Dante Gabriel Rossetti: The Blessed Damozel

Dante Gabriel Rossetti: The Blessed Damozel, 1871-1878
oil on canvas
Fogg Museum of Art, Harvard University
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_The_Blessed_Damozel.jpg)
no copyright infringement intended

The Blessed Damozel is perhaps the best known creation of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. It is a diptych, as it puts in dialog painting and poetry: a poem recited by a painting, a painting meditated in a poem.

At the beginning was the word: the poem was published in 1850, later revised and published again, in 1856, 1870, 1873. It is a replica to Poe's Raven, putting the situation in reverse: in Rossetti's verses it is the female longing in heaven for her lover.

The painting came later: Rossetti worked on it between 1871 and 1878. He would create also a replica, in 1879, for his friend Leyland, who arranged The Blessed Damozel in his drawing room, between two other of Rossetti's paintings (Mnemosyne and Proserpine): the three were making a triptych. Three other paintings of Rossetti were there, in Leyland's drawing room. Today each one stays in another collection. The replica to The Blessed Damozel is housed by Lady Lever Art Gallery. As for the original, it is part of the rich Pre-Raphaelite collection of the Fogg Museum, at Harvard.

(video by Spiritvvanderer91)

The blessed Damozel lean'd out

         From the gold bar of Heaven:

Her blue grave eyes were deeper much

         Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand,

         And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

         No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary's gift

         On the neck meetly worn;

And her hair, lying down her back,

         Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day

         One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

         From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day

         Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years:

         ...Yet now, here in this place,

Surely she lean'd o'er me,--her hair

         Fell all about my face....

Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.

         The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house

         That she was standing on,--

By God built over the sheer depth

         In which Space is begun;

So high, that looking downward thence,

         She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood

         Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night

         With flame and darkness ridge

The void, as low as where this earth

         Spins like a fretful midge.

But in those tracts, with her, it was

         The peace of utter light

And silence. For no breeze may stir

         Along the steady flight

Of seraphim; no echo there,

         Beyond all depth or height.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends,

         Playing at holy games,

Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves,

         Their virginal chaste names;

And the souls, mounting up to God,

         Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd

         Into the vast waste calm;

Till her bosom's pressure must have made

         The bar she lean'd on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

         Along her bended arm.

From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw

         Time, like a pulse, shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,

         In that steep gulf, to pierce

The swarm; and then she spoke, as when

         The stars sang in their spheres.

I wish that he were come to me,

         For he will come, she said.

Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven?

         On earth, has he not pray'd?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

         And shall I feel afraid?

When round his head the aureole clings,

         And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand, and go with him

         To the deep wells of light,

And we will step down as to a stream

         And bathe there in God's sight.

We two will stand beside that shrine,

         Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps tremble continually

         With prayer sent up to God;

And where each need, reveal'd, expects

         Its patient period.

We two will lie i' the shadow of

         That living mystic tree

Within whose secret growth the Dove

         Sometimes is felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch

         Saith His name audibly.

And I myself will teach to him,--

         I myself, lying so,--

The songs I sing here; which his mouth

         Shall pause in, hush'd and slow,

Finding some knowledge at each pause,

         And some new thing to know.

(Alas! to her wise simple mind

         These things were all but known

Before: they trembled on her sense,--

         Her voice had caught their tone.

Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas

         For life wrung out alone!

Alas, and though the end were reach'd?...

         Was thy part understood

Or borne in trust? And for her sake

         Shall this too be found good?--

May the close lips that knew not prayer

         Praise ever, though they would?)

We two, she said, will seek the groves

         Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose names

         Are five sweet symphonies:--

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

         Margaret and Rosalys.

Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks

         And bosoms covered;

Into the fine cloth, white like flame,

         Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them

         Who are just born, being dead.

He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.

         Then I will lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love,

         Not once abash'd or weak:

And the dear Mother will approve

         My pride, and let me speak.

Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

         To Him round whom all souls

Kneel--the unnumber'd solemn heads

         Bow'd with their aureoles:

And Angels, meeting us, shall sing

         To their citherns and citoles.

There will I ask of Christ the Lord

         Thus much for him and me:--

To have more blessing than on earth

         In nowise; but to be

As then we were,--being as then

         At peace. Yea, verily.

Yea, verily; when he is come

         We will do thus and thus:

Till this my vigil seem quite strange

         And almost fabulous;

We two will live at once, one life;

         And peace shall be with us.

She gazed, and listen'd, and then said,

         Less sad of speech than mild,--

'All this is when he comes.' She ceased:

         The light thrill'd past her, fill'd

With Angels, in strong level lapse.

         Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight

         Was vague 'mid the poised spheres.

And then she cast her arms along

         The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,

         And wept. (I heard her tears.)

(http://www.daypoems.net/poems/720.html)

(Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

(Fogg Museum of Art)