ST. MICHAEUS COLLEGE
TORONTO, CANADA
LIBRARY
PRESENTED BY
Rev. Declan E. Foley, I
r
I
*/
CONTENTS.
PAGE
IEDITOR'S PREFACE .
..BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION
RITICAL INTRODUCTION .
Star .
Ujj at a Villa Down in the City
4-Piclor Tgnotus ....
Fra tippo Lippi
Andrea del Sarto
Face ....
ly Last Duchess
ng from " Pippa Passes "
Eristina .' . . .
I'ount Gismbnd .
Vurydice to Orpheus .
"he Glove-.
i -The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint
4
3 "-A Toccata of Galuppi's
. Serenade at the Villa ....
outh and Art
he Flight of the Duchess
ng from " Pippa Passes "
low they brought the Good News from
3hcnt to Aix"
ng from *' Paracelsus " .
irough die Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr
cident of the French Camp .
: Lost Leader
i Gondola
avers' Quarrel . .
h's Immortalities
Last Ride together .
smerism
:he Fireside .
Wife tto Any Husband
, Year
42
& -A
^fc, AJ
4i. I
; from!" Tames Lee" .
Oman's Last V
st Word
ling at Night
ing at Morning .
en and Roses .
conceptions ....
ctty Woman
l>t Woman
i a Life .
; a Love ....
aboratory
^Hair: A Story of Pornic
Statue and the Bust .
among the Ruins
i's Revenges
ag
: Thoughts from Abroad .
;iii in 1'. 't;land
nglishman in Italy .
I0 3
'"5
107
PAGE
. 120
"3
Praxed's Church
How it strikes a Contemporary
aster Hugues of Saxe-Gotha
146
147
two in the Campagna
' De Gustibus ". . 157
The Guardian-Angel .... 158
Evelyn Hope 160
Memorabilia 162
Apparent Failure 162
Prospice 164
" Childe Roland to the Dark Tower
came " 16
-4 Grammarian's Funeral . . . ~f
CTeon . . .... >i7A
Instans Tyrannus . . _ . . <~foy
^
yAn Epistle containing the Strange Medi-
cal Experience of Karshish, the Arab^^ ->
Physician ..... .(184 )
Caliban upon Setebos ; or, Natural The-
ology in the Island . . . -*^M
gaul <3F
Rabbi Ben Ezra ....
Epilogue 213
A Wall 217
Apparitions
"8
Natural Magic 218
Magical Nature 219
Garden Fancies 219
In Three Days 223
The Lost Mistress 224
One Way of Love 225
Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli . . . 225
Numpholeptos 226
Appearances 230
The Worst of it 230
Too Late .' 234
Bifurcation 237
A Likeness 238
May and Death 240
A Forgiveness 241
if I Cenciaja 5i
vii
Vlll
CONTENTS.
PAGE
257
Porphyria's Lover
Filippp Baldinucci on the Privilege of
Burial 259
^Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister . . 272
^.The Heretic's Tragedy . . . .275
Holy-Cross Day 278
Amphibian ...... 282
St. Martin's Summer .... 285
James Lee's Wife 288
Respectability ...... 300
DJs Aliter Visum ; or, Le Byron de Nos
Jours 301
pfessjons ..... 306
Ci>n
.Tfie
Tray .
Cavalier Tunes .
Before
After .
Herv<< Riel
In a Balcony
^Old Pictures in Florence .
Bishop Blougram's Apofogy . .
Air. Sludge, " The Medium " .
The Boy and the Angel ,
A Deatji in the Desert
Fears and Scruples ....
Artemis Prologizes ....
Pheidippides .....
The Patriot . .
