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Coventry Patmore
The Angel in the House
CANTO VI
The Love-Letters
PRELUDES
I
Love’s Perversity
How strange a thing a lover seems
To animals that do not love!
Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams,
And flouts us with his Lady’s glove;
How foreign is the garb he wears;
And how his great devotion mocks
Our poor propriety, and scares
The undevout with paradox!
His soul, through scorn of worldly care,
And great extremes of sweet and gall,
And musing much on all that’s fair,
Grows witty and fantastical;
He sobs his joy and sings his grief,
And evermore finds such delight
In simply picturing his relief,
That ’plaining seems to cure his plight;
He makes his sorrow, when there’s none;
His fancy blows both cold and hot;
Next to the wish that she’ll be won,
His first hope is that she may not;
He sues, yet deprecates consent;
Would she be captured she must fly;
She looks too happy and content,
For whose least pleasure he would die;
Oh, cruelty, she cannot care
For one to whom she’s always kind!
He says he’s nought, but, oh, despair,
If he’s not Jove to her fond mind!
He’s jealous if she pets a dove,
She must be his with all her soul;
Yet ’tis a postulate in love
That part is greater than the whole;
And all his apprehension’s stress,
When he’s with her, regards her hair,
Her hand, a ribbon of her dress,
As if his life were only there;
Because she’s constant, he will change,
And kindest glances coldly meet,
And, all the time he seems so strange,
His soul is fawning at her feet;
Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired,
He wickedly provokes her tears,
And when she weeps, as he desired,
Falls slain with ecstasies of fears;
He blames her, though she has no fault,
Except the folly to be his;
He worships her, the more to exalt
The profanation of a kiss;
Health’s his disease, he’s never well
But when his paleness shames her rose;
His faith’s a rock-built citadel,
Its sign a flag that each way blows;
His o’erfed fancy frets and fumes;
And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate,
And ruffles his ambrosial plumes
Against the bars of time and fate.
II
The Power of Love
Samson the Mighty, Solomon
The Wise, and Holy David all
Must doff their crowns to Love, for none
But fell as Love would scorn to fall!
And what may fallen spirits win,
When stripes and precepts cannot move?
Only the sadness of all sin,
When look’d at in the light of Love.
THE LOVE-LETTERS
1
‘You ask, Will admiration halt,
Should spots appear within my Sun?
Oh, how I wish I knew your fault,
For Love’s tired gaze to rest upon!
Your graces, which have made me great,
Will I so loftily admire,
Yourself yourself shall emulate,
And be yourself your own desire.
I’ll nobly mirror you too fair,
And, when you’re false to me your glass,
What’s wanting you’ll by that repair,
So bring yourself through me to pass.
O dearest, tell me how to prove
Goodwill which cannot be express’d;
The beneficial heart of love
Is labour in an idle breast.
Name in the world your chosen part,
And here I vow, with all the bent
And application of my heart
To give myself to your content.
Would you live on, home-worshipp’d, thus,
Not proudly high nor poorly low?
Indeed the lines are fall’n to us
In pleasant places! Be it so.
But would you others heav’nward move,
By sight not faith, while you they admire?
I’ll help with zeal as I approve
That just and merciful desire.
High as the lonely moon to view
I’ll lift your light; do you decree
Your place, I’ll win it; for from you
Command inspires capacity.
Or, unseen, would you sway the world
More surely? Then in gracious rhyme
I’ll raise your emblem, fair unfurl’d
With blessing in the breeze of time.
Faith removes mountains, much more love;
Let your contempt abolish me
If ought of your devisal prove
Too hard or high to do or be.’
2
I ended. ‘From your Sweet-Heart, Sir,’
Said Nurse, ‘The Dean’s man brings it down.’
I could have kiss’d both him and her!
‘Nurse, give him that, with half-a-crown.’
How beat my heart, how paused my breath,
When, with perversely fond delay,
I broke the seal, that bore a wreath
Of roses link’d with one of bay.
3
‘I found your note. How very kind
To leave it there! I cannot tell
How pleased I was, or how you find
Words to express your thoughts so well.
The Girls are going to the Ball
At Wilton. If you can, do come;
And any day this week you call
Papa and I shall be at home.
You said to Mary once—I hope
In jest—that women should be vain:
On Saturday your friend (her Pope),
The Bishop dined with us again.
She put the question, if they ought?
He turn’d it cleverly away
(For giddy Mildred cried, she thought
We must), with “What we must we may.”
‘Dear papa laugh’d, and said ’twas sad
To think how vain his girls would be,
Above all Mary, now she had
Episcopal authority.
