Part 2 (1/2)
Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be.
Beata mea Domina!
Her great eyes, standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully; Beata mea Domina!
So beautiful and kind they are, But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me.
Beata mea Domina!
I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be.
Beata mea Domina!
Lurking below the underlid, Darkening the place where they lie hid-- If they should rise and flow for me!
Beata mea Domina!
Her full lips being made to kiss, Curl'd up and pensive each one is; This makes me faint to stand and see.
Beata mea Domina!
It was the force of this attraction that kept Morris long at Oxford after Rossetti and Burne-Jones had returned to London, leaving the walls of the Oxford Union to their sad fate. But it was no love in idleness for him, rather a time of many beginnings. He was carving in stone, modelling in clay, making designs for stained gla.s.s windows, even ”doing worsted work,” in Rossetti's contemptuous phrase for his efforts at reviving the lost art of embroidery, with a frame made from an old model and wools dyed especially for him. Most of all he was writing poetry, the proper occupation of a lover so aesthetically endowed. Early in 1858 he had _The Defence of Guenevere_, a collection of thirty poems, ready to bring out.
Save for a slim little pamphlet ent.i.tled _Sir Galahad: A Christmas Mystery_, the contents of which were included in it, it was his first volume and, like Swinburne's _Rosamond_ published two years later, it was dedicated to Rossetti.
In this youthful, fantastic, emotional poetry we get the very essence of the writer's early spirit without the strange shadow of foreboding, the constant sense of swiftly pa.s.sing time, that comes into the poetry of his maturity. Technically, the poems could hardly be more picturesquely defective than they are. The one giving the volume its name is nearly unintelligible in parts, even when the reader is aware of the incidents of Guenevere's story, and prepared to interpret the hysterical ravings of a woman overcome by sorrow, shame, and love.
But no poems, except Rossetti's own, have so suggested romantic art in strange shapes and unbridled colour. They, too, like the wall-paintings of that early and unrivalled time, resemble the margins of an illuminated ma.n.u.script, reminding one of nothing in nature, but flas.h.i.+ng the richness of mediaeval symbolism upon the imagination in more or less awkward forms.
If Morris could not ”imitate Gabriel” in his pictures, he could at least imitate Gabriel's pictures in his poems. From the _Beata Beatrix_, from the _Ghirlandata_, from the _Proserpine_, from almost any of Rossetti's paintings of women, these curious and affected lines, for example, might have been gleaned:
See through my long throat how the words go up In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand The shadow lies like wine within a cup Of marvellously colour'd gold.
In _The Eve of Crecy_ we have the glitter of gold and the splendour of material things, rendered with a childish abandon, as in the prose romances:
Gold on her head and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, And a golden girdle round my sweet;-- Ah! qu'elle est belle, La Marguerite.
Yet even now it is good to think
Of Margaret sitting glorious there, In glory of gold and glory of hair, And glory of glorious face most fair; Ah! qu'elle est belle, La Marguerite.
The full hues that had for the decorators of mediaeval missals a religious significance recur again and again in lines that have much more to do with earth than with heaven, and show less concern with the human soul than with the human heart. Damozels hold scarlet lilies such as Maiden Margaret bears ”on the great church walls;” ladies walk in their gardens clad in white and scarlet; the vision of Christ appears to Galahad ”with raiment half blood-red, half white as snow”; angels appear clad in white with scarlet wings; scarlet is the predominating colour throughout, if we except gold, which serves as background and ornament to everything. Next to scarlet comes green, which Morris was later to call ”the workaday colour,” and we find occasional patches of blue and of grey in painted boats and in hangings. The following stanza shows a favourite method of emphasising the prevailing colour of a poem:
The water slips, The red-bill'd heron dips, Sweet kisses on red lips, Alas! the red rust grips, And the blood-red dagger rips, Yet, O knight, come to me!
For pure incoherence, the quality that Rossetti discerned in Morris at their first meeting, the song from which this stanza is taken is unsurpa.s.sed. Yet an emotional effect is gained in it. What we chiefly miss in the little craft sailing under such vivid colours, is that ”deep-grasping keel of reason” which, Lowell says, ”alone can steady and give direction” to verse. Excitable and impatient, in pursuit of a vague ideal, gifted with the power to bring out the pictorial quality of detached scenes, but without a fine metrical sense, and averse to lucid statement, the young poet introduced himself to the world as a symbolist in the modern acceptation of the word. One of his poems, _Rapunzel_, has been said to forecast Maeterlinck's manner and spirit, and the general characteristics of the poem--a fairy tale somewhat too ”grown-up” in treatment--certainly suggest the comparison. In all this work physical characteristics play an important part. Long hands with ”tenderly shadowed fingers,” ”long lips” that ”cleave” to the fingers they kiss, lips ”damp with tears,” that ”shudder with a kiss,” lips ”like a curved sword,” warm arms, long, fair arms, lithe arms, twining arms, broad fair eyelids, long necks, and unlimited hair, form an equipment somewhat dangerous for a poet with anything short of genius to sustain him. For themes Morris had gone chiefly to the Arthurian stories and to the chronicles of Froissart. His style, he himself thought, was more like Browning's than anyone else's, though the difference that lay between him and Browning even at the beginning forbade any essential likeness. Browning's effort was always to render an idea which was perfectly clear in his own mind. His volubility and obscurity and roughness frequently arose from his over-eagerness to express his idea in a variety of ways, leading him to break off with half statements and begin afresh, to throw out imperfect suggestions and follow them with others equally imperfect. But all his stutterings and broken sentences failed to disguise the fact that an intellectual conception underlay the turbulent method, giving substance and life to the poem however much it might lack grace and form. With Morris the intellectual conception was as weak as with Browning it was strong, and apparently existed chiefly to give an excuse for the pictures following one another in rapid succession through every poem, short or long, dramatic or lyric, of both his youth and maturity. In this early volume there was, to be sure, an obvious effort toward rendering psychological effects. Most of the longer poems are miniature dramas with a march toward some great event in the lives of the actors. The author observes the dramatic requirement of sinking himself in the ident.i.ty of his characters. Knights are slain and ladies die of love and witch-bound maidens are rescued by their princes without the sounding of a personal note on the part of their creator. And in two instances, _Sir Peter Harpdon's End_ and _The Haystack in the Floods_, there is ruddy human blood in the tortured beings whose extremity moves the reader with a genuine emotion. In these two poems the voice might indeed be the voice of Browning, though the hand is still unmistakably the hand of Morris. In the main, however, the appeal that is made is to the imagination concerned with the visible aspect of brilliantly coloured objects and with the delirious expression of overwrought feelings.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _Portrait of Jane Burden (Mrs. Morris)_
_By Rossetti_]
One defect, calculated to interfere with a warm reception of the volume on the part of the general public, Morris shared with Browning, possessing even more than Browning the merit attending it. Familiarity with the art and literature of the Middle Ages made it natural for him to preserve the thin new wine of his youthful poetry in the old bottles of the defunct past, using motives and scenes and accessories alien to our modern life, and only dimly understood by the modern reader. The true spirit of that past it is hardly necessary to say he did not revive,--no writer has ever revived the true spirit of any age antecedent to his own,--and Morris, with his remarkable faculty for eliminating from his mental conceptions whatever did not please his taste, was wholly unfitted by temperament, however well fitted by his acquirements, to carry through successfully a task so tremendous.
_The Defence of Guenevere_ was received by the public without enthusiasm.
About half an edition of five hundred copies was sold and given away, and the remainder lingered for a dozen years or more until the publication of _The Earthly Paradise_ stimulated the interest of readers in the previous work of its author.