ACT V_The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning Cambridge Edition

_Night._ SCENE. _The Hall._

_Enter_ BERTHOLD _and_ MELCHIOR.

_Mel._ And here you wait the matter's issue?

_Berth._ Here.

_Mel._ I don't regret I shut Amelius, then.

But tell me, on this grand disclosure,--how

Behaved our spokesman with the forehead?

_Berth._ Oh,

Turned out no better than the foreheadless--

Was dazzled not so very soon, that 's all!

For my part, this is scarce the hasty showy

Chivalrous measure you give me credit of.

Perhaps I had a fancy,--but 't is gone.

--Let her commence the unfriended innocent

And carry wrongs about from court to court?

No, truly! The least shake of fortune's sand,

--My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing fit,

King-cousin takes a fancy to blue eyes,--

And wondrously her claims would brighten up;

Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law,

O'er-looked provisoes, o'er-past premises,

Follow in plenty. No: 't is the safe step.

The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost:

Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.

_Mel._ Which is to say, you, losing heart already,

Elude the adventure.

_Berth._ Not so--or, if so--

Why not confess at once that I advise

None of our kingly craft and guild just now

To lay, one moment, down their privilege

With the notion they can any time at pleasure

Retake it: that may turn out hazardous.

We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end

O' the night, with our great masque: those favored few

Who keep the chamber's top, and honor's chance

Of the early evening, may retain their place

And figure as they list till out of breath.

But it is growing late: and I observe

A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway

Not only bar new-comers entering now,

But caution those who left, for any cause,

And would return, that morning draws too near;

The ball must die off, shut itself up. We--

I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in,

And sleep off headache on our frippery:

But friend the other, who cunningly stole out,

And, after breathing the fresh air outside,

Means to re-enter with a new costume,

Will be advised go back to bed, I fear.

I stick to privilege, on second thoughts.

_Mel._ Yes--you evade the adventure: and, beside,

Give yourself out for colder than you are.

King Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes?

Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive

With you too?

_Berth._ Yes--no: I am past that now.

Gone 't is: I cannot shut my soul to fact.

Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance

Reason myself into a rapture. Gone:

And something better come instead, no doubt.

_Mel._ So be it! Yet, all the same, proceed my way,

Though to your ends; so shall you prosper best!

The lady--to be won for selfish ends--

Will be won easier my unselfish ... call it,

Romantic way.

_Berth._ Won easier?

_Mel._ Will not she?

_Berth._ There I profess humility without bound:

Ill cannot speed--not I--the Emperor.

_Mel._ And I should think the Emperor best waived,

From your description of her mood and way.

You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts;

But are too indolent and fond of watching

Your own--you know that, for you study it.

_Berth._ Had you but seen the orator her friend,

So bold and voluble an hour before,

Abashed to earth at aspect of the change!

Make her an Empress? Ah, that changed the case!

Oh, I read hearts! 'T is for my own behoof,

I court her with my true worth: wait the event!

I learned my final lesson on that head

When years ago,--my first and last essay--

Before the priest my uncle could by help

Of his superior raise me from the dirt--

Priscilla left me for a Brabant lord

Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb.

I am past illusion on that score.

_Mel._ Here comes

The lady--

_Berth._--And there you go. But do not! Give me

Another chance to please you! Hear me plead!

_Mel._ You 'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

(_Enter the_ DUCHESS--_followed by_ ADOLF _and_ SABYNE, _and, after an

interval, by the_ Courtiers.)

_Berth._ Good auspice to our meeting!

_Duch._ May it prove!

--And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

_Berth._ (Ay, that 's the point!) I may be Emperor.

_Duch._ 'T is not for my sake only, I am proud

Of this you offer: I am prouder far

That from the highest state should duly spring

The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

_Berth._ (Generous--still that!) You underrate yourself.

You are, what I, to be complete, must gain--

Find now, and may not find, another time.

While I career on all the world for stage,

There needs at home my representative.

_Duch._--Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be--

One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends--

One like yourself.

_Berth._ Lady, I am myself,

And have all these: I want what 's not myself,

Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords?

Here 's one already: be a friend's next gift

A silk glove, if you will--I have a sword.

_Duch._ You love me, then?

_Berth._ Your lineage I revere,

Honor your virtue, in your truth believe,

Do homage to your intellect, and bow

Before your peerless beauty.

_Duch._ But, for love--

_Berth._ A further love I do not understand.

Our best course is to say these hideous truths,

And see them, once said, grow endurable:

Like waters shuddering from their central bed,

Black with the midnight bowels of the earth,

That, once up-spouted by an earthquake's throe,

A portent and a terror--soon subside,

Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues

In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and at last

Grow common to the earth as hills or trees--

Accepted by all things they came to scare.

_Duch._ You cannot love, then?

_Berth._ --Charlemagne, perhaps!

Are you not over-curious in love-lore?

_Duch._ I have become so, very recently.

It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem

Respect, and all your candor promises,

By putting on a calculating mood--

Asking the terms of my becoming yours?

_Berth._ Let me not do myself injustice, neither.

Because I will not condescend to fictions

That promise what my soul can ne'er acquit,

It does not follow that my guarded phrase

May not include far more of what you seek,

Than wide profession of less scrupulous men.

You will be Empress, once for all: with me

The Pope disputes supremacy--you stand,

And none gainsays, the earth's first woman.

_Duch._ That--

Or simple Lady of Ravestein again?

_Berth._ The matter 's not in my arbitrament:

Now I have made my claims--which I regret--

Cede one, cede all.

_Duch._ This claim then, you enforce?

_Berth._ The world looks on.

_Duch._ And when must I decide?

_Berth._ When, lady? Have I said thus much so promptly

For nothing?--Poured out, with such pains, at once

What I might else have suffered to ooze forth

Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long--

For aught less than as prompt an answer, too?

All 's fairly told now: who can teach you more?

_Duch._ I do not see him.

_Berth._ I shall ne'er deceive.

This offer should be made befittingly

Did time allow the better setting forth

The good of it, with what is not so good,

Advantage, and disparagement as well:

But as it is, the sum of both must serve.

I am already weary of this place;

My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide!

The Empire--or,--not even Juliers now!

Hail to the Empress--farewell to the Duchess!

[_The_ Courtiers, _who have been drawing nearer and nearer,

interpose_.

_Gau._--"Farewell," Prince? when we break in at our risk--

_Clug._ Almost upon court-license trespassing--

_Gau._--To point out how your claims are valid yet!

You know not, by the Duke her father's will,

The lady, if she weds beneath her rank,

Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favor--

So 't is expressly stipulate. And if

It can be shown 't is her intent to wed

A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right

Succeed to Juliers.

_Berth._ What insanity?--

_Gui._ Sir, there 's one Valence, the pale fiery man

You saw and heard this morning--thought, no doubt,

Was of considerable standing here:

I put it to your penetration, Prince,

If aught save love, the truest love for her

Could make him serve the lady as he did!

He 's simply a poor advocate of Cleves

--Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place

With danger, gets in by a miracle,

And for the first time meets the lady's face--

So runs the story: is that credible?

For, first--no sooner in, than he 's apprised

Fortunes have changed; you are all-powerful here,

The lady as powerless: he stands fast by her!

_Duch._ [_Aside._] And do such deeds spring up from love alone?

_Gui._ But here occurs the question, does the lady

Love him again? I say, how else can she?

Can she forget how he stood singly forth

In her defence; dared outrage all of us,

Insult yourself--for what, save love 's reward?

_Duch._ [_Aside._] And is love then the sole reward of love?

_Gui._ But, love him as she may and must--you ask,

Means she to wed him? "Yes," both natures answer!

Both, in their pride, point out the sole result;

Naught less would he accept nor she propose.

For each conjecture was she great enough

--Will be, for this.

_Clug._ Though, now that this is known,

Policy, doubtless, urges she deny ...

_Duch._--What, sir, and wherefore?--since I am not sure

That all is any other than you say!

You take this Valence, hold him close to me,

Him with his actions: can I choose but look?

