Читать книгу The Angel in the House - Coventry Patmore - Страница 5

Lo, when the Lord made North and South

   And sun and moon ordained, He,

Forthbringing each by word of mouth

   In order of its dignity,

Did man from the crude clay express

   By sequence, and, all else decreed,

He form’d the woman; nor might less

   Than Sabbath such a work succeed.

And still with favour singled out,

   Marr’d less than man by mortal fall,

Her disposition is devout,

   Her countenance angelical;

The best things that the best believe

   Are in her face so kindly writ

The faithless, seeing her, conceive

   Not only heaven, but hope of it;

No idle thought her instinct shrouds,

   But fancy chequers settled sense,

Like alteration of the clouds

   On noonday’s azure permanence;

Pure dignity, composure, ease

   Declare affections nobly fix’d,

And impulse sprung from due degrees

   Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d.

Her modesty, her chiefest grace,

   The cestus clasping Venus’ side,

How potent to deject the face

   Of him who would affront its pride!

Wrong dares not in her presence speak,

   Nor spotted thought its taint disclose

Under the protest of a cheek

   Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose.

In mind and manners how discreet;

   How artless in her very art;

How candid in discourse; how sweet

   The concord of her lips and heart;

How simple and how circumspect;

   How subtle and how fancy-free;

Though sacred to her love, how deck’d

   With unexclusive courtesy;

How quick in talk to see from far

   The way to vanquish or evade;

How able her persuasions are

   To prove, her reasons to persuade;

How (not to call true instinct’s bent

   And woman’s very nature, harm),

How amiable and innocent

   Her pleasure in her power to charm;

How humbly careful to attract,

   Though crown’d with all the soul desires,

Connubial aptitude exact,

   Diversity that never tires.

Boon Nature to the woman bows;

   She walks in earth’s whole glory clad,

And, chiefest far herself of shows,

   All others help her, and are glad:

No splendour ’neath the sky’s proud dome

   But serves for her familiar wear;

The far-fetch’d diamond finds its home

   Flashing and smouldering in her hair;

For her the seas their pearls reveal;

   Art and strange lands her pomp supply

With purple, chrome, and cochineal,

   Ochre, and lapis lazuli;

The worm its golden woof presents;

   Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,

All doff for her their ornaments,

   Which suit her better than themselves;

And all, by this their power to give,

   Proving her right to take, proclaim

Her beauty’s clear prerogative

   To profit so by Eden’s blame.

That nothing here may want its praise,

   Know, she who in her dress reveals

A fine and modest taste, displays

   More loveliness than she conceals.

‘By meekness charm’d, or proud to allow

   A queenly claim to live admired,

Full many a lady has ere now

   My apprehensive fancy fired,

And woven many a transient chain;

   But never lady like to this,

Who holds me as the weather-vane

   Is held by yonder clematis.

She seems the life of nature’s powers;

   Her beauty is the genial thought

Which makes the sunshine bright; the flowers,

   But for their hint of her, were nought.’

A voice, the sweeter for the grace

   Of suddenness, while thus I dream’d,

‘Good morning!’ said or sang.  Her face

   The mirror of the morning seem’d.

Her sisters in the garden walk’d,

   And would I come?  Across the Hall

She led me; and we laugh’d and talk’d,

   And praised the Flower-show and the Ball;

And Mildred’s pinks had gain’d the Prize;

   And, stepping like the light-foot fawn,

She brought me ‘Wiltshire Butterflies,’

   The Prize-book; then we paced the lawn,

Close-cut, and with geranium-plots,

   A rival glow of green and red;

Than counted sixty apricots

   On one small tree; the gold-fish fed;

And watch’d where, black with scarlet tans,

   Proud Psyche stood and flash’d like flame,

Showing and shutting splendid fans;

   And in the prize we found its name.

The sweet hour lapsed, and left my breast

   A load of joy and tender care;

And this delight, which life oppress’d,

   To fix’d aims grew, that ask’d for pray’r.

I rode home slowly; whip-in-hand

   And soil’d bank-notes all ready, stood

The Farmer who farm’d all my land,

   Except the little Park and Wood;

And with the accustom’d compliment

   Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer,

I, my own steward, took my rent,

   Three hundred pounds for half the year;

Our witnesses the Cook and Groom,

   We sign’d the lease for seven years more,

And bade Good-day; then to my room

   I went, and closed and lock’d the door,

And cast myself down on my bed,

   And there, with many a blissful tear,

I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed

   The maiden who had grown so dear;

Thank’d God who had set her in my path;

   And promised, as I hoped to win,

That I would never dim my faith

   By the least selfishness or sin;

Whatever in her sight I’d seem

   I’d truly be; I’d never blend

With my delight in her a dream

   ’Twould change her cheek to comprehend;

And, if she wish’d it, I’d prefer

   Another’s to my own success;

And always seek the best for her

   With unofficious tenderness.

Rising, I breathed a brighter clime,

   And found myself all self above,

And, with a charity sublime,

   Contemn’d not those who did not love:

And I could not but feel that then

   I shone with something of her grace,

And went forth to my fellow men

   My commendation in my face.