Aurora Leigh

Aurora Leigh
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Aurora Leigh (1856) is an epic novel/poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The poem is written in blank verse and encompasses nine books (the woman's number, the number of the Sibylline Books). It is a first person narration, from the point of view of Aurora; its other heroine, Marian Erle, is an abused self-taught child of itinerant parents. The poem is set in Florence, Malvern, London and Paris. The author uses her knowledge of Hebrew and Greek, while also playing off modern novels, such as Corinne ou l'Italie by Anne Louise Germaine de Staël and the novels by George Sand. As far as Book 5, Aurora narrates her past, from her childhood to the age of about 27; in Books 6–9, the narrative has caught up with her, and she reports events in diary form. Elizabeth Barrett Browning styled the poem «a novel in verse», and referred to it as «the most mature of my works, and the one into which my highest convictions upon Life and Art have entered.» Scholar Deirdre David asserts that Barrett Browning's work in Aurora Leigh has made her into «a major figure in any consideration of the nineteenth-century woman writer and of Victorian poetry in general.» John Ruskin called it the greatest long poem of the nineteenth century.


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Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Aurora Leigh

Aurora Leigh

Table of Contents

FIRST BOOK

SECOND BOOK

THIRD BOOK

FOURTH BOOK

FIFTH BOOK

SIXTH BOOK

SEVENTH BOOK

EIGHTH BOOK

NINTH BOOK

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

An Epic Poem

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I could not be unthankful, I who was Entreated thus and holpen. In the room I speak of, ere the house was well awake, And also after it was well asleep, I sate alone, and drew the blessing in Of all that nature. With a gradual step, A stir among the leaves, a breath, a ray, It came in softly, while the angels made A place for it beside me. The moon came, And swept my chamber clean of foolish thoughts. The sun came, saying, ‘Shall I lift this light Against the lime-tree, and you will not look? I make the birds sing—listen! … but, for you, God never hears your voice, excepting when You lie upon the bed at nights and weep.’

Then, something moved me. Then, I wakened up More slowly than I verily write now, But wholly, at last, I wakened, opened wide The window and my soul, and let the airs And out-door sights sweep gradual gospels in, Regenerating what I was. O Life, How oft we throw it off and think—‘Enough, Enough of life in so much!—here’s a cause For rupture;—herein we must break with Life, Or be ourselves unworthy; here we are wronged, Maimed, spoiled for aspiration: farewell Life!’ —And so, as froward babes, we hide our eyes And think all ended.—Then, Life calls to us In some transformed, apocryphal, new voice, Above us, or below us, or around. … Perhaps we name it Nature’s voice, or Love’s, Tricking ourselves, because we are more ashamed To own our compensations than our griefs: Still, Life’s voice!—still, we make our peace with Life.

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