_Nor._ The Queen 's the Qu_The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning Cambridge Edition

I am myself--no picture, but alive

In every nerve and every muscle, here

At the palace-window o'er the people's street,

As she in the gallery where the pictures glow:

The good of life is precious to us both.

She cannot love; what do I want with rule?

When first I saw your face a year ago

I knew my life's good, my soul heard one voice--

"The woman yonder, there 's no use of life

But just to obtain her! heap earth's woes in one

And bear them--make a pile of all earth's joys

And spurn them, as they help or help not this;

Only, obtain her!" How was it to be?

I found you were the cousin of the Queen;

I must then serve the Queen to get to you.

No other way. Suppose there had been one,

And I, by saying prayers to some white star

With promise of my body and my soul,

Might gain you,--should I pray the star or no?

Instead, there was the Queen to serve! I served,

Helped, did what other servants failed to do.

Neither she sought nor I declared my end.

Her good is hers, my recompense be mine,--

I therefore name you as that recompense.

She dreamed that such a thing could never be?

Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause

In love of power, high fame, pure loyalty?

Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives

Chasing such shades. Then, I 've a fancy too;

I worked because I want you with my soul:

I therefore ask your hand. Let it be now!

_Con._ Had I not loved you from the very first,

Were I not yours, could we not steal out thus

So wickedly, so wildly, and so well,

You might become impatient. What 's conceived

Of us without here, by the folk within?

Where are you now? immersed in cares of state--

Where am I now? intent on festal robes--

We two, embracing under death's spread hand!

What was this thought for, what that scruple of yours

Which broke the council up?--to bring about

One minute's meeting in the corridor!

And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies,

Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs,

Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look,

"Does she know? does she not know? saved or lost?"

A year of this compression's ecstasy

All goes for nothing! you would give this up

For the old way, the open way, the world's,

His way who beats, and his who sells his wife!

What tempts you?--their notorious happiness

Makes you ashamed of ours? The best you 'll gain

Will be--the Queen grants all that you require,

Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you

And me at once, and gives us ample leave

To live like our five hundred happy friends.

The world will show us with officious hand

Our chamber-entry, and stand sentinel

Where we so oft have stolen across its traps!

Get the world's warrant, ring the falcons' feet,

And make it duty to be bold and swift,

Which long ago was nature. Have it so!

We never hawked by rights till flung from fist?

Oh, the man's thought! no woman's such a fool.

_Nor._ Yes, the man's thought and my thought, which is more--

One made to love you, let the world take note!

Have I done worthy work? be love's the praise,

Though hampered by restrictions, barred against

By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies!

Set free my love, and see what love can do

Shown in my life--what work will spring from that!

The world is used to have its business done

On other grounds, find great effects produced

For power's sake, fame's sake, motives in men's mouth.

So, good: but let my low ground shame their high!

Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true!

And love's the truth of mine. Time prove the rest!

I choose to wear you stamped all over me,

Your name upon my forehead and my breast,

You, from the sword's blade to the ribbon's edge,

That men may see, all over, you in me--

That pale loves may die out of their pretence

In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off.

Permit this, Constance! Love has been so long

Subdued in me, eating me through and through,

That now 't is all of me and must have way.

Think of my work, that chaos of intrigues,

Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays,

That long endeavor, earnest, patient, slow,

Trembling at last to its assured result:

Then think of this revulsion! I resume

Life after death, (it is no less than life,

After such long unlovely laboring days,)

And liberate to beauty life's great need

O' the beautiful, which, while it prompted work,

Suppressed itself erewhile. This eve's the time,

This eve intense with yon first trembling star

We seem to pant and reach; scarce aught between

The earth that rises and the heaven that bends;

All nature self-abandoned, every tree

Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts

And fixed so, every flower and every weed,

No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat;

All under God, each measured by itself.

These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct,

The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed,

The Muse forever wedded to her lyre,

Nymph to her fawn, and Silence to her rose:

See God's approval on his universe!

Let us do so--aspire to live as these

In harmony with truth, ourselves being true!

Take the first way, and let the second come!

My first is to possess myself of you;

The music sets the march-step--forward, then!

And there 's the Queen, I go to claim you of,

The world to witness, wonder and applaud.

Our flower of life breaks open. No delay!

_Con._ And so shall we be ruined, both of us.

Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone:

You do not know her, were not born to it,

To feel what she can see or cannot see.

Love, she is generous,--ay, despite your smile,

Generous as you are: for, in that thin frame

Pain-twisted, punctured through and through with cares,

There lived a lavish soul until it starved,

Debarred of healthy food. Look to the soul--

Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin

(The true man's--way) on justice and your rights,

Exactions and acquittance of the past!

Begin so--see what justice she will deal!

We women hate a debt as men a gift.

Suppose her some poor keeper of a school

Whose business is to sit through summer months

And dole out children leave to go and play,

Herself superior to such lightness--she

In the arm-chair's state and pædagogic pomp--

To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside:

We wonder such a face looks black on us?

I do not bid you wake her tenderness,

(That were vain truly--none is left to wake,)

But, let her think her justice is engaged

To take the shape of tenderness, and mark

If she 'll not coldly pay its warmest debt!

Does she love me, I ask you? not a whit:

Yet, thinking that her justice was engaged

To help a kinswoman, she took me up--

Did more on that bare ground than other loves

Would do on greater argument. For me,

I have no equivalent of such cold kind

To pay her with, but love alone to give

If I give anything. I give her love:

I feel I ought to help her, and I will.

So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice

That women hate a debt as men a gift.

If I were you, I could obtain this grace--

Could lay the whole I did to love's account,

Nor yet be very false as courtiers go--

Declaring my success was recompense;

It would be so, in fact: what were it else?

And then, once loose her generosity,--

Oh, how I see it! then, were I but you

To turn it, let it seem to move itself,

And make it offer what I really take,

Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand,

Her value as the next thing to the Queen's--

Since none love Queens directly, none dare that,

And a thing's shadow or a name's mere echo

Suffices those who miss the name and thing!

You pick up just a ribbon she has worn,

To keep in proof how near her breath you came.

Say, I 'm so near I seem a piece of her--

Ask for me that way--(oh, you understand,)

You 'd find the same gift yielded with a grace,

Which, if you make the least show to extort ...

--You 'll see! and when you have ruined both of us,

Dissertate on the Queen's ingratitude!

_Nor._ Then, if I turn it that way, you consent?

'T is not my way; I have more hope in truth:

Still, if you won't have truth--why, this indeed,

Were scarcely false, as I 'd express the sense.

Will you remain here?

_Con._ O best heart of mine,

How I have loved you! then, you take my way?

Are mine as you have been her minister,

Work out my thought, give it effect for me,

Paint plain my poor conceit and make it serve?

I owe that withered woman everything--

Life, fortune, you, remember! Take my part--

Help me to pay her! Stand upon your rights?

You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you?

Your rights are mine--you have no rights but mine.

_Nor._ Remain here. How you know me!

_Con._ Ah, but still--

[_He breaks from her; she remains. Dance-music from within._

(_Enter the_ QUEEN.)

_Queen._ Constance? She is here as he said. Speak quick!

Is it so? Is it true or false? One word!

_Con._ True.

_Queen._ Mercifullest Mother, thanks to thee!

_Con._ Madam?

_Queen._ I love you, Constance, from my soul.

Now say once more, with any words you will,

'T is true, all true, as true as that I speak.

_Con._ Why should you doubt it?

_Queen._ Ah, why doubt? why doubt?

Dear, make me see it! Do you see it so?

None see themselves; another sees them best.

You say "why doubt it?"--you see him and me.

It is because the Mother has such grace

That if we had but faith--wherein we fail--

Whate'er we yearn for would be granted us;

Yet still we let our whims prescribe despair,

Our fancies thwart and cramp our will and power,

And while accepting life, abjure its use.

Constance, I had abjured the hope of love

And being loved, as truly as yon palm

The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot.

_Con._ Heaven!

_Queen._ But it was so, Constance, it was so!

Men say--or do men say it? fancies say--

"Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old.

Too late--no love for you, too late for love--

Leave love to girls. Be queen: let Constance love!"

One takes the hint--half meets it like a child,

Ashamed at any feelings that oppose.

"Oh love, true, never think of love again!

I am a queen: I rule, not love, forsooth."

So it goes on; so a face grows like this,

Hair like this hair, poor arms as lean as these,

Till,--nay, it does not end so, I thank God!

_Con._ I cannot understand--

_Queen._ The happier you!

Constance, I know not how it is with men:

For women (I am a woman now like you)

There is no good of life but love--but love!

What else looks good, is some shade flung from love;

Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me,

Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love,

Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest!

O Constance, how I love you!

_Con._ I love you.

_Queen._ I do believe that all is come through you.

I took you to my heart to keep it warm

When the last chance of love seemed dead in me;

I thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart.

Oh, I am very old now, am I not?

Not so! it is true and it shall be true!

_Con._ Tell it me: let me judge if true or false.

_Queen._ Ah, but I fear you! you will look at me

And say, "she 's old, she 's grown unlovely quite

Who ne'er was beauteous: men want beauty still."

Well, so I feared--the curse! so I felt sure!

_Con._ Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say?

_Queen._ Constance, he came,--the coming was not strange--

Do not I stand and see men come and go?

I turned a half-look from my pedestal

Where I grow marble--"one young man the more!

He will love some one; that is naught to me:

What would he with my marble stateliness?"

Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore;

The man more gracious, youthful, like a god,

And I still older, with less flesh to change--

We two those dear extremes that long to touch.

It seemed still harder when he first began

To labor at those state-affairs, absorbed

The old way for the old end--interest.

Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts

Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands,

Professing they 've no care but for your cause,

Thought but to help you, love but for yourself,--

And you the marble statue all the time

They praise and point at as preferred to life,

Yet leave for the first breathing woman's smile,

First dancer's, gypsy's, or street baladine's!

Why, how I have ground my teeth to hear men's speech

Stifled for fear it should alarm my ear,

Their gait subdued lest step should startle me,

Their eyes declined, such queendom to respect,

Their hands alert, such treasure to preserve,

While not a man of them broke rank and spoke,

Wrote me a vulgar letter all of love.

Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand!

There have been moments, if the sentinel

Lowering his halbert to salute the queen,

Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees,

I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul.

_Con._ Who could have comprehended?

_Queen._ Ay, who--who?

Why, no one, Constance, but this one who did.

Not they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps

It comes too late--would you but tell the truth.

_Con._ I wait to tell it.

