_To Mrs. Jameson_

58 Welbeck Street: Tuesday, [July-October 1852].

Dearest Monna Nina,--Here are the verses. I did them all because that was easiest to me, but of course you will extract the two you want.

It has struck me besides that you might care to see this old ballad which I find among my papers from one of the Percy or other antiquarian Society books, and which I transcribed years ago, modernising slightly in order to make out some sort of rhythm as I went on. I did this because the original poem impressed me deeply with its pathos. I wish I could send you the antique literal poem, but I haven't it, nor know where to find it; still, I don't think I quite spoilt it with the very slight changes ventured by me in the transcription.

G.o.d bless you. Let us meet on Wednesday. Robert's best love, with that of your ever affectionate

BA.

STABAT MATER

Mother full of lamentation, Near that cross she wept her pa.s.sion, Whereon hung her child and Lord.

Through her spirit worn and wailing, Tortured by the stroke and failing, Pa.s.sed and pierced the prophet's sword.

Oh, sad, sore, above all other, Was that ever blessed mother Of the sole-begotten one; She who mourned and moaned and trembled While she measured, nor dissembled, Such despairs of such a son!

Where's the man could hold from weeping, If Christ's mother he saw keeping Watch with mother-heart undone?

Who could hold from grief, to view her, Tender mother true and pure, Agonising with her Son?

For her people's sins she saw Him Down the bitter deep withdraw Him 'Neath the scourge and through the dole!

Her sweet Son she contemplated Nailed to death, and desolated, While He breathed away His soul.

E.B.B.

BALLAD--_Beginning of Edward II.'s Reign_

'Stand up, mother, under cross, Smile to help thy Son at loss.

Blythe, O mother, try to be!'

'Son, how can I blythely stand, Seeing here Thy foot and hand Nailed to the cruel tree?'

'Mother, cease thy weeping blind.

I die here for all mankind, Not for guilt that I have done.'

'Son, I feel Thy deathly smart.

The sword pierces through my heart, Prophesied by Simeon.'

'Mother, mercy! let me die, Adam out of h.e.l.l to buy, And his kin who are accurst.'

'Son, what use have I for breath?

Sorrow wasteth me to death-- Let my dying come the first.'

'Mother, pity on thy Son!

b.l.o.o.d.y tears be running down Worse to bear than death to meet!'

'Son, how can I cease from weeping?

b.l.o.o.d.y streams I see a-creeping From Thine heart against my feet.'

'Mother, now I tell thee, I!

Better is it one should die Than all men to h.e.l.l should go.'

'Son, I see Thy body hang Foot and hand in pierced pang.

Who can wonder at my woe?'

'Mother, now I will thee tell, If I live, thou goest to h.e.l.l-- I must die here for thy sake.'

'Son, Thou art so mild and kind, Nature, knowledge have enjoined I, for Thee, this wail must make.'

'Mother, ponder now this thing: Sorrow childbirth still must bring, Sorrow 'tis to have a son!'

'Ay, still sorrow, I can tell!

Mete it by the pain of h.e.l.l, Since more sorrow can be none.'

'Mother, pity mother's care!

Now as mother dost thou fare, Though of maids the purest known.'

'Son, Thou help at every need All those who before me plead-- Maid, wife--woman, everyone.'

'Mother, here I cannot dwell.

Time is that I pa.s.s to h.e.l.l, And the third day rise again.'

'Son, I would depart with Thee.

Lo! Thy wounds are slaying me.

Death has no such sorrow--none.'

When He rose, then fell her sorrow.

Sprang her bliss on the third morrow.

A blythe mother wert thou so!

Lady, for that selfsame bliss, Pray thy Son who peerless is, Be our shield against our foe.

Blessed be thou, full of bliss!

Let us not heaven's safety miss, Never! through thy sweet Son's might.

Jesus, for that selfsame blood Which Thou sheddest upon rood, Bring us to the heavenly light.

_To Mrs. Martin_

58 Welbeck Street: Thursday, [September 2, 1852].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Your letters always make me glad to see them, but this time the pleasure was tempered by an undeniable pain in the conscience. Oh, I ought to have written long and long ago. I have another letter of yours unanswered. Also, there was a proposition in it to Robert of a tempting character, and he put off the 'no'--the ungracious-sounding 'no'--as long as he could. He would have liked to have seen Mrs. Flood, as well as you; she is a favorite with us both.

But he finds it impossible to leave London. We have had no less than eight invitations into the country, and we are forced to keep to London, in spite of all 'babbling about' and from 'green fields.' Once we went to Farnham, and spent two days with Mr. and Mrs. Paine there in that lovely heathy country, and met Mr. Kingsley, the 'Christian Socialist,'

author of 'Alton Locke,' 'Yeast,' &c. It is only two hours from town (or less) by railroad, and we took our child with us and Flush, and had a breath of fresh air which ought to have done us good, but didn't. Few men have impressed me more agreeably than Mr. Kingsley. He is original and earnest, and full of a genial and almost tender kindliness which is delightful to me. Wild and theoretical in many ways he is of course, but I believe he could not be otherwise than good and n.o.ble, let him say or dream what he will. You are not to confound this visit of ours to Farnham with the 'sanitary reform' picnic (!) to the same place, at which the newspapers say we were present. We were _invited_--that is true--but did not go, nor thought of it. I am not up to picnics--nor _down_ to some of the company perhaps; who knows? Don't think me grown, too, suddenly scornful, without being sure of the particulars....

Mr. Tennyson has a little son, and wrote me such three happy notes on the occasion that I really never liked him so well before. I do like men who are not ashamed to be happy beside a cradle. Monckton Milnes had a brilliant christening luncheon, and his baby was made to sweep in India muslin and Brussels lace among a very large circle of admiring guests.

Think of my vanity turning my head completely and admitting of my taking Wiedeman there (because of an express invitation). He behaved like an angel, everybody said, and looked very pretty, I said myself; only he disgraced us all at last by refusing to kiss the baby, on the ground of his being 'troppo grande.' He has learnt quant.i.ties of English words, and is in consequence more unintelligible than ever. Poor darling! I am in pain about him to-day. Wilson goes to spend a fortnight with her mother, and I don't know how I shall be comforter enough. There will be great wailing and gnashing of teeth certainly, and I shall be in prison for the next two weeks, and have to do all the washing and dressing myself....

Your ever affectionate BA.