Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.

Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke

CRITICAL INTRODUCTION BY LAURENCE BINYON

MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE (1861-1907)
[Mary Elizabeth Coleridge was born in London, September 23, 1861. Her grandfather was the son 1

of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s elder brother James. Her first novel, The Seven Sleepers of
Ephesus (1893), mystified most readers, though it attracted the notice of Stevenson. The King with
Two Faces (1897) was far more successful. It was followed by a few other novels and a book of
essays. Mary Coleridge published no poetry under her own name. Her first book of verse, Fancy’s
Following, “by Anodos,” was printed by Mr. Daniel at his private press at Oxford in 1896;
and Fancy’s Guerdon, mostly reprinted from this, was published the next year in Elkin
Mathews’s Shilling Garland. A volume of collected poems was edited after her death by Henry
Newbolt. She died in London, unmarried, on August 25, 1907. Her friend Edith Sichel published a
collection of her stories and essays in 1910, with a short memoir.]

NO one was ever less of a professional poet than Mary Coleridge. She was writing verse for 2

twenty-five years, but the greater part of her poems were never printed in her lifetime, and she
refused to publish under her own name. Yet assuredly her place is secure among the lyric poets of
England. Perhaps just because they were produced with so little thought of the public, her poems
have a fresh directness and intimacy which few lyrists attain so perfectly. They were the
spontaneous overflow of her spirit; and that spirit was one of rare gift and charm. The most
obviously striking characteristic of Mary Coleridge’s nature was the combination of unusual depth
with unusual vivacity. She was quick to be moved, but it was not only the surface which was
stirred, it was her whole being. She was as gay as she was serious; but the gaiety was not a mere
disguise to the seriousness, the imaginative humour from which it sprang was a fundamental part
of her nature and gave it the strength of elasticity. The bright effervescence of her intellect did not
prevent her from being as enthusiastic as she was warm-hearted. She was not less tender than
high-spirited. And though her mind was nothing if not adventurous, at the core of her being was
an exquisite humility.
With all this complexity of nature she had a great sincerity. What she wrote in one mood might 3

be contradicted by what she wrote in another; but the reader of her poems feels that each is
sincere, that it is even a part of her rich sincerity to give spontaneous utterance to those
inconsistencies of thought and feeling which exist in all the most human hearts and minds, though
philosophers may believe it a duty to reconcile or gloze them.
Mary Coleridge’s poetry was so direct an expression of her nature that it could not fail to be 4

original, in the truest sense of originality. Though her reading was wide, she does not follow any
master or tradition. Among English poets there is hardly one to whom she shows any essential
affinity, though in evocation of a magic atmosphere she shows herself the kinswoman of the
author of Christabel. Now and again we may be reminded of Browning at his most lyrical and
direct; Mr. Bridges finds in some of her poems a likeness, both of matter and manner, to Blake;
and it is certainly remarkable in such things as the song called Prosperity. But the resemblance to
Heine, which he also notes, may strike more readers. In what does this resemblance consist? For
certainly the resemblance is not greater than the difference. Heine’s manner is often recalled by
Mary Coleridge’s use of simple measures, her light touch, her bold and vivid fancy:
“By a lake below the mountain
Hangs the birch, as if in glee
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
She had turned it to a tree.”
But also it is recalled by the fusion of an intellectual element in the poignant treatment of 5

emotion;
 Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke

“The weapon that you fought with was a word,

And with that word you stabbed me to the heart.
Not once but twice you did it, for the sword
Made no blood start.

“They have not tried you for your life. You go

Strong in such innocence as men will boast.
They have not buried me. They do not know
Life from its ghost.”

With a keen mind continually darting fresh light on the subjects of her thoughts and feelings,
Mary Coleridge, like Heine, sometimes turns upon herself, but in a different way. With Heine it
seems to be the sudden recognition of an over-indulgence in sentiment, which the other side of
him turns upon and mocks. With Mary Coleridge it seems to be a sudden apprehension that some
emotion she has expressed may not have been absolutely true to herself after all, and she seeks yet
more exactingly to strip all disguise from the reality within. This is especially seen in some poems
of religious inspiration, and these are the farthest removed from likeness to Heine’s spirit. Heine
was easily bitter: Mary Coleridge could never have been made bitter, any more than she could
have become sentimental, though she was capable of profound grief. Her spirituality of nature was
too radiant and alive for either weakness. In that she was akin to Blake.
No one would suggest that Mary Coleridge’s actual production could be compared to Heine’s in 6

power or range; but it is a tribute to her originality and lyric art that the best of her poems bear
comparison with the work of so renowned a master.
Some of the most successful of the poems are impersonal or “dramatic” in Browning’s sense. 7

They have a romantic strangeness for their beauty, and are concerned with mysterious themes or
actual wizardry. The situation is suggested rather than defined; and the reader is left baffled in his
curiosity yet content with an enigmatic effect, so powerful is the impression of magical
atmosphere. Instead of telling a complete story, the poetess prefers to show a glimpse of figures in
passionate action, as if seen in a momentary beam of intense light against darkness; and the verse
in such pieces has a kind of gay vehemence that is very characteristic of her genius. There was
indeed in the movements of her mind, as her verse reflects them, something of the caprice of a
bird’s motion and a bird’s singing; and, though the inconsequence is partly a weakness, it
certainly belongs to her charm.
The little volume that contains all of Mary Coleridge’s poetical production is remarkable for
lyric variety, but not less for the impression it gives of an impassioned unity beneath. The poems
remain, in Mr. Bridges’ words, as “an absolutely truthful picture of a wondrously beautiful and
gifted spirit;” and this, beyond all other qualities that they possess, is the main secret of their
sometimes mysterious attraction.
Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
SONNET: TRUE TO MYSELF AM I AND FALSE TO ALL

“To thine own self be true;

And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

TRUE to myself am I, and false to all.

