Magna Est Veritas

HERE, in this little Bay,

Full of tumultuous life and great repose,

Where, twice a day,

The purposeless, gay ocean comes and goes,

Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,

I sit me down.

For want of me the world's course will not fail:

When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;

The truth is great, and shall prevail,

When none cares whether it prevail or not.

Coventry Patmore

Love at Large

WHENE'ER I come where ladies are,

How sad soever I was before,

Though like a ship frost-bound and far

Withheld in ice from the ocean's roar,

Third-wintered in that dreadful dock,

With stiffened cordage, sails decayed,

And crew that care for calm and shock

Alike, too dull to be dismayed,

Yet, if I come where ladies are,

How sad soever I was before,

Then is my sadness banished far,

And I am like that ship no more;

Or like that thip if the ice-field splits,

Burst by the sudden polar spring,

And all thank God with their warming wits,

And kiss each other and dance and sing,

And hoist fresh sails, that make the breeze

Blow them along the liquid sea,

Out of the North, where life did freeze,

Into the haven where they would be.

Coventry Patmore

The Lover

HE meets, by heavenly chance express,

The destined maid; some hidden hand

Unveils to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand.

His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes,

And round her happy footsteps blow

The authentic airs of paradise.

For joy of her he cannot sleep;

Her beauty haunts him all the night;

It melts his heart, it makes him weep

For wonder, worship, and delight.

Oh, paradox of love, he longs,

Most humble when he most aspires,

To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs

From her he honors and desires.

Her graces make him rich, and ask

No guerdon; this imperial style

Affronts him; he disdains to bask

The pensioner of her priceless smile.

He prays for some hard thing to do,

Some work of fame and labor immense,

To stretch the languid bulk and thew

Of love's fresh-born magnipotence.

No smallest boon were bought too dear,

Though bartered for his love-sick life;

Yet trusts he, with unbdoubted cheer,

To vanquish heaven, and call her wife.

He notes how queens of sweetness still

Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;

How, self-consigned with lavish will,

They ask but love proportionate;

How swift pursuit by small degree,

Love's tactic, works like miracle;

How valor, clothed in courtesies,

Brings down the haughtiest citadel;

And therefore, though he merits not

To kiss the braid upon her skirt,

His hope, discouraged ne'er a jot,

Out-soars all possible desert.

Coventry Patmore

The Wedding Sermon

"NOW, while she's changing," said the Dean,

"Her bridal for her traveling dress,

I'll preach allegiance to your queen!

Preaching's the thing which I profess;

And one more minute's mine! You know

I've paid my girl a father's debt,

And this last charge is all I owe.

She's yours; but I love more than yet

You can; such fondness only wakes

When time has raised the heart above

The prejudice of youth, which makes

Beauty conditional to love.

Prepare to meet the weak alarms

Of novel nearness; recollect

The eye which magnifies her charms

Is microscopic for defect.

Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced,

You'll find your strong and tender loves,

Like holy rocks by Druids poised,

The least force shakes, but none removes.

Her strength is your esteem; beware

Of finding fault; her will's unnerved

By blame; from you 'twould be despair;

But praise that is not quite deserved

Will all her noble nature move

To make your utmost wishes true.

Yet think, while mending thus your Love,

Of matching her ideal too!

The death of nuptial joy is sloth;

To keep your mistress in your wife,

Keep to the very height your oath,

And honor her with arduous life.

Lastly, no personal reverence doff.

Life's all externals unto those

Who pluck the blushing petals off,

To find the secret of the rose. --

How long she's tarrying! Green's Hotel

I'm sure you'll like. The charge is fair,

The wines good. I remember well

I stayed once, with her mother, there.

A tender conscience of her vow

That mother had! She's so like her!"

But Mrs. Fife, much flurried, now

Whispered, "Miss Honor's ready, sir."

Coventry Patmore

The Married Lover

WHY, having won her, do I woo?

Because her spirit's vestal grace

Provokes me always to pursue,

But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;

Because her womanhood is such

That, as on court-days subjects kiss

The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch

Affirms no mean familiarness,

Nay, rather marks more fair the height

Which can with safety so neglect

To dread, as lower ladies might,

That grace could meet with disrespect;

Thus she with happy favor feeds

Allegiance from a love so high

That thence no false conceit proceeds

Of difference bridged, or state put by;

Because, although in act and word

As lowly as a wife can be

Her manners, when they call me lord,

Remind me 'tis by courtesy;

Not with her least consent of will,

Which would my proud affection hurt,

But by the noble style that still

Imputes an unattained desert;

Because her gay and lofty brows,

When all is won which hope can ask,

Reflect a light of hopeless snows

That bright in virgin ether bask;

Because, though free of the outer court

I am, this Temple keeps its shrine

Sacred to heaven; because, in short,

She's not and never can be mine.

Coventry Patmore

A Farewell

WITH all my will, but much against my heart,

We two now part.

My Very Dear,

Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.

It needs no art,

With faint, averted feet

And many a tear,

In our opposéd paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West.

We will not say

There's any hope, it is so far away.

But, O my Best!

When the one darling of our widowhead,

The nursling Grief,

Is dead,

And no dews blur our eyes

To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies,

Perchance we may,

Where now this night is day,

And even through faith of still averted feet,

Making full circle of our banishment,

Amazéd meet;

The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet

Seasoning the termless feast of our content

With tears of recognition never dry.

Coventry Patmore

The Revelation

AN idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him, but, for all the rest,

The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling's jest.

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;

They lift their heavy lids, and look;

And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,

They read with joy, then shut the book.

And give some thanks, and some blaspheme,

And most forget, but, either way,

That and the child's unheeded dream

Is all the light of all their day.

Coventry Patmore

The Toys

MY little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes

And moved and spoke in quite grown-up wise,

Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,

I struck him and dismissed

With hard words and unkissed,

His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep

I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet.

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his ters, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-veined stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach,

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells,

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I prayed

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

Coventry Patmore