I am not sure, love trulier shows itself

Than in this man, you hate and would degrade,

Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus.

Nor am I--(thus made look within myself,

Ere I had dared)--now that the look is dared--

Sure that I do not love him!

_Gui._ Hear you, Prince?

_Berth._ And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean

Unless to prove with what alacrity

You give your lady's secrets to the world?

How much indebted, for discovering

That quality, you make me, will be found

When there 's a keeper for my own to seek.

_Courtiers._ "Our lady?"

_Berth._ --She assuredly remains.

_Duch._ Ah, Prince--and you too can be generous?

You could renounce your power, if this were so,

And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love

Yet keep my Duchy? You perhaps exceed

Him, even, in disinterestedness!

_Berth._ How, lady, should all this affect my purpose?

Your will and choice are still as ever, free.

Say, you have known a worthier than myself

In mind and heart, of happier form and face--

Others must have their birthright: I have gifts,

To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight.

Against a hundred alien qualities,

I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing:

Wed you the Empire?

_Duch._ And my heart away?

_Berth._ When have I made pretension to your heart?

I give none. I shall keep your honor safe;

With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts

Yon marble woman with the marble rose,

Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,

In graceful, slight, silent security.

You will be proud of my world-wide career,

And I content in you the fair and good.

What were the use of planting a few seeds

The thankless climate never would mature--

Affections all repelled by circumstance?

Enough: to these no credit I attach,--

To what you own, find nothing to object.

Write simply on my requisition's face

What shall content my friends--that you admit,

As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein,

Or never need admit them, as my wife--

And either way, all 's ended!

_Duch._ Let all end!

_Berth._ The requisition!

_Gui._ --Valence holds, of course!

_Berth._ Desire his presence! [ADOLF _goes out_.

_Courtiers._ [_To each other._] Out it all comes yet;

He 'll have his word against the bargain yet;

He 's not the man to tamely acquiesce.

One passionate appeal--upbraiding even,

May turn the tide again. Despair not yet!

[_They retire a little._

_Berth._ [_To_ MELCHIOR.] The Empire has its old success, my friend!

_Mel._ You 've had your way: before the spokesman speaks

Let me, but this once, work a problem out,

And ever more be dumb! The Empire wins?

To better purpose have I read my books!

(_Enter_ VALENCE.)

_Mel._ [_To the_ Courtiers.] Apart, my masters!

[_To_ VALENCE.] Sir, one word with you!

I am a poor dependant of the Prince's--

Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence.

You are no higher, I find: in other words,

We two, as probably the wisest here,

Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools.

Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact

Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them?

Do you reply so, and what trouble saved!

The Prince, then--an embroiled strange heap of news

This moment reaches him--if true or false,

All dignity forbids he should inquire

In person, or by worthier deputy;

Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come:

And so, 't is I am pitched on. You have heard

His offer to your lady?

_Val._ Yes.

_Mel._ --Conceive

Her joy thereat?

_Val._ I cannot.

_Mel._ No one can.

All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

_Val._ [_Aside._] So!

No after-judgment--no first thought revised--

Her first and last decision!--me, she leaves,

Takes him; a simple heart is flung aside,

The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced.

Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft!

Once, to surprise the angels--twice, that fiends,

Recording, might be proud they chose not so--

Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world

All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men

Can have such chance yet fail so signally

--But ever, ever this farewell to Heaven,

Welcome to earth--this taking death for life--

This spurning love and kneeling to the world--

Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!

_Mel._ Well, on this point, what but an absurd rumor

Arises--these, its source--its subject, you!

Your faith and loyalty misconstruing,

They say, your service claims the lady's hand!

Of course, nor Prince nor lady can respond:

Yet something must be said: for, were it true

You made such claim, the Prince would ...

_Val._ Well, sir,--would?

_Mel._--Not only probably withdraw his suit,

But, very like, the lady might be forced

Accept your own. Oh, there are reasons why!

But you 'll excuse at present all save one,--

I think so. What we want is, your own witness,

For, or against--her good, or yours: decide!

_Val._ [_Aside._] Be it her good if she accounts it so!

[_After a contest._] For what am I but hers, to choose as she?

Who knows how far, beside, the light from her

May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon?

_Mel._ [_To the_ Prince.] Now to him, you!

_Berth._ [_To_ VALENCE.] My friend acquaints you, sir,

The noise runs ...

_Val._. --Prince, how fortunate are you,

Wedding her as you will, in spite of noise,

To show belief in love! Let her but love you,

All else you disregard! What else can be?

You know how love is incompatible

With falsehood--purifies, assimilates

All other passions to itself.

_Mel._ Ay, sir:

But softly! Where, in the object we select,

Such love is, perchance, wanting?

_Val._ Then indeed,

What is it you can take?

_Mel._ Nay, ask the world!

Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name,

An influence o'er mankind.

_Val._ When man perceives ...

--Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

_Duch._ Speak for yourself!

_Val._ May I?--no, I have spoken,

And time 's gone by. Had I seen such an one,

As I loved her--weighing thoroughly that word--

So should my task be to evolve her love:

If for myself!--if for another--well.

_Berth._ Heroic truly! And your sole reward,--

The secret pride in yielding up love's right?

_Val._ Who thought upon reward? And yet how much

Comes after--oh, what amplest recompense!

Is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught?

--Lady, should such an one have looked on you,

Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world

And say, love can go unrequited here!

You will have blessed him to his whole life's end--

Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,

All goodness cherished where you dwelt--and dwell.

What would he have? He holds you--you, both form

And mind, in his,--where self-love makes such room

For love of you, he would not serve you now

The vulgar way,--repulse your enemies,

Win you new realms, or best, to save the old

Die blissfully--that 's past so long ago!

He wishes you no need, thought, care of him--

Your good, by any means, himself unseen,

Away, forgotten!--He gives that life's task up,

As it were ... but this charge which I return--

[_Offers the requisition, which she takes._

Wishing your good.

_Duch._ [_Having subscribed it_.] And opportunely, sir--

Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine,

Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate.

Most on a wedding-day, as mine is too,

Should gifts be thought of: yours comes first by right.

Ask of me!

_Berth._ He shall have whate'er he asks,

For your sake and his own.

_Val._ [_Aside._] If I should ask--

The withered bunch of flowers she wears--perhaps,

One last touch of her hand, I never more

Shall see!

[_After a pause, presenting his paper to the_ Prince.

Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves!

_Berth._ I will, sir!

_Duch._ [_As_ VALENCE _prepares to retire_.]--

Nay, do out your duty, first!

You bore this paper; I have registered

My answer to it: read it and have done!

[VALENCE _reads it_.

I take him--give up Juliers and the world.

This is my Birthday.

_Mel._ Berthold, my one hero

Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books,

Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch,--

Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings!

_Berth._ [_After a pause._] Lady, well rewarded! Sir, as well deserved!

I could not imitate--I hardly envy--

I do admire you. All is for the best.

Too costly a flower were this, I see it now,

To pluck and set upon my barren helm

To wither--any garish plume will do.

I 'll not insult you and refuse your Duchy--

You can so well afford to yield it me,

And I were left, without it, sadly lorn.

As it is--for me--if that will flatter you,

A somewhat wearier life seems to remain

Than I thought possible where ... 'faith, their life

Begins already! They 're too occupied

To listen: and few words content me best.

[_Abruptly to the_ Courtiers.]

I am your Duke, though! Who obey me here?

_Duch._ Adolf and Sabyne follow us--

_Gui._ [_Starting from the_ Courtiers.]--And I?

Do I not follow them, if I may n't you?

Shall not I get some little duties up

At Ravestein and emulate the rest?

God save you, Gaucelme! 'T is my Birthday, too!

_Berth._ You happy handful that remain with me

... That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite

I shall leave over you--will earn your wages

Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade!

Meantime,--go copy me the precedents

Of every installation, proper styles

And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes--

While I prepare to plod on my old way,

And somewhat wearily, I must confess!