Fear, sorrow, love, constrain us till we die.
But when the lips betray the spirit’s cry,
The will, that should be sovereign, is a thrall.
Therefore let terror slay me, ere I call 5
For aid of men. Let grief begrudge a sigh.
“Are you afraid?”—“unhappy?” “No!” The lie
About the shrinking truth stands like a wall.
“And have you loved?” “No, never.” All the while,
The heart within my flesh is turned to stone. 10
Yea, none the less that I account it vile,
The heart within my heart makes speechless moan,
And when they see one face, one face alone,
The stern eyes of the soul are moved to smile.

OUR LADY

MOTHER of God! no lady thou:

Common woman of common earth!
Our Lady ladies call thee now,
But Christ was never of gentle birth;
A common man of the common earth. 5

For God’s ways are not as our ways.

The noblest lady in the land
Would have given up half her days,
Would have cut off her right hand,
To bear the Child that was God of the land. 10

Never a lady did he choose,

Only a maid of low degree,
So humble she might not refuse
The carpenter of Galilee.
A daughter of the people, she. 15

Out she sang the song of her heart.

Never a lady so had sung.
She knew no letters, had no art;
To all mankind, in woman’s tongue,
Hath Israelitish Mary sung. 20

And still for men to come she sings,

Nor shall her singing pass away.
He hath filled the hungry with good things—
Oh, listen, lords and ladies gay!—
And the rich he hath sent empty away. 25
Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
UNWELCOME

WE were young, we were merry, we were very very wise,

And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes
And a man with his back to the East.

O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast, 5

The loudest voice was still.
The jest died away on our lips as they passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.

The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,

The white bread black as soot. 10
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.

Low let me lie where the dead dog lies,

Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes 15
And a man with his back to the East.

JEALOUSY

“THE MYRTLE bush grew shady

Down by the ford.”—
“Is it even so?” said my lady.
“Even so!” said my lord.
“The leaves are set too thick together 5
For the point of a sword.”

“The arras in your room hangs close,

No light between!
You wedded one of those
That see unseen.”— 10
“Is it even so?” said the King’s Majesty.
“Even so!” said the Queen.

A MOMENT

THE CLOUDS had made a crimson crown

About the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
In a stormy sky.

Why did you let your eyes so rest on me, 5

And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
As if it had not been.
Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
L’OISEAU BLEU

THE LAKE lay blue below the hill.

O’er it, as I looked, there flew
Across the waters, cold and still,
A bird whose wings were palest blue.

The sky above was blue at last, 5

The sky beneath me blue in blue.
A moment, ere the bird had passed
It caught his image as he flew.

SHADOW

CHILD of my love! though thou be bright as day,

Though all the sons of joy laugh and adore thee,
Thou canst not throw thy shadow self away.
Where thou dost come, the earth is darker for thee.

When thou dost pass, a flower that saw the sun 5

Sees him no longer.
The hosts of darkness are, thou radiant one,
Through thee made stronger.

THE SHIELD

I HAVE forged me in sevenfold heats

A shield from foes and lovers,
And no one knows the heart that beats
Beneath the shield that covers.

A MOTHER TO HER BABY

WHERE were you, Baby?

Where were you, dear?
Even I have known you
Only a year.

You were born, Baby, 5

When I was born,
Twelve months ago you
Left me forlorn.

Why did you leave me,

Heart of my heart? 10
Then I was all of you,
Now you are part.

You lived while I lived,

We two were one.
We two are two now 15
While the days run.
Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
Every maid born, love,
Womanly, mild,
Is in herself, love,
Mother and child. 20

CHRIST’S FRIENDS

BEFORE Thine Altar on my bended knees

When I remember those Thy friends that lie
Helpless and hopeless, sunk in misery,
O Christ, I love Thee, but I love not these.

Without them I may never hope to please 5

That friend of theirs who had no word to say
When from his side the rich man turned away.
O Christ, Thou lov’st not me. Thou lovest these.

FRIENDS –WITH A DIFFERENCE

O, ONE I need to love me,

And one to understand,
And one to soar above me,
And one to clasp my hand,

And one to make me slumber, 5

And one to bid me strive,
But seven’s the sacred number
That keeps the soul alive.

And first and last of seven,

And all the world and more, 10
Is she I need in Heaven
And may not need before.

WHETHER I LIVE, OR WHETHER I DIE

WHETHER I live, or whether I die,

Whatever the worlds I see,
I shall come to you by and by,
And you will come to me.

Whoever was foolish, we were wise, 5

We crossed the boundary line.
I saw my soul look out of your eyes,
You saw your soul in mine.