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• The Poetical Works Of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
• Catalog Record: Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poetical works | HathiTrust Digital Library
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Downloads: 5. Rating: 0 Votes. Download options: Can my affections find out nothing best,But still and still remove? I plant a tree whose leafThe yew-tree leaf will suit:But when its shade is o'er you laid,Turn round and pluck the fruit. Now reach my harp from off the wallWhere shines the sun aslant;The sun may shine and we be cold!

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O hearken, loving hearts and bold,Unto my wild romaunt. Margret, Margret. Sitteth the fair ladyeClose to the river sideWhich runneth on with a merry toneHer merry thoughts to guide:It runneth through the trees,It runneth by the hill,Nathless the lady's thoughts have foundA way more pleasant stillMargret, Margret.

The night is in her hairAnd giveth shade to shade,And the pale moonlight on her forehead whiteLike a spirit's hand is laid;Her lips part with a smileInstead of speakings done:I ween, she thinketh of a voice,Albeit uttering none. All little birds do sitWith heads beneath their wings:Nature doth seem in a mystic dream,Absorbed from her living things:That dream by that ladyeIs certes unpartook,For she looketh to the high cold starsWith a tender human lookMargret, Margret. When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to see to whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be of the time far off when I was a child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to you who were my public and my critic.

Of all that such a recollection implies of saddest and sweetest to both of us, it would become neither of us to speak before the world, nor would it be possible for us to speak of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. Enough, that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to yours. As the first poem of this collection, the "Drama of Exile," is the longest and most important work to me!

The subject of the Drama rather fastened on me than was chosen; and the form, approaching the model of the Greek tragedy, shaped itself under my hand, rather by force of pleasure than of design. But when the excitement of composition had subsided, I felt afraid of my position. But when all was done, I felt afraid, as I said before, of my position.

I had promised my own prudence to shut close the gates of Eden between Milton and myself, so that none might say I dared to walk in his footsteps. It would not do.

Whether at last I took courage for the venture, by a sudden revival of that love of manuscript which should be classed by moral philosophers among the natural affections, or by the encouraging voice of a dear friend, it is not interesting to the reader to inquire. Neither could the fact affect the question; since I bear, of course, my own responsibilities.

For the rest, Milton is too high, and I am too low, to render it necessary for me to disavow any rash emulation of his divine faculty on his own ground; while enough individuality will be granted, I hope, to my poem, to rescue me from that imputation of plagiarism which should be too servile a thing for every sincere thinker. After all, and at the worst, I have only attempted, in respect to Milton, what the Greek dramatists achieved lawfully in respect to Homer. They constructed dramas on Trojan ground; they raised on the buskin and even clasped with the sock, the feet of Homeric heroes; yet they neither imitated their Homer nor emasculated him.

To this analogy — not to this comparison, be it understood — I appeal.

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For the analogy of the stronger may apply to the weaker; and the reader may have patience with the weakest while she suggests the application. On a graver point I must take leave to touch, in further reference to my dramatic poem. The divine Saviour is represented in vision towards the close, speaking and transfigured; and it has been hinted to me that the introduction may give offence in quarters where I should be most reluctant to give any.

A reproach of the same class, relating to the frequent recurrence of a Great Name in my pages, has already filled me with regret. How shall I answer these things? Frankly, in any case. When the old mysteries represented the Holiest Being in a rude familiar fashion, and the people gazed on, with the faith of children in their earnest eyes, the critics of a succeeding age, who rejoiced in Congreve, cried out "Profane. As if life were not a continual sacrament to man, since Christ brake the daily bread of it in His hands!

As if the name of God did not build a church, by the very naming of it! As if the word God were not, everywhere in His creation, and at every moment in His eternity, an appropriate word!

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As if it could be uttered unfitly, if devoutly! I appeal on these points, which I will not argue, from the conventions of the Christian to his devout heart; and I beseech him generously to believe of me that I have done that in reverence from which, through reverence, he might have abstained; and that where he might have been driven to silence by the principle of adoration, I, by the very same principle, have been hurried into speech.

If it should be objected that I have lengthened my twilight too much for the East, I might hasten to answer that we know nothing of the length of mornings or evenings before the Flood, and that I cannot, for my own part, believe in an Eden without the longest of purple twilights.

Apart from which considerations, my "exiles" are surrounded, in the scene described, by supernatural appearances; and the shadows that approach them are not only of the night. The next longest poem to the "Drama of Exile," in the collection, is the "Vision of Poets," in which I have endeavoured to indicate the necessary relations of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice. In the eyes of the living generation, the poet is at once a richer and poorer man than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, but speaks no more oracles: and the evil of this social incrustation over a great idea is eating deeper and more fatally into our literature than either readers or writers may apprehend fully.

It is enough to say of the other poems, that scarcely one of them is unambitious of an object and a significance. Since my "Seraphim" was received by the public with more kindness than its writer had counted on, I dare not rely on having put away the faults with which that volume abounded and was mildly reproached.