_Duch._ [_With a light joyous laugh as she turns from them._] Come,

Valence, to our friends, God's earth ...

_Val._ [_As she falls into his arms._]--And thee!

DRAMATIC ROMANCES

The seventh number of _Bells and Pomegranates_ was entitled

_Dramatic Romances and Lyrics._ In the redistribution of

his shorter poems when he collected his writings, Browning

having already a group of _Dramatic Lyrics_ made a second of

_Dramatic Romances_, taking the occasion to make a little nicer

discrimination. Thus some of the poems originally included under

the combined title were distributed among the _Lyrics_, and

some at first grouped under _Lyrics_ were transferred to this

division of _Romances_. The first poem in the group was originally

contained in _Dramatic Lyrics_ along with _Soliloquy of the Spanish

Cloister_ under the general title of _Camp and Cloister_, this poem

representing the camp.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,"--

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect--

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes;

"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

THE PATRIOT

AN OLD STORY

Mr. Browning has denied that this poem refers to Arnold of Brescia.

It is imaginative, not historical in its dramatic action. It was

possibly to relieve the poem of its apparent distinct reference to

history that he removed the name of Brescia, which was used in the

poem in its first form.

It was roses, roses, all the way,

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:

The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,

A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels--

But give me your sun from yonder skies!"

They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it my loving friends to keep!

Naught man could do, have I left undone:

And you see my harvest, what I reap

This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the house-tops now--

Just a palsied few at the windows set;

For the best of the sight is, all allow,

At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet,

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,

A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,

For they fling, whoever has a mind,

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

Me?"--God might question; now instead,

'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

In _Dramatic Lyrics_ this was entitled _Italy_, and grouped with _Count

Gismond_ under the head _Italy and France_.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace--all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked

Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

--E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

COUNT GISMOND

AIX IN PROVENCE

Christ God who savest man, save most

Of men Count Gismond who saved me!

Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,

Chose time and place and company

To suit it; when he struck at length

My honor, 't was with all his strength.

And doubtlessly ere he could draw

All points to one, he must have schemed!

That miserable morning saw

Few half so happy as I seemed,

While being dressed in queen's array

To give our tourney prize away.

I thought they loved me, did me grace

To please themselves; 't was all their deed,

God makes, or fair or foul, our face;

If showing mine so caused to bleed

My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped

A word, and straight the play had stopped.

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen

By virtue of her brow and breast;

Not needing to be crowned, I mean,

As I do. E'en when I was dressed,

Had either of them spoke, instead

Of glancing sideways with still head!

But no: they let me laugh, and sing

My birthday song quite through, adjust

The last rose in my garland, fling

A last look on the mirror, trust

My arms to each an arm of theirs,

And so descend the castle-stairs--

And come out on the morning-troop

Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,

And called me queen, and made me stoop

Under the canopy--(a streak

That pierced it, of the outside sun,

Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)--

And they could let me take my state

And foolish throne amid applause

Of all come there to celebrate

My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause

Of much was, they forgot no crowd

Makes up for parents in their shroud!

Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent

Upon me, when my cousins cast

Theirs down; 't was time I should present

The victor's crown, but ... there, 't will last

No long time ... the old mist again

Blinds me as then it did. How vain!

See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk

With his two boys: I can proceed.

Well, at that moment, who should stalk

Forth boldly--to my face, indeed--

But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"

And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!

"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet

About her! Let her shun the chaste,

Or lay herself before their feet!

Shall she whose body I embraced

A night long, queen it in the day?

For honor's sake no crowns, I say!"

I? What I answered? As I live,

I never fancied such a thing

As answer possible to give.

What says the body when they spring

Some monstrous torture-engine's whole

Strength on it? No more says the soul.

Till out strode Gismond; then I knew

That I was saved. I never met

His face before, but, at first view,

I felt quite sure that God had set

Himself to Satan; who would spend

A minute's mistrust on the end?

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat

Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth

With one back-handed blow that wrote

In blood men's verdict there. North, South,

East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,

And damned, and truth stood up instead.

This glads me most, that I enjoyed

The heart of the joy, with my content

In watching Gismond unalloyed

By any doubt of the event:

God took that on him--I was bid

Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

Did I not watch him while he let

His armorer just brace his greaves,

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret

The while! His foot ... my memory leaves

No least stamp out, nor how anon

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound

Was finished, prone lay the false knight,

Prone as his lie, upon the ground:

Gismond flew at him, used no sleight

O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,

Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet

And said, "Here die, but end thy breath

In full confession, lest thou fleet

From my first, to God's second death!

Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied

To God and her," he said, and died.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked

--What safe my heart holds, though no word

Could I repeat now, if I tasked

My powers forever, to a third

Dear even as you are. Pass the rest

Until I sank upon his breast.

Over my head his arm he flung

Against the world; and scarce I felt

His sword (that dripped by me and swung)

A little shifted in its belt:

For he began to say the while

How South our home lay many a mile.

So 'mid the shouting multitude

We two walked forth to never more

Return. My cousins have pursued

Their life, untroubled as before

I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place

God lighten! May his soul find grace!

Our elder boy has got the clear

Great brow; though when his brother's black

Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?

And have you brought my tercel back?

I just was telling Adela

How many birds it struck since May.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

First published in _Hood's Magazine_, August, 1844. It was

rewritten, with five new couplets, and was published in 1845,

in _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, or No. VII. of _Bells and

Pomegranates_. When it appeared in the _Poetical Works_ of 1868, a

fresh verse was added. In 1844 the poem ended as follows:--

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"Be again the boy all curl'd;

I will finish with the world."

Theocrite grew old at home,

Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.

Morning, evening, noon and night,

"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,

Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;

O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period.

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,

And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;

I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome

Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I

Might praise him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night

Now brings the voice of my delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,

Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,

Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew:

The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away

Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,

And ever lived on earth content,

(He did God's will; to him, all one

If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;

There is no doubt in it, no fear:

"So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways:

I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell

The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,

And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by

The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,

Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,

Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,

An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear,

He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,

And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,

And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped--

Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain,

Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ:

Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:

They sought God side by side.

INSTANS TYRANNUS

Of the million or two, more or less,

I rule and possess,

One man, for some cause undefined,

Was least to my mind.

I struck him, he grovelled of course--

For, what was his force?

I pinned him to earth with my weight

And persistence of hate:

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,

As his lot might be worse.

III

"Were the object less mean, would he stand

At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him and blots

The hole where he squats."

So, I set my five wits on the stretch

To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,

Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh,

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:

Still he kept to his filth.

Had he kith now or kin, were access

To his heart, did I press:

Just a son or a mother to seize!

No such booty as these.

Were it simply a friend to pursue

'Mid my million or two,

Who could pay me in person or pelf

What he owes me himself!

No: I could not but smile through my chafe:

For the fellow lay safe

As his mates do, the midge and the nit,

--Through minuteness, to wit.

Then a humor more great took its place

At the thought of his face,

The droop, the low cares of the mouth,

The trouble uncouth

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain

To put out of its pain.

And, "no!" I admonished myself,

"Is one mocked by an elf,

Is one baffled by toad or by rat?

The gravamen's in that!

How the lion, who crouches to suit

His back to my foot,

Would admire that I stand in debate!

But the small turns the great

If it vexes you,--that is the thing!

Toad or rat vex the king?

Though I waste half my realm to unearth

Toad or rat, 't is well worth!"

So, I soberly laid my last plan

To extinguish the man.

Round his creep-hole, with never a break,

Ran my fires for his sake;

Over-head, did my thunder combine

With my underground mine:

Till I looked from my labor content

To enjoy the event.

VII

When sudden ... how think ye, the end?

Did I say "without friend"?

Say rather, from marge to blue marge

The whole sky grew his targe

With the sun's self for visible boss,

While an Arm ran across

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast

Where the wretch was safe prest!

Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,

The man sprang to his feet,

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!

--So, _I_ was afraid!

MESMERISM

All I believed is true!

I am able yet

All I want, to get

By a method as strange as new:

Dare I trust the same to you?

