PR 4190 
 .E6 
 Copy 1 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO 
 A CANARY 
 
 BY 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1914 ' 
 
 A^l rights reserved 
 
AN EPISTLE TO 
 A CANARY 
 
 BY 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1914 
 
 ^// rights reserved 
 

 COIVKIGHT. 1914, 
 
 By the MACMII.LAN COAIPANY. 
 Published .M.'<y, 1914 
 
 MAV27I3I4^ 
 
 .1. rj. Otishinr C... — r..i wick & Smith C 
 ' J Norv<M..l. .Vt.■,^^., n.S.A. 
 
 'C1.A374216 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 [ The manuscript of the ensuing 'Epistle to a 
 Canary' has not hitherto been printed, or even 
 described. The verses, in the handwriting of 
 the author, were preserved among the Browning 
 MSS. until their dispersal after Robert Barrett 
 Browning's death. Ihe 'Epistle' bears nh 
 title, place, or date, but it is not difficult to 
 reconstruct its historv with some exactness. 
 There can be no doubt that it was addressed 
 to Mary Russell Mitford's pet canary, from 
 74 Gloucester Place, Portman Square, the Bar- 
 retts' London house smce 1835. The acquamt- 
 ance of Miss Barrett with Miss Mitford began 
 in May 1836. Formal at Hrst, in a few months 
 it ripened into a close and tender intimacy. 
 
2 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 Late in January 1837, the country friend paid 
 a visit, apparently her first, to 74 Gloucester 
 Place, and saw the various pets, and the ways 
 of the Barrett family, a knowledge of which 
 seems presupposed in the * Epistle.' It was 
 about this time that Elizabeth wrote her poem, 
 *The Doves,' which was published in 'The 
 Seraphim' of 1838, beginning 
 
 My little doves have left a nest 
 Upon an Indian tree. 
 It is one of this pair of doves who is sup- 
 posed to indite the epistle to Miss Mitford's 
 canary. Both ladies expatiated in their corre- 
 spondence on the merits of their 'dear pets,' and 
 letters exist in which they have sentimentally 
 exchanged canary-feathers. Miss Mitford 
 boasted herself a 'complete bird-fancier.' I 
 think it possible that the present 'Epistle' may 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 3 
 
 be connected with that * story of the Doves' 
 which Mary Russell Mitford acknowledges 
 in a letter of February 22, 1837. At all events 
 the * Epistle' must be earlier in date than Au- 
 gust 16, 1837, when Elizabeth Barrett an- 
 nounced that *a new little dove had appeared 
 from a shell, over which nobody had prognosti- 
 cated good.' It is incredible that, if so thrill- 
 ing an occurrence had already taken place when 
 the 'Epistle' was written, no mention should 
 be made of it by the enthusiastic parent. 
 
 The poem is one of many loose and pleasant 
 private missives in verse which Miss Barrett 
 indulged in during those early years. It is 
 valuable from the information it gives about the 
 household at Gloucester Place, the birds, the 
 dog Myrtle, William the butler, the shrouded 
 and limited existence of the poet, with its win- 
 
4 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 dows wide open to the horizons of the imagina- 
 tion. — Edmund Gosse.] 
 
 Dear unknown friend, esteemed Canary ! 
 I've read your letter sent by Mary. 
 I've read it with sufficient pleasure 
 To draw a joyous choral measure 
 From all the birds in Vallombrosa, — 
 A place you've heard of, I suppose, Sir. 
 
 My Spouse and I accept the honor 
 
 You put upon me and upon her, 
 
 And here with equal cordiality 
 
 Return our friendship's mutualit}^ 
 
 It is indeed a high communion, 
 
 When hearts of birds can meet in union. 
 
 And mine beneath my wing is beating. 
 
 Just like a lark's, the sunshine greeting. 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 5 
 
 To think that I, whose sun's a masked one, 
 Have still your friendship to be basked in; 
 That I and my companion, fated 
 To be for aye expatriated. 
 To sit at London windows, viewing 
 For fair green hills, the human ruin, 
 Hearing, for river-songs, wind-catches, — 
 *01d clothes, old clothes,' and 'Buy my 
 
 matches,' — 
 Should still have friendship's sweet assistance 
 From songful spirits at a distance. 
 For here is human friendship only, 
 And Mrs. Dove and I are lonely; 
 And tho', on seasons out of number. 
 We're kissed by human Hps to slumber; 
 And tho' we feel caresses loving 
 Drawn round our eyeUds, without moving — 
 And nestle upon hands, confidmg, 
 
6 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 As if in forest-shadows hiding; 
 And even condescend to show us 
 Obedient when some tongues speak to us ; 
 Yet, after all, this human love. 
 Dear Sir, what is it to a Dove ? 
 It is not quite as cruel, truly, 
 As I did think, (I own, unduly,) 
 When first the dreadful reasoning creature 
 Surprised me in the hush of nature ; 
 But still 'tis poor and sad, half folly, 
 Half wildness, and whole melancholy ; 
 And if we were not near each other. 
 We should have only you, my brother, 
 To keep our spirits from dejection. 
 While darkened so with man's affection. 
 
