Victorian Poets

"Sins are sin-begotten, and their seed Bred of itself and singly procreative; Nor is God served with setting this to this For evil evidence of several shame, That one may say, Lo now! so many are they; But if one, seeing with God-illumined eyes In his full face the encountering face of sin, Smite once the one high-fronted head, and slay, His will we call good service. For myself, If ye will make a counsellor of me, I bid you set your hearts against one thing To burn it up, and keep your hearts on fire, Not seeking here a sign and there a sign, Nor curious of all casual sufferances, But steadfast to the undoing of that thing done Whereof ye know the being, however it be, And all the doing abominable of God. Who questions with a snake if the snake sting? Who reasons of the lightning if it burn? While these things are, deadly will these things be; And so the curse that comes of cursed faith."

"Fear that makes faith may break faith; and a fool Is but in folly stable."

"I have no remedy for fear; there grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart."

"Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name."

"For a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled with the music he made with us, Made with our hands and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night."

"The deep division of prodigious breasts, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep."

"Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks"

"In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead."

"The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain; The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain."

"As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead."

"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die."

"Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee."

"Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?"

"A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet."

"Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat, They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet."

"The sweetest flowers in all the world— A baby's hands."

"Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last."

"Is not Precedent indeed a King of men?"

"A crown and justice? Night and day Shall first be yoked together."

"God's own hand Holds fast all issues of our deeds: with him The end of all our ends is, but with us Our ends are, just or unjust: though our works Find righteous or unrighteous judgment, this At least is ours, to make them righteous. Go."

"What sentence shall be given on mine? Of man, As ill or well God means me, well or ill Shall judgment pass upon me : but of God, If God himself be righteous or be God, Who being unrighteous were but god of hell, The sentence given shall judge me just..."

"A poor man's wrong and mine and all the world's, Diverse and individual, many and one, Insufferable of long-suffering less than God's, Of all endurance unendurable else, Being come to flood and fullness now, the tide Is risen in mine as in the sea's own heart To tempest and to triumph. Not for nought Am I that wild wife's bridegroom — old and hoar, Not sapless yet nor soulless."

"So be it the wind and sun That reared thy limbs and lit thy veins with life Have blown and shone upon thee not for nought— If these have fed and fired thy spirit as mine With love, with faith that casts out fear, with joy, With trust in truth and pride in trust — if thou Be theirs indeed as theirs am I, with me Shalt thou take part and with my sea-folk — aye, Make thine eyes wide and give God wondering thanks That grace like ours is given thee — thou shalt bear Part of our praise for ever."

"Friends, citizens, and brethren. This our friend Hath given you by my charge to know of me Thus much, that if your ends and mine be one, As one our wrongs are, and this people's need One, toward the goal forefelt of our desire No heart shall beat, no foot shall press, no hand Strain, strive, and strike with steadier will than mine And faith more strenuous toward the purpose. This If ye believe not, here our hope hath end; If ye believe, here under happier stars Begins the date of Venice."

"Farewell, and peace be with you if it may. I have lost, ye have won this hazard: yet perchance My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When time and God give judgment. If there be Truth, true is this, that I desired the right And ye with hands as red sustain the wrong As mine had been in triumph. Have your will: And God send each no bitterer end than mine."

"They do not ill, being lords of ours, to slay Me; nay, they could not spare: but thee to slay, To spill thy strong young life for truth to me, In all men's eyes would mark them monstrous: thou Must live, and serve my slayers, and serving them Sustain my memory by the proof — if God Shall give thee grace to prove it — that thy name, Thy father's name and mine, in true men's ears Rings truth, and means not treason."

"Though they be Ill rulers of this household, be not thou Too swift to strike ere time be ripe to strike, Nor then by darkling stroke, against them: I Have erred, who thought by wrong to vanquish wrong, To smite by violence violence, and by night Put out the power of darkness: time shall bring A better way than mine, if God's will be — As how should God's will be not? — to redeem Venice. I was not worthy — nor may man, Till one as Christ shall come again, be found Worthy to think, speak, strike, foresee, foretell, The thought, the word, the stroke, the dawn, the day, That verily and indeed shall bid the dead Live, and this old dear land of all men's love Arise and shine for ever: but if Christ Came, haply such an one may come, and do With hands and heart as pure as his a work That priests themselves may mar not."

"Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me."

"Not from without us, only from within, Comes or can ever come upon us light Whereby the soul keeps ever truth in sight. No truth, no strength, no comfort man may win, No grace for guidance, no release from sin, Save of his own soul's giving."

