The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume IV Part 22

XVII.

"A moment,--I pray your attention!--I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid.

XVIII.

"You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring.

You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter!--I've broken the thing.

XIX.

"You did me the honour, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses--a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men.

XX.

"Love's a virtue for heroes!--as white as the snow on high hills, And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils.

XXI.

"I love my Walter profoundly,--you, Maude, though you faltered a week, For the sake of ... what was it--an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on a cheek?

XXII.

"And since, when all's said, you're too n.o.ble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant,

XXIII.

"I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now.

XXIV.

"There! Look me full in the face!--in the face. Understand, if you can, That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man.

XXV.

"Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar-- You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are.

XXVI.

"You wronged me: but then I considered ... there's Walter! And so at the end I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend.

XXVII.

"Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine!

Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine."

BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES.

I.

The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales'

Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fire-flies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song.

The nightingales, the nightingales!

II.

Upon the angle of its shade The cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double-made, Along the ground, against the sky; And _we_, too! from such soul-height went Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, We scarce knew if our nature meant Most pa.s.sionate earth or intense heaven The nightingales, the nightingales!

III.

We paled with love, we shook with love, We kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered "Sweet, above G.o.d's Ever guaranties this Now."

And through his words the nightingales Drove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails, And love was awful in it all.

The nightingales, the nightingales!

IV.

O cold white moonlight of the north, Refresh these pulses, quench this h.e.l.l!

O coverture of death drawn forth Across this garden-chamber ... well!

But what have nightingales to do In gloomy England, called the free ...

(Yes, free to die in!...) when we two Are sundered, singing still to me?

And still they sing, the nightingales!

V.

I think I hear him, how he cried "My own soul's life!" between their notes.

Each man has but one soul supplied, And that's immortal. Though his throat's On fire with pa.s.sion now, to _her_ He can't say what to me he said!

And yet he moves her, they aver.

The nightingales sing through my head,-- The nightingales, the nightingales!

VI.

He says to her what moves her most.

He would not name his soul within Her hearing,--rather pays her cost With praises to her lips and chin.

Man has but one soul, 't is ordained, And each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are d.a.m.ned and love's profaned; These nightingales will sing me mad!

The nightingales, the nightingales!

VII.

I marvel how the birds can sing.

There's little difference, in their view, Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring As vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant, Like saturated sponges here, To suck the fogs up. As content Is he too in this land, 't is clear.

And still they sing, the nightingales.

VIII.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!

I see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of Saint John Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.