 And now, dear brother-friend, Canary, 
 It seemeth to me necessary 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 To write a portrait of the being 
 You deign to value without seeing; 
 That, having read it, inartistic 
 As it may be, and egoistic, 
 You may attain a clearer notion 
 Of one who loves you to devotion. 
 
 My feathers, — do not think me proud, — 
 
 Are colored faintly as a cloud, 
 
 A fair brown cloud at dawn of day, 
 
 Which bears, within a golden ray, 
 
 A secret kept, which all the way 
 
 Shines out for joy. My feet are red, 
 
 Contrastingly, as used to tread 
 
 Bright sunset clouds, and thence retaining 
 
 The colour of their crimson staining; 
 
 My golden eyes may each have drawn 
 
 A spark of hght from highest dawn, 
 
8 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 Which glows and opens, as you view them, 
 
 Till sunset reds are likest to them ; 
 
 Nor marvel that I so have won mine 
 
 Image out of clouds and sunshine, 
 
 When ancestors of mine, above them, 
 
 So often flew as Venus drove them. 
 
 And on m}^ neck I still am wearing 
 
 The yoke-mark, which their part was, 
 
 bearing 
 A fair light mark, my neck enringing, 
 A rainbow out of darkness springing; 
 I would not change it for your singing; 
 Tho' certainly Anacreon's story 
 Detracts a little from the glory. 
 Saying she sold him 'for a song' our 
 Grandsire, most insulting wronger ; 
 But some, in dear esteem who hold us 
 Declare she never would have sold us, — 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 Not for an epic, whose aroma 
 Was all of amarynths and Homer. 
 
 Enough ! No peacock's tail, a glowing 
 Upon earth's darkest dust bestowing, 
 Is swept by me (my tail partaketh 
 The universal shade she maketh !) ; 
 And yet with such a graceful motion 
 I rise and stoop like waves on ocean, 
 I hear applied what one expresses 
 About 'majestic lowlinesses.' 
 A sudden fear, reflection raises, — 
 *What will he think of these self-praises ^ 
 But, dear kind friend, we birds inherit 
 No mounting and immortal spirit ; 
 Our souls are our fair forms, and we do 
 More glory in them than men need do. 
 Yet beauty is not all, nor doubt me 
 
lo AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 (In naming other things about me), 
 
 I am too modest e'er to quarrel 
 
 With such as you for music's laurel, — 
 
 I mean for science ! All my chanting 
 
 Was learnt from winds and waves descanting ; 
 
 A solemn sweetness is its feature, 
 
 A sad slow monotone of nature, — 
 
 The fall of dew and leaf resembling 
 
 So much, it sets my bosom trembling 
 
 With a soft memory-passion, mourning 
 
 For things to which is no returning. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what am I doing ? 
 
 I break into a sudden cooing — 
 
 Forgive me ! tho' myself affected, 
 
 I w6uld not make my friend dejected. 
 
 And seriously considered, cages, 
 
 Tho' portions of the iron ages. 
 
 Are not, for all their wires, to shut us 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY ii 
 
 From man}^ true delights that suit us. 
 For all their iron wires, they loose us 
 To our * adversity's sweet uses'; 
 And I myself am quite aware of 
 A deepened inward sense, a care of 
 More intellectual things, than found me 
 With only woods and skies around me. 
 For instance, what imagination 
 Of bird, at large in the creation, 
 Tho' wont in flights sublime to risk it. 
 E'er reached a vision of white biscuit ? 
 
 To balance this, I own at present 
 Some circumstances are unpleasant, 
 And the associates I am able 
 To mix with, are exceptionable; 
 There is a little dog whose name is 
 Myrtle ! Oh, that aught so famous 
 
12 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 To doves and Venus as that tree is 
 
 Should lend its name to such as he is ! 
 
 But so it is, and, speaking justly, 
 
 This Myrtle's neither fierce nor crusty, 
 
 A poor dull worthy dog, reposing 
 
 All day beside the fire, with nose in 
 
 The rug, and eyes half shut, which show them 
 
 Properly meek, whene'er we do them 
 
 The honor of approaching to them. 
 
 Yet this same Myrtle (will you credit 
 
 The monstrous statement when you've read 
 
 it?) 
 With insolent afFrontery, hath in 
 The water placed for us to bathe in 
 Immersed his nose, and fall'n to drinking. 
 As if a common fountain-brink on ; 
 And this offence has been repeated 
 Twice, thrice or four times, and we meet it 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 13 
 
 With proper indignation, springing 
 Towards him with a martial singing 
 In our wings, and fiercely wave them 
 About his head, who dares not brave them. 
 But walks away, retiring slowly, 
 To show he is not servile wholly ! 
 A worthy dog, in his totality, — 
 Tho' wanting tact and ideality. 
 