"Did I bid thee Mock, and forget me for thy friend — I say not, King? Is thy heart so light and lean a thing, So loose in faith and faint in love? I bade thee Stand to me, help me, hold my hand in thine And give my heart back answer. This it is, Old friend and fool, that gnaws my life in twain — The worm that writhes and feeds about my heart — The devil and God are crying in either ear One murderous word for ever, night and day, Dark day and deadly night and deadly day, Can she love thee who slewest her father? I Love her."

"I. But he hears not. Now, my warrior guests, I drink to the onward passage of his soul Death. Had my hand turned coward or played me false, This man that is my hand, and less than I And less than he bloodguilty, this my death Had been my husband's: now he has left it me. [Drinks] How innocent are all but he and I No time is mine to tell you. Truth shall tell. I pardon thee, my husband: pardon me. [Dies]"

"Æschylus is above all things the poet of righteousness. "But in any wise, I say unto thee, revere thou the altar of righteousness": this is the crowning admonition of his doctrine, as its crowning prospect is the reconciliation or atonement of the principle of retribution with the principle of redemption, of the powers of the mystery of darkness with the coeternal forces of the spirit of wisdom, of the lord of inspiration and of light. The doctrine of Shakespeare, where it is not vaguer, is darker in its implication of injustice, in its acceptance of accident, than the impression of the doctrine of Æschylus. Fate, irreversible and inscrutable, is the only force of which we feel the impact, of which we trace the sign, in the upshot of Othello or King Lear. The last step into the darkness remained to be taken by "the most tragic" of all English poets. With Shakespeare — and assuredly not with Æschylus — righteousness itself seems subject and subordinate to the masterdom of fate: but fate itself, in the tragic world of Webster, seems merely the servant or the synonym of chance. The two chief agents in his two great tragedies pass away — the phrase was, perhaps, unconsciously repeated — "in a mist": perplexed, indomitable, defiant of hope and fear bitter and sceptical and bloody in penitence or impenitence alike. And the mist which encompasses the departing spirits of these moody and mocking men of blood seems equally to involve the lives of their chastisers and their victims. Blind accident and blundering mishap — "such a mistake", says one of the criminals, "as I have often seen in a play" — are the steersmen of their fortunes and the doomsmen of their deeds. The effect of this method or the result of this view, whether adopted for dramatic objects or ingrained in the writer's temperament, is equally fit for pure tragedy and unfit for any form of drama not purely tragic in evolution and event."

"I attempt to describe Mr. Swinburne; and lo! the Bacchanal screams, the sterile Dolores sweats, serpents dance, men and women wrench, wriggle and foam in an endless alliteration of heated and meaningless words, the veriest garbage of Baudelaire flowered over with the epithets of the Della Cruscans."

"I loved Swinburne and Masefield and all the other great sea poets."

"Swinburne was perpetually talking shop: the bookish spirit in which he looked on nature and mankind, with his head full of his own trade, is essentially the same as the spirit in which The Tailor and Cutter annually criticises the portraits in the Royal Academy, interested, not in the artist, not in the subject, but in the cut of the subject's clothes."

"Mr. Swinburne … expresses in verse what he finds in books as passionately as a poet expresses what he finds in life."

"Mr. Swinburne is already the Poet Laureate of England. The fact that his appointment to this high post has not been degraded by official confirmation renders his position all the more unassailable. He whom all poets love is the Laureate Poet always."

"I must say that in my judgment Swinburne's claims are immeasurably superior to those of any Englishman now living... Please read in the Volume I send, published two years ago, the 'Seamew,' the 'Jacobite's Exile,' the 'Threnody on Inchbold,' and 'The Commonweal,' his Jubilee Ode, and then consider whether any can touch him as a Poet. I believe that in the long run Public opinion will be more shocked by his neglect than by his recognition."

"Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain."

"Forget that I remember And dream that I forget."

"I shall remember while the light lives yet And in the night time I shall not forget."

"She hath wasted with fire thine high places, She hath hidden and marred and made sad The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces Of gods that were goodly and glad. She slays, and her hands are not bloody; She moves as a moon in the wane, White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, Our Lady of Pain."

"For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose’s, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives"

"Despair the twin-born of devotion."

"Ah beautiful passionate body That never has ached with a heart!"

"O splendid and sterile Dolores, Our Lady of Pain."

"Change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice."

"We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, Thou art noble and nude and antique."

"If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pasture or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf."

"For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man. So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep."