[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. Perfect Love Rare.

Most rare is still most noble found,
     Most noble still most incomplete;
Sad law, which leaves King Love uncrown'd
     In this obscure, terrestrial seat!
With bale more sweet than others' bliss,
     And bliss more wise than others' bale,
The secrets of the world are his.
     And freedom without let or pale.
O, zealous good, O, virtuous glee,
     Religious, and without alloy,
O, privilege high, which none but he
     Who highly merits can enjoy;
O, Love, who art that fabled sun
     Which all the world with bounty loads,
Without respect of realms, save one,
     And gilds with double lustre Rhodes;
A day of whose delicious life,
     Though full of terrors, full of tears,
Is better than of other life
     A hundred thousand million years;
Thy heavenly splendour magnifies
     The least commixture of earth's mould,
Cheapens thyself in thine own eyes,
     And makes the foolish mocker bold.

                                                

II. Love Justified.

What if my pole-star of respect
     Be dim to others? Shall their 'Nay,'
Presumably their own defect,
     Invalidate my heart's strong 'Yea'?
And can they rightly me condemn,
     If I, with partial love, prefer?
I am not more unjust to them,
     But only not unjust to her.
Leave us alone! After awhile,
     This pool of private charity
Shall make its continent an isle,
     And roll, a world-embracing sea;
This foolish zeal of lip for lip,
     This fond, self-sanction'd, wilful zest,
Is that elect relationship
     Which forms and sanctions all the rest;
This little germ of nuptial love,
     Which springs so simply from the sod,
The root is, as my song shall prove,
     Of all our love to man and God.

                                                

III. Love Serviceable.

What measure Fate to him shall mete
     Is not the noble Lover's care;
He's heart-sick with a longing sweet
     To make her happy as she's fair.
Oh, misery, should she him refuse,
     And so her dearest good mistake!
His own success he thus pursues
     With frantic zeal for her sole sake.
To lose her were his life to blight,
     Being loss to hers; to make her his,
Except as helping her delight,
     He calls but incidental bliss;
And holding life as so much pelf
     To buy her posies, learns this lore:
He does not rightly love himself
     Who does not love another more.

                                                

IV. A Riddle Solved.

Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,
     When you, you wonder why, love none.
We love, Fool, for the good we do,
     Not that which unto us is done!

                                                

The Dean.

                              1

The Ladies rose. I held the door,
     And sigh'd, as her departing grace
Assured me that she always wore
     A heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
     I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
     To hurt the hope that she'd be mine.

                               2

Towards my mark the Dean's talk set:
     He praised my 'Notes on Abury,'
Read when the Association met
     At Sarum; he was pleased to see
I had not stopp'd, as some men had,
     At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hoped the business was not bad
     I came about: then the wine pass'd.

                               3

A full glass prefaced my reply:
     I loved his daughter, Honor; I told
My estate and prospects; might I try
     To win her? At my words so bold
My sick heart sank. Then he: He gave
     His glad consent, if I could get
Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have
     Only three thousand pounds as yet;
More bye and bye. Yes, his good will
     Should go with me; he would not stir;
He and my father in old time still
     Wish'd I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take
     Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make
     Or alter others' destinies,
That, though his blessing and his pray'r
     Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
     Consent and opportunity.
My chance, he hoped, was good: I'd won
     Some name already; friends and place
Appear'd within my reach, but none
     Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom
     They invest their vanities admired;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
     For good to work will be desired.
'Twas so with one now pass'd away;
     And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say
     Mine was a choice I could not rue.

                               4

He ceased, and gave his hand. He had won
     (And all my heart was in my word), From me the affection of a son,
     Whichever fortune Heaven conferr'd!
Well, well, would I take more wine? Then go
     To her; she makes tea on the lawn
These fine warm afternoons. And so
     We went whither my soul was drawn;
And her light-hearted ignorance
     Of interest in our discourse
Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance
     Her beauty with pathetic force,
As, through the flowery mazes sweet,
     Fronting the wind that flutter'd blythe,
And loved her shape, and kiss'd her feet,
     Shown to their insteps proud and lithe,
She approach'd, all mildness and young trust,
     And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love's feast its choicest gust,
     A vague, faint augury of despair.


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Last updated 8 August 2004