 Then there's a parrot with its staring 
 Black eyes, and insolence past bearing ; 
 Our own compatriot, (Cain was Abel's, 
 As heard our grand-dame 'mong the cables 
 Of Noah's ark,) and green, most vernally 
 As if our tropic woods eternally 
 Had stained his wmgs, without bestowing 
 The calmness their deep heart is knowing 
 For she is full of stir and meanness 
 
14 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 More anxious after blue than greenness; 
 
 Her native screechings trans-atlantic, 
 
 Commingling with a slang pedantic 
 
 Of ^what's a clock ?' (Degenerate folly, 
 
 A bird take note of time!!) or 'Polly 
 
 Put on the kettle' or 'Water Cresses'!! 
 
 I name with horror these excesses, 
 
 And feel, from inward indignation, 
 
 I would not stoop t' articulation 
 
 Not even of Greek, — tho' tempted sorest, — 
 
 Not for a green nest in a forest ! 
 
 This parrot habits, as is proper, 
 
 A lower room, and we, an upper. 
 
 And neither of us often views her 
 
 Except when people introduce her, 
 
 And then, dear friend, you'd really wonder 
 
 To see how she would keep us under, — 
 
 As if, besides her linguist powers, her 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 15 
 
 Tail was twice as long as ours are ! 
 
 Devouring all our seed, or wasting — 
 
 Objecting even to our tasting. 
 
 Of course we would resist but (praise me !) 
 
 High-tree-born birds have delicacy — 
 
 And then — and then — if I must speak, Sir, 
 
 She has, besides her eyes, a beak. Sir ! 
 
 My own compatriot, with such candour 
 
 Being portrayed, acquit of slander 
 
 My true opinion of another, 
 
 Whose honor 'twas, to call you brother; 
 
 Canary was he, even as 3^ou are, 
 
 Tho' his accomplishments were fewer. 
 
 A pretty, sprightly bird, that never 
 
 Reflected, hopping on for ever 
 
 With more of volatile giration 
 
 Than could deserve my admiration. 
 
 My spouse, myself, and Myrtle, eyeing 
 
i6 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 B}^ turns, and sometimes even prying 
 Into m}^ nest, — which was most trying, — 
 Was! is not. He is gone ! one morning, 
 He flew whence there is no returning 
 Beyond the opened panes, — to hie him 
 Where human kind could not come nigh 
 
 him. 
 Well ! peace be his ! may he have rested, 
 Where every bird is music-breasted. 
 Where shines the sun on Ax or Yarrow, 
 United to some gentle sparrow. 
 
 And now, dear friend, I must pursue mine 
 
 Account, by noticing the human. 
 
 May you, the generous fates have brought, 
 
 where 
 Are none who don long coats and short hair. 
 But if, of those dread beings, any 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 17 
 
 Are near you, near to me are many ; 
 And we may speak of griefs resembling, 
 In friendship's sympathetic trembling. 
 Alas ! dear friend ! what awful noises 
 They make with footsteps and with voices ! 
 With what a clashing laugh they tease us ! 
 How roughly by our tails they seize us ! 
 And, in our sweetest chantings, cry out 
 (Have they no ear for music ?) * Quiet ! !' 
 There's one, — I think they call him Wil- 
 liam, — 
 A hawk's or vulture's soul must fill him ! 
 For every day he's sternly able 
 To lay a red cloth on the table - 
 
 And then a white one, Hke the lightening 
 Flashing wide ! It is too frightening ! 
 Our very senses seem retreating. 
 And reall}^, — we can't go on eating, 
 c 
 
1 8 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 
 
 You'll wish that he would come this minute. 
 
 To end a scrawl with so much in it, 
 
 And so, farewell ! You will not wonder 
 
 That metre-rules Tve written under; 
 
 Creation's self's a poem, written 
 
 In lovelier rhymes than I have hit on ; 
 
 And I was taught b}^ winds pathetic, 
 
 Thro' shaken woods, to be poetic. 
 
 Besides I sit, — perhaps you know it ? — 
 
 Close to a human feeble poet ; 
 
 And tho' her verse is very wanting 
 
 In all that beautifies my chanting 
 
 Yet still she learns in nature's college, 
 
 And has a little sound dove-knowledge; 
 
 And I confess, — now don't discover 
 
 I condescend too much, — I love her ! 
 
 At least you'll pardon me, Canary ! 
 
 You love a human thing called Mary ! 
 
AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 19 
 
 Farewell ! we are not of one feather, 
 Yet surely would agree together, 
 And, tho' apart, believe the love 
 You're held in by 
 
 your faithful 
 
 Dove. 
 P.S. 
 I'm very glad 3^ou've heard of Bella. 
 You'd hear but good, were / the teller ! 
 Had I an eagle's sky-dominion, 
 I still would let her stroke my pinion. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Barrett. 
 
 [The Manuscript of 'An Epistle to a Canary' 
 is now in the collection of Mr. Edmund Gosse.] 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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