But I was very dull, dear friend,
And went upstairs at last, and cried.
Be sure to come to-day, or send
A rose-leaf kiss’d on either side.
Adieu! I am not well. Last night
My dreams were wild: I often woke,
The summer-lightning was so bright;
And when it flash’d I thought you spoke.’
CANTO VII
The Revulsion
PRELUDES
I
Joy and Use
Can ought compared with wedlock be
For use? But He who made the heart
To use proportions joy. What He
Has join’d let no man put apart.
Sweet Order has its draught of bliss
Graced with the pearl of God’s consent,
Ten times delightful in that ’tis
Considerate and innocent.
In vain Disorder grasps the cup;
The pleasure’s not enjoy’d but spilt,
And, if he stoops to lick it up,
It only tastes of earth and guilt.
His sorry raptures rest destroys;
To live, like comets, they must roam;
On settled poles turn solid joys,
And sunlike pleasures shine at home.
II
‘She was Mine.’
‘Thy tears o’erprize thy loss! Thy wife,
In what was she particular?
Others of comely face and life,
Others as chaste and warm there are,
And when they speak they seem to sing;
Beyond her sex she was not wise;
And there is no more common thing
Than kindness in a woman’s eyes.
Then wherefore weep so long and fast,
Why so exceedingly repine!
Say, how has thy Beloved surpass’d
So much all others?’ ‘She was mine.’
THE REVULSION
1
’Twas when the spousal time of May
Hangs all the hedge with bridal wreaths,
And air’s so sweet the bosom gay
Give thanks for every breath it breathes,
When like to like is gladly moved,
And each thing joins in Spring’s refrain,
‘Let those love now who never loved;
Let those who have loved love again;’
That I, in whom the sweet time wrought,
Lay stretch’d within a lonely glade,
Abandon’d to delicious thought
Beneath the softly twinkling shade.
The leaves, all stirring, mimick’d well
A neighbouring rush of rivers cold,
And, as the sun or shadow fell,
So these were green and those were gold;
In dim recesses hyacinths droop’d,
And breadths of primrose lit the air,
Which, wandering through the woodland, stoop’d
And gather’d perfumes here and there;
Upon the spray the squirrel swung,
And careless songsters, six or seven.
Sang lofty songs the leaves among,
Fit for their only listener, Heaven.
I sigh’d, ‘Immeasurable bliss
Gains nothing by becoming more!
Millions have meaning; after this
Cyphers forget the integer.’
2
And so I mused, till musing brought
A dream that shook my house of clay,
And, in my humbled heart, I thought,
To me there yet may come a day
With this the single vestige seen
Of comfort, earthly or divine,
My sorrow some time must have been
Her portion, had it not been mine.
Then I, who knew, from watching life,
That blows foreseen are slow to fall,
Rehearsed the losing of a wife,
And faced its terrors each and all.
The self-chastising fancy show’d
The coffin with its ghastly breath;
The innocent sweet face that owed
None of its innocence to death;
The lips that used to laugh; the knell
That bade the world beware of mirth;
The heartless and intolerable
Indignity of ‘earth to earth;’
At morn remembering by degrees
That she I dream’d about was dead;
Love’s still recurrent jubilees,
The days that she was born, won, wed;
The duties of my life the same,
Their meaning for the feelings gone;
Friendship impertinent, and fame
Disgusting; and, more harrowing none,
Small household troubles fall’n to me,
As, ‘What time would I dine to-day?’
And, oh, how could I bear to see
The noisy children at their play.
Besides, where all things limp and halt,
Could I go straight, should I alone
Have kept my love without default,
Pitch’d at the true and heavenly tone?
The festal-day might come to mind
That miss’d the gift which more endears;
The hour which might have been more kind,
And now less fertile in vain tears;
The good of common intercourse,
For daintier pleasures, then despised,
Now with what passionate remorse,
What poignancy of hunger prized!
The little wrong, now greatly rued,
Which no repentance now could right;
And love, in disbelieving mood,
Deserting his celestial height.
Withal to know, God’s love sent grief
To make me less the world’s, and more
Meek-hearted: ah, the sick relief!
Why bow’d I not my heart before?
3
‘What,’ I exclaimed, with chill alarm,
‘If this fantastic horror shows
The feature of an actual harm!’
And, coming straight to Sarum Close,
As one who dreams his wife is dead,
And cannot in his slumber weep,
And moans upon his wretched bed,
And wakes, and finds her there asleep,
And laughs and sighs, so I, not less
Relieved, beheld, with blissful start,
The light and happy loveliness
Which lay so heavy on my heart.