_Queen._ Well, you see, he came,

Outfaced the others, did a work this year

Exceeds in value all was ever done,

You know--it is not I who say it--all

Say it. And so (a second pang and worse)

I grew aware not only of what he did,

But why so wondrously. Oh, never work

Like his was done for work's ignoble sake--

Souls need a finer aim to light and lure!

I felt, I saw, he loved--loved somebody.

And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know,

I did believe this while 't was you he loved.

_Con._ Me, madam?

_Queen._ It did seem to me, your face

Met him where'er he looked: and whom but you

Was such a man to love? It seemed to me,

You saw he loved you, and approved his love,

And both of you were in intelligence.

You could not loiter in that garden, step

Into this balcony, but I straight was stung

And forced to understand. It seemed so true,

So right, so beautiful, so like you both,

That all this work should have been done by him

Not for the vulgar hope of recompense,

But that at last--suppose, some night like this--

Borne on to claim his due reward of me,

He might say, "Give her hand and pay me so."

And I (O Constance, you shall love me now!)

I thought, surmounting all the bitterness,

--"And he shall have it. I will make her blest,

My flower of youth, my woman's self that was,

My happiest woman's self that might have been!

These two shall have their joy and leave me here."

Yes--yes!

_Con._ Thanks!

_Queen._ And the word was on my lips

When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear

A mere calm statement of his just desire

For payment of his labor. When--O heaven,

How can I tell you? lightning on my eyes

And thunder in my ears proved that first word

Which told 't was love of me, of me, did all--

He loved me--from the first step to the last,

Loved me!

_Con._ You hardly saw, scarce heard him speak

Of love: what if you should mistake?

_Queen._ No, no--

No mistake! Ha, there shall be no mistake!

He had not dared to hint the love he felt--

You were my reflex--(how I understood!)

He said you were the ribbon I had worn,

He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes,

And love, love came at end of every phrase.

Love is begun; this much is come to pass:

The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours!

I will learn, I will place my life on you,

Teach me but how to keep what I have won!

Am I so old? This hair was early gray;

But joy ere now has brought hair brown again,

And joy will bring the cheek's red back, I feel.

I could sing once too; that was in my youth.

Still, when men paint me, they declare me ... yes,

Beautiful--for the last French painter did!

I know they flatter somewhat; you are frank--

I trust you. How I loved you from the first!

Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out

And set her by their side to take the eye:

I must have felt that good would come from you.

I am not generous--like him--like you!

But he is not your lover after all:

It was not you he looked at. Saw you him?

You have not been mistaking words or looks?

He said you were the reflex of myself.

And yet he is not such a paragon

To you, to younger women who may choose

Among a thousand Norberts. Speak the truth!

You know you never named his name to me:

You know, I cannot give him up--ah God,

Not up now, even to you!

_Con._ Then calm yourself.

_Queen._ See, I am old--look here, you happy girl!

I will not play the fool, deceive--ah, whom?

'T is all gone: put your cheek beside my cheek

And what a contrast does the moon behold!

But then I set my life upon one chance,

The last chance and the best--am I not left,

My soul, myself? All women love great men

If young or old; it is in all the tales:

Young beauties love old poets who can love--

Why should not he, the poems in my soul,

The passionate faith, the pride of sacrifice,

Life-long, death-long? I throw them at his feet.

Who cares to see the fountain's very shape,

Whether it be a Triton's or a Nymph's

That pours the foam, makes rainbows all around?

You could not praise indeed the empty conch;

But I 'll pour floods of love and hide myself.

How I will love him! Cannot men love love?

Who was a queen and loved a poet once

Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that!

Well, but men too; at least, they tell you so.

They love so many women in their youth,

And even in age they all love whom they please;

And yet the best of them confide to friends

That 't is not beauty makes the lasting love--

They spend a day with such and tire the next:

They like soul,--well then, they like phantasy,

Novelty even. Let us confess the truth,

Horrible though it be, that prejudice,

Prescription ... curses! they will love a queen.

They will, they do: and will not, does not--he?

_Con._ How can he? You are wedded: 't is a name

We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains,

His rank remains. How can he, nobly souled

As you believe and I incline to think,

Aspire to be your favorite, shame and all?

_Queen._ Hear her! There, there now--could she love like me?

What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace?

See all it does or could do! so youth loves!

Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do

What I will--you, it was not born in! I

Will drive these difficulties far and fast

As yonder mists curdling before the moon.

I 'll use my light too, gloriously retrieve

My youth from its enforced calamity,

Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his,

His own in the eyes alike of God and man.

_Con._ You will do--dare do ... pause on what you say!

_Queen._ Hear her! I thank you, sweet, for that surprise.

You have the fair face: for the soul, see mine!

I have the strong soul: let me teach you, here.

I think I have borne enough and long enough,

And patiently enough, the world remarks,

To have my own way now, unblamed by all.

It does so happen (I rejoice for it)

This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot.

There 's not a better way of settling claims

Than this; God sends the accident express:

And were it for my subjects' good, no more,

'T were best thus ordered. I am thankful now,

Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive,

And bless God simply, or should almost fear

To walk so smoothly to my ends at last.

Why, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate!

How strong I am! Could Norbert see me now!

_Con._ Let me consider. It is all too strange.

_Queen._ You, Constance, learn of me; do you, like me!

You are young, beautiful: my own, best girl,

You will have many lovers, and love one--

Light hair, not hair like Norbert's, to suit yours,

Taller than he is, since yourself are tall.

Love him, like me! Give all away to him;

Think never of yourself; throw by your pride,

Hope, fear,--your own good as you saw it once,

And love him simply for his very self.

Remember, I (and what am I to you?)

Would give up all for one, leave throne, lose life.

Do all but just unlove him! He loves me.

_Con._ He shall.

_Queen._ You, step inside my inmost heart!

Give me your own heart: let us have one heart!

I 'll come to you for counsel; "this he says,

This he does; what should this amount to, pray?

Beseech you, change it into current coin!

Is that worth kisses? Shall I please him there?"

And then we 'll speak in turn of you--what else?

Your love, according to your beauty's worth,

For you shall have some noble love, all gold:

Whom choose you? we will get him at your choice.

--Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since,

I felt as I must die or be alone

Breathing my soul into an ear like yours:

Now, I would face the world with my new life,

Wear my new crown. I 'll walk around the rooms,

And then come back and tell you how it feels.

How soon a smile of God can change the world!

How we are made for happiness--how work

Grows play, adversity a winning fight!

True, I have lost so many years: what then?

Many remain: God has been very good.

You, stay here! 'T is as different from dreams,

From the mind's cold calm estimate of bliss,

As these stone statues from the flesh and blood.

The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon!

[_She goes out_, _leaving_ CONSTANCE. _Dance-music from within_.

(NORBERT _enters_.)

_Nor._ Well? we have but one minute and one word!

_Con._ I am yours, Norbert!

_Nor._ Yes, mine.

_Con._ Not till now!

You were mine. Now I give myself to you.

_Nor._ Constance?

_Con._ Your own! I know the thriftier way

Of giving--haply, 't is the wiser way.

Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole

Coin after coin out (each, as that were all,

With a new largess still at each despair)

And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve

Exhaustless till the end my part and yours,

My giving and your taking; both our joys

Dying together. Is it the wiser way?

I choose the simpler; I give all at once.

Know what you have to trust to, trade upon!

Use it, abuse it,--anything but think

Hereafter, "Had I known she loved me so,

And what my means, I might have thriven with it."

This is your means. I give you all myself.

_Nor._ I take you and thank God.

_Con._ Look on through years!

We cannot kiss, a second day like this;

Else were this earth no earth.

_Nor._ With this day's heat

We shall go on through years of cold.

_Con._ So, best!

--I try to see those years--I think I see.

You walk quick and new warmth comes; you look back

And lay all to the first glow--not sit down

Forever brooding on a day like this

While seeing embers whiten and love die.

Yes, love lives best in its effect; and mine,

Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours.

_Nor._ Just so. I take and know you all at once.

Your soul is disengaged so easily.

Your face is there, I know you; give me time,

Let me be proud and think you shall know me.

My soul is slower: in a life I roll

The minute out whereto you condense yours--

The whole slow circle round you I must move,

To be just you. I look to a long life

To decompose this minute, prove its worth.

'T is the sparks' long succession one by one

Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed

In that mere stone you struck: how could you know,

If it lay ever unproved in your sight,

As now my heart lies? your own warmth would hide

Its coldness, were it cold.

_Con._ But how prove, how?

_Nor._ Prove in my life, you ask?

_Con._ Quick, Norbert--how?

_Nor._ That 's easy told. I count life just a stuff

To try the soul's strength on, educe the man.

Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve

As with the body--he who hurls a lance

Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike:

So must I seize and task all means to prove

And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours,

And justify us both.

_Con._ Could you write books,

Paint pictures! One sits down in poverty

And writes or paints, with pity for the rich.

_Nor._ And loves one's painting and one's writing, then.

And not one's mistress! All is best, believe,

And we best as no other than we are.

We live, and they experiment on life--

Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof

To overlook the farther. Let us be

The thing they look at! I might take your face

And write of it and paint it--to what end?

For whom? what pale dictatress in the air

Feeds, smiling sadly, her fine ghost-like form

With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous life

She makes despised forever? You are mine,

Made for me, not for others in the world,

Nor yet for that which I should call my art,

The cold calm power to see how fair you look.

I come to you; I leave you not, to write

Or paint. You are, I am: let Rubens there

Paint us!

_Con._ So, best!

_Nor._ I understand your soul,

You live, and rightly sympathize with life,

With action, power, success. This way is straight;

And time were short, beside, to let me change

The craft my childhood learnt: my craft shall serve.

Men set me here to subjugate, enclose,

Manure their barren lives, and force thence fruit

First for themselves, and afterward for me

In the due tithe; the task of some one soul,

Through ways of work appointed by the world.

I am not bid create--men see no star

Transfiguring my brow to warrant that--

But find and bind and bring to bear their wills.

So I began: to-night sees how I end.

What if it see, too, power's first outbreak here

Amid the warmth, surprise and sympathy,

And instincts of the heart that teach the head?

What if the people have discerned at length

The dawn of the next nature, novel brain

Whose will they venture in the place of theirs,

Whose work, they trust, shall find them as novel ways

To untried heights which yet he only sees?

I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen,

This people--in our phrase this mass of men--

See how the mass lies passive to my hand

Now that my hand is plastic, with you by

To make the muscles iron! Oh, an end

Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first!

