Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore 182396From The Angel in the House
PatmoreT
And sigh’d, as her departing grace
Assur’d me that she always wore
And heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
I dreaded, o’er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
To hurt the hope that she ’d be mine.
He praised my “Notes on Abury,”
Read when the Association met
At Sarum; he was pleas’d to see
I had not stopp’d, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hop’d the business was not bad
I came about: then the wine pass’d.
I lov’d his daughter, Honor; I told
My estate and prospects; might I try
To win her? At my words so bold
My sick heart sank. Then he: He gave
His glad consent, if I could get
Her love. A dear, good Girl! she ’d have
Only three thousand pounds as yet;
More by and by. Yes, his good will
Should go with me; he would not stir;
Wish’d I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take
Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make
Or alter others’ destinies,
That, though his blessing and his pray’r
Had help’d, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
Consent and opportunity.
Some name already; friends and place
Appear’d within my reach, but none
Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom
They invest their vanities admir’d;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desir’d.
’T was so with one now pass’d away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say
Mine was a choice I could not rue.
(And all my heart was in my word)
From me the affection of a son,
Whichever fortune Heaven conferr’d!
Well, well, would I take more wine? Then go
To her; she makes tea on the lawn
These fine warm afternoons. And so
We went whither my soul was drawn;
And her light-hearted ignorance
Of interest in our discourse
Fill’d me with love, and seem’d to enhance
Her beauty with pathetic force,
As, through the flowery mazes sweet,
Fronting the wind that flutter’d blithe,
And lov’d her shape, and kiss’d her feet,
Shown to their insteps proud and lithe,
She approach’d, all mildness and young trust,
And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love’s feast its choicest gust,
A vague, faint augury of despair.
From little signs, like little stars,
Whose faint impression on the sense
The very looking straight at mars,
Or only seen by confluence;
From instinct of a mutual thought,
Whence sanctity of manners flow’d;
From chance unconscious, and from what
Concealment, overconscious, show’d;
Her hand’s less weight upon my arm,
Her lovelier mien; that match’d with this;
I found, and felt with strange alarm,
I stood committed to my bliss.
That she ’d be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaim’d graces bask’d,
At leisure, till the time should serve,
With just enough of dread to thrill
The hope, and make it trebly dear;
Thus loth to speak the word to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.
Her laughing sisters lagg’d behind;
And, ere we reach’d her father’s gate,
We paus’d with one presentient mind;
And, in the dim and perfum’d mist,
Their coming stay’d, who, friends to me,
And very women, lov’d to assist
Love’s timid opportunity.
The faint and frail Cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard
The chafers rustling in the limes.
Her dress, that touch’d me where I stood,
The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom’s gentle neighborhood,
Her pleasure in her power to charm;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch,
The least seem’d most by blissful turn,
Blissful but that it pleas’d too much,
And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires
Was travers’d by the breath I drew;
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,
She, answering, own’d that she lov’d too.
The hopeless heights of hope were scal’d;
The summit won, I paus’d and sigh’d,
As if success itself had fail’d.
It seem’d as if my lips approach’d
To touch at Tantalus’ reward,
And rashly on Eden life encroach’d,
Half-blinded by the flaming sword.
The whole world’s wealthiest and its best,
So fiercely sought, appear’d, when found,
Poor in its need to be possess’d,
Poor from its very want of bound.
By love unsceptred and brought low,
Her awful garb of maiden pride
All melted into tears like snow;
The mistress of my reverent thought,
Whose praise was all I ask’d of fame,
In my close-watch’d approval sought
Protection as from danger and blame;
Her soul, which late I lov’d to invest
With pity for my poor desert,
Buried its face within my breast,
Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.
Why, having won her, do I woo?
Because her spirit’s vestal grace
Provokes me always to pursue,
But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;
Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects kiss
The Queen’s hand, yet so near a touch
Affirms no mean familiarness,
Nay, rather marks more fair the height
Which can with safety so neglect
To dread, as lower ladies might,
That grace could meet with disrespect,
Thus she with happy favor feeds
Allegiance from a love so high
That thence no false conceit proceeds
Of difference bridged, or state put by;
Because, although in act and word
As lowly as a wife can be,
Her manners, when they call me lord,
Remind me ’t is by courtesy;
Not with her least consent of will,
Which would my proud affection hurt,
But by the noble style that still
Imputes an unattain’d desert;
Because her gay and lofty brows,
When all is won which hope can ask,
Reflect a light of hopeless snows
That bright in virgin ether bask;
Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine
Sacred to Heaven; because, in short,
She ’s not and never can be mine.
Friendship means well, but misses reach,
And wearies in its best delight
Vex’d with the vanities of speech;
Too long regarded, roses even
Afflict the mind with fond unrest;
And to converse direct with Heaven
Is oft a labor in the breast;
Whate’er the up-looking soul admires,
Whate’er the senses’ banquet be,
Fatigues at last with vain desires,
Or sickens by satiety;
But truly my delight was more
In her to whom I ’m bound for aye
Yesterday than the day before,
And more to-day than yesterday.