[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 Lover

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
     The destined maid; seine hidden hand
Unveils to him that loveliness
     Which others cannot understand.
His merits in her presence grow,
     To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow
     The authentic airs of Paradise.
For joy of her he cannot sleep;
     Her beauty haunts him all the night;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
     For wonder, worship, and delight.
O, paradox of love, he longs,
     Most humble when he most aspires,
To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs
     From her he honours and desires.
Her graces make him rich, and ask
     No guerdon; this imperial style
Affronts him; he disdains to bask,
     The pensioner of her priceless smile.
He prays for some hard thing to do,
     Some work of fame and labour immense,
To stretch the languid bulk and thew
     Of love's fresh-born magnipotence.
No smallest boon were bought too dear,
     Though barter'd for his love-sick life;
Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,
     To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife
He notes how queens of sweetness still
     Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;
How, self-consign'd with lavish will,
     They ask but love proportionate;
How swift pursuit by small degrees,
     Love's tactic, works like miracle;
How valour, clothed in courtesies,
     Brings down the haughtiest citadel;
And therefore, though he merits not
     To kiss the braid upon her skirt,
His hope, discouraged ne'er a jot,
     Out-soars all possible desert.


II. Love a Virtue.

Strong passions mean weak will, and he
     Who truly knows the strength and bliss
Which are in love, will own with me
     No passion but a virtue 'tis.
Few hear my word; it soars above
     The subtlest senses of the swarm
Of wretched things which know not love,
     Their Psyche still a wingless worm.
Ice-cold seems heaven's noble glow
     To spirits whose vital heat is hell;
And to corrupt hearts even so
     The songs I sing, the tale I tell.
These cannot see the robes of white
     In which I sing of love. Alack,
But darkness shows in heavenly light,
     Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!


III. The Attainment.

You love? That's high as you shall go;
     For 'tis as true as Gospel text,
Not noble then is never so,
     Either in this world or the next.




Grown weary with a week's exile
     From those fair friends, I rode to see
The church-restorings; lounged awhile,
     And met the Dean; was ask'd to tea,
And found their cousin, Frederick Graham
     At Honor's side. Was I concern'd,
If, when she sang, his colour came,
     That mine, as with a buffet, burn'd?
A man to please a girl! thought I,
     Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds
Of wrath, so hid as she was by,
     Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!


Whether this Cousin was the cause
     I know not, but I seem'd to see,
The first time then, how fair she was,
     How much the fairest of the three.
Each stopp'd to let the other go;
     But, time-bound, he arose the first.
Stay'd he in Sarum long? If so
     I hoped to see him at the Hurst.
No: he had call'd here, on his way
     To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant,
His ship, was; he should leave next day,
     For two years' cruise in the Levant.


Had love in her yet struck its germs?
     I watch'd. Her farewell show'd me plain
She loved, on the majestic terms
     That she should not be loved again;
And so her cousin, parting, felt.
     Hope in his voice and eye was dead.
Compassion did my malice melt;
     Then went I home to a restless bed.
I, who admired her too, could see
     His infinite remorse at this
Great mystery, that she should be
     So beautiful, yet not be his,
And, pitying, long'd to plead his part;
     But scarce could tell, so strange my whim,
Whether the weight upon my heart
     Was sorrow for myself or him.


She was all mildness; yet 'twas writ
     In all her grace, most legibly,
'He that's for heaven itself unfit,
     Let him not hope to merit me.'
And such a challenge, quite apart
     From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus
To sweet repentance moved my heart,
     And made me more magnanimous,
And led me to review my life,
     Inquiring where in aught the least,
If question were of her for wife,
     Ill might be mended, hope increas'd.
Not that I soar'd so far above
     Myself, as this great hope to dare;
And yet I well foresaw that love
     Might hope where reason must despair;
And, half-resenting the sweet pride
     Which would not ask me to admire,
'Oh,' to my secret heart I sigh'd,
     'That I were worthy to desire!'


As drowsiness my brain reliev'd,
     A shrill defiance of all to arms,
Shriek'd by the stable-cock, receiv'd
     An angry answer from three farms.
And, then, I dream'd that I, her knight,
     A clarion's haughty pathos heard,
And rode securely to the fight,
     Cased in the scarf she had conferr'd;
And there, the bristling lists behind,
     Saw many, and vanquish'd all I saw
Of her unnumber'd cousin-kind,
     In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;
Smitten, the warriors somehow turn'd
     To Sarum choristers, whose song,
Mix'd with celestial sorrow, yearn'd
     With joy no memory can prolong;
And phantasms as absurd and sweet
     Merged each in each in endless chace,
And everywhere I seem'd to meet
     The haunting fairness of her face.

Last updated 8 August 2004