Ii

To the cultivated the very highest quality of emotional poetry is that given by blending the artistically sensuous with the mystic. This very rare quality colours the greater part of Rossetti's work. Perhaps one may even say that it is never entirely absent. Only, the proportions of the blending vary, like those mixtures of red and blue, crimson and azure, which may give us either purple or violet of different shades according to the wish of the dyer. The quality of mysticism dominates in the symbolic poems; we might call those deep purple. The sensuous element dominates in most of the ballads and narrative poems; we might say that these have rather the tone of bright violet. But even in the ballads there is a very great difference in the proportions of the two qualities. The highest tone is in the "Blessed Damozel," and in the beautiful narrative poem of the "Staff and Scrip"; while the lowest tone is perhaps that of the ballad of "Eden Bower," which describes the two passions of lust and hate at their greatest intensity. But everything is beautifully finished as work, and unapproachably exquisite, in feeling. I think the best example of what I have called the violet style is the ballad of "Troy Town."

Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's Queen, (O Troy Town!) Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, The sun and moon of the heart's desire: All Love's lordship lay between. (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, (O Troy Town!) Saying, "A little gift is mine, A little gift for a heart's desire. Hear me speak and make me a sign! (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"Look! I bring thee a carven cup; (O Troy Town!) See it here as I hold it up,-- Shaped it is to the heart's desire, Fit to fill when the gods would sup. (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"It was moulded like my breast; (O Troy Town!) He that sees it may not rest, Rest at all for his heart's desire. O give ear to my heart's behest! (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"See my breast, how like it is; (O Troy Town!) See it bare for the air to kiss! Is the cup to thy heart's desire? O for the breast, O make it his! (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"Yea, for my bosom here I sue; (O Troy Town!) Thou must give it where 'tis due, Give it there to the heart's desire. Whom do I give my bosom to? (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"Each twin breast is an apple sweet! (O Troy Town!) Once an apple stirred the beat Of thy heart with the heart's desire:-- Say, who brought it then to thy feet? (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"They that claimed it then were three: (O Troy Town!) For thy sake two hearts did he Make forlorn of the hearths desire. Do for him as he did for thee! (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

"Mine are apples grown to the south, (O Troy Town!) Grown to taste in the days of drouth, Taste and waste to the heart's desire: Mine are apples meet for his mouth!" (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Venus looked on Helen's gift, (O Troy Town!) Looked and smiled with subtle drift, Saw the work of her heart's desire:-- "There thou kneel'st for Love to lift!" (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Venus looked in Helen's face, (O Troy Town!) Knew far off an hour and place, And fire lit from the heart's desire; Laughed and said, "Thy gift hath grace!" (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Cupid looked on Helen's breast, (O Troy Town!) Saw the heart within its nest, Saw the flame of the heart's desire,-- Marked his arrow's burning crest. (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Cupid took another dart, (O Troy Town!) Fledged it for another heart, Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, Drew the string, and said "Depart!" (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

Paris turned upon his bed, (O Troy Town!) Turned upon his bed, and said, Dead at heart with the heart's desire,-- "O to clasp her golden head!" (O Troy's down! Tall Troy's on fire!)

This wonderful ballad, with its single and its double refrains, represents Rossetti's nearest approach to earth, except the ballad of "Eden Bower." Usually he seldom touches the ground, but moves at some distance above it, just as one flies in dreams. But you will observe that the mysticism here has almost vanished. There is just a little ghostliness to remind you that the writer is no common singer, but a poet able to give a thrill. The ghostliness is chiefly in the fact of the supernatural elements involved; Helen with her warm breast we feel to be a real woman, but Venus and love are phantoms, who speak and act as figures in sleep. This is true art under the circumstances. We feel nothing more human until we come to the last stanza; then we hear it in the cry of Paris. But why do I say that this is high art to make the gods as they are made here? The Greeks would have made Venus and Cupid purely human. But Rossetti is not taking the Greek view of the subject at all. He is taking the mediæval one. He is writing of Greek gods and Greek legends as such subjects were felt by Chaucer and by the French poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. It would not be easy to explain the mediæval tone of the poem to you; that would require a comparison with the work of very much older poets. I only want now to call your attention to the fact that even in a Greek subject of the sensuous kind Rossetti always keeps the tone of the Middle Ages; and that tone was mystical.

Having given this beautiful example of the least mystical class of Rossetti's light poems, let us pass at once to the most mystical. These are in all respects, I am not afraid to say, far superior. The poem by which Rossetti became first widely known and admired was "The Blessed Damozel." This and a lovely narrative poem entitled "Staff and Scrip" form the most exquisite examples of the poet's treatment of mystical love. You should know both of them; but we shall first take "The Blessed Damozel."

This is the story of a woman in heaven, speaking of the man she loved on earth. She is waiting for him. She watches every new soul that comes to heaven, hoping that it may be the soul of her lover. While waiting thus, she talks to herself about what she will do to make her lover happy when he comes, how she will show him all the beautiful things in heaven, and will introduce him to the holy saints and angels. That is all. But it is very wonderful in its sweetness of simple pathos, and in a peculiar, indescribable quaintness which is not of the nineteenth century at all. It is of the Middle Ages, the Italian Middle Ages before the time of Raphael. The heaven painted here is not the heaven of modern Christianity--if modern Christianity can be said to have a heaven; it is the heaven of Dante, a heaven almost as sharply defined as if it were on earth.