "Drama of Exile" is the most ambitious of Miss
Barrett's compositions. It is intended to commemorate the sayings and
doings of our First Parents, immediately subsequent to their expulsion
from the garden of Eden. Its authoress, with sincere modesty, disclaims
all intention of entering into competition with Milton; but the
comparison must, of course, force itself upon the reader; and although
it was not to be expected that she should rise so soaringly as Milton
does above the level of her theme, it was at any rate to be expected
that her _dramatis personæ_ should not stand in absolute contrast to
his. Yet Milton's Satan and Miss Barrett's Lucifer are the very
antipodes of each other. Milton's Satan is a thoroughly practical
character, and, if he had been human, he would have made a first-rate
man of business in any department of life. Miss Barrett's Lucifer, on
the contrary, is the poorest prater that ever made a point of saying
nothing to the purpose, and we feel assured that he could have put his
hand to nothing in heaven, on earth, or in hell. He has nothing to do,
he does nothing, and he could do nothing. He seems incapable of
excogitating a single plot of treachery, or of carrying into execution a
single deed of violence. His thoughts are a great deal too much taken up
about his own personal appearance. Gabriel is an equally irresolute
character. The following is a portion of a dialogue which takes place
between the two; and it is perhaps as fair a sample of the drama as any
that we could select. Near the beginning of the poem Gabriel concludes a
short address to Lucifer with these words--
"Go from us straightway.
_Lucifer._ Wherefore?
_Gabriel._ Lucifer,
Thy last step in this place, trod sorrow up.
Recoil before that sorrow, if not this sword.
_Lucifer._ Angels are in the world--wherefore not I?
Exiles are in the world--wherefore not I?
The cursed are in the world--wherefore not I?
_Gabriel._ Depart.
_Lucifer._ And where's the logic of 'depart?'
Our lady Eve had half been satisfied
To obey her Maker, if I had not learnt
To fix my postulate better. Dost thou dream
Of guarding some monopoly in heaven
Instead of earth? _Why I can dream with thee
To the length of thy wings._
_Gabriel._ I do not dream.
This is not heaven, even in a dream; nor earth,
As earth was once,--first breathed among the stars,--
Articulate glory from the mouth divine,--
To which the myriad spheres thrill'd audibly,
Touch'd like a lute-string,--and the sons of God
Said AMEN, singing it. I know that this
Is earth, not new created, but new cursed--
This, Eden's gate, not open'd, but built up
With a final cloud of sunset. Do I dream?
Alas, not so! this is the Eden lost
By Lucifer the serpent! this the sword
(This sword, alive with justice and with fire,)
That smote upon the forehead, Lucifer
The angel! Wherefore, angel, go ... depart--
Enough is sinn'd and suffer'd.
_Lucifer._ By no means."
It will be observed, that in this passage Gabriel thrice desires Lucifer
to "move on;" it will also be observed that Gabriel has a sword--or
perhaps it may be the revolving sword which guards Paradise that he
speaks of; but be it so or not, he threatens Lucifer with the edge of
the sword unless he decamps; and yet, although the warning is repeated,
as we have said, three distinct times, and although Lucifer
pertinaciously refuses to stir a step, still the weapon remains
innocuous, and the arch-fiend remains intact. This is not the way in
which Milton manages matters. Towards the conclusion of the fourth book
of Paradise Lost, this same Gabriel orders Satan to leave his presence--
"Avant!
Fly thither whence thou fledd'st."
The rebel angel refuses to retire:--upon which, without more ado, both
sides prepare themselves for battle. On the side of Gabriel
"Th'angelic squadron bright
_Turned fiery red_, sharpening in mooned horns
Their phalanx."
What an intense picture of ardour preparatory to action (it is night,
remember) is presented to our imaginations by the words "turned fiery
red!"
"On t'other side, Satan alarm'd,
Collecting all his might, dilated stood,
Like Teneriff, or Atlas, unremov'd:
His stature reach'd the sky."