If at night, when doors are shut,

And the wood-worm picks,

And the death-watch ticks,

And the bar has a flag of smut,

And a cat 's in the water-butt--

And the socket floats and flares,

And the house-beams groan,

And a foot unknown

Is surmised on the garret-stairs,

And the locks slip unawares--

And the spider, to serve his ends,

By a sudden thread,

Arms and legs outspread,

On the table's midst descends,

Comes to find, God knows what friends!--

If since eve drew in, I say,

I have sat and brought

(So to speak) my thought

To bear on the woman away,

Till I felt my hair turn gray--

Till I seemed to have and hold,

In the vacancy

'Twixt the wall and me,

From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold

To the foot in its muslin fold--

Have and hold, then and there,

Her, from head to foot,

Breathing and mute,

Passive and yet aware,

In the grasp of my steady stare--

Hold and have, there and then,

All her body and soul

That completes my whole,

All that women add to men,

In the clutch of my steady ken--

Having and holding, till

I imprint her fast

On the void at last

As the sun does whom he will

By the calotypist's skill--

Then,--if my heart's strength serve,

And through all and each

Of the veils I reach

To her soul and never swerve,

Knitting an iron nerve--

Command her soul to advance

And inform the shape

Which has made escape

And before my countenance

Answers me glance for glance--

I, still with a gesture fit

Of my hands that best

To my soul's behest,

Pointing the power from it,

While myself do steadfast sit--

Steadfast and still the same

On my object bent,

While the hands give vent

To my ardor and my aim

And break into very flame--

Then I reach, I must believe,

Not her soul in vain,

For to me again

It reaches, and past retrieve

Is wound in the toils I weave;

And must follow as I require,

As befits a thrall,

Bringing flesh and all,

Essence and earth-attire,

To the source of the tractile fire:

Till the house called hers, not mine,

With a growing weight

Seems to suffocate

If she break not its leaden line

And escape from its close confine.

Out of doors into the night!

On to the maze

Of the wild wood-ways,

Not turning to left nor right

From the pathway, blind with sight--

Making through rain and wind

O'er the broken shrubs,

'Twixt the stems and stubs,

With a still, composed, strong mind,

Nor a care for the world behind--

Swifter and still more swift,

As the crowding peace

Doth to joy increase

In the wide blind eyes uplift

Through the darkness and the drift!

While I--to the shape, I too

Feel my soul dilate

Nor a whit abate,

And relax not a gesture due,

As I see my belief come true.

For, there! have I drawn or no

Life to that lip?

Do my fingers dip

In a flame which again they throw

On the cheek that breaks aglow?

Ha! was the hair so first?

What, unfilleted,

Made alive, and spread

Through the void with a rich outburst,

Chestnut gold-interspersed?

Like the doors of a casket-shrine,

See, on either side,

Her two arms divide

Till the heart betwixt makes sign,

Take me, for I am thine!

"Now--now"--the door is heard!

Hark, the stairs! and near--

Nearer--and here--

"Now!" and at call the third

She enters without a word.

On doth she march and on

To the fancied shape;

It is, past escape,

Herself, now: the dream is done

And the shadow and she are one.

First I will pray. Do Thou

That ownest the soul,

Yet wilt grant control

To another, nor disallow

For a time, restrain me now!

I admonish me while I may,

Not to squander guilt,

Since require Thou wilt

At my hand its price one day!

What the price is, who can say?

THE GLOVE

(PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.)

"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis,

"Distance all value enhances!

When a man 's busy, why, leisure

Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:

'Faith, and at leisure once is he?

Straightway he wants to be busy.

Here we 've got peace; and aghast I 'm

Caught thinking war the true pastime.

Is there a reason in metre?

Give us your speech, master Peter!"

I who, if mortal dare say so,

Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,

"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:

Men are the merest Ixions"--

Here the King whistled aloud, "Let 's

--Heigho--go look at our lions!"

Such are the sorrowful chances

If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding

Our company, Francis was leading,

Increased by new followers tenfold

Before he arrived at the penfold;

Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen

At sunset the western horizon.

And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost

With the dame he professed to adore most.

Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed

Her, and the horrible pitside;

For the penfold surrounded a hollow

Which led where the eye scarce dared follow.

And shelved to the chamber secluded

Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab

As glossy and black as a scarab,

And bade him make sport and at once stir

Up and out of his den the old monster.

They opened a hole in the wire-work

Across it, and dropped there a firework,

And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;

A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,

The blackness and silence so utter,

By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;

Then earth in a sudden contortion

Gave out to our gaze her abortion.

Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot

(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,

And whose faculties move in no small mist

When he versifies David the Psalmist)

I should study that brute to describe you

_Ilium Juda Leonem de Tribu_.

One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy

To see the black mane, vast and heapy,

The tail in the air stiff and straining,

The wide eyes, nor-waxing nor waning,

As over the barrier which bounded

His platform, and us who surrounded

The barrier, they reached and they rested

On space that might stand him in best stead:

For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,

The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,

And if, in this minute of wonder,

No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,

Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,

The lion at last was delivered?

Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!

And you saw by the flash on his forehead,

By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,

He was leagues in the desert already,

Driving the flocks up the mountain,

Or catlike couched hard by the fountain

To waylay the date-gathering negress:

So guarded he entrance or egress.

"How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,

(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere

And so can afford the confession,)

We exercise wholesome discretion

In keeping aloof from his threshold,

Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,

Their first would too pleasantly purloin

The visitor's brisket or surloin:

But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?

Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

The sentence no sooner was uttered,

Than over the rails a glove fluttered,

Fell close to the lion, and rested:

The dame 't was, who flung it and jested

With life so, De Lorge had been wooing

For months past; he sat there pursuing

His suit, weighing out with nonchalance

Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!

De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,

Walked straight to the glove,--while the lion

Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on

The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,

And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,--

Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,

Leaped back where the lady was seated,

And full in the face of its owner

Flung the glove.

"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?

So should I!"--cried the King--"'t was mere vanity,

Not love, set that task to humanity!"

Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing

From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expression

In her brow's undisturbed self-possession

Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,--

As if from no pleasing experiment

She rose, yet of pain not much heedful

So long as the process was needful,--

As if she had tried in a crucible,

To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,

And, finding the finest prove copper,

Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;

To know what she had _not_ to trust to,

Was worth all the ashes and dust too.

She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;

Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,

And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?

If she wished not the rash deed's recallment?

"For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet:

Human nature,--behooves that I know it!"

She told me, "Too long had I heard

Of the deed proved alone by the word:

For my love--what De Lorge would not dare!

With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare!

And the endless descriptions of death

He would brave when my lip formed a breath,

I must reckon as braved, or, of course,

Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce,

For such gifts as no lady could spurn,

Must offer my love in return.

When I looked on your lion, it brought

All the dangers at once to my thought,

Encountered by all sorts of men,

Before he was lodged in his den,--

From the poor slave whose club or bare hands

Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,

With no King and no Court to applaud,

By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,

Yet to capture the creature made shift,

That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,

--To the page who last leaped o'er the fence

Of the pit, on no greater pretence

Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,

Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.

So, wiser I judged it to make

One trial what 'death for my sake'

Really meant, while the power was yet mine,

Than to wait until time should define

Such a phrase not so simply as I,

Who took it to mean just 'to die.'

The blow a glove gives is but weak:

Does the mark yet discolor my cheek?

But when the heart suffers a blow,

Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

I looked, as away she was sweeping,

And saw a youth eagerly keeping

As close as he dared to the doorway.

No doubt that a noble should more weigh

His life than befits a plebeian;

And yet, had our brute been Nemean--

(I judge by a certain palm fervor

The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)

--He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn

If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"

And when, shortly after, she carried

Her shame from the Court, and they married,

To that marriage some happiness, maugre

The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,

Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;

And in short stood so plain a head taller

That he wooed and won ... how do you call her?

The beauty, that rose in the sequel

To the King's love, who loved her a week well.

