No More Learning

Of all that such a recollection
implies of saddest and sweetest to both of us, it would become neither
of us to speak before the world, nor would it be possible for us to
speak of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. Enough,
that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to
yours. _

_And my desire is that you, who are a witness how if this art of poetry
had been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from exhausted
hands before this day,--that you, who have shared with me in things
bitter and sweet, softening or enhancing them, every day,--that you, who
hold with me, over all sense of loss and transiency, one hope by one
Name,--may accept from me the inscription of these volumes, the
exponents of a few years of an existence which has been sustained and
comforted by you as well as given. Somewhat more faint-hearted than I
used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to a visible personal
dependence on you, as if indeed I were a child again; to conjure your
beloved image between myself and the public, so as to be sure of one
smile,--and to satisfy my heart while I sanctify my ambition, by
associating with the great pursuit of my life, its tenderest and holiest
affection. _

_Your_
_E. B. B. _
LONDON: 50 WIMPOLE STREET,
1844.




PREFACE

TO THE FIRST COLLECTED EDITION OF MRS. BROWNING'S POEMS.


The collection here offered to the public consists of Poems which have
been written in the interim between the period of the publication of my
"Seraphim" and the present; variously coloured, or perhaps shadowed, by
the life of which they are the natural expression,--and, with the
exception of a few contributions to English or American periodicals, are
printed now for the first time.

As the first poem of this collection, the "Drama of Exile," is the
longest and most important work (to _me_! ) which I ever trusted into the
current of publication, I may be pardoned for entreating the reader's
attention to the fact, that I decided on publishing it after
considerable hesitation and doubt. The subject of the Drama rather
fastened on me than was chosen; and the form, approaching the model of
the Greek tragedy, shaped itself under my hand, rather by force of
pleasure than of design. But when the excitement of composition had
subsided, I felt afraid of my position.
My subject was the new and
strange experience of the fallen humanity, as it went forth from
Paradise into the wilderness; with a peculiar reference to Eve's
allotted grief, which, considering that self-sacrifice belonged to her
womanhood, and the consciousness of originating the Fall to her
offence,--appeared to me imperfectly apprehended hitherto, and more
expressible by a woman than a man. There was room, at least, for lyrical
emotion in those first steps into the wilderness,--in that first sense
of desolation after wrath,--in that first audible gathering of the
recriminating "groan of the whole creation,"--in that first darkening of
the hills from the recoiling feet of angels,--and in that first silence
of the voice of God. And I took pleasure in driving in, like a pile,
stroke upon stroke, the Idea of EXILE,--admitting Lucifer as an extreme
Adam, to represent the ultimate tendencies of sin and loss,--that it
might be strong to bear up the contrary idea of the Heavenly love and
purity. But when all was done, I felt afraid, as I said before, of my
position. I had promised my own prudence to shut close the gates of Eden
between Milton and myself, so that none might say I dared to walk in his
footsteps. He should be within, I thought, with his Adam and Eve
unfallen or falling,--and I, without, with my EXILES,--_I_ also an
exile! It would not do. The subject, and his glory covering it, swept
through the gates, and I stood full in it, against my will, and contrary
to my vow,--till I shrank back fearing, almost desponding; hesitating to
venture even a passing association with our great poet before the face
of the public. Whether at last I took courage for the venture, by a
sudden revival of that love of manuscript which should be classed by
moral philosophers among the natural affections, or by the encouraging
voice of a dear friend, it is not interesting to the reader to inquire.
Neither could the fact affect the question; since I bear, of course, my
own responsibilities. For the rest, Milton is too high, and I am too
low, to render it necessary for me to disavow any rash emulation of his
divine faculty on his own ground; while enough individuality will be
granted, I hope, to my poem, to rescue me from that imputation of
plagiarism which should be too servile a thing for every sincere
thinker. After all, and at the worst, I have only attempted, in respect
to Milton, what the Greek dramatists achieved lawfully in respect to
Homer. They constructed dramas on Trojan ground; they raised on the
buskin and even clasped with the sock, the feet of Homeric heroes; yet
they neither imitated their Homer nor emasculated him. The Agamemnon of
AEschylus, who died in the bath, did no harm to, nor suffered any harm
from, the Agamemnon of Homer who bearded Achilles. To this analogy--the
more favourable to me from the obvious exception in it, that Homer's
subject was his own possibly by creation,--whereas Milton's was his own
by illustration only,--I appeal. To this analogy--_not_ to this
comparison, be it understood--I appeal.