Modern Love and Poems of the English Roadside, with Poems and Ballads

by George Meredith

  I.

  I thought once how Theocritus had sung

  Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

  Who each one in a gracious hand appears

  To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

  And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

  I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

  The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

  Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

  A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,

  So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 10

  Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

  And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—

  ‘Guess now who holds thee?’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there,

  The silver answer rang,—‘Not Death, but Love.’

  VI.

  Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

  Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore

  Alone upon the threshold of my door

  Of individual life, I shall command

  The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

  Serenely in the sunshine as before,

  Without the sense of that which I forebore—

  Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

  Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

  With pulses that beat double. What I do 10

  And what I dream include thee, as the wine

  Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue3

  God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

  And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

  XIV.

  If thou must love me, let it be for nought

  Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

  ‘I love her for her smile—her look—her way

  Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

  That falls in well with mine, and certes4 brought

  A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’—

  For these things in themselves, Belovëd, may

  Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

  May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

  Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,— 10

  A creature might forget to weep, who bore

  Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

  But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

  Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

  XLII.

  ‘My future will not copy fair my past’—

  I wrote that once; and thinking at my side

  My ministering life-angel justified

  The word by his appealing look upcast

  To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

  And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied

  To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

  By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

  While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff

  Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled. 10

  I seek no copy now of life’s first half:

  Leave here the pages with long musing curled,

  And write me new my future’s epigraph,

  New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

  Notes

  1. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Poems (London: Chapman and Hall, 1862), 188, 193, 201, 229.

  2. Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, letter dated 10 January 1845, The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett (London: Harper & Brothers, 1899), 2.

  3. sue: follow

  4. certes: certainly

  Coventry Patmore, from The Angel in the House (1854–62)1

  Coventry Patmore published his first book of poems, Poems (1844), with Edward Moxon, publisher of Tennyson and Robert Browning, when he was only twenty-one. His poetry thematized love, sexuality, medievalism, and intense emotion in the Romantic vein, and he was associated with the Pre-Raphaelite movement, publishing in The Germ. Patmore and Meredith were not only connected through the Pre-Raphaelite circle, but also (later in life) through their friendships with the poet and journalist Alice Meynell. The Angel in the House was written to be the definitive poem on married love. The first two installments, telling the story of Felix Vaughn’s triumph over a rival suitor named Frederick for the hand of Honoria Churchill, were published in 1854 and 1856. The final two installments, offering (for the most part) the now-married Frederick’s less-blissful perspective, were published in 1860 and 1862. The poem was not an instant success. Critics lambasted its octosyllabic meter, calling it “humdrum.”2 It became, however, extremely popular toward the end of the century and remained so until well into the twentieth. Included here are “The Chace” and “The Married Lover” from the first two installments, titled “The Angel in the House.” We also include two poems from the fourth, lesser-known installment, “The Victories of Love.” Published in the same year as Modern Love, these epistolary poems, “Frederick to Mrs. Graham” and “From Mrs. Graham,” offer the perspective of a husband resigned to life with the woman he married after the disappointment of early rejection by another. Readers will note that both The Angel in the House and “Modern Love” use similar tropes and figures for heterosexual courtship and desire.

  The Chace3

  She wearies with an ill unknown;

  In sleep she sobs and seems to float,

  A water-lily, all alone

  Within a lonely castle-moat;

  And as the full-moon, spectral, lies

  Within the crescent’s gleaming arms,

  The present shows her heedless eyes

  A future dim with vague alarms.

  She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,

  For, life-in-life not yet begun, 10

  Too many are its mysteries

  For thought to fix on any one.

  She’s told that maidens are by youths

  Extremely honour’d and desired;

  And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,

  ‘What bliss to be so much admired!’

  The suitors come; she sees them grieve;

  Her coldness fills them with despair;

  She’d pity if she could believe;

  She’s sorry that she cannot care. 20

  But who now meets her on her way?

  Comes he as enemy or friend,

  Or both? Her bosom seems to say,

  He cannot pass, and there an end.

  Whom does he love? Does he confer

  His heart on worth that answers his?

