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The Angel in the House

Автор Coventry Patmore

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Дата написания1970-01-01

Язык книгиen

Возрастное ограничение0+

Жанры

зарубежная классика зарубежная поэзия зарубежная старинная литература стихи и поэзия литература 19 века

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4

Across the sky the daylight crept, And birds grew garrulous in the grove, And on my marriage-morn I slept A soft sleep, undisturb’d by love.

CANTO XI The Wedding

PRELUDES

I

Platonic Love

Right art thou who wouldst rather be A doorkeeper in Love’s fair house, Than lead the wretched revelry Where fools at swinish troughs carouse. But do not boast of being least; And if to kiss thy Mistress’ skirt Amaze thy brain, scorn not the Priest Whom greater honours do not hurt. Stand off and gaze, if more than this Be more than thou canst understand, Revering him whose power of bliss, Angelic, dares to seize her hand, Or whose seraphic love makes flight To the apprehension of her lips; And think, the sun of such delight From thine own darkness takes eclipse. And, wouldst thou to the same aspire, This is the art thou must employ, Live greatly; so shalt thou acquire Unknown capacities of joy.

II

A Demonstration

Nature, with endless being rife, Parts each thing into ‘him’ and ‘her,’ And, in the arithmetic of life, The smallest unit is a pair; And thus, oh, strange, sweet half of me, If I confess a loftier flame, If more I love high Heaven than thee, I more than love thee, thine I am; And, if the world’s not built of lies, Nor all a cheat the Gospel tells, If that which from the dead shall rise Be I indeed, not something else, There’s no position more secure In reason or in faith than this, That those conditions must endure, Which, wanting, I myself should miss.

III

The Symbol

As if I chafed the sparks from glass, And said, ‘It lightens,’ hitherto The songs I’ve made of love may pass For all but for proportion true; But likeness and proportion both Now fail, as if a child in glee, Catching the flakes of the salt froth, Cried, ‘Look, my mother, here’s the sea. Yet, by the help of what’s so weak, But not diverse, to those who know, And only unto those I speak, May far-inferring fancy show Love’s living sea by coasts uncurb’d, Its depth, its mystery, and its might, Its indignation if disturb’d, The glittering peace of its delight.

IV

Constancy Rewarded

I vow’d unvarying faith, and she, To whom in full I pay that vow, Rewards me with variety Which men who change can never know.

THE WEDDING

1

Life smitten with a feverish chill, The brain too tired to understand, In apathy of heart and will, I took the woman from the hand Of him who stood for God, and heard Of Christ, and of the Church his Bride; The Feast, by presence of the Lord And his first Wonder, beautified; The mystic sense to Christian men; The bonds in innocency made, And gravely to be enter’d then, For children, godliness, and, aid, And honour’d, and kept free from smirch; And how a man must love his wife No less than Christ did love his Church, If need be, giving her his life; And, vowing then the mutual vow, The tongue spoke, but intention slept. ’Tis well for us Heaven asks not how We take this oath, but how ’tis kept.

2

O, bold seal of a bashful bound, Which makes the marriage-day to be, To those before it and beyond, An iceberg in an Indian sea!

3

‘Now, while she’s changing,’ said the Dean, ‘Her bridal for her travelling dress, I’ll preach allegiance to your queen! Preaching’s the thing which I profess; And one more minute’s mine! You know I’ve paid my girl a father’s debt, And this last charge is all I owe. She’s yours; but I love more than yet You can; such fondness only wakes When time has raised the heart above The prejudice of youth, which makes Beauty conditional to love. Prepare to meet the weak alarms Of novel nearness; recollect The eye which magnified her charms Is microscopic for defect. Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced, You’ll find your strong and tender loves, Like holy rocks by Druids poised, The least force shakes, but none removes. Her strength is your esteem; beware Of finding fault; her will’s unnerv’d By blame; from you ’twould be despair; But praise that is not quite deserv’d Will all her noble nature move To make your utmost wishes tree. Yet think, while mending thus your Love, Of snatching her ideal too. The death of nuptial joy is sloth: To keep your mistress in your wife, Keep to the very height your oath, And honour her with arduous life. Lastly, no personal reverence doff. Life’s all externals unto those Who pluck the blushing petals off, To find the secret of the rose.— How long she’s tarrying! Green’s Hotel I’m sure you’ll like. The charge is fair, The wines good. I remember well I stay’d once, with her Mother, there. A tender conscience of her vow That Mother had! She’s so like her!’ But Mrs. Fife, much flurried, now Whisper’d, ‘Miss Honor’s ready, Sir.’

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