My will be on the people! then, the strain,

The grappling of the potter with his clay,

The long uncertain struggle,--the success

And consummation of the spirit-work,

Some vase shape to the curl of the god's lip,

While rounded fair for human sense to see

The Graces in a dance men recognize

With turbulent applause and laughs of heart!

So triumph ever shall renew itself;

Ever shall end in efforts higher yet,

Ever begin ...

_Con._ I ever helping?

_Nor._ Thus!

(_As he embraces her_, _the_ QUEEN _enters_.)

_Con._ Hist, madam! So have I performed my part.

You see your gratitude's true decency,

Norbert? A little slow in seeing it!

Begin, to end the sooner! What 's a kiss?

_Nor._ Constance?

_Con._ Why, must I teach it you again?

You want a witness to your dulness, sir?

What was I saying these ten minutes long?

Then I repeat--when some young handsome man

Like you has acted out a part like yours,

Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond,

So very far beyond him, as he says--

So hopelessly in love that but to speak

Would prove him mad,--he thinks judiciously,

And makes some insignificant good soul,

Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant,

And very stalking-horse to cover him

In following after what he dares not face--

When his end 's gained--(sir, do you understand)

When she, he dares not face, has loved him first,

--May I not say so, madam?--tops his hope,

And overpasses so his wildest dream,

With glad consent of all, and most of her

The confidant who brought the same about--

Why, in the moment when such joy explodes,

I do hold that the merest gentleman

Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse,

Dismiss it with a "There, enough of you!"

Forget it, show his back unmannerly;

But like a liberal heart will rather turn

And say, "A tingling time of hope was ours;

Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two lived

A chanceful time in waiting for the prize:

The confidant, the Constance, served not ill.

And though I shall forget her in good time,

Her use being answered now, as reason bids,

Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts,--

Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her,

The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool,

And the first--which is the last--rewarding kiss."

_Nor._ Constance, it is a dream--ah, see, you smile!

_Con._ So, now his part being properly performed,

Madam, I turn to you and finish mine

As duly; I do justice in my turn.

Yes, madam, he has loved you--long and well;

He could not hope to tell you so--'t was I

Who served to prove your soul accessible,

I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place

When they had wandered else into despair,

And kept love constant toward its natural aim.

Enough, my part is played; you stoop half-way

And meet us royally and spare our fears:

'T is like yourself. He thanks you, so do I.

Take him--with my full heart! my work is praised

By what comes of it. Be you happy, both!

Yourself--the only one on earth who can--

Do all for him, much more than a mere heart

Which though warm is not useful in its warmth

As the silk vesture of a queen! fold that

Around him gently, tenderly. For him--

For him,--he knows his own part!

_Nor._ Have you done?

I take the jest at last. Should I speak now?

Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child,

Or did you but accept it? Well--at least

You lose by it.

_Con._ Nay, madam, 't is your turn!

Restrain him still from speech a little more,

And make him happier as more confident!

Pity him, madam, he is timid yet!

Mark, Norbert! Do not shrink now! Here I yield

My whole right in you to the Queen, observe!

With her go put in practice the great schemes

You teem with, follow the career else closed--

Be all you cannot be except by her!

Behold her!--Madam, say for pity's sake

Anything--frankly say you love him! Else

He 'll not believe it: there 's more earnest in

His fear than you conceive: I know the man!

_Nor._ I know the woman somewhat, and confess

I thought she had jested better: she begins

To overcharge her part. I gravely wait

Your pleasure, madam: where is my reward?

_Queen._ Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize

Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit,

Eccentric speech and variable mirth,

Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold,

Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange)

--May still be right: I may do well to speak

And make authentic what appears a dream

To even myself. For, what she says is true:

Yes, Norbert--what you spoke just now of love,

Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me,

But justified a warmth felt long before.

Yes, from the first--I loved you, I shall say:

Strange! but I do grow stronger, now 't is said.

Your courage helps mine: you did well to speak

To-night, the night that crowns your twelve-months' toil:

But still I had not waited to discern

Your heart so long, believe me! From the first

The source of so much zeal was almost plain,

In absence even of your own words just now

Which hazarded the truth. 'T is very strange,

But takes a happy ending--in your love

Which mine meets: be it so! as you choose me,

So I choose you.

_Nor._ And worthily you choose.

I will not be unworthy your esteem,

No, madam. I do love you; I will meet

Your nature, now I know it. This was well.

I see,--you dare and you are justified:

But none had ventured such experiment,

Less versed than you in nobleness of heart,

Less confident of finding such in me.

I joy that thus you test me ere you grant

The dearest, richest, beauteousest and best

Of women to my arms: 't is like yourself.

So--back again into my part 's set words--

Devotion to the uttermost is yours,

But no, you cannot, madam, even you,

Create in me the love our Constance does.

Or--something truer to the tragic phrase--

Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent

Invites a certain insect--that 's myself--

But the small eye-flower nearer to the ground.

I take this lady.

_Con._ Stay--not hers, the trap--

Stay, Norbert--that mistake were worst of all!

He is too cunning, madam! It was I,

I, Norbert, who ...

_Nor._ You, was it, Constance? Then,

But for the grace of this divinest hour

Which gives me you, I might not pardon here!

I am the Queen's; she only knows my brain:

She may experiment upon my heart

And I instruct her too by the result.

But you, Sweet, you who know me, who so long

Have told my heartbeats over, held my life

In those white hands of yours,--it is not well!

_Con._ Tush! I have said it, did I not say it all?

The life, for her--the heartbeats, for her sake!

_Nor._ Enough! my cheek grows red, I think. Your test?

There 's not the meanest woman in the world,

Not she I least could love in all the world,

Whom, did she love me, had love proved itself,

I dare insult as you insult me now.

Constance, I could say, if it must be said,

"Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine!"

But--"Take the soul still quivering on your hand,

The soul so offered, which I cannot use,

And, please you, give it to some playful friend,

For--what 's the trifle he requites me with?"

I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man.

That two may mock her heart if it succumb?

No: fearing God and standing 'neath his heaven,

I would not dare insult a woman so,

Were she the meanest woman in the world,

And he, I cared to please, ten emperors!

_Con._ Norbert!

_Nor._ I love once as I live but once.

What case is this to think or talk about?

I love you. Would it mend the case at all

If such a step as this killed love in me?

Your part were done: account to God for it!

But mine--could murdered love get up again,

And kneel to whom you please to designate,

And make you mirth? It is too horrible.

You did not know this, Constance? now you know

That body and soul have each one life, but one:

And here 's my love, here, living, at your feet.

_Con._ See the Queen! Norbert--this one more last word--

If thus you have taken jest for earnest--thus

Loved me in earnest ...

_Nor._ Ah, no jest holds here!

Where is the laughter in which jests break up,

And what this horror that grows palpable?

Madam--why grasp you thus the balcony?

Have I done ill? Have I not spoken truth?

How could I other? Was it not your test,

To try me, what my love for Constance meant?

Madam, your royal soul itself approves,

The first, that I should choose thus! so one takes

A beggar,--asks him, what would buy his child?

And then approves the expected laugh of scorn

Returned as something noble from the rags.

Speak, Constance, I 'm the beggar! Ha, what 's this?

You two glare each at each like panthers now.

Constance, the world fades; only you stand there!

You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things,

Sell me--your soul of souls, for any price?

No--no--'t is easy to believe in you!

Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop

Mine by this vain self-sacrifice? well, still--

Though I might curse, I love you. I am love

And cannot change: love's self is at your feet!

[_The_ QUEEN _goes out_.

_Con._ Feel my heart; let it die against your own!

_Nor._ Against my own. Explain not; let this be!

This is life's height.

_Con._ Yours, yours, yours!

_Nor._ You and I--

Why care by what meanders we are here

I' the centre of the labyrinth? Men have died

Trying to find this place, which we have found.

_Con._ Found, found!

_Nor._ Sweet, never fear what she can do!

We are past harm now.

_Con._ On the breast of God.

I thought of men--as if you were a man.

Tempting him with a crown!

_Nor._ This must end here:

It is too perfect.

_Con._ There 's the music stopped.

What measured heavy tread? It is one blaze

About me and within me.

_Nor._ Oh, some death

Will run its sudden finger round this spark

And sever us from the rest!

_Con._ And so do well.

Now the doors open.

_Nor._ 'T is the guard comes.

_Con._ Kiss!

BEN KARSHOOK'S WISDOM

The eighth line of the fourteenth section of _One Word More_ reads,

"Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty."

Originally it read,

"Karshook, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty."

The reference apparently was to the poem written in April, 1854, and

printed in _The Keepsake_, an annual edited by Miss Power, a niece of

Lady Blessington, in whom Dickens also took an interest. It may have

been Browning's intention to include this poem in _Men and Women_,

but he never did place it there, and finally dropped Karshook and

substituted Karshish, who narrates his medical experience.

"Would a man 'scape the rod?"

Rabbi Ben Karshook saith,

"See that he turn to God

The day before his death."

"Ay, could a man inquire

When it shall come!" I say.

The Rabbi's eye shoots fire--

"Then let him turn to-day!"

Quoth a young Sadducee:

"Reader of many rolls,

Is it so certain we

Have, as they tell us, souls?"

"Son, there is no reply!"

The Rabbi bit his beard:

"Certain, a soul have _I_--

_We_ may have none," he sneered.

Thus Karshook, the Hiram's-Hammer,

The Right-hand Temple-column,

Taught babes in grace their grammar,

And struck the simple, solemn.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The volume bearing the title _Dramatis Personæ_ was published in 1864

and the contents remained unchanged in subsequent editions except that

two short poems were added in the edition of 1868. The first poem was

however originally entitled _James Lee_. The first six stanzas of the

sixth section of the poem were first printed in 1836 in Mr. Fox's

_The Monthly Repository_, and bore the title merely _Lines_, with the

signature Z.

JAMES LEE'S WIFE

JAMES LEE'S WIFE SPEAKS AT THE WINDOW

Ah, Love, but a day

And the world has changed!

The sun 's away,

And the bird estranged;

The wind has dropped,

And the sky 's deranged:

Summer has stopped.

Look in my eyes!

Wilt thou change too?

Should I fear surprise?

Shall I find aught new

In the old and dear,

In the good and true,

With the changing year?

Thou art a man,

But I am thy love.

For the lake, its swan;

For the dell its dove;

And for thee--(oh, haste!)

Me, to bend above,

Me, to hold embraced.

BY THE FIRESIDE

Is all our fire of shipwreck wood,

Oak and pine?

Oh, for the ills half-understood,

The dim dead woe

Long ago

Befallen this bitter coast of France!

