VICTORIAN POETRY

Poems by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)

Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crookèd hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

BEAUTIFUL CITY

Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,

O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,
How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution
Roll’d again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity!

Flower in the Crannied Wall

Flower in the crannied wall,

I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower–but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
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The Dawn

“You are but children.”

–EGYPTIAN PRIEST TO SOLON

Red of the Dawn!

Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms of a Moloch of Tyre,
Man with his brotherless dinner on man in the tropical wood,
Priests in the name of the Lord passing souls through fire to the fire,
Head-hunters and boats of Dahomey that float upon human blood!
Red of the Dawn!
Godless fury of peoples, and Christless frolic of kings,
And the bolt of war dashing down upon cities and blazing farms,
For Babylon was a child newborn, and Rome was a babe in arms,
And London and Paris and all the rest are as yet but in leading strings.
Dawn not Day,
While scandal is mouthing a bloodless name at her cannibal feast,
And rake-ruined bodies and souls go down in a common wreck,
And the Press of a thousand cities is prized for it smells of the beast,
Or easily violates virgin Truth for a coin or a check.
Dawn not Day!
Is it Shame, so few should have climbed from the dens in the level below,
Men, with a heart and a soul, no slaves of a four-footed will?
But if twenty million of summers are stored in the sunlight still,
We are far from the noon of man, there is time for the race to grow.
Red of the Dawn!
Is it turning a fainter red? So be it, but when shall we lay
The Ghost of the Brute that is walking and haunting us yet, and be free?
In a hundred, a thousand winters? Ah, what will our children be?
The men of a hundred thousand, a million summers away?

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
1889
 VICTORIAN POETRY

Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

A Curse for a Nation For I, a woman, have only known

How the heart melts and the tears run down."
Prologue
"Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
I heard an angel speak last night,
Some women weep and curse, I say
And he said "Write!
(And no one marvels), night and day.
Write a Nation's curse for me,
And send it over the Western Sea."
"And thou shalt take their part to-night,
Weep and write.
I faltered, taking up the word:
A curse from the depths of womanhood
"Not so, my lord!
Is very salt, and bitter, and good."
If curses must be, choose another
To send thy curse against my brother.
So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,
What all may read.
"For I am bound by gratitude,
And thus, as was enjoined on me,
By love and blood,
I send it over the Western Sea.
To brothers of mine across the sea,
Who stretch out kindly hands to me."
The Curse
"Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write
My curse to-night. Because ye have broken your own chain
From the summits of love a curse is driven, With the strain
As lightning is from the tops of heaven." Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,
Yet thence bear down with brand and thong
On souls of others, -- for this wrong
"Not so," I answered. "Evermore
This is the curse. Write.
My heart is sore
For my own land's sins: for little feet
Of children bleeding along the street: Because yourselves are standing straight
In the state
Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,
"For parked-up honors that gainsay
Yet keep calm footing all the time
The right of way:
On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime
For almsgiving through a door that is
This is the curse. Write.
Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

Because ye prosper in God's name,

"For love of freedom which abates
With a claim
Beyond the Straits:
To honor in the old world's sight,
For patriot virtue starved to vice on
Yet do the fiend's work perfectly
Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:
In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie
This is the curse. Write.
"For an oligarchic parliament,
And bribes well-meant.
Ye shall watch while kings conspire
What curse to another land assign,
Round the people's smouldering fire,
When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?"
And, warm for your part,
Shall never dare -- O shame!
"Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write To utter the thought into flame
My curse to-night. Which burns at your heart.
Because thou hast strength to see and hate This is the curse. Write.
A foul thing done within thy gate."
Ye shall watch while nations strive
"Not so," I answered once again. With the bloodhounds, die or survive,
"To curse, choose men. Drop faint from their jaws,
Or throttle them backward to death;
And only under your breath
Shall favor the cause.
This is the curse. Write.
 VICTORIAN POETRY
Ye shall watch while strong men draw
The nets of feudal law
To strangle the weak;
And, counting the sin for a sin,
Your soul shall be sadder within
Than the word ye shall speak.
This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect

That Christ may avenge His elect
And deliver the earth,
The prayer in your ears, said low,
Shall sound like the tramp of a foe
That's driving you forth.
This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,