  Or is he come to worship her?

  She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!

  Advancing stepless, quick, and still,

  As in the grass a serpent glides, 30

  He fascinates her fluttering will,

  Then terrifies with dreadful strides.

  At first, there’s nothing to resist;

  He fights with all the forms of peace;

  He comes about her like a mist,

  With subtle, swift, unseen increase;

  And then, unlook’d for, strikes amain4

  Some stroke that frightens her to death,

  And grows all harmlessness again,

  Ere she can cry, or get her breath. 40

  At times she stops, and stands at bay;

  But he, in all more strong than she,

  Subdues her with his pale dismay,

  Or more admired audacity.

  She plans some final, fatal blow,

  But when she means with frowns to kill

  He looks as if he loved her so,

  She smiles to him against her will.

  How sweetly he implies her praise!

  His tender talk, his gentle tone, 50

  The manly worship in his gaze,

  They nearly make her heart his own.

  With what an air he speaks her name;

  His manner always recollects

  Her sex, and still the woman’s claim

  Is taught its scope by his respects.
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  Her charms, perceived to prosper first

  In his beloved advertencies,5

  When in her glass they are rehearsed,

  Prove his most powerful allies. 60

  Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,

  When a bold youth so swift pursues,

  And siege of tenderest courtesy,

  With hope perseverant, still renews!

  Why fly so fast? Her flatter’d breast

  Thanks him who finds her fair and good;

  She loves her fears; veil’d joys arrest

  The foolish terrors of her blood.

  By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,

  Vanquish’d, takes warmth from his desire; 70

  She makes it more, with hidden art,

  And fuels love’s late dreaded fire.

  The generous credit he accords

  To all the signs of good in her

  Redeems itself; his praiseful words

  The virtues they impute confer.

  Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,

  She’s three times gentler than before;

  He gains a right to call her his

  Now she through him is so much more; 80

  ’Tis heaven where’er she turns her head;

  ’Tis music when she talks; ’tis air

  On which, elate, she seems to tread,

  The convert of a gladder sphere!

  Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,

  Behold his tokens next her breast,

  At all his words and sighs perceived

  Against its blythe upheaval press’d!

  But still she flies. Should she be won,

  It must not be believed or thought 90

  She yields; she’s chased to death, undone,

  Surprised, and violently caught.

  The Married Lover6

  Why, having won her, do I woo?

  Because her spirit’s vestal7 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 10

  To dread, as lower ladies might,

  That grace could meet with disrespect,

  Thus she with happy favour 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 ’tis by courtesy; 20

  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 30

  Sacred to Heaven; because, in short,

  She’s not and never can be mine.

  Frederick to Mrs. Graham8

  Honoria, trebly fair and mild

  With added loves of lord and child,

  Is else unalter’d. Years, which wrong

  The rest, touch not her beauty, young

  With youth which rather seems her clime,

  Than aught that’s relative to time.

  How beyond hope was heard the prayer

  I offer’d in my love’s despair!

  Could any, whilst there’s any woe,

  Be wholly blest, then she were so. 10

  She is, and is aware of it,

  Her husband’s endless benefit;

  But, though their daily ways reveal

  The depth of private joy they feel,

  ’Tis not their bearing each to each

  That does abroad their secret preach,

  But such a lovely good-intent

  To all within their government

  And friendship as, ’tis well discern’d,

  Each of the other must have learn’d; 20

  For no mere dues of neighbourhood

  Ever begot so blest a mood.

  And fair, indeed, should be the few

  God dowers9 with nothing else to do,

  And liberal of their light, and free

  To show themselves, that all may see!

  For alms let poor men poorly give

  The meat whereby men’s bodies live;

  But they of wealth are stewards wise

  Whose graces are their charities. 30

  . . .

  The sunny charm about this home

  Makes all to shine who thither come.

  My own dear Jane has caught its grace,

  And, honour’d, honours too the place.

  Across the lawn I lately walk’d

  Alone, and watch’d where mov’d and talk’d,

  Gentle and goddess-like of air,

  Honoria and some Stranger fair.

