Angel in the House | Page 8

heard,
And rode securely to the fight,
Cased in the scarf she had conferr'd;
And there, the bristling lists
behind,
Saw many, and vanquish'd all I saw
Of her unnumber'd cousin-kind,
In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;
Smitten, the warriors somehow
turn'd
To Sarum choristers, whose song,
Mix'd with celestial sorrow,
yearn'd
With joy no memory can prolong;
And phantasms as absurd and
sweet
Merged each in each in endless chace,
And everywhere I seem'd to
meet
The haunting fairness of her face.
CANTO IV.--THE MORNING CALL
PRELUDES.
I.--The Rose of the World.
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.
II.--The Tribute.
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.
III.--Compensation.
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.
THE MORNING CALL.
1
'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.'
2
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.
3
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