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

Автор: Coventry Patmore
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
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isbn: 4057664155528
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      3

      She from a rose-tree shook the blight;

       And well she knew that I knew well

       Her grace with silence to requite;

       And, answering now the luncheon bell,

       I laugh’d at Mildred’s laugh, which made

       All melancholy wrong, its mood

       Such sweet self-confidence display’d,

       So glad a sense of present good.

      4

      I laugh’d and sigh’d: for I confess

       I never went to Ball, or Fête,

       Or Show, but in pursuit express

       Of my predestinated mate;

       And thus to me, who had in sight

       The happy chance upon the cards,

       Each beauty blossom’d in the light

       Of tender personal regards;

       And, in the records of my breast,

       Red-letter’d, eminently fair,

       Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,

       By turns till then had been my care:

       At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud,

       At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,

       At Ely four, in London two,

       Two at Bowness, in Paris none,

       And, last and best, in Sarum three;

       But dearest of the whole fair troop,

       In judgment of the moment, she

       Whose daisy eyes had learn’d to droop.

       Her very faults my fancy fired;

       My loving will, so thwarted, grew;

       And, bent on worship, I admired

       Whate’er she was, with partial view.

       And yet when, as to-day, her smile

       Was prettiest, I could not but note

       Honoria, less admired the while,

       Was lovelier, though from love remote.

       Honoria

       Table of Contents

      PRELUDES.

      I.

       The Lover.

      He meets, by heavenly chance express,

       The destined maid; some hidden hand

       Unveils to him that loveliness

       Which others cannot understand.

       His merits in her presence grow,

       To match the promise in her eyes,

       And round her happy footsteps blow

       The authentic airs of Paradise.

       For joy of her he cannot sleep;

       Her beauty haunts him all the night;

       It melts his heart, it makes him weep

       For wonder, worship, and delight.

       O, paradox of love, he longs,

       Most humble when he most aspires,

       To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs

       From her he honours and desires.

       Her graces make him rich, and ask

       No guerdon; this imperial style

       Affronts him; he disdains to bask,

       The pensioner of her priceless smile.

       He prays for some hard thing to do,

       Some work of fame and labour immense,

       To stretch the languid bulk and thew

       Of love’s fresh-born magnipotence.

       No smallest boon were bought too dear,

       Though barter’d for his love-sick life;

       Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,

       To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife

       He notes how queens of sweetness still

       Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;

       How, self-consign’d with lavish will,

       They ask but love proportionate;

       How swift pursuit by small degrees,

       Love’s tactic, works like miracle;

       How valour, clothed in courtesies,

       Brings down the haughtiest citadel;

       And therefore, though he merits not

       To kiss the braid upon her skirt,

       His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot,

       Out-soars all possible desert.

      II.

       Love a Virtue.

      Strong passions mean weak will, and he

       Who truly knows the strength and bliss

       Which are in love, will own with me

       No passion but a virtue ’tis.

       Few hear my word; it soars above

       The subtlest senses of the swarm

       Of wretched things which know not love,

       Their Psyche still a wingless worm.

       Ice-cold seems heaven’s noble glow

       To spirits whose vital heat is hell;

       And to corrupt hearts even so

       The songs I sing, the tale I tell.

       These cannot see the robes of white

       In which I sing of love. Alack,

       But darkness shows in heavenly light,

       Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!

      III.

       The Attainment.

      You love? That’s high as you shall go;

       For ’tis as true as Gospel text,

       Not noble then is never so,

       Either in this world or the next.

      HONORIA.

      1

      Grown weary with a week’s exile

       From those fair friends, I rode to see

       The church-restorings; lounged awhile,

       And met the Dean; was ask’d to tea,

       And found their cousin, Frederick Graham

       At Honor’s side. Was I concern’d,

       If, when she sang, his colour came,

       That mine, as with a buffet, burn’d?

       A man to please a girl! thought I,

       Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds

       Of wrath, so hid as she was by,

       Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!

      2

      Whether this Cousin was