Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
E. Robert Bulwer, Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith) (18311891)Extracts from The Wanderer: The Portrait
Thro’ the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.
Had ceased, but the eaves dripping yet;
And the moon look’d forth, as tho’ in pain,
With her face all white and wet:
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.
All round, that knew of my loss beside,
But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face
Who confess’d her when she died.
And my grief had moved him beyond control;
For his lip grew white, as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.
I thought of the pleasant days of yore:
I said “the staff of my life is gone:
The woman I love is no more.
Which next to her heart she used to wear—
It is steeped in the light of her loving eyes,
And the sweets of her bosom and hair.”
They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay:
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away.”
And crept up the stairs that creak’d for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.
There, stark she lay on her carven bed:
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.
I turn’d, as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.
It had warm’d that heart to life, with love;
For the thing I touch’d was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.
O’er the heart of the dead,—from the other side;
And at once the sweat broke over my brow,
“Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried.
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
And neither of us moved.
Look’d first at me, and then at the dead.
“There is a portrait here …” he began;
“There is. It is mine,” I said.
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know.”
“A month ago,” said my friend to me:
“And in your throat,” I groan’d, “you lie!”
He answer’d … “Let us see.”
And whose-soever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraign’d by Love.”
We open’d it by the tapers’ shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was—neither his nor mine.
The portrait is not ours,” I cried,
“But our friend’s, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
Who confess’d her when she died.”