They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,
As if carried too far.
When ye boast your own charters kept true,
Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do
Derides what ye are.
This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,

Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate
As ye look o'er the wall;
For your conscience, tradition, and name
Explode with a deadlier blame
Than the worst of them all.
This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,

Go, plant your flag in the sun
Beside the ill-doers!
And recoil from clenching the curse
Of God's witnessing Universe
With a curse of yours.
This is the curse. Write.
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Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

The Cry of the Children

In 1842–43, a parliamentary commission investigated the conditions

of the employment of children in mines and factories; the
commission's report was written by R. H. Horne, a friend and
collaborator of the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861).
Many of the details of Browning's 1843 poem are taken from the
report of the commission.

"Alas, my children, why do you look at me?"— Medea 1

I
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
And that cannot stop their tears. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children;
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, For the outside earth is cold;
The young birds are chirping in the nest, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows, And the graves are for the old."
The young flowers are blowing toward the west —
But the young, young children, O my brothers, IV
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others, "True," say the children, "it may happen
In the country of the free. That we die before our time.
Little Alice died last year — her grave is shapen
II Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her.
Do you question the young children in the sorrow Was no room for any work in the close clay!
Why their tears are falling so? From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
The old man may weep for his to-morrow Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
Which is lost in Long Ago. If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
The old tree is leafless in the forest, With your ear down, little Alice never cries.
The old year is ending in the frost, Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.
The old hope is hardest to be lost: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
But the young, young children, O my brothers, The shroud by the kirk-chime!
Do you ask them why they stand It is good when it happens," say the children,
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, "That we die before our time."
In our happy Fatherland?
V
III
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
They look up with their pale and sunken faces, Death in life, as best to have.
And their looks are sad to see, They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses With a cerement from the grave.
Down the cheeks of infancy; Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do.
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty.
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
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Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
From your pleasure fair and fine! And at midnight's hour of harm,
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,
VI We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except 'Our Father,'
"For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,
And we cannot run or leap. God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
To drop in them and sleep. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, (For they call Him good and mild)
We fall on our faces, trying to go; Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 'Come rest with me my child.'"
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring XI
Through the coal-dark, underground —
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron "But, no!" say the children, weeping faster,
In the factories, round and round. "He is speechless as a stone.
And they tell us, of His image is the master
VII Who commands us to work on.
Go to!" say children, — "up in Heaven,
"For all day the wheels are droning, turning — Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Their wind comes in our faces, — Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving —
Till our hearts turn, — our heads with pulses burning, We look up of God, but tears have made us blind."
And the walls turn in their places. Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, O my brothers, what ye preach?
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, For God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, And the children doubt of each.
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all day the iron wheels are droning, XII
And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning) And well may the children weep before you!
'Stop! be silent for to-day!'" They are weary ere they run.
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
VIII Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without his wisdom.
Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing They sink in man's despair, without his calm;
For a moment, mouth to mouth! Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, —
Of their tender human youth! Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion The harvest of its memories cannot reap, —
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals. Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them prove their living souls against the notion Let them weep! let them weep!
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! —
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, XIII
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
Spin on blindly in the dark. And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of the angels in high places
IX With eyes turned on Deity! —
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,
To look up to Him and pray; —
So the blessèd One who blesseth all the others, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
Will bless them another day. And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? And your purple shows your path!
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. Than the strong man in his wrath."
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door. In Euripedes' tragedy Medea, Medea speaks these words before she
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, kills her children in vengeance.
Hears our weeping any more?

X
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I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
Sonnets From the Portuguese
I shall but love thee better after death.
XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
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The Lost Leader Poems by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Just for a handful of silver he left us, The Woodspurge
Just for a riband to stick in his coat -
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Lost all the others she lets us devote; Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, I had walked on at the wind's will, —
So much was theirs who so little allowed: I sat now, for the wind was still.
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags - were they purple, his heart had been proud! Between my knees my forehead was, —
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, My hair was over in the grass,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, My naked ears heard the day pass[.]
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Burns, Shelley, were with us, - they watch from their graves!
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
Among those few, out of the sun,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one.
We shall march prospering, - not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us, - not from his lyre; From perfect grief there need not be
Deeds will be done, - while he boasts his quiescence, Wisdom or even memory:
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: One thing then learnt remains to me, —
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, The woodspurge has a cup of three.
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels, 1856
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life`s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part - the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him, - strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne!
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Poems by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