Well, poor sailors took their chance;

I take mine.

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot

O'er the sea:

Do sailors eye the casement--mute

Drenched and stark,

From their bark--

And envy, gnash their teeth for hate

O' the warm safe house and happy freight

--Thee and me?

God help you, sailors, at your need!

Spare the curse!

For some ships, safe in port indeed,

Rot and rust,

Run to dust,

All through worms i' the wood, which crept,

Gnawed our hearts out while we slept:

That is worse.

Who lived here before us two?

Old-world pairs.

Did a woman ever--would I knew!--

Watch the man

With whom began

Love's voyage full-sail,--(now gnash your teeth!)

When planks start, open hell beneath

Unawares?

III

IN THE DOORWAY

The swallow has set her six young on the rail,

And looks seaward:

The water 's in stripes like a snake, olive-pale

To the leeward,--

On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind.

"Good fortune departs, and disaster 's behind,"--

Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail!

Our fig-tree, that leaned for the saltness, has furled

Her five fingers,

Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world

Where there lingers

No glint of the gold, Summer sent for her sake:

How the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake!

My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled.

Yet here are we two; we have love, house enough,

With the field there,

This house of four rooms, that field red and rough,

Though it yield there,

For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent;

If a magpie alight now, it seems an event;

And they both will be gone at November's rebuff.

But why must cold spread? but wherefore bring change

To the spirit,

God meant should mate his with an infinite range,

And inherit

His power to put life in the darkness and cold?

Oh, live and love worthily, bear and be bold!

Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange!

ALONG THE BEACH

I will be quiet and talk with you,

And reason why you are wrong.

You wanted my love--is that much true?

And so I did love, so I do:

What has come of it all along?

I took you--how could I otherwise?

For a world to me, and more;

For all, love greatens and glorifies

Till God's aglow, to the loving eyes,

In what was mere earth before.

Yes, earth--yes, mere ignoble earth!

Now do I mis-state, mistake?

Do I wrong your weakness and call it worth?

Expect all harvest, dread no dearth,

Seal my sense up for your sake?

Oh, Love, Love, no, Love! not so, indeed!

You were just weak earth, I knew:

With much in you waste, with many a weed,

And plenty of passions run to seed,

But a little good grain too.

And such as you were, I took you for mine:

Did not you find me yours,

To watch the olive and wait the vine,

And wonder when rivers of oil and wine

Would flow, as the Book assures?

Well, and if none of these good things came,

What did the failure prove?

The man was my whole world, all the same,

With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame,

And, either or both, to love.

Yet this turns now to a fault--there! there!

That I do love, watch too long,

And wait too well, and weary and wear;

And 't is all an old story, and my despair

Fit subject for some new song:

"How the light, light love, he has wings to fly

At suspicion of a bond:

My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by,

Which will turn up next in a laughing eye,

And why should you look beyond?"

ON THE CLIFF

I leaned on the turf,

I looked at a rock

Left dry by the surf;

For the turf, to call it grass were to mock:

Dead to the roots, so deep was done

The work of the summer sun.

And the rock lay flat

As an anvil's face:

No iron like that!

Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace:

Sunshine outside, but ice at the core,

Death's altar by the lone shore.

On the turf, sprang gay

With his films of blue,

No cricket, I 'll say,

But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too,

The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight,

Real fairy, with wings all right.

On the rock, they scorch

Like a drop of fire

From a brandished torch,

Fall two red fans of a butterfly:

No turf, no rock: in their ugly stead,

See, wonderful blue and red!

Is it not so

With the minds of men?

The level and low,

The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then

With such a blue and red grace, not theirs,--

Love settling unawares!

READING A BOOK, UNDER THE CLIFF

"Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no?

Which needs the other's office, thou or I?

Dost want to be disburdened of a woe,

And can, in truth, my voice untie

Its links, and let it go?

"Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted,

Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear!

No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited

With falsehood,--love, at last aware

Of scorn,--hopes, early blighted,--

"We have them; but I know not any tone

So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow:

Dost think men would go mad without a moan,

If they knew any way to borrow

A pathos like thy own?

"Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs? The one

So long escaping from lips starved and blue,

That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun

Stretches her length; her foot comes through

The straw she shivers on;

"You had not thought she was so tall: and spent,

Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut

Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent

The clammy palm; then all is mute:

That way, the spirit went.

"Or wouldst thou rather that I understand

Thy will to help me?--like the dog I found

Once, pacing sad this solitary strand,

Who would not take my food, poor hound.

But whined and licked my hand."

* * * * *

All this, and more, comes from some young man's pride

Of power to see,--in failure and mistake,

Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side,--

Merely examples for his sake,

Helps to his path untried:

Instances he must--simply recognize?

Oh, more than so!--must, with a learner's zeal,

Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize,

By added touches that reveal

The god in babe's disguise.

Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest!

Himself the undefeated that shall be:

Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test,--

His triumph, in eternity

Too plainly manifest!

Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind

Means in its moaning--by the happy prompt

Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind

Calm years, exacting their accompt

Of pain, mature the mind:

And some midsummer morning, at the lull

Just about daybreak, as he looks across

A sparkling foreign country, wonderful

To the sea's edge for gloom and gloss,

Next minute must annul,--

Then, when the wind begins among the vines,

So low, so low, what shall it say but this?

"Here is the change beginning, here the lines

Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss

The limit time assigns."

Nothing can be as it has been before;

Better, so call it, only not the same.

To draw one beauty into our hearts' core,

And keep it changeless! such our claim;

So answered,--Nevermore!

Simple? Why this is the old woe o' the world;

Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die.

Rise with it, then! Rejoice that man is hurled

From change to change unceasingly,

His soul's wings never furled!

That 's a new question; still replies the fact,

Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so;

We moan in acquiescence: there 's life's pact.

Perhaps probation--do _I_ know?

God does: endure his act!

Only, for man, how bitter not to grave

On his soul's hands' palms one fair good wise thing

Just as he grasped it! For himself, death's wave;

While time first washes--ah, the sting!--

O'er all he 'd sink to save.

VII

AMONG THE ROCKS

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,

This autumn morning! How he sets his bones

To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet

For the ripple to run over in its mirth;

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones

The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;

Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows.

If you loved only what were worth your love,

Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:

Make the low nature better by your throes!

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

VIII

BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD

"As like as a Hand to another Hand!"

Whoever said that foolish thing,

Could not have studied to understand

The councils of God in fashioning,

Out of the infinite love of his heart,

This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart

From the world of wonder left to praise,

If I tried to learn the other ways

Of love in its skill, or love in its power.

"As like as a Hand to another Hand:"

Who said that, never took his stand,

Found and followed, like me, an hour,

The beauty in this,--how free, how fine

To fear, almost,--of the limit-line!

As I looked at this, and learned and drew,

Drew and learned, and looked again,

While fast the happy minutes flew,

Its beauty mounted into my brain,

And a fancy seized me; I was fain

To efface my work, begin anew,

Kiss what before I only drew;

Ay, laying the red chalk 'twixt my lips,

With soul to help if the mere lips failed,

I kissed all right where the drawing ailed.

Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips

Still from one's soulless finger-tips.

'Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing,

From Hand live once, dead long ago:

Princess-like it wears the ring

To fancy's eye, by which we know

That here at length a master found

His match, a proud lone soul its mate,

As soaring genius sank to ground,

And pencil could not emulate

The beauty in this,--how free, how fine

To fear almost!--of the limit-line.

Long ago the god, like me

The worm, learned, each in our degree:

Looked and loved, learned and drew,

Drew and learned and loved again,

While fast the happy minutes flew,

Till beauty mounted into his brain

And on the finger which outvied

His art he placed the ring that's there,

Still by fancy's eye descried,

In token of a marriage rare:

For him on earth, his art's despair,

For him in heaven, his soul's fit bride.

III

Little girl with the poor coarse hand

I turned from to a cold clay cast--

I have my lesson, understand

The worth of flesh and blood at last!

Nothing but beauty in a Hand?

Because he could not change the hue,

Mend the lines and make them true

To this which met his soul's demand,--

Would Da Vinci turn from you?

I hear him laugh my woes to scorn--

"The fool forsooth is all forlorn

Because the beauty, she thinks best,

Lived long ago or was never born,--

Because no beauty bears the test

In this rough peasant Hand! Confessed

'Art is null and study void!'

So sayest thou? So said not I,

Who threw the faulty pencil by,

And years instead of hours employed,

Learning the veritable use

Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath

Lines and hue of the outer sheath,

If haply I might reproduce

One motive of the powers profuse,

Flesh and bone and nerve that make

The poorest coarsest human hand

An object worthy to be scanned

A whole life long for their sole sake.

Shall earth and the cramped moment-space

Yield the heavenly crowning grace?

Now the parts and then the whole!

Who art thou, with stinted soul

And stunted body, thus to cry,

'I love,--shall that be life's strait dole?

I must live beloved or die!'

This peasant hand that spins the wool

And bakes the bread, why lives it on,

Poor and coarse with beauty gone,--

What use survives the beauty?" Fool!

Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand!

I have my lesson, shall understand.

ON DECK

There is nothing to remember in me,

Nothing I ever said with a grace,

Nothing I did that you care to see,

Nothing I was that deserves a place

In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.

Conceded! In turn, concede to me,

Such things have been as a mutual flame.

Your soul's locked fast; but, love for a key,

You might let it loose, till I grew the same

In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!

For then, then, what would it matter to me

That I was the harsh, ill-favored one?

We both should be like as pea and pea;

It was ever so since the world begun:

So, let me proceed with my reverie.

How strange it were if you had all me,

As I have all you in my heart and brain,

You, whose least word brought gloom or glee,

Who never lifted the hand in vain--

Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!

Strange, if a face, when you thought of me,

Rose like your own face present now,

With eyes as dear in their due degree,

Much such a month, and as bright a brow,

Till you saw yourself, while you cried "Tis She!"

Well, you may, you must, set down to me

Love that was life, life that was love;

A tenure of breath at your lips' decree,

A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,

A rapture to fall where your foot might be.

But did one touch of such love for me

Come in a word or a look of yours,

Whose words and looks will, circling, flee

Round me and round while life endures,--

Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;"

Why, fade you might to a thing like me,

And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair,

Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,--

You might turn myself!--should I know or care,

When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?

GOLD HAIR

A STORY OF PORNIC

This poem was issued by itself as well as included later in _Dramatis

Personæ_, and simultaneously with its appearance in England it was

printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_. It was written in Normandy, and in a

letter printed in Mrs. Orr's _Life_, II. 395, there is an account of

the destruction of the church referred to in the poem.

Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,

Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,

Just where the sea and the Loire unite!

And a boasted name in Brittany

She bore, which I will not write.

Too white, for the flower of life is red:

Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen

Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)

To just see earth, and hardly be seen,

And blossom in heaven instead.

Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!

One grace that grew to its full on earth:

Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,

And her waist want half a girdle's girth,

But she had her great gold hair.

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,

Freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too!

Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross:

Here, Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!"

And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!"

So, when she died, it was scarce more strange

Than that, when delicate evening dies,

And you follow its spent sun's pallid range,

There's a shoot of color startles the skies

With sudden, violent change,--

That, while the breath was nearly to seek,

As they put the little cross to her lips,

She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,

A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,

And she broke forth, "I must speak!"

"Not my hair!" made the girl her moan--

"All the rest is gone or to go;

But the last, last grace, my all, my own,

Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know!

Leave my poor gold hair alone!"

The passion thus vented, dead lay she;

Her parents sobbed their worst on that;

All friends joined in, nor observed degree:

For indeed the hair was to wonder at,

As it spread--not flowing free,

But curled around her brow, like a crown,

And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap,

And calmed about her neck--ay, down

To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap

I' the gold, it reached her gown.

All kissed that face, like a silver wedge

'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair:

E'en the priest allowed death's privilege,

As he planted the crucifix with care

On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge.

And thus was she buried, inviolate

Of body and soul, in the very space

By the altar; keeping saintly state

In Pornic church, for her pride of race,

Pure life and piteous fate.

And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,

Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,

As they told you of gold, both robe and pall,

How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,

So it never was touched at all.

Years flew; this legend grew at last

The life of the lady; all she had done,

All been, in the memories fading fast

Of lover and friend, was summed in one

Sentence survivors passed:

To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;

Had turned an angel before the time:

Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth

Of frailty, all you could count a crime

Was--she knew her gold hair's worth.

* * * * *

At little pleasant Pornic church,

It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,

Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch,

A certain sacred space lay bare,

And the boys began research.

'Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint,

A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose,

A baron with armor-adornments quaint,

Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,

Things sanctity saves from taint;

So we come to find them in after-days

When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds

Of use to the living, in many ways:

For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,

And the church deserves the praise.

They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor_

_Humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!--

They found--no gaud they were prying for,

No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?--

A double Louis-d'or!

Here was a case for the priest: he heard,

Marked, inwardly digested, laid

Finger on nose, smiled, "There's a bird

Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade,

Dig deeper!"--he gave the word.

And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid,

Or rotten planks which composed it once,

Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid

A mint of money, it served for the nonce

To hold in its hair-heaps hid!

Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont

(She the stainless soul) to treasure up

Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront?

Had a spider found out the communion-cup,

Was a toad in the christening-font?

Truth is truth: too true it was.

Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first,

Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas--

Till the humor grew to a head and burst,

And she cried, at the final pass,--

"Talk not of God, my heart is stone!

Nor lover nor friend--be gold for both!

Gold I lack; and, my all, my own,

It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth

If they let my hair alone!"

Louis-d'or, some six times five,

And duly double, every piece.

Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive,

With parents preventing her soul's release

By kisses that kept alive,--

With heaven's gold gates about to ope,

With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still,

An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope

For gold, the true sort--"Gold in heaven, if you will;

But I keep earth's too, I hope."

Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield:

The parents, they eyed that price of sin

As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed

On the place _to bury strangers in_,

The hideous Potter's Field.

But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that 's spilt'

--You know the adage! Watch and pray!

Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt!

It would build a new altar; that, we may!"

And the altar therewith was built.

Why I deliver this horrible verse?

As the text of a sermon, which now I preach:

Evil or good may be better or worse

In the human heart, but the mixture of each

Is a marvel and a curse.

The candid incline to surmise of late

That the Christian faith proves false, I find;

For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate

Begins to tell on the public mind,

And Colenso's words have weight:

I still, to suppose it true, for my part,

See reasons and reasons; this, to begin:

'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart

At the head of a lie--taught Original Sin,

The Corruption of Man's Heart.

THE WORST OF IT

Would it were I had been false, not you!

I that am nothing, not you that are all:

I, never the worse for a touch or two

On my speckled hide; not you, the pride

Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall

On her wonder of white must unswan, undo!

I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again,

Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see,

When I found my swan and the cure was plain;

The dull turned bright as I caught your white

On my bosom: you saved me--saved in vain

If you ruined yourself, and all through me!

Yes, all through the speckled beast that I am,

Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself,

And bound your soul by the vows that damn:

Since on better thought you break, as you ought,

Vows--words, no angel set down, some elf

Mistook,--for an oath, an epigram!

Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart,

And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased!

I choose to be yours, for my proper part,

Yours, leave or take, or mar me or make;

If I acquiesce, why should you be teased

With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart?

But what will God say? Oh, my sweet,

Think, and be sorry you did this thing!

Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet,

There's a heaven above may deserve your love:

Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring

And a promise broke, were it just or meet?

And I to have tempted you! I, who tried

Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise,

I loved, and was lowly, loved and aspired,

Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad,

And you meant to have hated and despised--

Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired!

She, ruined? How? No heaven for her?

Crowns to give, and none for the brow

That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh?

Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne,

And she go graceless, she graced now

Beyond, all saints, as themselves aver?

Hardly! That must be understood!

The earth is your place of penance, then;

And what will it prove? I desire your good,

But, plot as I may, I can find no way

How a blow should fall, such as falls on men,

Nor prove too much for your womanhood.

It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,

When you walk alone, and review the past;

And I, who so long shall have done with strife,

And journeyed my stage and earned my wage

And retired as was right,--I am called at last

When the devil stabs you, to lend the knife.

He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong,

Nor the other hours are able to save,

The happy, that lasted my whole life long:

For a promise broke, not for first words spoke,

The true, the only, that turn my grave

To a blaze of joy and a crash of song.

Witness beforehand! Off I trip

On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung:

My very name made great by your lip,

And my heart aglow with the good I know

Of a perfect year when we both were young,

And I tasted the angels' fellowship.

And witness, moreover ... Ah, but wait!

I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots!

It may be for yourself, when you meditate,

That you grieve--for slain ruth, murdered truth:

"Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots?

How truth would have triumphed!"--you sigh too late.

Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say!

Well, it is lost now; well, you must bear,

Abide and grow fit for a better day:

You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge!

But hush! For you, can be no despair:

There's amends: 'tis a secret: hope and pray!

For I was true at least--oh, true enough!

And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems!

Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff!

Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine,

And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams

At my swan's obtaining the crow's rebuff.

Men tell me of truth now--"False!" I cry:

Of beauty--"A mask, friend! Look beneath!"

We take our own method, the devil and I,

With pleasant and fair and wise and rare:

And the best we wish to what lives, is--death;

Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie!

Far better commit a fault and have done--

As you, Dear!--forever; and choose the pure,

And look where the healing waters run,

And strive and strain to be good again,

And a place in the other world ensure,

All glass and gold, with God for its sun.

Misery! What shall I say or do?

I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade:

Most like, you are glad you deceived me--rue

No whit of the wrong: you endured too long,

Have done no evil and want no aid,

Will live the old life out and chance the now.

And your sentence is written all the same,

And I can do nothing,--pray, perhaps:

But somehow the world pursues its game,--

If I pray, if I curse,--for better or worse:

And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps,

And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame.

Dear, I look from my hiding-place.

Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes?

Be happy! Add but the other grace,

Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt?

I knew you once: but in Paradise,

If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face.

DÎS ALITER VISUM;

OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS

Stop, let me have the truth of that!

Is that all true? I say, the day

Ten years ago when both of us

Met on a morning, friends--as thus

We meet this evening, friends or what?--

Did you--because I took your arm

And sillily smiled, "A mass of brass

That sea looks, blazing underneath!"

While up the cliff-road edged with heath,

We took the turns nor came to harm--

Did you consider, "Now makes twice

That I have seen her, walked and talked

With this poor pretty thoughtful thing,

Whose worth I weigh: she tries to sing;

Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice;

"Reads verse and thinks she understands;

Loves all, at any rate, that's great,

Good, beautiful; but much as we

Down at the bath-house love the sea,

Who breathe its salt and bruise its sands:

"While ... do but follow the fishing-gull

That flaps and floats from wave to cave!

There's the sea-lover, fair my friend!

What then? Be patient, mark and mend!

Had you the making of your skull?"

And did you, when we faced the church

With spire and sad slate roof, aloof

From human fellowship so far,

Where a few graveyard crosses are,

And garlands for the swallows' perch,--

Did you determine, as we stepped

O'er the lone stone fence, "Let me get

Her for myself, and what's the earth

With all its art, verse, music; worth--

Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?

"Schumann's our music-maker now;

Has his march-movement youth and mouth?

Ingres's the modern man that paints;

Which will lean on me, of his saints?

Heine for songs; for kisses, how?"

And did you, when we entered, reached

The votive frigate, soft aloft

Riding on air this hundred years,

Safe-smiling at old hopes and fears,--

Did you draw profit while she preached?

Resolving, "Fools we wise men grow!

Yes, I could easily blurt out curt

Some question that might find reply

As prompt in her stopped lips, dropped eye,

And rush of red to cheek and brow:

"Thus were a match made, sure and fast,

'Mid the blue weed-flowers round the mound

Where, issuing, we shall stand and stay

For one more look at baths and bay,

Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church last--

"A match 'twixt me, bent, wigged and lamed,

Famous, however, for verse and worse,

Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair

When gout and glory seat me there,

So, one whose love-freaks pass unblamed,--

"And this young beauty, round and sound

As a mountain-apple, youth and truth

With loves and doves, at all events

With money in the Three per Cents;

Whose choice of me would seem profound:--

"She might take me as I take her.

Perfect the hour would pass, alas!

Climb high, love high, what matter? Still,

Feet, feelings, must descend the hill:

An hour's perfection can't recur.

"Then follows Paris and full time

For both to reason: 'Thus with us!'

She 'll sigh, 'Thus girls give body and soul

At first word, think they gain the goal,

When 't is the starting-place they climb!

"'My friend makes verse and gets renown;

Have they all fifty years, his peers?

He knows the world, firm, quiet and gay;

Boys will become as much one day:

They 're fools; he cheats, with beard less brown.

