[This Victorian Web version of The Angel in the House is based on the Project Gutenberg e-text, which was produced by David Price (e-mail ccx074@coventry.ac.uk), from the 1891 Cassell & Company edition. GPL created the html, added links, and made corrections in the text after comparing it with other editions.]

                                                

Preludes

                                                

I. Love Ceremonious.

Keep your undrest, familiar style
     For strangers, but respect your friend,
Her most, whose matrimonial smile
     Is and asks honour without end.
'Tis found, and needs it must so be,
     That life from love's allegiance flags,
When love forgets his majesty
     In sloth's unceremonious rags.
Let love make home a gracious Court;
     There let the world's rude, hasty ways
Be fashion'd to a loftier port,
     And learn to bow and stand at gaze;
And let the sweet respective sphere
     Of personal worship there obtain
Circumference for moving clear,
     None treading on another's train.
This makes that pleasures do not cloy,
     And dignifies our mortal strife
With calmness and considerate joy,
     Befitting our immortal life.

                                                

II. The Rainbow.

A stately rainbow came and stood,
     When I was young, in High-Hurst Park;
Its bright feet lit the hill and wood
     Beyond, and cloud and sward were dark;
And I, who thought the splendour ours
     Because the place was, t'wards it flew,
And there, amidst the glittering showers,
     Gazed vainly for the glorious view.
With whatsoever's lovely, know
     It is not ours; stand off to see,
Or beauty's apparition so
     Puts on invisibility.

                                                

III.A Paradox.

To tryst Love blindfold goes, for fear
     He should not see, and eyeless night
He chooses still for breathing near
     Beauty, that lives but in the sight.

                                                

The County Ball.

                               1

Well, Heaven be thank'd my first-love fail'd,
     As, Heaven be thank'd, our first-loves do!
Thought I, when Fanny past me sail'd,
     Loved once, for what I never knew,
Unless for colouring in her talk,
     When cheeks and merry mouth would show
Three roses on a single stalk,
     The middle wanting room to blow,
And forward ways, that charm'd the boy
     Whose love-sick mind, misreading fate,
Scarce hoped that any Queen of Joy
     Could ever stoop to be his mate.

                               2

But there danced she, who from the leaven
     Of ill preserv'd my heart and wit
All unawares, for she was heaven,
     Others at best but fit for it.
One of those lovely things she was
     In whose least action there can be
Nothing so transient but it has
     An air of immortality.
I mark'd her step, with peace elate,
     Her brow more beautiful than morn,
Her sometime look of girlish state
     Which sweetly waived its right to scorn;
The giddy crowd, she grave the while,
     Although, as 'twere beyond her will,
Around her mouth the baby smile
     That she was born with linger'd still.
Her ball-dress seem'd a breathing mist,
     From the fair form exhaled and shed,
Raised in the dance with arm and wrist
     All warmth and light, unbraceleted.
Her motion, feeling 'twas beloved,
     The pensive soul of tune express'd,
And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,
     Came from the flowers in her breast!
How sweet a tongue the music had!
     'Beautiful Girl,' it seem'd to say,
'Though all the world were vile and sad,
     Dance on; let innocence be gay.'
Ah, none but I discern'd her looks,
     When in the throng she pass'd me by,
For love is like a ghost, and brooks
     Only the chosen seer's eye;
And who but she could e'er divine
     The halo and the happy trance,
When her bright arm reposed on mine,
     In all the pauses of the dance!

                               3

Whilst so her beauty fed my sight,
     And whilst I lived in what she said,
Accordant airs, like all delight
     Most sweet when noted least, were play'd;
And was it like the Pharisee
     If I in secret bow'd my face
With joyful thanks that I should be,
     Not as were many, but with grace
And fortune of well-nurtured youth,
     And days no sordid pains defile,
And thoughts accustom'd to the truth,
     Made capable of her fair smile?

                               4

Charles Barton follow'd down the stair,
     To talk with me about the Ball,
And carp at all the people there.
     The Churchills chiefly stirr'd his gall:
'Such were the Kriemhilds and Isondes
     You storm'd about at Trinity!
Nothing at heart but handsome Blondes!
     'Folk say that you and Fanny Fry--'
'They err! Good-night! Here lies my course,
     Through Wilton.' Silence blest my ears,
And, weak at heart with vague remorse,
     A passing poignancy of tears
Attack'd mine eyes. By pale and park
     I rode, and ever seem'd to see,
In the transparent starry dark,
     That splendid brow of chastity,
That soft and yet subduing light,
     At which, as at the sudden moon,
I held my breath, and thought 'how bright!'
     That guileless beauty in its noon,
Compelling tribute of desires
     Ardent as day when Sirius reigns,
Pure as the permeating fires
     That smoulder in the opal's veins.


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Last updated 8 August 2004