My Last Duchess
Ferrara

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 5
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 15
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, 25
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked
Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 35
In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 45
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 55
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
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Poems by Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894)

Freaks of Fashion

“Yellow,” hinted a Canary,

Such a hubbub in the nests, “Warmer, not less distingué.”
Such a bustle and squeak! “Peach color,” put in a Lory,
Nestlings, guiltless of a feather,
“Cannot look outré.”
Learning just to speak,
Ask–“And how about the fashions?” “All the colors are in fashion,
From a cavernous beak. And are right,” the Parrots say.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges, “Very well. But do contrast

Perched on firm hahas, Tints harmonious,”
Perched on anything that holds them, Piped a Blackbird, justly proud
Gay papas and grave mammas Of bill aurigerous;
Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings: “Half the world may learn a lesson
Hear the gay papas. As to that from us.”

Robin says: “A scarlet waistcoat Then a Stork took up the word:

Will be all the wear, “Aim at height and chic:
Snug, and also cheerful-looking Not high heels, they’re common; somehow,
For the frostiest air, Stilted legs, not thick,
Comfortable for the chest too Nor yet thin:” he just glanced downward
When one comes to plume and pair.” And snapped to his beak.

“Neat gray hoods will be in vogue,” Here a rustling and a whirring,

Quoth a Jackdaw: “Glossy gray, As of fans outspread,
Setting close, yet setting easy, Hinted that mammas felt anxious
Nothing fly-away; Lest the next thing said
Suited to our misty mornings, Might prove less than quite judicious,
A la negligée.” Or even underbred.

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, So a mother Auk resumed

Haughty Cockatoos The broken thread of speech:
Answer–“Hoods may do for mornings, “Let colors sort themselves, my dears,
But for evenings choose Yellow, or red, or peach;
High head-dresses, curved like crescents, The main points, as it seems to me,
Such as well-bred persons use.” We mothers have to teach,

“Top-knots, yes; yet more essential “Are form and texture, elegance,
Still, a train or tail,” An air reserved, sublime;
Screamed the Peacock: “Gemmed and lustrous The mode of wearing what we wear
Not too stiff, and not too frail; With due regard to month and clime.
Those are best which rearrange as But now, let’s all compose ourselves,
Fans, and spread or trail.” It’s almost breakfast-time.”

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle!

An inimitable neck: Who cares to chatter or sing
“After all, there’s nothing sweeter With delightful breakfast coming?
For the lawn or lake Yet they whisper under the wing:
Than simple white, if fine and flaky “So we may wear whatever we like,
And absolutely free from speck.” Anything, everything!”
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In the Bleak Midwinter Yea, beds for all who come.

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;

Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to
reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,

Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

To My Mother

To-day's your natal day;

Sweet flowers I bring:
Mother, accept, I pray
My offering.

And may you happy live,

And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
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From The Angel in the House by Coventry Patmore (1823 – 1896)