"'For boys say, _Love me or I die!_

He did not say, _The truth is, youth_

_I want, who am old and know too much;_

_I'd catch youth: lend me sight and touch!_

_Drop heart's blood where life's wheels grate dry!_'

"While I should make rejoinder"--(then

It was no doubt, you ceased that least

Light pressure of my arm in yours)--

"'I can conceive of cheaper cures

For a yawning-fit o'er books and men.

"'What? All I am, was, and might be,

All, books taught, art brought, life's whole strife,

Painful results since precious, just

Were fitly exchanged, in wise disgust,

For two cheeks freshened by youth and sea?

"'All for a nosegay!--what came first;

With fields on flower, untried each side;

I rally, need my books and men,

And find a nosegay:' drop it, then,

No match yet made for best or worst!"

That ended me. You judged the porch

We left by, Norman; took our look

At sea and sky; wondered so few

Find out the place for air and view;

Remarked the sun began to scorch;

Descended, soon regained the baths,

And then, good-by! Years ten since then;

Ten years! We meet: you tell me, now,

By a window-seat for that cliff-brow,

On carpet-stripes for those sand-paths.

Now I may speak: you fool, for all

Your lore! WHO made things plain in vain?

What was the sea for? What, the gray

Sad church, that solitary day,

Crosses and graves and swallows' call?

Was there naught better than to enjoy?

No feat which, done, would make time break,

And let us pent-up creatures through

Into eternity, our due?

No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?

No wise beginning, here and now,

What cannot grow complete (earth's feat)

And heaven must finish, there and then?

No tasting earth's true food for men,

Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet?

No grasping at love, gaining a share

O' the sole spark from God's life at strife

With death, so, sure of range above

The limits here? For us and love,

Failure; but, when God fails, despair.

This you call wisdom? Thus you add

Good unto good again, in vain?

You loved, with body worn and weak;

I loved, with faculties to seek:

Were both loves worthless since ill-clad?

Let the mere star-fish in his vault

Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed,

Rose-jacynth to the finger-tips:

He, whole in body and soul, outstrips

Man, found with either in default.

But what 's whole can increase no more,

Is dwarfed and dies, since here 's its sphere.

The devil laughed at you in his sleeve!

You know not? That I well believe;

Or you had saved two souls: nay, four.

For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist,

Ankle or something. "Pooh," cry you?

At any rate she danced, all say,

Vilely; her vogue has had its day.

Here comes my husband from his whist.

TOO LATE

Here was I with my arm and heart

And brain, all yours for a word, a want

Put into a look--just a look, your part,--

While mine, to repay it ... vainest vaunt,

Were the woman, that's dead, alive to hear,

Had her lover, that's lost, love's proof to show!

But I cannot show it; you cannot speak

From the churchyard neither, miles removed,

Though I feel by a pulse within my cheek,

Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved

Needs help in her grave and finds none near,

Wants warmth from the heart which sends it--so!

Did I speak once angrily, all the drear days

You lived, you woman I loved so well,

Who married the other? Blame or praise,

Where was the use then? Time would tell,

And the end declare what man for you,

What woman for me, was the choice of God.

But, Edith dead! no doubting more!

I used to sit and look at my life

As it rippled and ran till, right before,

A great stone stopped it: oh, the strife

Of waves at the stone some devil threw

In my life's midcurrent, thwarting God!

But either I thought, "They may churn and chide

Awhile, my waves which came for their joy

And found this horrible stone full-tide:

Yet I see just a thread escape, deploy

Through the evening-country, silent and safe,

And it suffers no more till it finds the sea."

Or else I would think, "Perhaps some night

When new things happen, a meteor-ball

May slip through the sky in a line of light,

And earth breathe hard, and landmarks fall,

And my waves no longer champ nor chafe,

Since a stone will have rolled from its place: let be!"

But, dead! All 's done with: wait who may,

Watch and wear and wonder who will.

Oh, my whole life that ends to-day!

Oh, my soul's sentence, sounding still,

"The woman is dead that was none of his;

And the man that was none of hers may go!"

There's only the past left: worry that!

Wreak, like a bull, on the empty coat,

Rage, its late wearer is laughing at!

Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat;

Strike stupidly on--"This, this and this,

Where I would that a bosom received the blow!"

I ought to have done more: once my speech,

And once your answer, and there, the end,

And Edith was henceforth out of reach!

Why, men do more to deserve a friend,

Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise,

Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in the face.

Why, better even have burst like a thief

And borne you away to a rock for us two,

In a moment's horror, bright, bloody and brief,

Then changed to myself again--"I slew

Myself in that moment; a ruffian lies

Somewhere: your slave, see, born in his place!"

What did the other do? You be judge!

Look at us, Edith! Here are we both!

Give him his six whole years: I grudge

None of the life with you, nay, loathe

Myself that I grudged his start in advance

Of me who could overtake and pass.

But, as if he loved you! No, not he,

Nor any one else in the world, 'tis plain:

Who ever heard that another, free

As I, young, prosperous, sound and sane,

Poured life out, proffered it--"Half a glance

Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass!"

Handsome, were you? 'T is more than they held,

More than they said; I was 'ware and watched:

I was the scapegrace, this rat belled

The cat, this fool got his whiskers scratched:

The others? No head that was turned, no heart

Broken, my lady, assure yourself!

Each soon made his mind up; so and so

Married a dancer, such and such

Stole his friend's wife, stagnated slow,

Or maundered, unable to do as much,

And muttered of peace where he had no part:

While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf,--

On the whole, you were let alone, I think!

So, you looked to the other, who acquiesced;

My rival, the proud man,--prize your pink

Of poets! A poet he was! I've guessed:

He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read,

Loved you and doved you--did not I laugh!

There was a prize! But we both were tried.

Oh, heart of mine, marked broad with her mark,

_Tekel_, found wanting, set aside,

Scorned! See, I bleed these tears in the dark

Till comfort come and the last be bled:

He? He is tagging your epitaph.

If it would only come over again!

--Time to be patient with me, and probe

This heart till you punctured the proper vein,

Just to learn what blood is: twitch the robe

From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped,

Prick the leathern heart till the--verses spirt!

And late it was easy; late, you walked

Where a friend might meet you; Edith's name

Arose to one's lip if one laughed or talked;

If I heard good news, you heard the same;

When I woke, I knew that your breath escaped;

I could bide my time, keep alive, alert.

And alive I shall keep and long, you will see!

I knew a man, was kicked like a dog

From gutter to cesspool; what cared he

So long as he picked from the filth his prog?

He saw youth, beauty and genius die,

And jollily lived to his hundredth year.

But I will live otherwise: none of such life!

At once I begin as I mean to end.

Go on with the world, get gold in its strife,

Give your spouse the slip and betray your friend!

There are two who decline, a woman and I,

And enjoy our death in the darkness here.

I liked that way you had with your curls

Wound to a ball in a net behind:

Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker-girl's,

And your mouth--there was never, to my mind,

Such a funny mouth, for it would not shut;

And the dented chin too--what a chin!

There were certain ways when you spoke, some words

That you know you never could pronounce:

You were thin, however; like a bird's

Your hand seemed--some would say, the pounce

Of a scaly-footed hawk--all but!

The world was right when it called you thin.

But I turn my back on the world: I take

Your hand, and kneel, and lay to my lips.

Bid me live, Edith! Let me slake

Thirst at your presence! Fear no slips:

'Tis your slave shall pay, while his soul endures,

Full due, love's whole debt, _summum jus_.

My queen shall have high observance, planned

Courtship made perfect, no least line

Crossed without warrant. There you stand,

Warm too, and white too: would this wine

Had washed all over that body of yours.

Ere I drank it, and you down with it, thus!

ABT VOGLER

(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS

INVENTION)

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,

Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed

Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,

Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim,

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,--

Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,

And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,

This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise!

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,

Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!

And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,

Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,

Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,

Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,

Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass,

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:

For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,

When a great illumination surprises a festal night--

Outlined round and round Rome's dome from space to spire)

Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in

sight.

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's

birth,

Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I;

And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth,

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky:

Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,

Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star;

Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,

For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.

Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow,

Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,

Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,

Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last;

Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and

gone,

But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their

new:

What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon;

And what is,--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect

too.

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,

All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,

All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth:

Had I written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from

cause.

Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;

It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,

Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:--

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,

Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!

And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.

Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught:

It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said:

Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:

And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;

Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;

For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.

Never to be again! But many more of the kind

As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me?

To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind

To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall

be.

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?

Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!

What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?

Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;

The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound;

What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power

Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.

The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;

Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence

For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized?

Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue

thence?

Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:

But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;

The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know.

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.

Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,

Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,--yes,

And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,

Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep;

Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found,

The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.

RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in his hand

Who saith, "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers,

Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours,

Which lily leave and then as best recall?"

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars;

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;

Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;

Irks care the crop full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To that which doth provide

And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

Be our joys three-parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks,--

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:

What I aspired to be,

And was not, comforts me:

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh has soul to suit,

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?

To man, propose this test--

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:

I own the Past profuse

Of power each side, perfection every turn:

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole;

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?

Not once beat "Praise be thine!

I see the whole design,

I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too:

Perfect I call thy plan:

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh;

Our soul, in its rose-mesh

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:

Would we some prize might hold

To match those manifold

Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,

"Spite of this flesh to-day

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"

As the bird wings and sings.

Let us cry, "All good things

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age

To grant youth's heritage,

Life's struggle having so far reached its term:

Thence shall I pass, approved

A man, for aye removed

From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon

Take rest, ere I be gone

Once more on my adventure brave and new:

Fearless and unperplexed,

When I wage battle next,

What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try

My gain or loss thereby;

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:

And I shall weigh the same,

Give life its praise or blame:

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,

A certain moment cuts

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray:

A whisper from the west

Shoots--"Add this to the rest,

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life,

Though lifted o'er its strife,

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,

"This rage was right i' the main,

That acquiescence vain:

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved

To man, with soul just nerved

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:

Here, work enough to watch

The Master work, and catch

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth

Should strive, through acts uncouth,

Toward making, than repose on aught found made:

So, better, age, exempt

From strife, should know, than tempt

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right

And Good and Infinite

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own,

With knowledge absolute,

Subject to no dispute

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all,

Severed great minds from small,

Announced to each his station in the Past!

Was I, the world arraigned,

Were they, my soul disdained,

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?

