[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.]




I. The Daughter of Eve.

The woman's gentle mood o'erstept
     Withers my love, that lightly scans
The rest, and does in her accept
     All her own faults, but none of man's.
As man I cannot judge her ill,
     Or honour her fair station less,
Who, with a woman's errors, still
     Preserves a woman's gentleness;
For thus I think, if one I see
     Who disappoints my high desire,
'How admirable would she be,
     Could she but know how I admire!'
Or fail she, though from blemish clear,
     To charm, I call it my defect;
And so my thought, with reverent fear
     To err by doltish disrespect,
Imputes love's great regard, and says,
     'Though unapparent 'tis to me,
Be sure this Queen some other sways
     With well-perceiv'd supremacy.'
Behold the worst! Light from above
     On the blank ruin writes 'Forbear!
Her first crime was unguarded love,
     And all the rest, perhaps, despair.'
Discrown'd, dejected, but not lost,
     O, sad one, with no more a name
Or place in all the honour'd host
     Of maiden and of matron fame,
Grieve on; but, if thou grievest right,
     'Tis not that these abhor thy state,
Nor would'st thou lower the least the height
     Which makes thy casting down so great.
Good is thy lot in its degree;
     For hearts that verily repent
Are burden'd with impunity
     And comforted by chastisement.
Sweet patience sanctify thy woes!
     And doubt not but our God is just,
Albeit unscathed thy traitor goes,
     And thou art stricken to the dust.
That penalty's the best to bear
     Which follows soonest on the sin;
And guilt's a game where losers fare
     Better than those who seem to win.


II. Aurea Dicta.

'Tis truth (although this truth's a star
     Too deep-enskied for all to see), As poets of grammar, lovers are
     The fountains of morality.

Child, would you shun the vulgar doom,
     In love disgust, in death despair?
Know, death must come and love must come,
     And so for each your soul prepare.

Who pleasure follows pleasure slays;
     God's wrath upon himself he wreaks;
But all delights rejoice his days
     Who takes with thanks, and never seeks.

The wrong is made and measured by
     The right's inverted dignity.
Change love to shame, as love is high
     So low in hell your bed shall be.

How easy to keep free from sin!
     How hard that freedom to recall!
For dreadful truth it is that men
     Forget the heavens from which they fall.

Lest sacred love your soul ensnare,
     With pious fancy still infer
'How loving and how lovely fair
     Must He be who has fashion'd her!'

Become whatever good you see,
     Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view
The grace of which you may not be
     The subject and spectator too.

Love's perfect blossom only blows
     Where noble manners veil defect
Angels maybe familiar; those
     Who err each other must respect.

Love blabb'd of is a great decline;
     A careless word unsanctions sense;
But he who casts Heaven's truth to swine
     Consummates all incontinence.

Not to unveil before the gaze
     Of an imperfect sympathy
In aught we are, is the sweet praise
     And the main sum of modesty.


The Dance.


'My memory of Heaven awakes!
     She's not of the earth, although her light,
As lantern'd by her body, makes
     A piece of it past bearing bright.
So innocently proud and fair
     She is, that Wisdom sings for glee
And Folly dies, breathing one air
     With such a bright-cheek'd chastity;
And though her charms are a strong law
     Compelling all men to admire,
They go so clad with lovely awe
     None but the noble dares desire.
He who would seek to make her his
     Will comprehend that souls of grace
Own sweet repulsion, and that 'tis
     The quality of their embrace
To be like the majestic reach
     Of coupled suns, that, from afar,
Mingle their mutual spheres, while each
     Circles the twin obsequious star;
And, in the warmth of hand to hand,
     Of heart to heart, he'll vow to note
And reverently understand
     How the two spirits shine remote;
And ne'er to numb fine honour's nerve,
     Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,
Nor fail by courtesies to observe
     The space which makes attraction felt;
Nor cease to guard like life the sense
     Which tells him that the embrace of love
Is o'er a gulf of difference
     Love cannot sound, nor death remove.'


This learn'd I, watching where she danced,
     Native to melody and light,
And now and then toward me glanced,
     Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight.


Ah, love to speak was impotent,
     Till music did a tongue confer,
And I ne'er knew what music meant,
     Until I danced to it with her.
Too proud of the sustaining power
     Of my, till then, unblemish'd joy.
My passion, for reproof, that hour
     Tasted mortality's alloy,
And bore me down an eddying gulf;
     I wish'd the world might run to wreck,
So I but once might fling myself
     Obliviously about her neck.
I press'd her hand, by will or chance
     I know not, but I saw the rays
Withdrawn, which did till then enhance
     Her fairness with its thanks for praise.
I knew my spirit's vague offence
     Was patent to the dreaming eye
And heavenly tact of innocence,
     And did for fear my fear defy,
And ask'd her for the next dance. 'Yes.'
     'No,' had not fall'n with half the force.
She was fulfill'd with gentleness,
     And I with measureless remorse;
And, ere I slept, on bended knee
     I own'd myself, with many a tear,
Unseasonable, disorderly,
     And a deranger of love's sphere;
Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,
     We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;
And, rising, found its brightness all
     The brighter through the tears of ruth.


Nor was my hope that night made less,
     Though order'd, humbled, and reproved;
Her farewell did her heart express
     As much, but not with anger, moved.
My trouble had my soul betray'd;
     And, in the night of my despair,
My love, a flower of noon afraid,
     Divulged its fulness unaware.
I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,
     Could my glad mind have credited
That influence had to me been given
     To affect her so, I should have said
That, though she from herself conceal'd
     Love's felt delight and fancied harm,
They made her face the jousting field
     Of joy and beautiful alarm.

Last updated 8 August 2004