CANTO VIII
The Koh-i-noor
PRELUDES
I
In Love
If he’s capricious she’ll be so,
But, if his duties constant are,
She lets her loving favour glow
As steady as a tropic star;
Appears there nought for which to weep,
She’ll weep for nought, for his dear sake;
She clasps her sister in her sleep;
Her love in dreams is most awake.
Her soul, that once with pleasure shook,
Did any eyes her beauty own,
Now wonders how they dare to look
On what belongs to him alone;
The indignity of taking gifts
Exhilarates her loving breast;
A rapture of submission lifts
Her life into celestial rest;
There’s nothing left of what she was;
Back to the babe the woman dies,
And all the wisdom that she has
Is to love him for being wise.
She’s confident because she fears;
And, though discreet when he’s away,
If none but her dear despot hears,
She prattles like a child at play.
Perchance, when all her praise is said,
He tells the news, a battle won,
On either side ten thousand dead.
‘Alas!’ she says; but, if ’twere known,
She thinks, ‘He’s looking on my face!
I am his joy; whate’er I do,
He sees such time-contenting grace
In that, he’d have me always so!’
And, evermore, for either’s sake,
To the sweet folly of the dove,
She joins the cunning of the snake,
To rivet and exalt his love;
Her mode of candour is deceit;
And what she thinks from what she’ll say
(Although I’ll never call her cheat),
Lies far as Scotland from Cathay.
Without his knowledge he was won;
Against his nature kept devout;
She’ll never tell him how ’twas done,
And he will never find it out.
If, sudden, he suspects her wiles,
And hears her forging chain and trap,
And looks, she sits in simple smiles,
Her two hands lying in her lap.
Her secret (privilege of the Bard,
Whose fancy is of either sex),
Is mine; but let the darkness guard
Myst’ries that light would more perplex!
II
Love Thinking
What lifts her in my thought so far
Beyond all else? Let Love not err!
’Tis that which all right women are,
But which I’ll know in none but her.
She is to me the only Ark
Of that high mystery which locks
The lips of joy, or speaks in dark
Enigmas and in paradox;
That potent charm, which none can fly,
Nor would, which makes me bond and free,
Nor can I tell if first ’twas I
Chose it, or it elected me;
Which, when I look intentest, lo,
Cheats most mine eyes, albeit my heart,
Content to feel and not to know,
Perceives it all in every part;
I kiss its cheek; its life divine
Exhales from its resplendent shroud;
Ixion’s fate reversed is mine,
Authentic Juno seems a cloud;
I feel a blessed warmth, I see
A bright circumference of rays,
But darkness, where the sun should be,
Fills admiration with amaze;
And when, for joy’s relief, I think
To fathom with the line of thought
The well from which I, blissful, drink,
The spring’s so deep I come to nought.
III
The Kiss
‘I saw you take his kiss!’ ‘’Tis true.’
‘O, modesty!’ ‘’Twas strictly kept:
He thought me asleep; at least, I knew
He thought I thought he thought I slept.’
THE KOH-I-NOOR
1
‘Be man’s hard virtues highly wrought,
But let my gentle Mistress be,
In every look, word, deed, and thought,
Nothing but sweet and womanly!
Her virtues please my virtuous mood,
But what at all times I admire
Is, not that she is wise or good,
But just the thing which I desire.
With versatility to sing
The theme of love to any strain,
If oft’nest she is anything,
Be it careless, talkative, and vain.
That seems in her supremest grace
Which, virtue or not, apprises me
That my familiar thoughts embrace
Unfathomable mystery.’
2
I answer’d thus; for she desired
To know what mind I most approved;
Partly to learn what she inquired,
Partly to get the praise she loved.
3
I praised her, but no praise could fill
The depths of her desire to please,
Though dull to others as a Will
To them that have no legacies.
The more I praised the more she shone,
Her eyes incredulously bright,
And all her happy beauty blown
Beneath the beams of my delight.
Sweet rivalry was thus begot;
By turns, my speech, in passion’s style,
With flatteries the truth o’ershot,
And she surpass’d them with her smile.
4
‘You have my heart so sweetly seiz’d,
And I confess, nay, ’tis my pride
That I’m with you so solely pleased,
That, if I’m pleased with aught beside,
As music, or the month of June,
My friend’s devotion, or his wit,
A rose, a rainbow, or the moon,
It is that you illustrate it.
All these are parts, you are the whole;
You fit the taste for Paradise,
To which your charms draw up the soul
As turning spirals draw the eyes.
