The Angel in the House. Coventry Patmore. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Coventry Patmore
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 4057664155528
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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.

      II.

       Love at Large.

      Whene’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.

      III.

       Love and Duty.

      Anne 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 see

       A noble spirit in a hill,

       A human touch about a tree.

      IV.

       A Distinction.

      The 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.

      1

      One 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 show

       Some 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