  I chose a path unblest by these;

  When one of the two Goddesses, 40

  With my Wife’s voice, but softer, said,

  ‘Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?’

  She moves, indeed, the modest peer

  Of all the proudest ladies here.

  Unawed she talks with men who stand

  Among the leaders of the land,

  And women beautiful and wise,

  With England’s greatness in their eyes.

  To high, traditional good-sense,

  And knowledge ripe without pretence, 50

  And human truth exactly hit

  By quiet and conclusive wit,

  Listens my little, homely Dove,

  Mistakes the points and laughs for love;

  And, after, stands and combs her hair,

  And calls me much the wittiest there!

  With reckless loyalty, dear Wife,

  She lays herself about my life!

  The joy I might have had of yore

  I have not; for ’tis now no more, 60

  With me, the lyric time of youth,

  And sweet sensation of the truth.

  Yet, past my hope or purpose bless’d,

  In my chance choice let be confess’d

  The tenderer Providence that rules

  The fates of children and of fools!

  I kiss’d the kind, warm neck that slept,

  And from her side this morning stepp’d,

  To bathe my brain from drowsy night

  In the sharp air and golden light. 70

  The dew, like frost, was on the pane.

  The year begins, though fair, to wane.

  There is a fragrance in its breath

  Which is not of the flowers, but death;

  And green above the ground appear

  The lilies of another year.

  I wander’d forth, and took my path

  Among the bloomless aftermath;

  And heard the steadfast robin sing

  As if his own warm heart were Spring, 80

  And watch’d him feed where, on the yew,

  Hung honey’d drops of crimson dew;

  And then return’d, by walls of peach,

  And pear-trees bending to my reach,

  And rose-beds with the roses gone,

  To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan

  Was there, none with her. I confess

  I love her than of yore no less!

  But she alone was loved of old;

  Now love is twain, nay, manifold; 90

  For, somehow, he whose daily life

  Adjusts itself to one true wife,

  Grows to a nuptial,10 near degree

  Wit
h all that’s fair and womanly.

  Therefore, as more than friends, we met,

  Without constraint, without regret;

  The wedded yoke that each had donn’d

  Seeming a sanction, not a bond.

  From Mrs. Graham11

  Your love lacks joy, your letter says.

  Yes; love requires the focal space

  Of recollection or of hope,

  E’er it can measure its own scope.

  Too soon, too soon comes Death to show

  We love more deeply than we know!

  The rain, that fell upon the height

  Too gently to be call’d delight,

  Within the dark vale reappears

  As a wild cataract12 of tears; 10

  And love in life should strive to see

  Sometimes what love in death would be!

  Easier to love, we so should find,

  It is than to be just and kind.

  She’s gone: shut close the coffin-lid:

  What distance for another did

  That death has done for her! The good,

  Once gazed upon with heedless mood,

  Now fills with tears the famish’d eye,

  And turns all else to vanity. 20

  ’Tis sad to see, with death between,

  The good we have pass’d and have not seen!

  How strange appear the words of all!

  The looks of those that live appal.

  They are the ghosts, and check the breath:

  There’s no reality but death,

  And hunger for some signal given

  That we shall have our own in heaven.

  But this the God of love lets be

  A horrible uncertainty. 30

  . . .

  How great her smallest virtue seems,

  How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams

  Were those that foil’d with loftier grace

  The homely kindness of her face.

  ’Twas here she sat and work’d, and there

  She comb’d and kiss’d the children’s hair;

  Or, with one baby at her breast,

  Another taught, or hush’d to rest.

  Praise does the heart no more refuse

  To the chief loveliness of use. 40

  Her humblest good is hence most high

  In the heavens of fond memory;

  And Love says Amen to the word,

  A prudent wife is from the Lord.

  Her worst gown’s kept, (’tis now the best,

  As that in which she oftenest dress’d,)

  For memory’s sake more precious grown

  Than she herself was for her own.

  Poor child! foolish it seem’d to fly

  To sobs instead of dignity, 50

  When she was hurt. Now, more than all,

  Heart-rending and angelical