Poems (Barrett)/A Lay of the Early Rose

by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett

A Lay of the Early Rose.

————"discordance that can accord."
Romaunt of the Rose.

  A rose once grew within
  A garden April-green,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
And the fairer for that oneness.

  A white rose delicate,
  On a tall bough and straight!
Early comer, early comer,
Never waiting for the summer.

  Her pretty gestes did win
  South winds to let her in,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
All the fairer for that oneness.

  "For if I wait," said she,
  "Till times for roses he,—
For the musk-rose and the moss-rose,
Royal-red and maiden-blush rose,—

  "What glory then for me
  In such a company?—
Roses plenty, roses plenty,
And one nightingale for twenty?

  "Nay, let me in," said she,
  V Before the rest are free,—
In my loneness, in my loneness,
All the fairer for that oneness.

  "For I would lonely stand,
  Uplifting my white hand,—
On a mission, on a mission,
To declare the coming vision.

  "Upon which lifted sign,
  What worship will be mine?
What addressing, what caressing!
And what thank, and praise, and blessing

  "A windlike joy will rush
  Through every tree and bush,
Bending softly in affection
And spontaneous benediction.

  "Insects, that only may
  Live in a sunbright ray,
To my whiteness, to my whiteness,
Shall be drawn, as to a brightness,—

  "And every moth and bee,
  Approach me reverently;
Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me,
Coronals of motioned glory.

  "Three larks shall leave a cloud;
  To my whiter beauty vowed—
Singing gladly all the moontide,—
Never waiting for the suntide.

  "Ten nightingales shall flee
  Their woods for love of me,—
Singing sadly all the suntide,
Never waiting for the moontide.

  "I ween the very skies
  Will look down with surprise,
When low on earth they see me,
With my starry aspect dreamy!

  "And earth will call her flowers
  To hasten out of doors,—
By their curtsies and sweet-smelling,
To give grace to my foretelling."

  So praying, did she win
  South winds to let her in,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
And the fairer for that oneness.

  But ah!—alas for her!
  No thing did minister
To her praises, to her praises,
More than might unto a daisy's.

  No tree nor bush was seen
  To boast a perfect green;
Scarcely having, scarcely having,
One leaf broad enough for waving.

  The little flies did crawl
  Along the southern wall,—
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting
Wings scarce strong enough for lifting.

  The lark, too high or low,
  I ween, did miss her so;
With his nest down in the gorses,
And his song in the star-courses!

  The nightingale did please
  To loiter beyond seas.
Guess him in the happy islands,
Learning music from the silence!

  Only the bee, forsooth,
  Came in the place of both;
Doing honour, doing honour,
To the honey-dews upon her.

  The skies looked coldly down,
  As on a royal crown;
Then with drop for drop, at leisure,
They began to rain for pleasure.

  Whereat the earth did seem
  To waken from a dream,
Winter-frozen, winter-frozen,
Her unquiet eyes unclosing—

  Said to the Rose—"Ha, Snow!
  And art thou fallen so?
Thou, who wert enthroned stately
All along my mountains, lately?

  "Holla, thou world-wide snow!
  And art thou wasted so?
With a little bough to catch thee,
And a little bee to watch thee?"

  —Poor Rose to be misknown!
  Would, she had ne'er been blown,
In her loneness, in her loneness,—
All the sadder for that oneness!

  Some word she tried to say—
  Some no .. . ah, wellaway!
But the passion did o'ercome her,
And the fair frail leaves dropped from her—

  Dropped from her, fair and mute,
  Close to a poet's foot,
Who beheld them, smiling slowly
As at something sad yet holy:

  Said, "Verily and thus
  It chanceth eke with us
Poets singing sweetest snatches,
While that deaf men keep the watches—

  "Vaunting to come before
  Our own age evermore
In a loneness, in a loneness,
And the nobler for that oneness!

  "Holy in voice and heart,—
  To high ends, set apart!
All unmated, all unmated,
Because so consecrated!

  "But if alone we be,
  Where is our empery?
And if none can reach our stature,
Who can praise our lofty nature?

  "What bell will yield a tone,
  Swung in the air alone?
If no brazen clapper bringing,
Who can hear the chimed ringing?

  "What angel, but would seem
  To sensual eyes, ghost-dim?
And without assimilation,
Vain is inter-penetration!

  "And thus, what can we do,
  Poor rose and poet too,
Who both antedate our mission
In an unprepared season?

  "Drop leaf—be silent song—
  Cold tilings we come among!
We must warm them, we must warm them,
Ere we ever hope to charm them.

  "Howbeit" (here his face
  Lightened around the place,—
So to mark the outward turning
Of his spirit's inward burning)—

  "Something, it is, to hold
  In God's worlds manifold,
First revealed to creature-duty,
Some new form of His mild Beauty!

  "Whether that form respect
  The sense or intellect,
Holy be in soul or pleasance,
The Chief Beauty's sign of presence!

  "Holy, in me and thee,
  Rose fallen from the tree,—
Though the world stand dumb around us,
All unable to expound us!

  "Though none us deign to bless,
  Blessed are we, nathless!
Blessed still, and consecrated,
In that, rose, we were created.

  "Oh, shame to poet's lays
  Sting for the dole of praise,—
Hoarsely sung upon the highway
With that obolum da mihi.

  "Shame, shame to poet's soul,
  Pining for such a dole,
When Heaven-chosen to inherit
The high throne of a chief spirit!

  "Sit still upon your thrones,
  O ye poetic ones!
And if, sooth, the world decry you,
Let it pass, unchallenged by you!

  "Ye to yourselves suffice,
  Without its flatteries.
Self-contentedly approve you,
Unto Him who sits above you,—

  "In prayers—that upward mount
  Like to a fair-sunned fount
Which, in gushing back upon you,
Hath an upper music won you,—

  "In faith—that still perceives
  No rose can shed her leaves,
Far less, poet fall from mission—
With an unfulfilled fruition!

  "In hope—that apprehends
  An end beyond these ends;
And great uses rendered duly
By the meanest song sung truly!

  "In thanks—for all the good,
  By poets understood—
For the sound of seraphs moving
Down the hidden depths of loving,—

  "For sights of things away,
  Through fissures of the clay,
Promised things which shall be given
And sung over, up in Heaven,—

  "For life, so lovely-vain,—
  For death, which breaks the chain,—
For this sense of present sweetness,—
And this yearning to completeness!"