Nature to you was more than kind;
’Twas fond perversity to dress
So much simplicity of mind
In such a pomp of loveliness!
But, praising you, the fancy deft
Flies wide, and lets the quarry stray,
And, when all’s said, there’s something left,
And that’s the thing I meant to say.’
‘Dear Felix!’ ‘Sweet, my Love!’ But there
Was Aunt Maude’s noisy ring and knock!
‘Stay, Felix; you have caught my hair.
Stoop! Thank you!’ ‘May I have that lock?’
‘Not now. Good morning, Aunt!’ ‘Why, Puss,
You look magnificent to-day.’
‘Here’s Felix, Aunt.’ ‘Fox and green goose!
Who handsome gets should handsome pay!
Aunt, you are friends!’ ‘Ah, to be sure!
Good morning! Go on flattering, sir;
A woman, like the Koh-i-noor,
Mounts to the price that’s put on her.’
CANTO IX
The Friends
PRELUDES
I
The Nursling of Civility
Lo, how the woman once was woo’d;
Forth leapt the savage from his lair,
And fell’d her, and to nuptials rude
He dragg’d her, bleeding, by the hair.
From that to Chloe’s dainty wiles
And Portia’s dignified consent,
What distance! Bat these Pagan styles
How far below Time’s fair intent!
Siegfried sued Kriemhild. Sweeter life
Could Love’s self covet? Yet ’tis snug
In what rough sort he chid his wife
For want of curb upon her tongue!
Shall Love, where last I leave him, halt?
Nay; none can fancy or forsee
To how strange bliss may time exalt
This nursling of civility.
II
The Foreign Land
A woman is a foreign land,
Of which, though there he settle young,
A man will ne’er quite understand
The customs, politics, and tongue.
The foolish hie them post-haste through,
See fashions odd, and prospects fair,
Learn of the language, ‘How d’ye do,’
And go and brag they have been there.
The most for leave to trade apply,
For once, at Empire’s seat, her heart,
Then get what knowledge ear and eye
Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit,
Attach them to the Court, and see
The Country’s best, its accent hit,
And partly sound its polity.
III
Disappointment
‘The bliss which woman’s charms bespeak,
I’ve sought in many, found in none!’
‘In many ’tis in vain you seek
What only can be found in one.’
THE FRIENDS
1
Frank’s long, dull letter, lying by
The gay sash from Honoria’s waist,
Reproach’d me; passion spared a sigh
For friendship without fault disgraced.
How should I greet him? how pretend
I felt the love he once inspired?
Time was when either, in his friend,
His own deserts with joy admired;
We took one side in school-debate,
Like hopes pursued with equal thirst,
Were even-bracketed by Fate,
Twin-Wranglers, seventh from the First;
And either loved a lady’s laugh
More than all music; he and I
Were perfect in the pleasant half
Of universal charity.
2
From pride of likeness thus I loved
Him, and he me, till love begot
The lowliness which now approved
Nothing but that which I was not,
Blest was the pride of feeling so
Subjected to a girl’s soft reign.
She was my vanity, and, oh,
All other vanities how vain!
3
Frank follow’d in his letter’s track,
And set my guilty heart at ease
By echoing my excuses back
With just the same apologies.
So he had slighted me as well!
Nor was my mind disburthen’d less
When what I sought excuse to tell
He of himself did first confess.
4
Each, rapturous, praised his lady’s worth;
He eloquently thus: ‘Her face
Is the summ’d sweetness of the earth,
Her soul the glass of heaven’s grace,
To which she leads me by the hand;
Or, briefly all the truth to say
To you, who briefly understand,
She is both heaven and the way.
Displeasures and resentments pass
Athwart her charitable eyes
More fleetingly than breath from glass,
Or truth from foolish memories;
Her heart’s so touch’d with others’ woes
She has no need of chastisement;
Her gentle life’s conditions close,
Like God’s commandments, with content,
And make an aspect calm and gay,
Where sweet affections come and go,
Till all who see her, smile and say,
How fair, and happy that she’s so!
She is so lovely, true, and pure,
Her virtue virtue so endears,
That often, when I think of her,
Life’s meanness fills mine eyes with tears—’
‘You paint Miss Churchill! Pray go on—’
‘She’s perfect, and, if joy was much
To think her nature’s paragon,
’Tis more that there’s another such!’
5
Praising and paying back their praise
With rapturous hearts, t’ward Sarum Spire
We walk’d, in evening’s golden haze,
Friendship from passion stealing fire.
In joy’s crown danced the feather jest,
And, parting by the Deanery door,
Clasp’d hands, less shy than words, confess’d
We had not been true friends before.