The Angel in the House, by Coventry Patmore

— Part I, Book I, Canto II: I.1–I.64

PRELUDES

The Paragon
When I behold the skies aloft Nay, might I utter my conceit,
Passing the pageantry of dreams, 'Twere after all a vulgar song,
The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft,
A couch for nuptial Juno[1] seems, 35 For she's so simply, subtly sweet,
My deepest rapture does her wrong.
5 The ocean broad, the mountains bright, Yet is it now my chosen task
The shadowy vales with feeding herds, To sing her worth as Maid and Wife;
I from my lyre the music smite, Nor happier post than this I ask,
Nor want for justly matching words.
All forces of the sea and air, 40 To live her laureate[2] all my life.
On wings of love uplifted free,
10 All interests of hill and plain, And by her gentleness made great,
I so can sing, in seasons fair, I'll teach how noble man should be
That who hath felt may feel again. To match with such a lovely mate;
Elated oft by such free songs,
I think with utterance free to raise 45 And then in her may move the more
The woman's wish to be desired,
15 That hymn for which the whole world longs, (By praise increased,) till both shall soar,
A worthy hymn in woman's praise; With blissful emulations fired.
A hymn bright-noted like a bird's, And, as geranium, pink, or rose
Arousing these song-sleepy times
With rhapsodies of perfect words, 50 Is thrice itself through power of art,
So may my happy skill disclose
20 Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes. New fairness even in her fair heart;
But when I look on her and hope Until that churl shall nowhere be
To tell with joy what I admire, Who bends not, awed, before the throne
My thoughts lie cramp'd in narrow scope,
Or in the feeble birth expire; 55 Of her affecting majesty,
So meek, so far unlike our own;
25 No mystery of well-woven speech, Until (for who may hope too much
No simplest phrase of tenderest fall, From her who wields the powers of love?)
No liken'd excellence can reach Our lifted lives at last shall touch
Her, the most excellent of all,
The best half of creation's best, 60 That happy goal to which they move;
Until we find, as darkness rolls
30 Its heart to feel, its eye to see, Away, and evil mists dissolve,
The crown and complex of the rest, The nuptial contrasts are the poles
Its aim and its epitome. On which the heavenly spheres revolve.

1854-62

[1] In Roman mythology the wife of the chief god the married life of women. (Jupiter) and a goddess presiding especially over one who celebrates
her in poetry.
[2] I.e., to be the one who celebrates her in poetry.
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— Part I, Book I, Canto IX: I.1–I.12

PRELUDES

I. The Wife's Tragedy

Man must be pleased; but him to please

Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
She casts her best, she flings herself.
How often flings for nought, and yokes
Her heart to an icicle or whim,
Whose each impatient word provokes
Another, not from her, but him;
While she, too gentle even to force
His penitence by kind replies,
Waits by, expecting his remorse,
With pardon in her pitying eyes;
And if he once, by shame oppress'd,
A comfortable word confers,
She leans and weeps against his breast,
And seems to think the sin was hers;
And whilst his love has any life,
Or any eye to see her charms,
At any time, she's still his wife,
Dearly devoted to his arms;
She loves with love that cannot tire;
And when, ah woe, she loves alone,
Through passionate duty love springs higher,
As grass grows taller round a stone.

1854-62

From The Angel in the House ― Coventry Patmore

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A Ballad of Religion and Marriage by Amy Levy (1861–1889)

Swept into limbo is the host

Of heavenly angels, row on row;
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Pale and defeated, rise and go.
The great Jehovah is laid low,
Vanished his burning bush and rod—
Say, are we doomed to deeper woe?
Shall marriage go the way of God?

Monogamous, still at our post,

Reluctantly we undergo
Domestic round of boiled and roast,
Yet deem the whole proceeding slow.
Daily the secret murmurs grow;
We are no more content to plod
Along the beaten paths—and so
Marriage must go the way of God.

Soon, before all men, each shall toast

The seven strings unto his bow,
Like beacon fires along the coast,
The flame of love shall glance and glow.
Nor let nor hindrance man shall know,
From natal bath to funeral sod;
Perennial shall his pleasures flow
When marriage goes the way of God.

Grant, in a million years at most,

Folk shall be neither pairs nor odd—
Alas! we sha'n't be there to boast
"Marriage has gone the way of God!" 1888
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The Crimean War (1) by Elizabeth Duncan Campbell (1804–1878)

I think it’s a pity that kings go to war,

And carry their murd’rous inventions so far;
Since Adam did blunder such blunders have been,
And I weep for those that’s the victims of kings.
I weep for the coward, I weep for the brave, 5
I weep for the monarch, I weep for the slave,
I weep for all those that in battle are slain;
I’ve a tear and a prayer for the souls of all men.

There were many a cut and bloody scar

When those four nations went to war, 10
And many cries and helpless sighs
Reached the skies when starry,
From hill, and glen, and Russian plain,
Away the winds did carry;
When many men in war were slain 15
At capturing of the quarry.

There Death came in his muffled car,

And to and fro he drove afar;
And where the young man made a blunder,
He in Death’s valley slew six hunder’.(2) 20

The King of kings, with power and will,

Said blood of men shall dye the rills,o rivulets, streamlets
And stain the plain and Crimea hills
’Neath glowing skies so starry.