And 't was noticed he never would honor

De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)

With the easy commission of stretching

His legs in the service, and fetching

His wife, from her chamber, those straying

Sad gloves she was always mislaying,

While the King took the closet to chat in,--

But of course this adventure came pat in.

And never the King told the story,

How bringing a glove brought such glory,

But the wife smiled--"His nerves are grown firmer:

Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

_Venienti occurrite morbo!_

With which moral I drop my theorbo.

TIME'S REVENGES

I've a Friend, over the sea;

I like him, but he loves me.

It all grew out of the books I write;

They find such favor in his sight

That he slaughters you with savage looks

Because you don't admire my books.

He does himself though,--and if some vein

Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,

To-morrow month, if I lived to try,

Round should I just turn quietly,

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand

Till I found him, come from his foreign land

To be my nurse in this poor place,

And make my broth and wash my face

And light my fire and, all the while,

Bear with his old good-humored smile

That I told him "Better have kept away

Than come and kill me, night and day,

With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,

The creaking of his clumsy boots."

I am as sure that this he would do,

As that Saint Paul's is striking two.

And I think I rather ... woe is me!

--Yes, rather should see him than not see,

If lifting a hand could seat him there

Before me in the empty chair

To-night, when my head aches indeed,

And I can neither think nor read,

Nor make these purple fingers hold

The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

And I 've a Lady--there he wakes,

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes

Within me, at her name, to pray

Fate send some creature in the way

Of my love for her, to be down-torn,

Upthrust and outward-borne,

So I might prove myself that sea

Of passion which I needs must be!

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint

And my style infirm and its figures faint,

All the critics say, and more blame yet,

And not one angry word you get.

But, please you, wonder I would put

My cheek beneath that lady's foot

Rather than trample under mine

The laurels of the Florentine,

And you shall see how the devil spends

A fire God gave for other ends!

I tell you, I stride up and down

This garret, crowned with love's best crown,

And feasted with love's perfect feast,

To think I kill for her, at least,

Body and soul and peace and fame,

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,

--So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,

Filled full, eaten out and in

With the face of her, the eyes of her,

The lips, the little chin, the stir

Of shadow round her mouth; and she

--I'll tell you--calmly would decree

That I should roast at a slow fire,

If that would compass her desire

And make her one whom they invite

To the famous ball to-morrow night.

There may be heaven; there must be hell;

Meantime, there is our earth here--well!

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

Both this poem and the following were written after Browning's visit

to Italy in 1844. As originally published they were entitled _Italy in

England_ and _England in Italy_. The dramatic incident in the former

poem was not a rescript of a particular historic incident.

That second time they hunted me

From hill to plain, from shore to sea,

And Austria, hounding far and wide

Her blood-hounds through the country-side,

Breathed hot and instant on my trace,--

I made six days a hiding-place

Of that dry green old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked

The fire-flies from the roof above,

Bright creeping through the moss they love:

--How long it seems since Charles was lost!

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed

The country in my very sight;

And when that peril ceased at night,

The sky broke out in red dismay

With signal fires; well, there I lay

Close covered o'er in my recess,

Up to the neck in ferns and cress,

Thinking on Metternich our friend,

And Charles's miserable end,

And much beside, two days; the third,

Hunger o'ercame me when I heard

The peasants from the village go

To work among the maize; you know,

With us in Lombardy, they bring

Provisions packed on mules, a string

With little bells that cheer their task,

And casks, and boughs on every cask

To keep the sun's heat from the wine;

These I let pass in jingling line,

And, close on them, dear noisy crew,

The peasants from the village, too;

For at the very rear would troop

Their wives and sisters in a group

To help, I knew. When these had passed,

I threw my glove to strike the last,

Taking the chance: she did not start,

Much less cry out, but stooped apart,

One instant rapidly glanced round,

And saw me beckon from the ground;

A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;

She picked my glove up while she stripped

A branch off, then rejoined the rest

With that; my glove lay in her breast.

Then I drew breath: they disappeared:

It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone

Exactly where my glove was thrown.

Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me

Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 't was told her, could not fail

Persuade a peasant of its truth;

I meant to call a freak of youth

This hiding, and give hopes of pay,

And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman's face,

Its calm simplicity of grace,

Our Italy's own attitude

In which she walked thus far, and stood,

Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm--

At first sight of her eyes, I said,

"I am that man upon whose head

They fix the price, because I hate

The Austrians over us: the State

Will give you gold--oh, gold so much!--

If you betray me to their clutch,

And be your death, for aught I know,

If once they find you saved their foe.

Now, you must bring me food and drink,

And also paper, pen and ink,

And carry safe what I shall write

To Padua, which you'll reach at night

Before the duomo shuts; go in,

And wait till Tenebræ begin;

Walk to the third confessional,

Between the pillar and the wall,

And kneeling whisper, _Whence comes peace?_

Say it a second time, then cease;

And if the voice inside returns,

_From Christ and Freedom; what concerns_

_The cause of Peace?_--for answer, slip

My letter where you placed your lip;

Then come back happy we have done

Our mother service--I, the son,

As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her stand

In the same place, with the same eyes:

I was no surer of sunrise

Than of her coming. We conferred

Of her own prospects, and I heard

She had a lover--stout and tall,

She said--then let her eyelids fall,

"He could do much"--as if some doubt

Entered her heart,--then, passing out,

"She could not speak for others, who

Had other thoughts; herself she knew:"

And so she brought me drink and food.

After four days, the scouts pursued

Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived

To furnish me: she brought the news.

For the first time I could not choose

But kiss her hand, and lay my own

Upon her head--"This faith was shown

To Italy, our mother; she

Uses my hand and blesses thee."

She followed down to the sea-shore;

I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought

Concerning--much less wished for--aught

Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, what shall now convince

My inmost heart I have a friend?

However, if I pleased to spend

Real wishes on myself--say, three--

I know at least what one should be.

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distil

In blood through these two hands. And next,

--Nor much for that am I perplexed--

Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,

Should die slow of a broken heart

Under his new employers. Last

--Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast

Do I grow old and out of strength.

If I resolved to seek at length

My father's house again, how scared

They all would look, and unprepared!

My brothers live in Austria's pay

--Disowned me long ago, men say;

And all my early mates who used

To praise me so--perhaps induced

More than one early step of mine--

Are turning wise: while some opine

"Freedom grows license," some suspect

"Haste breeds delay," and recollect

They always said, such premature

Beginnings never could endure!

So, with a sullen "All's for best,"

The land seems settling: to its rest.

I think then, I should wish to stand

This evening in that dear, lost land,

Over the sea the thousand miles,

And know if yet that woman smiles

With the calm smile; some little farm

She lives in there, no doubt: what harm

If I sat on the door-side bench,

And, while her spindle made a trench

Fantastically in the dust,

Inquired of all her fortunes--just

Her children's ages and their names,

And what may be the husband's aims

For each of them. I'd talk this out,

And sit there, for an hour about,

Then kiss her hand once more, and lay

Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing--how

It steals the time! To business now.

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY

PIANO DI SORRENTO

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,

Sit here by my side,

On my knees put up both little feet!

I was sure, if I tried,

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.

Now, open your eyes,

Let me keep you amused till he vanish

In black from the skies,

With telling my memories over

As you tell your beads;

All the Plain saw me gather, I garland

--The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn

Had net-worked with brown

The white skin of each grape on the bunches,

Marked like a quail's crown,

Those creatures you make such account of,

Whose heads,--speckled white

Over brown like a great spider's back,

As I told you last night,--

Your mother bites off for her supper.

Red-ripe as could be,

Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

In halves on the tree:

And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,

Or in the thick dust

On the path, or straight out of the rock-side,

Wherever could thrust

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower

Its yellow face up,

For the prize were great butterflies fighting,

Some five for one cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,

What change was in store,

By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets

Which woke me before

I could open my shutter, made fast

With a bough and a stone,

And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs,

Sole lattice that's known.

Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,

While, busy beneath,

Your priest and his brother tugged at them,

The rain in their teeth.

