The Blessed Damozel

painting and poem
from Rossetti Archive
http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/rossetti/pictures/S244head2.html



See the role of Pre-Raphaelite Women in the study for lovers in The Blessed Damozel, 1876.
 
  Courtesy of the Fogg Art Museum,Harvard University Art Museums, Bequest of Grenville L. Winthrop  

The Blessed Damozel is probably Rossetti's most famous painting. It is certainly his most elaborate presentation of the subject that interested him beyond all others: the relation of an emparadised woman to her earthly lover. The pictorial version of the subject constitutes a kind of commentary or pictorial interpretation of the poem by the same title that Rossetti had written much earlier, in 1847. The subject is also at the heart of his great translation project that culminated in his collection of stil novist poetry, The Early Italian Poets.  

note: The first four stanzas (from the 1873 Tauchnitz edition, workCode 1-1873) of text of "The Blessed Damozel" poem are written on the base of the frame, which was designed and made by Rossetti.Models  

Model  

  • Wilding, Alexa; as Damozel 
  • Hawtrey, Wilfred John; as child-angel 
  • Morris, May; As left hand angel 

  •  
      
    The Blessed Damozel  

    The blessed Damozel lean'd out 
      From the gold bar of Heaven; 
    Her eyes knew more of rest and shade 
      Than waters still'd at 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, 
      For service meetly worn; 
    And her hair lying down her back 
      Was yellow like ripe corn. 

    Her seem'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, and 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 rampart of God's house 
      That she was standing on; 
    By God built over the sheer depth 
      The which is Space begun; 
    So high, that looking downward thence 
      She scarce could see the sun. 

    It lies in Heaven, across the flood 
      Of ether, as a bridge. 
    Beneath, the tides of day and night 
      With flame and blackness ridge 
    The void, as low as where this earth 
      Spins like a fretful midge. 

    She scarcely heard her sweet new friends: 
      Playing at holy games, 
    Softly they spake among themselves 
      Their virginal chaste names; 
    And the souls, mounting up to God, 
      Went by her like thin flames. 

    To one, it is ten years of years. 
      . . . . . . . Yet now, and 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 rampart of God's house 
      That she was standing on; 
    By God built over the sheer depth 
      The which is Space begun; 
    So high, that looking downward thence 
      She scarce could see the sun. 

    It lies in Heaven, across the flood 
      Of ether, as a bridge. 
    Beneath, the tides of day and night 
      With flame and blackness ridge 
    The void, as low as where this earth 
      Spins like a fretful midge. 

    She scarcely heard her sweet new friends: 
      Playing at holy games, 
    Softly they spake among themselves 
      Their virginal chaste names; 
    And the souls, mounting up to God, 
      Went by her like thin flames. 

          Page 714 

    And still she bow'd above the vast 
      Waste sea of worlds that swarm; 
    Until her bosom must have made 
      The bar she lean'd on warm, 
    And the lilies lay as if asleep 
      Along her bended arm. 

    From the fix'd place of Heaven, she saw 
      Time like a pulse shake fierce 
    Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 
      Within the gulf to pierce 
    Its path; and now she spoke, as when 
      The stars sung in their spheres. 

     

     
      

    The sun was gone now.  The curl'd moon 
      Was like a little feather 
    Fluttering far down the gulf.  And now 
      She spoke through the still weather. 
    Her voice was like the voice the stars 
      Had when they sung together. 

    I wish that he were come to me, 
      For he will come, she said. 
    Have I not pray'd in Heaven?--on earth, 
      Lord, Lord, 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 are stirr'd continually 
      With prayers sent up to God; 
    And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
      Each like a little cloud. 

    We two will lie i' the shadow of 
      That living mystic tree, 
    Within whose secret growth the Dove 
      Is sometimes 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 voice 
      Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, 
    And find some knowledge at each pause, 
      Or some new thing to know. 

          Page 715 
      

    (Ah sweet!  Just now, in that bird's song, 
      Strove not her accents there 
    Fain to be hearken'd? When those bells 
      Possess'd the midday air, 
    Was she not stepping to my side 
      Down all the trembling stair?) 

    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. 

    Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
      And foreheads garlanded 
    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 ransom'd 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:-- 
    Only to live as once on earth 
      At peace--only to be 
    As then awhile, for ever now 
      Together, I and he. 

    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 in distant spheres; 
    And then she laid her arms along 
      The golden barriers, 
    And laid her face between her hands 
      And wept.  (I heard her tears.) 
     
     


    Copyright (c) 1993 by Jerome J. McGann, all rights reserved.

    Last Modified: Tuesday, 28-Mar-95 10:51:30 EST