The God of War, in Heaven’s car, 25

Cried, haste, I shall not tarry;
Go, kill, kill, kill! For slain shall fill
The trenches and the quarry.
North Britain, long God’s favoured isle,—
May Peace and Plenty on thee smile, 30
In castle and in cot;
O ever shower your spirit there,
And hear the hoary-headed’s prayer,
In this my native spot!
May true religion ever stand 35
In thee, my own dear native land!

And honest men rule Britain’s Throne;

Its Freedom flourish when I’m gone;
For, think ye, I’ve forgot it?
When Bonnie begged five hundred men, 40
To face up in the great Redan,(3)
For targets to be shot at;
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Till he stepped in to claim the fame;

Fain would he Britain bloated.

Sebastopol of guns was full, 45

To shed the blood of sage and fool,
To wash that far-famed city;
And many more will feel Death’s chill,
Ere Vengeance’ cup be towering full,
Or hardened men feel pity. 50
There many [a] mother lost her son
Before Sebastopol was won.

What pen can mark the dreadful hour

When fate of war did o’er them lower;
And brothers fought with will and power, 55
At the Malakoff and Mamelon tower,(4)
Their life and limbs not heeding;
When o’er the walls of the Redan
The iron-nerved British ran,
To fall by hundreds bleeding. 60

By some mischance they left their guns,

And in confusion all did run,
Like butter-flies into the sun,
When rains a summer shower;
Before the fight was well begun, 65
And long before the setting sun,
A mile of Russian loaded guns
Quick down their lines did pour.

And who could paint the awful strife,

With nothing to defend their life, 70
At the attack upon the great Redan,
When to and fro commanders ran,
With nothing to confide in
But a stick, a stone, an empty gun;
Yet British hearts disdained to run, 75
Though deep in red blood wading.

But, ah! Their noble hearts did wince,

When their eyes fell on the fearful trench
That circled round the great Redan,
Their limbs did shake, their face did wane, 80
Though men of noble breeding.
The Russian battery raised a cloud,
Like peals of thunder roaring loud,
With smoke and fire them hiding.

’Twas well for those that found a grave 85

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Aside those walls when fighting brave,

It many a mother’s tears did save
From seeing her son a British slave,
Tied up and get a flogging;
’Neath Britain’s boasted Freedom’s flag, 90
Deserters out their life must drag,
White fear their footsteps dogging.

Great One that has the will and power,

On erring mortals mercy shower,
And save us in our dying hour; 95
O spread your wings to keep’s from harm;
Stretch over us your saving arm,
From Satan’s wiles us screen;
For dear [are] saints and souls to Thee,
And to Christ our Lord and King. 100

(Poems, 1867)
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(1) 1853-56 war between Russia and Great Britain, France, and Sardinia, who wished to curb Russian expansion in the
Middle East. Lack of adequate preparations and incompetence increased the British death toll.
(2) The Battle of Balaclava (25 October 1854) was famous for a disastrous cavalry charge in which 118 men were killed,
memorialized in Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
(3) In 1855, a key battle of the Crimean War took place in the city of Sebastopol, where Campbell’s son fought. The
Russians maintained a fortified position called the Great Redan, a raised fortress with jagged parapets, formed in a
protruding angle to fend off an enemy assault. This proved near impenetrable and deadly to the advancing British,
French, and Piedmontese, who suffered more than 100,000 casualties before capturing the city.
(4) The Malakoff and Mamelon, great towers of stone that covered the Karabelnaya suburb, were used as fortifications by
the Russians in the battle of Sebastopol.The fall of the Malakoff ended the siege on Sebastopol.
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The Bitter Task by Fanny Forrester (1852 – 1889)

’Tis mother that rocks you: lie still, love! lie still!
Or these flounces will never be done;
And there’s nothing to eat, little darling, until
I have plaited them on, every one.
My thread is entangled, my scissors mislaid, 5
And the hands that so bravely have toiled,
Grow weary and tremble, for ah, I’m afraid
That this delicate lace will be spoiled.