And out upon all the flat house-roofs

Where split figs lay drying,

The girls took the frails under cover:

Nor use seemed in trying

To get out the boats and go fishing,

For, under the cliff,

Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock,

No seeing our skiff

Arrive about noon from Amalfi,

--Our fisher arrive,

And pitch down his basket before us,

All trembling alive

With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit;

You touch the strange lumps,

And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner

Of horns and of humps,

Which only the fisher looks grave at,

While round him like imps

Cling screaming the children as naked

And brown as his shrimps;

Himself too as bare to the middle

--You see round his neck

The string and its brass coin suspended,

That saves him from wreck.

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,

So back, to a roan.

Came our friends, with whose help in the vine-yards

Grape-harvest began.

In the vat, halfway up in our house-side,

Like blood the juice spins,

While your brother all bare-legged is dancing

Till breathless he grins

Dead-beaten in effort on effort

To keep the grapes under,

Since still when he seems all but master,

In pours the fresh plunder

From girls who keep coming and going

With basket on shoulder,

And eyes shut against the rain's driving;

Your girls that are older,--

For under the hedges of aloe,

And where, on its bed

Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple

Lies pulpy and red,

All the young ones are kneeling and filling

Their laps with the snails

Tempted out by this first rainy weather,--

Your best of regales,

As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,

When, supping in state,

We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,

Three over one plate)

With lasagne so tempting to swallow

In slippery ropes,

And gourds fried in great purple slices,

That color of popes.

Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:

The rain-water slips

O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe

Which the wasp to your lips

Still follows with fretful persistence:

Nay, taste, while awake,

This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball

That peels, flake by flake,

Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;

Next, sip this weak wine

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,

A leaf of the vine;

And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh

That leaves through its juice

The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.

Scirocco is loose!

Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives

Which, thick in one's track,

Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,

Though not yet half black!

How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,

The medlars let fall

Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees

Snap off, figs and all,

For here comes the whole of the tempest!

No refuge, but creep

Back again to my side and my shoulder,

And listen or sleep.

Oh, how will your country show next week,

When all the vine-boughs

Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture

The mules and the cows?

Last eve, I rode over the mountains;

Your brother, my guide,

Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles

That offered, each side,

Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,--

Or strip from the sorbs

A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,

Those hairy gold orbs!

But my mule picked his sure sober path out,

Just stopping to neigh

When he recognized down in the valley

His mates on their way

With the faggots and barrels of water;

And soon we emerged

From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;

And still as we urged

Our way, the woods wondered, and left us,

As up still we trudged,

Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,

And place was e'en grudged

'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones

Like the loose broken teeth

Of some monster which climbed there to die

From the ocean beneath--

Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed

That clung to the path,

And dark rosemary ever a-dying

That, 'spite the wind's wrath,

So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,

And lentisks as stanch

To the stone where they root and bear berries,

And ... what shows a branch

Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets

Of pale seagreen leaves;

Over all trod my mule with the caution

Of gleaners o'er sheaves,

Still, foot after foot like a lady,

Till, round after round,

He climbed to the top of Calvano,

And God's own profound

Was above me, and round me the mountains,

And under, the sea,

And within me my heart to bear witness

What was and shall be.

Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!

No rampart excludes

Your eye from the life to be lived

In the blue solitudes.

Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!

Still moving with you;

For, ever some new head and breast of them

Thrusts into view

To observe the intruder; you see it

If quickly you turn

And, before they escape you, surprise them.

They grudge you should learn

How the soft plains they look on, lean over

And love (they pretend)

--Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,

The wild fruit-trees bend,

E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:

All is silent and grave:

'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,

How fair! but a slave.

So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered

As greenly as ever

Those isles of the siren, your Galli;

No ages can sever

The Three, nor enable their sister

To join them,--halfway

On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses--

No farther to-day,

Though the small one, just launched in the wave

Watches breast-high and steady

From under the rock, her bold sister

Swum halfway already.

Fortù, shall we sail there together

And see from the sides

Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts

Where the siren abides?

Shall we sail round and round them, close over

The rocks, though unseen,

That ruffle the gray glassy water

To glorious green?

Then scramble from splinter to splinter,

Reach land and explore,

On the largest, the strange square black turret

With never a door,

Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;

Then, stand there and hear

The birds' quiet singing, that tells us

What life is, so clear?

--The secret they sang to Ulysses

When, ages ago,

He heard and he knew this life's secret

I hear and I know.

Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;

He strikes the great gloom

And flutters it o'er the mount's summit

In airy gold fume.

All is over. Look out, see the gypsy,

Our tinker and smith,

Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,

And down-squatted forthwith

To his hammering, under the wall there;

One eye keeps aloof

The urchins that itch to be putting

His jews'-harps to proof,

While the other, through locks of curled wire,

Is watching how sleek

Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall

--Chew abbot's own cheek!

All is over. Wake up and come out now,

And down let us go,

And see the fine things got in order

At church for the show.

Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening;

To-morrow's the Feast

Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means

Of Virgins the least,

As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse

Which (all nature, no art)

The Dominican brother, these three weeks,

Was getting by heart.

Not a pillar nor post but is dizened

With red and blue papers;

All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar

Ablaze with long tapers;

But the great masterpiece is the scaffold

Rigged glorious to hold

All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers

And trumpeters bold,

Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,

Who, when the priest's hoarse,

Will strike us up something that's brisk

For the feast's second course.

And then will the flaxen-wigged Image

Be carried in pomp

Through the plain, while in gallant procession

The priests mean to stomp.

All round the glad church lie old bottles

With gunpowder stopped,

Which will be, when the Image re-enters,

Religiously popped;

And at night from the crest of Calvano

Great bonfires will hang,

On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,

And more poppers bang.

At all events, come--to the garden

As far as the wall;

See me tap with a hoe on the plaster

Till out there shall fall

A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

--"Such trifles!" you say?

Fortù, in my England at home,

Men meet gravely to-day

And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws

Be righteous and wise

--If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish

In black from the skies.'

IN A GONDOLA

In a letter to Miss Haworth, Browning writes, "I am getting to love

painting as I did once.... I chanced to call on Forster the other day,

and he pressed me into committing verse on the instant, not the minute,

in Maclise's behalf, who has wrought a divine Venetian work, it seems,

for the British Institution. Forster described it well--but I could

do nothing better than this wooden ware--(all the 'properties,' as we

say, were given and the problem was how to catalogue them in rhyme and

unreason.)" Thereupon followed the first stanza of the following poem;

but after seeing the picture he was moved to go on and carry the poem

through to a real end.

_He sings._

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing.

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;

The very night is clinging

Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space

Above me, whence thy face

May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling place.

_She speaks._

Say after me, and try to say

My very words, as if each word

Came from you of your own accord,

In your own voice, in your own way:

"This woman's heart and soul and brain

Are mine as much as this gold chain

She bids me wear; which" (say again)

"I choose to make by cherishing

A precious thing, or choose to fling

Over the boat-side, ring by ring."

And yet once more say ... no word more!

Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Unless you call me, all the same,

Familiarly by my pet name,

Which if the Three should hear you call.

And me reply to, would proclaim

At once our secret to them all.

Ask of me, too, command me, blame--

Do, break down the partition-wall

'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!

What's left but--all of me to take?

I am the Three's: prevent them, slake

Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,

In practising with gems, can loose

Their subtle spirit in his cruce

And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,

Leave them my ashes when thy use

Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

_He sings._

Past we glide, and past, and past!

What's that poor Agnese doing

Where they make the shutters fast?

Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing

To his couch the purchased bride:

Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past!

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring

Like a beacon to the blast?

Guests by hundreds, not one caring

If the dear host's neck were wried:

Past we glide!

_She sings._

The moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

You were not sure, this eve,

How my face, your flower, had pursed

Its petals up; so, here and there

You brush it, till I grow aware

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now!

Kiss me as if you entered gay

My heart at some noonday,

A bud that dares not disallow

The claim, so all is rendered up,

And passively its shattered cup

Over your head to sleep I bow.

_He sings._

What are we two?