Ten men love what I hate,

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;

Ten, who in ears and eyes

Match me: we all surmise,

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass

Called "work," must sentence pass,

Things done, that took the eye and had the price;

O'er which, from level stand,

The low world laid its hand,

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb

And finger failed to plumb,

So passed in making up the main account;

All instincts immature,

All purposes unsure,

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed

Into a narrow act,

Fancies that broke through language and escaped;

All I could never be,

All, men ignored in me,

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel,

That metaphor! and feel

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,--

Thou, to whom fools propound,

When the wine makes its round,

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

Fool! All that is, at all,

Lasts ever, past recall;

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:

What entered into thee,

_That_ was, is, and shall be:

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee 'mid this dance

Of plastic circumstance,

This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest:

Machinery just meant

To give thy soul its bent,

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves,

Which ran the laughing loves

Around thy base, no longer pause and press?

What though, about thy rim,

Skull-things in order grim

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!

To uses of a cup,

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,

The new wine's foaming flow,

The Master's lips aglow!

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then,

Thee, God, who mouldest men;

And since, not even while the whirl was worst,

Did I--to the wheel of life

With shapes and colors rife,

Bound dizzily--mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:

So, take and use thy work:

Amend what flaws may lurk,

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!

My times be in thy hand!

Perfect the cup as planned!

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

A DEATH IN THE DESERT

[Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene:

It is a parchment, of my rolls the fifth,

Hath three skins glued together, is all Greek,

And goeth from _Epsilon_ down to _Mu:_

Lies second in the surnamed Chosen Chest,

Stained and conserved with juice of terebinth,

Covered with cloth of hair, and lettered _Xi_,

From Xanthus, my wife's uncle now at peace:

_Mu_ and _Epsilon_ stand for my own name.

I may not write it, but I make a cross

To show I wait His coming, with the rest,

And leave off here: beginneth Pamphylax.]

I said, "If one should wet his lips with wine,

And slip the broadest plantain-leaf we find,

Or else the lappet of a linen robe,

Into the water-vessel, lay it right,

And cool his forehead just above the eyes,

The while a brother, kneeling either side,

Should chafe each hand and try to make it warm,--

He is not so far gone but he might speak."

This did not happen in the outer cave,

Nor in the secret chamber of the rock,

Where, sixty days since the decree was cut,

We had him, bedded on a camel-skin,

And waited for his dying all the while;

But in the midmost grotto: since noon's light

Reached there a little, and we would not lose

The last of what might happen on his face.

I at the head, and Xanthus at the feet,

With Valens and the Boy, had lifted him,

And brought him from the chamber in the depths,

And laid him in the light where we might see:

For certain smiles began about his mouth,

And his lids moved, presageful of the end.

Beyond, and halfway up the mouth o' the cave,

The Bactrian convert, having his desire,

Kept watch, and made pretence to graze a goat

That gave us milk, on rags of various herb,

Plantain and quitch, the rocks' shade keeps alive:

So that if any thief or soldier passed,

(Because the persecution was aware,)

Yielding the goat up promptly with his life,

Such man might pass on, joyful at a prize,

Nor care to pry into the cool o' the cave.

Outside was all noon and the burning blue.

"Here is wine," answered Xanthus,--dropped a drop;

I stooped and placed the lap of cloth aright,

Then chafed his right hand, and the Boy his left:

But Valens had bethought him, and produced

And broke a ball of nard, and made perfume.

Only, he did--not so much wake, as--turn

And smile a little, as a sleeper does

If any dear one call him, touch his face--

And smiles and loves, but will not be disturbed.

Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept:

It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome,

Was burned, and could not write the chronicle.

Then the Boy sprang up from his knees, and ran,

Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought,

And fetched the seventh plate of graven lead

Out of the secret chamber, found a place,

Pressing with finger on the deeper dints,

And spoke, as 't were his mouth proclaiming first,

"I am the Resurrection and the Life."

Whereat he opened his eyes wide at once,

And sat up of himself, and looked at us;

And thenceforth nobody pronounced a word:

Only, outside, the Bactrian cried his cry

Like the lone desert-bird that wears the ruff,

As signal we were safe, from time to time.

First he said, "If a friend declared to me,

This my son Valens, this my other son,

Were James and Peter,--nay, declared as well

This lad was very John,--I could believe!

--Could, for a moment, doubtlessly believe:

So is myself withdrawn into my depths,

The soul retreated from the perished brain

Whence it was wont to feel and use the world

Through these dull members, done with long ago.

Yet I myself remain; I feel myself:

And there is nothing lost. Let be, awhile!"

[This is the doctrine he was wont to teach,

How divers persons witness in each man,

Three souls which make up one soul: first, to wit,

A soul of each and all the bodily parts,

Seated therein, which works, and is what Does,

And has the use of earth, and ends the man

Downward: but, tending upward for advice,

Grows into, and again is grown into

By the next soul, which, seated in the brain,

Useth the first with its collected use,

And feeleth, thinketh, willeth,--is what Knows:

Which, duly tending upward in its turn,

Grows into, and again is grown into

By the last soul, that uses both the first,

Subsisting whether they assist or no,

And, constituting man's self, is what Is--

And leans upon the former, makes it play,

As that played off the first: and, tending up,

Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man

Upward in that dread point of intercourse,

Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him.

What Does, what Knows, what Is; three souls, one man.

I give the glossa as Theotypas.]

And then, "A stick, once fire from end to end;

Now, ashes save the tip that holds a spark!

Yet, blow the spark, it runs back, spreads itself

A little where the fire was: thus I urge

The soul that served me, till it task once more

What ashes of my brain have kept their shape,

And these make effort on the last o' the flesh,

Trying to taste again the truth of things"--

(He smiled)--"their very superficial truth;

As that ye are my sons, that it is long

Since James and Peter had release by death,

And I am only he, your brother John,

Who saw and heard, and could remember all.

Remember all! It is not much to say.

What if the truth broke on me from above

As once and ofttimes? Such might hap again:

Doubtlessly He might stand in presence here,

With head wool-white, eyes flame, and feet like brass,

The sword and the seven stars, as I have seen--

I who now shudder only and surmise

'How did your brother bear that sight and live?'

"If I live yet, it is for good, more love

Through me to men: be naught but ashes here

That keep awhile my semblance, who was John,--

Still, when they scatter, there is left on earth

No one alive who knew (consider this!)

--Saw with his eyes and handled with his hands

That which was from the first, the Word of Life.

How will it be when none more saith 'I saw'?

"Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops.

Since I, whom Christ's mouth taught, was bidden teach,

I went, for many years, about the world,

Saying 'It was so; so I heard and saw,'

Speaking as the case asked: and men believed.

Afterward came the message to myself

In Patmos isle; I was not bidden teach,

But simply listen, take a book and write,

Nor set down other than the given word,

With nothing left to my arbitrament

To choose or change: I wrote, and men believed.

Then, for my time grew brief, no message more,

No call to write again, I found a way,

And, reasoning from my knowledge, merely taught

Men should, for love's sake, in love's strength believe;

Or I would pen a letter to a friend

And urge the same as friend, nor less nor more:

Friends said I reasoned rightly, and believed.

But at the last, why, I seemed left alive

Like a sea-jelly weak on Patmos strand,

To tell dry sea-beach gazers how I fared

When there was mid-sea, and the mighty things;

Left to repeat, 'I saw, I heard, I knew,'

And go all over the old ground again,

With Antichrist already in the world,

And many Antichrists, who answered prompt,

'Am I not Jasper as thyself art John?

Nay, young, whereas through age thou mayest forget:

Wherefore, explain, or how shall we believe?'

I never thought to call down fire on such,

Or, as in wonderful and early days,

Pick up the scorpion, tread the serpent dumb;

But patient stated much of the Lord's life

Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work:

Since much that at the first, in deed and word,

Lay simply and sufficiently exposed,

Had grown (or else my soul was grown to match,

Fed through such years, familiar with such light,

Guarded and guided still to see and speak)

Of new significance and fresh result;

What first were guessed as points, I now knew stars,

And named them in the Gospel I have writ.

For men said, 'It is getting long ago:

Where is the promise of his coming?'--asked

These young ones in their strength, as loth to wait,

Of me who, when their sires were born, was old.

I, for I loved them, answered, joyfully,

Since I was there, and helpful in my age;

And, in the main, I think such men believed.

Finally, thus endeavoring, I fell sick,

Ye brought me here, and I supposed the end,

And went to sleep with one thought that, at least,

Though the whole earth should lie in wickedness,

We had the truth, might leave the rest to God.

Yet now I wake in such decrepitude

As I had slidden down and fallen afar,

Past even the presence of my former self,

Grasping the while for stay at facts which snap,

Till I am found away from my own world,

Feeling for foothold through a blank profound,

Along with unborn people in strange lands,

Who say--I hear said or conceive they say--

'Was John at all, and did he say he saw?

Assure us, ere we ask what he might see!'

"And how shall I assure them? Can they share

--They, who have flesh, a veil of youth and strength

About each spirit, that needs must bide its time,

Living and learning still as years assist

Which wear the thickness thin, and let man see--

With me who hardly am withheld at all,

But shudderingly, scarce a shred between,

Lie bare to the universal prick of light?

Is it for nothing we grow old and weak,

We whom God loves? When pain ends, gain ends too.

To me, that story--ay, that Life and Death

Of which I wrote 'it was'--to me, it is;

--Is, here and now: I apprehend naught else.

Is not God now i' the world his power first made?

Is not his love at issue still with sin,

Visibly when a wrong is done on earth?

Love, wrong, and pain, what see I else around?

Yea, and the Resurrection and Uprise

To the right hand of the throne--what is it beside,

When such truth, breaking bounds, o'erfloods my soul,

And, as I saw the sin and death, even so

See I the need yet transiency of both,

The good and glory consummated thence?

I saw the power; I see the Love, once weak,

Resume the Power: and in this word 'I see,'

Lo, there is recognized the Spirit of both

That moving o'er the spirit of man, unblinds

His eye and bids him look. These are, I see;

But ye, the children, his beloved ones too,

Ye need,--as I should use an optic glass

I wondered at erewhile, somewhere i' the world,

It had been given a crafty smith to make;

A tube, he turned on objects brought too close,

Lying confusedly insubordinate

For the unassisted eye to master once:

Look through his tube, at distance now they lay,

Become succinct, distinct, so small, so clear!

Just thus, ye needs must apprehend what truth

I see, reduced to plain historic fact,

Diminished into clearness, proved a point

And far away: ye would withdraw your sense

From out eternity, strain it upon time.

Then stand before that fact, that Life and Death,

Stay there at gaze, till it dispart, dispread,

As though a star should open out, all sides,

Grow the world on you, as it is my world.

"For life, with all it yields of joy and woe,

And hope and fear,--believe the aged friend,--

Is just our chance o' the prize of learning love,

How love might be, hath been indeed, and is;

And that we hold thenceforth to the uttermost

Such prize despite the envy of the world,

And, having gained truth, keep truth: that is all.

