The Angel in the House: Book I: The Prologue

‘MINE is no horse with wings, to gainThe region of the spheral chime;He does but drag a rumbling wain,Cheer’d by the coupled bells of rhyme;And if at Fame’s bewitching noteMy homely Pegasus pricks an ear,The world’s cart-collar hugs his throat,And he’s too wise to prance or rear.’

Thus ever answer’d Vaughan his Wife,Who, more than he, desired his fame;But, in his heart, his thoughts were rifeHow for her sake to earn a name.With bays poetic three times crown’d,And other college honours won,He, if he chose, might be renown’d,He had but little doubt, she none;And in a loftier phrase he talk’dWith her, upon their Wedding-Day,(The eighth), while through the fields they walk’d,Their children shouting by the way.

‘Not careless of the gift of song,Nor out of love with noble fame,I, meditating much and longWhat I should sing, how win a name,Considering well what theme unsung,What reason worth the cost of rhyme,Remains to loose the poet’s tongueIn these last days, the dregs of time,Learn that to me, though born so late,There does, beyond desert, befall(May my great fortune make me great!)The first of themes, sung last of all.In green and undiscover’d ground,Yet near where many others sing,I have the very well-head foundWhence gushes the Pierian Spring.’

Then she: ‘What is it, Dear? The LifeOf Arthur, or Jerusalem’s Fall?’‘Neither: your gentle self, my Wife,And love, that grows from one to all.And if I faithfully proclaimOf these the exceeding worthiness,Surely the sweetest wreath of FameShall, to your hope, my brows caress;And if, by virtue of my choiceOf this, the most heart-touching themeThat ever tuned a poet’s voice,I live, as I am bold to dream,To be delight to many days,And into silence only ceaseWhen those are still, who shared their baysWith Laura and with Beatrice,Imagine, Love, how learned menWill deep-conceiv’d devices find,Beyond my purpose and my ken,An ancient bard of simple mind.You, Sweet, his Mistress, Wife, and Muse,Were you for mortal woman meant?Your praises give a hundred cluesTo mythological intent!And, severing thus the truth from trope,In you the Commentators seeOutlines occult of abstract scope,A future for philosophy!Your arm’s on mine! these are the meadsIn which we pass our living days;There Avon runs, now hid with reeds,Now brightly brimming pebbly bays;Those are our children’s songs that comeWith bells and bleatings of the sheep;And there, in yonder English home,We thrive on mortal food and sleep!’She laugh’d. How proud she always wasTo feel how proud he was of her!But he had grown distraught, becauseThe Muse’s mood began to stir.

His purpose with performance crown’d,He to his well-pleased Wife rehears’d,When next their Wedding-Day came round,His leisure’s labour, ‘Book the First.’