I am a Jew,

And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,

To a feast of our tribe;

Where they need thee to bribe

The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe

Thy ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are?

The sprite of a star,

I lure thee above where the destinies bar

My plumes their full play

Till a ruddier ray

Than my pale one announce there is withering away

Some ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

_He muses._

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?

The land's lap or the water's breast?

To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,

Or swim in lucid shallows just

Eluding water-lily leaves,

An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust

To lock you, whom release he must;

Which life were best on Summer eves?

_He speaks, musing._

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?

From this shoulder let there spring

A wing; from this, another wing;

Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!

Snow-white must they spring, to blend

With your flesh, but I intend

They shall deepen to the end,

Broader, into burning gold,

Till both wings crescent-wise enfold

Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet

To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet

As if a million sword-blades hurled

Defiance from you to the world!

Rescue me thou, the only real!

And scare away this mad ideal

That came, nor motions to depart!

Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

_Still he muses._

What if the Three should catch at last

Thy serenader? While there's cast

Paul's cloak about my head, and fast

Gian pinions me, Himself has past

His stylet through my back; I reel;

And ... is it thou I feel?

They trail me, these three godless knaves,

Past every church that saints and saves,

Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves

By Lido's wet accursed graves,

They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,

And ... on thy breast I sink!

_She replies, musing._

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,

As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,

Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,

Or poison doubtless; but from water--feel!

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!

Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass

To plait in where the foolish jewel was,

I flung away: since you have praised my hair,

'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.

_He speaks._

Row home? must we row home? Too surely

Know I where its front's demurely

Over the Giudecca piled;

Window just with window mating,

Door on door exactly waiting,

All's the set face of a child:

But behind it, where's a trace

Of the staidness and reserve,

And formal lines without a curve,

In the same child's playing-face?

No two windows look one way

O'er the small sea-water thread

Below them. Ah, the autumn day

I, passing, saw you overhead!

First, out a cloud of curtain blew,

Then a sweet cry, and last came you--

To catch your lory that must needs

Escape just then, of all times then,

To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,

And make me happiest of men.

I scarce could breathe to see you reach

So far back o'er the balcony

To catch him ere he climbed too high

Above you in the Smyrna peach,

That quick the round smooth cord of gold,

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake

The Roman girls were wont, of old,

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.

Dear lory, may his beak retain

Ever its delicate rose stain

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms

Had marked their thief to know again!

Stay longer yet, for others' sake

Than mine! What should your chamber do?

--With all its rarities that ache

In silence while day lasts, but wake

At night-time and their life renew,

Suspended just to pleasure you

Who brought against their will together

These objects, and, while day lasts, weave

Around them such a magic tether

That dumb they look: your harp, believe,

With all the sensitive tight strings

Which dare not speak, now to itself

Breathes slumberously, as if some elf

Went in and out the chords, his wings

Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze,

As an angel may, between the maze

Of midnight palace-pillars, on

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone

Through guilty glorious Babylon.

And while such murmurs flow, the nymph

Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell

As the dry limpet for the lymph

Come with a tune he knows so well.

And how your statues' hearts must swell!

And how your pictures must descend

To see each other, friend with friend!

Oh, could you take them by surprise,

You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke

Doing the quaintest courtesies

To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!

And, deeper into her rock den,

Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen

You 'd find retreated from the ken

Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser--

As if the Tizian thinks of her,

And is not, rather, gravely bent

On seeing for himself what toys

Are these, his progeny invent,

What litter now the board employs

Whereon he signed a document

That got him murdered! Each enjoys

Its night so well, you cannot break

The sport up, so, indeed must make

More stay with me, for others' sake.

_She speaks._

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,

Is used to tie the jasmine back

That overfloods my room with sweets,

Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets

My Zanze! If the ribbon's black,

The Three are watching: keep away!

Your gondola--let Zorzi wreathe

A mesh of water-weeds about

Its prow, as if he unaware

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!

That I may throw a paper out

As you and he go underneath.

There 's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we.

Only one minute more to-night with me?

Resume your past self of a month ago!

Be you the bashful gallant, I will be

The lady with the colder breast than snow.

Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand

More than I touch yours when I step to land,

And say, "All thanks, Siora!"--

Heart to heart

And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,

Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!

_He_ is _surprised, and stabbed._

It was ordained to be so, sweet!--and best

Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.

Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair

My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn

To death, because they never lived: but I

Have lived indeed, and so--(yet one more kiss)--can die!

WARING

An account of Alfred Domett, Browning's early friend, who was the

occasion of this poem, will be found in the notes.

What 's become of Waring

Since he gave us all the slip,

Chose land-travel or seafaring,

Boots and chest or staff and scrip,

Rather than pace up and down

Any longer London town?

Who'd have guessed it from his lip

Or his brow's accustomed bearing,

On the night he thus took ship

Or started landward?--little caring

For us, it seems, who supped together

(Friends of his too, I remember)

And walked home through the merry weather,

The snowiest in all December.

I left his arm that night myself

For what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poet

Who wrote the book there, on the shelf--

How, forsooth, was I to know it

If Waring meant to glide away

Like a ghost at break of day?

Never looked he half so gay!

III

He was prouder than the devil:

How he must have cursed our revel!

Ay and many other meetings,

Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,

As up and down he paced this London,

With no work done, but great works undone,

Where scarce twenty knew his name.

Why not, then, have earlier spoken,

Written, bustled? Who 's to blame

If your silence kept unbroken?

"True, but there were sundry jottings,

Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,

Certain first steps were achieved

Already which"--(is that your meaning?)

"Had well borne out whoe'er believed

In more to come!" But who goes gleaning

Hedgeside chance-blades, while full-sheaved

Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening

Pride alone, puts forth such claims

O'er the day's distinguished names.

Meantime, how much I loved him,

I find out now I 've lost him.

I who cared not if I moved him,

Who could so carelessly accost him,

Henceforth never shall get free

Of his ghostly company.

His eyes that just a little wink

As deep I go into the merit

Of this and that distinguished spirit--

His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink,

As long I dwell on some stupendous

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman's latest piece of graphic.

Nay, my very wrist grows warm

With his dragging weight of arm.

E'en so, swimmingly appears,

Through one's after-supper musings,

Some lost lady of old years

With her beauteous vain endeavor

And goodness unrepaid as ever;

The face, accustomed to refusings,

We, puppies that we were ... Oh never

Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled

Being aught like false, forsooth, to?

Telling aught but honest truth to?

What a sin, had we centupled

Its possessor's grace and sweetness!

No! she heard in its completeness

Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter,

And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!

Well, 't is done with; she 's exempt

From damning us through such a sally;

And so she glides, as down a valley,

Taking up with her contempt,

Past our reach; and in, the flowers

Shut her unregarded hours.

Oh, could I have him back once more,

This Waring, but one half-day more!

Back, with the quiet face of yore,

So hungry for acknowledgment

Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent.

Feed, should not he, to heart's content?

I 'd say, "to only have conceived,

Planned your great works, apart from progress,

Surpasses little works achieved!"

I 'd lie so, I should be believed.

I 'd make such havoc of the claims

Of the day's distinguished names

To feast him with, as feasts an ogress

Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!

Or as one feasts a creature rarely

Captured here, unreconciled

To capture; and completely gives

Its pettish humors license, barely

Requiring that it lives.

Ichabod, Ichabod,

The glory is departed!

Travels Waring East away?

Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,

Reports a man upstarted

Somewhere as a god,

Hordes grown European-hearted,

Millions of the wild made tame

On a sudden at his fame?

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,

With the demurest of footfalls

Over the Kremlin's pavement bright

With serpentine and syenite,

Steps, with five other Generals

That simultaneously take snuff,

For each to have pretext enough

And kerchiefwise unfold his sash

Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff

To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,

And leave the grand white neck no gash?

Waring in Moscow, to those rough

Cold northern natures born perhaps,

Like the lambwhite maiden dear

From the circle of mute kings

Unable to repress the tear,

Each as his sceptre down he flings,

To Dian's fane at Taurica,

Where now a captive priestess, she alway

Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech

With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach

As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands

Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands

Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry

Amid their barbarous twitter!