But see the double way wherein we are led,

How the soul learns diversely from the flesh!

With flesh, that hath so little time to stay,

And yields mere basement for the soul's emprise,

Expect prompt teaching. Helpful was the light,

And warmth was cherishing and food was choice

To every man's flesh, thousand years ago,

As now to yours and mine; the body sprang

At once to the height, and stayed: but the soul,--no!

Since sages who, this noontide, meditate

In Rome or Athens, may descry some point

Of the eternal power, hid yestereve;

And, as thereby the power's whole mass extends,

So much extends the æther floating o'er

The love that tops the might, the Christ in God.

Then, as new lessons shall be learned in these

Till earth's work stop and useless time run out,

So duly, daily, needs provision be

For keeping the soul's prowess possible,

Building new barriers as the old decay,

Saving us from evasion of life's proof,

Putting the question ever, 'Does God love,

And will ye hold that truth against the world?'

Ye know there needs no second proof with good

Gained for our flesh from any earthly source:

We might go freezing, ages,--give us fire,

Thereafter we judge fire at its full worth,

And guard it safe through every chance, ye know!

That fable of Prometheus and his theft,

How mortals gained Jove's fiery flower, grows old

(I have been used to hear the pagans own)

And out of mind; but fire, howe'er its birth,

Here is it, precious to the sophist now

Who laughs the myth of Æschylus to scorn,

As precious to those satyrs of his play,

Who touched it in gay wonder at the thing.

While were it so with the soul,--this gift of truth

Once grasped, were this our soul's gain safe, and sure

To prosper as the body's gain is wont,--

Why, man's probation would conclude, his earth

Crumble; for he both reasons and decides,

Weighs first, then chooses: will he give up fire

For gold or purple once he knows its worth?

Could he give Christ up were his worth as plain?

Therefore, I say, to test man, the proofs shift,

Nor may he grasp that fact like other fact,

And straightway in his life acknowledge it,

As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire.

Sigh ye, 'It had been easier once than now'?

To give you answer I am left alive;

Look at me who was present from the first!

Ye know what things I saw; then came a test,

My first, befitting me who so had seen:

'Forsake the Christ thou sawest transfigured, him

Who trod the sea and brought the dead to life?

What should wring this from thee!'--ye laugh and ask.

What wrung it? Even a torchlight and a noise,

The sudden Roman faces, violent hands,

And fear of what the Jews might do! Just that,

And it is written, 'I forsook and fled:'

There was my trial, and it ended thus.

Ay, but my soul had gained its truth, could grow:

Another year or two,--what little child,

What tender woman that had seen no least

Of all my sights, but barely heard them told,

Who did not clasp the cross with a light laugh,

Or wrap the burning robe round, thanking God?

Well, was truth safe forever, then? Not so.

Already had begun the silent work

Whereby truth, deadened of its absolute blaze,

Might need love's eye to pierce the o'erstretched doubt.

Teachers were busy, whispering 'All is true

As the aged ones report: but youth can reach

Where age gropes dimly, weak with stir and strain,

And the full doctrine slumbers till to-day.'

Thus, what the Roman's lowered spear was found,

A bar to me who touched and handled truth,

Now proved the glozing of some new shrewd tongue,

This Ebion, this Cerinthus or their mates,

Till imminent was the outcry 'Save our Christ!'

Whereon I stated much of the Lord's life

Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work.

Such work done, as it will be, what comes next?

What do I hear say, or conceive men say,

'Was John at all, and did he say he saw?

Assure us, ere we ask what he might see!'

"Is this indeed a burden for late days,

And may I help to bear it with you all,

Using my weakness which becomes your strength?

For if a babe were born inside this grot,

Grew to a boy here, heard us praise the sun,

Yet had but yon sole glimmer in light's place,--

One loving him and wishful he should learn,

Would much rejoice himself was blinded first

Month by month here, so made to understand

How eyes, born darkling, apprehend amiss:

I think I could explain to such a child

There was more glow outside than gleams he caught,

Ay, nor need urge 'I saw it, so believe!'

It is a heavy burden you shall bear

In latter days, new lands, or old grown strange,

Left without me, which must be very soon.

What is the doubt, my brothers? Quick with it!

I see you stand conversing, each new face,

Either in fields, of yellow summer eves,

On islets yet unnamed amid the sea;

Or pace for shelter 'neath a portico

Out of the crowd in some enormous town

Where now the larks sing in a solitude;

Or muse upon blank heaps of stone and sand

Idly conjectured to be Ephesus:

And no one asks his fellow any more

'Where is the promise of his coming?' but

'Was he revealed in any of his lives,

As Power, as Love, as Influencing Soul?'

"Quick, for time presses, tell the whole mind out,

And let us ask and answer and be saved!

My book speaks on, because it cannot pass;

One listens quietly, nor scoffs but pleads,

'Here is a tale of things done ages since;

What truth was ever told the second day?

Wonders, that would prove doctrine, go for naught.

Remains the doctrine, love; well, we must love,

And what we love most, power and love in one,

Let us acknowledge on the record here,

Accepting these in Christ: must Christ then be?

Has he been? Did not we ourselves make him?

Our mind receives but what it holds, no more.

First of the love, then; we acknowledge Christ--

A proof we comprehend his love, a proof

We had such love already in ourselves,

Knew first what else we should not recognize.

'T is mere projection from man's inmost mind,

And, what he loves, thus falls reflected back,

Becomes accounted somewhat out of him;

He throws it up in air, it drops down earth's,

With shape, name, story added, man's old way.

How prove you Christ came otherwise at least?

Next try the power: he made and rules the world:

Certes there is a world once made, now ruled,

Unless things have been ever as we see.

Our sires declared a charioteer's yoked steeds

Brought the sun up the east and down the west,

Which only of itself now rises, sets,

As if a hand impelled it and a will,--

Thus they long thought, they who had will and hands:

But the new question's whisper is distinct,

Wherefore must all force needs be like ourselves?

We have the hands, the will; what made and drives

The sun is force, is law, is named, not known,

While will and love we do know; marks of these,

Eye-witnesses attest, so books declare--

As that, to punish or reward our race,

The sun at undue times arose or set

Or else stood still: what do not men affirm?

But earth requires as urgently reward

Or punishment to-day as years ago,

And none expects the sun will interpose:

Therefore it was mere passion and mistake,

Or erring zeal for right, which changed the truth.

Go back, far, farther, to the birth of things;

Ever the will, the intelligence, the love,

Man's!--which he gives, supposing he but finds,

As late he gave head, body, hands and feet,

To help these in what forms he called his gods.

First, Jove's brow, Juno's eyes were swept away,

But Jove's wrath, Juno's pride continued long:

As last, will, power, and love discarded these,

So law in turn discards power, love, and will.

What proveth God is otherwise at least?

All else, projection from the mind of man!

"Nay, do not give me wine, for I am strong,

But place my gospel where I put my hands.

"I say that man was made to grow, not stop;

That help, he needed once, and needs no more,

Having grown but an inch by, is withdrawn:

For he hath new needs, and new helps to these.

This imports solely, man should mount on each

New height in view; the help whereby he mounts,

The ladder-rung his foot has left, may fall,

Since all things suffer change save God the Truth.

Man apprehends him newly at each stage

Whereat earth's ladder drops, its service done;

And nothing shall prove twice what once was proved.

You stick a garden-plot with ordered twigs

To show inside lie germs of herbs unborn,

And check the careless step would spoil their birth;

But when herbs wave, the guardian twigs may go,

Since should ye doubt of virtues, question kinds,

It is no longer for old twigs ye look,

Which proved once underneath lay store of seed,

But to the herb's self, by what light ye boast,

For what fruit's signs are. This book's fruit is plain,

Nor miracles need prove it any more.

Doth the fruit show? Then miracles bade 'ware

At first of root and stem, saved both till now

From trampling ox, rough boar and wanton goat.

What? Was man made a wheelwork to wind up,

And be discharged, and straight wound up anew?

No!--grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets:

May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

"This might be pagan teaching: now hear mine.

"I say, that as the babe, you feed awhile,

Becomes a boy and fit to feed himself,

So, minds at first must be spoon-fed with truth:

When they can eat, babe's nurture is withdrawn.

I fed the babe whether it would or no:

I bid the boy or feed himself or starve.

I cried once, 'That ye may believe in Christ,

Behold this blind man shall receive his sight!

I cry now, 'Urgest thou, _for I am shrewd_

_And smile at stories how John's word could cure--_

_Repeat that miracle and take my faith?_'

I say, that miracle was duly wrought

When, save for it, no faith was possible.

Whether a change were wrought i' the shows o' the world,

Whether the change came from our minds which see

Of shows o' the world so much as and no more

Than God wills for his purpose,--(what do I

See now, suppose you, there where you see rock

Round us?)--I know not; such was the effect,

So faith grew, making void more miracles

Because too much: they would compel, not help.

I say, the acknowledgment of God in Christ

Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee

All questions in the earth and out of it,

And has so far advanced thee to be wise.

Wouldst thou unprove this to re-prove the proved?

In life's mere minute, with power to use that proof,

Leave knowledge and revert to how it sprung?

Thou hast it; use it and forthwith, or die!

"For I say, this is death and the sole death,

When a man's loss comes to him from his gain,

Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,

And lack of love from love made manifest;

A lamp's death when, replete with oil, it chokes;

A stomach's when, surcharged with food, it starves.

With ignorance was surety of a cure.

When man, appalled at nature, questioned first,

'What if there lurk a might behind this might?'

He needed satisfaction God could give,

And did give, as ye have the written word:

But when he finds might still redouble might,

Yet asks, 'Since all is might, what use of will?'

--Will, the one source of might,--he being man

With a man's will and a man's might, to teach

In little how the two combine in large,--

That man has turned round on himself and stands,

Which in the course of nature is, to die.

"And when man questioned, 'What if there be love

Behind the will and might, as real as they?'--

He needed satisfaction God could give,

And did give, as ye have the written word:

But when, beholding that love everywhere,

He reasons, 'Since such love is everywhere,

And since ourselves can love and would be loved,

We ourselves make the love, and Christ was not,'--

How shall ye help this man who knows himself,

That he must love and would be loved again,

Yet, owning his own love that proveth Christ,

Rejecteth Christ through very need of him?

The lamp o'erswims with oil, the stomach flags

Loaded with nurture, and that man's soul dies.

The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning Cambridge Edition · 第 10 / 34 章

_Nor._ The Queen 's the Queen,