Dear heart! When I stood at the counter last night,

Little thought I the mistress would come 10
With these shimmering satins, so cruelly white,
To make darker our desolate home.
The workwomen gathered around me to gaze
On the exquisite blossoms and lace;
But I shuddered, my own, as I joined in their praise, 15
For I longed to be hiding my face.

How lightly they talked of the beautiful bride,

While the mistress was telling me how
The folds must be flowing, and graceful, and wide.
There! there! I have finished them now. 20
Worn out with obeying those hateful commands,
Which declare me unloved and unblest,
’Tis no wonder I wish that these poor slavish hands
Might for ever be crossed on my breast.

To-morrow, to-morrow, the joy-bells will ring, 25

And two hearts in fond union beat;
And the bridegroom will smile on the children that fling
Their bouquets ’neath his lady-loves feet.
And we shall be there, love! Yes, we shall be there,
And your poor slighted mother shall see 30
If the treasured young bride be as winsome and fair
As the castaway toy used to be.

You will dance in my arms like a wee joyous bird

As the train of bright virgins sweeps past;
And your prattling voice in the hush will be heard, 35
And your father will see you at last!
But no welcoming words to his lips will arise,
Though perhaps he may tremble and groan,
With the cowardly fear lest your innocent eyes
Should betray his dark secret, my own! 40

He stole in my heart ere I thought to resist—

He discovered its weakness—and then
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He degraded the lips that a mother had kissed,

While he murmured, again and again,
How no empress could boast of, no wealth could command, 45
Such a gem as the heart he had won;
How the tresses that rippled, and twined round his hand,
Must have borrowed their gold from the sun.

True, true, it was borrowed, that rare golden light:

So the sun, at my chastity’s wane, 50
Called his beautiful beam from the ruinous blight,
Lest the poisonous breath should profane
The ethereal halo that glistened and shone
’Mid those clustering coils round my head,
Till I stood at my mirror, cold, rigid as stone, 55
But to reckon the charms that were fled.

My hollow eyes burned through a sorrowful mist,

And my forehead no longer was fair,
For a shadow made darker the place he had kissed
For to show that his lips had been there. 60
I loosened my hair, and I gazed at the wreck,
Till the tears down my faded cheeks rolled;
And I wailed, as those tangled locks swept o’er my neck.
Ah, tresses! where, where is your gold?

He came to me, dearest, and offered me pay; 65

But his gold in wild fury I caught,
Declaring, as proudly I hurled it away,
That my silence should never be bought!
And had you not nestled so close to my heart,
I had cursed the vile tempter that came, 70
And made fiercer my hate, when I bade him depart,
By insulting my sorrow and shame.

Dear sonny, dear sonny, you’ve fallen asleep,

So you feel not my loving caress,
Though your curls are all wet with the tears that I weep 75
For the wrong that you yet may redress.
Sleep on, love! sleep on, love! I’ll live for your sake,
Though bereft and discarded we be;
And I know, pretty darling, this heart cannot break
While these fingers are toiling for thee! 80

(BBJ, April 1873, 181)

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A Dream by Marion Bernstein (1846-1906)

I dreamt that the nineteenth century

Had entirely passed away,
And had given place to a more advanced
And very much brighter day.

For Woman’s Rights were established quite 5

And man could the fact discern
That he’d long been teaching his grandmamma
What she did’nt require to learn.

There were female chiefs in the Cabinet,

(Much better than males I’m sure!) 10
And the Commons were three-parts feminine,
While the Lords were seen no more!

And right well did the ladies legislate,

They determined to “keep the peace,”
So well they managed affairs of State, 15
That the science of war might cease.

Now no man could venture to beat his wife,

For the women had settled by law
That whoever did so should lose his life,
Then he’d never do so any more. 20

There were no more physicians of either sex,

For the schools were required to teach
The science of healing to every child
As well as the parts of speech.

There were no more lawyers—all children learned 25

The code of their country’s laws;
There were female judges, and truth became
The fashion in every cause,

All the churches attended a conference

At which every sect agreed 30
That an erring opinion was not so bad
As a false word or wicked deed.

At this I felt sure there was some mistake,

It seemed such a strange idea!
My eyes opened wide, and that made me wake, 35
Now was’nt the vision queer?

(1876)