In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!

Ay, most likely 't is in Spain

That we and Waring meet again

Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane

Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid

All fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slid

Its stiff gold blazing pall

From some black coffin-lid.

Or, best of all,

I love to think

The leaving us was just a feint;

Back here to London did he slink,

And now works on without a wink

Of sleep, and we are on the brink

Of something great in fresco-paint:

Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,

Up and down and o'er and o'er

He splashes, as none splashed before

Since great Caldara Polidore.

Or Music means this land of ours

Some favor yet, to pity won

By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,--

"Give me my so-long promised son,

Let Waring end what I begun!"

Then down he creeps and out he steals

Only when the night conceals

His face; in Kent 't is cherry-time,

Or hops are picking: or at prime

Of March he wanders as, too happy,

Years ago when he was young,

Some mild eve when woods grew sappy

And the early moths had sprung

To life from many a trembling sheath

Woven the warm boughs beneath;

While small birds said to themselves

What should soon be actual song,

And young gnats, by tens and twelves,

Made as if they were the throng

That crowd around and carry aloft

The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure.

Out of a myriad noises soft,

Into a tone that can endure

Amid the noise of a July noon

When all God's creatures crave their boon,

All at once and all in tune,

And get it, happy as Waring then,

Having first within his ken

What a man might do with men:

And far too glad, in the even-glow.

To mix with the world he meant to take

Into his hand, he told you, so--

And out of it his world to make,

To contract and to expand

As he shut or oped his hand.

O Waring, what 's to really be?

A clear stage and a crowd to see!

Some Garrick, say, out shall not he

The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?

Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,

Some Junius--am I right?--shall tuck

His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!

Some Chatterton shall have the luck

Of calling Rowley into life!

Some one shall somehow run a-muck

With this old world for want of strife

Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive

To rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive?

Our men scarce seem in earnest now.

Distinguished names!--but 't is, somehow,

As if they played at being names

Still more distinguished, like the games

Of children. Turn our sport to earnest

With a visage of the sternest!

Bring the real times back, confessed

Still better than our very best!

"When I last saw Waring ..."

(How all turned to him who spoke!

You saw Waring? Truth or joke?

In land-travel or sea-faring?)

"We were sailing by Triest

Where a day or two we harbored:

A sunset was in the West,

When, looking over the vessel's side,

One of our company espied

A sudden speck to larboard.

And as a sea-duck flies and swims

At once, so came the light craft up,

With its sole lateen sail that trims

And turns (the water round its rims

Dancing, as round a sinking cup)

And by us like a fish it curled,

And drew itself up close beside,

Its great sail on the instant furled,

And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,

(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)

'Buy wine of us, you English brig?

Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?

A pilot for you to Triest?

Without one, look you ne'er so big,

They 'll never let you up the bay!

We natives should know best.'

I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'

Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves

Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'

III

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;

And one, half-hidden by his side

Under the furled sail, soon I spied,

With great grass hat and kerchief black,

Who looked up with his kingly throat

Said somewhat, while the other shook

His hair back from his eyes to look

Their longest at us; then the boat,

I know not how, turned sharply round,

Laying her whole side on the sea

As a leaping fish does; from the lee

Into the weather, cut somehow

Her sparkling path beneath our bow

And so went off, as with a bound,

Into the rosy and golden half

O' the sky, to overtake the sun

And reach the shore, like the sea-calf

Its singing cave; yet I caught one

Glance ere away the boat quite passed,

And neither time nor toil could mar

Those features: so I saw the last

Of Waring!"--You? Oh, never star

Was lost here but it rose afar!

Look East, where whole new thousands are!

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

THE TWINS

"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"

Originally published in 1854, in connection with a poem by Mrs.

Browning, _A Plea for the Ragged Schools of London_, in a volume issued

for a bazaar to benefit the "Refuge for Young Destitute Girls."

Grand rough old Martin Luther

Bloomed fables--flowers on furze,

The better the uncouther:

Do roses stick like burrs?

A beggar asked an alms

One day at an abbey-door,

Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,

The Abbot replied, "We 're poor!

"Poor, who had plenty once,

When gifts fell thick as rain:

But they give us naught, for the nonce,

And how should we give again?"

Then the beggar, "See your sins!

Of old, unless I err,

Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,

Date and Dabitur.

"While Date was in good case

Dabitur flourished too:

For Dabitur's lenten face

No wonder if Date rue.

"Would ye retrieve the one?

Try and make plump the other!

When Date's penance is done,

Dabitur helps his brother.

"Only, beware relapse!"

The Abbot hung his head.

This beggar might be perhaps

An angel, Luther said.

A LIGHT WOMAN

So far as our story approaches the end,

Which do you pity the most of us three?--

My friend, or the mistress of my friend

With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet,

When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose,

And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

A shame, said I, if she adds just him

To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,

The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers,

How easy to prove to him, I said,

An eagle 's the game her pride prefers,

Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,

My hand sought hers as in earnest need,

And round she turned for my noble sake,

And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,

The wren is he, with his maiden face.

--You look away and your lip is curled?

Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white;

He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night,

Eclipsing his sun's disk.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

"Though I love her--that, he comprehends--

One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)

And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,--she lies in my hand as tame

As a pear late basking over a wall;

Just a touch to try and off it came;

'T is mine,--can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst!

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?

'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst

When I gave its stalk a twist.

And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see:

What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:

What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?

No hero, I confess.

'T is an awkward thing to play with souls,

And matter enough to save one's own:

Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals

He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth;

That the woman was light is very true:

But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth!

What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, here the story stays,

So far at least as I understand;

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,

Here 's a subject made to your hand!

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

I said--Then, dearest, since 't is so,

Since now at length my fate I know,

Since nothing all my love avails,

Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,

Since this was written and needs must be--

My whole heart rises up to bless

Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,--I claim

Only a memory of the same,

--And this beside, if you will not blame,

Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;

Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs

When pity would be softening through,

Fixed me a breathing-while or two

With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished me again;

My last thought was at least not vain:

I and my mistress, side by side

Shall be together, breathe and ride,

So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed

By many benedictions--sun's

And moon's and evening-star's at once--

And so, you, looking and loving best,

Conscious grew, your passion drew

Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,

Down on you, near and yet more near,

Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!--

Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul

Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll

Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this,

So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well

She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive, and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,

Saw other regions, cities new,

As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,--All labor, yet no less

Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast

The petty done, the undone vast,

This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshly screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There's many a crown for who can reach.

Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!

The flag stuck on a heap of bones,

A soldier's doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.

My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,

Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell

What we felt only; you expressed

You hold things beautiful the best,

And place them in rhyme so, side by side.

'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,

Have you yourself what's best for men?

Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time--

Nearer one whit your own sublime

Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave

A score of years to Art, her slave,

And that's your Venus, whence we turn

To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown gray

With notes and nothing else to say,

Is this your sole praise from a friend,

"Greatly his opera's strains intend,

But in music we know how fashions end!"

I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate

Proposed bliss here should sublimate

My being--had I signed the bond--

Still one must lead some life beyond,

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.

This foot once planted on the goal,

This glory-garland round my soul,

Could I descry such? Try and test!

I sink back shuddering from the quest.

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong

At life's best, with our eyes upturned

Whither life's flower is first discerned,

We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two,

With life forever old yet new,

Changed not in kind but in degree,

The instant made eternity,--

And heaven just prove that I and she

Ride, ride together, forever ride?

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

A CHILD'S STORY

(_Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger_)

Macready's eldest son when a child was confined to the house by

illness, and Browning wrote this _jeu d'esprit_ to amuse the child and

give him a subject for illustrative drawings.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

"'T is clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;

And as for our Corporation--shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease?

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sat in council;

At length the Mayor broke silence:

"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain--

I'm sure my poor head aches again,

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?

(With the Corporation as he sat,

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning Cambridge Edition · 第 5 / 34 章