PAGE
Popularity . / 429
Pisgah Sights, i 432
Pisgah Sights, a 433
Pisgah Sights. 3 434
At the " Mermaid " 435
House 439
Shop 441
A Tale ....... 444
Additional Selections from Browning's
Latest Works, 1880-1889 . . .448
Echetlos 448
Touch him ne'er so Lightly . . . 449
Wanting is What? .... 449
'Never the Time and the Place . . . 450
Round us the Wild Creatures . . . 450
Ask not One Least Word of Praise . . 451
Epilogue to " Ferishtah's Fancies " . 451
The Names ...... 452
Why I am a Liberal 452
Prologue to " Asolando ". . . -453
Rosny 434
Poetics 455
Summum Bonum 455
Muckle-Mouth Meg .... 455
Epilogue to " Asolando " . . . 456
Notes 4^59
Bibliography 5*04
Index to Poems . . . . 509
Index to First Linos 511
EDITORS' PREFACE.
T)ROWNING'S own selections from his works supply the general
-D reader, or the student who intends further complete study, with
the most coherent representative short survey or initial presentation of
his whole complex and voluminous genius.
The poet has made his selections cover the entire range of his work
from 1833 to 1879; the present editors, not presuming to go back over
any part of the field from which he has garnered, have added from his
later publications a choice handful of short poems, mainly lyrical, be-
ginning with the second series of 'Dramatic Idyls,' 1880, and closing
with the final volume, ' Asolando,' 1 889, which was published in Lon-
don on the day of Browning's death in Venice.
Care has been taken to give with accuracy Browning's own latest
revised text of 1888, 1889; also, to make the Introduction and Notes
rich in small space. In making the aesthetic part of the Notes, the
aim has been neither to paraphrase, nor to give comment about the
poems, but to epitomize the gist of each one, or, at most, where
the poem demanded such treatment, to summarize its leading traits
and show its outcome. Such a procedure seemed especially appro-
priate to this volume which Browning intended should offer the public
a representative view of his poetic domain, and the editors hope this
part of their work will especially commend itself. They believe the
Notes will also be found to shed light on many allusions not before
explained.
Finally, they desire to acknowledge with cordial gratitude their in-
debtedness to the work of their predecessors, especially to Mrs. Orr,
Professor Hiram Corson, Mr. George Willis Cooke, Dr. Edward Berdoe,
Dr. W. J. Rolfe, and Miss Hersey for help in allusions ; and to Mrs. Orr,
Mr. William Sharpe, Mr. Edmund Gosse, and Mr. W. G. Kingsland,
from whom the materials for the biographical sketch were drawn ; also
to the Boston Browning Society, whose collection of first editions was
consulted in compiling the bibliography.
BOSTON, May 20, 1896.
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION.
"A peep through my window, if folk prefer;
But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine." ' HOUSE.'
WHEN some depredator of the familiar declared that "Only in
Italy is there any romance left," Browning replied, "Ah! well, I
should like to include poor old Camberwell," and " poor old Camber-
well," where Robert Browning was born, May 7, 1812, offered no meagre
nurture for the fancy of a child gifted with the ardor that greatens and
glorifies the real.
Nature still garlanded this suburban part of London with bowery
spaces breathing peace. The view of the region from Herne Hill over
softly wreathing distances of domestic wood " was, before railroads came,
entirely lovely," Ruskin says. He writes of " the tops of twenty square
miles of politely inhabited groves," of bloom of lilac and laburnum and of
almond-blossoms, intermingling suggestions of the wealth of fruit-trees in
enclosed gardens, and companioning all this with the furze, birch, oak,
and bramble of the Norwood hills, and the open fields of Dulwich " ani-
mate with cow and buttercup."
Nature was ready to beckon the young poet to dreams and solitude,
and, too close to need to vie with her, the great city was at hand to
make her power intimately felt. From a height crowned by three large
elms, Browning, as a lad, used to enjoy the picturesqueness of his "poor
old Camberwell." Its heart of romance was centred for him in the
sight of the vast city lying to the westward. His memory singled out
one such visit as peculiarly significant, the first one on which he beheld
teeming London by night, and heard the vague confusion of her collec-
tive voice beneath the silence of the stars.
Within the home into which he was born, equally well-poised condi-
tions befriended him, fostering the development of his emotional and
intellectual nature. His mother was once described by Carlyle as "the
true type of a Scottish gentlewoman." Browning himself used to say of
Xll
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION.
her "with tremulous emotion," according to his friend, Mrs. Orr, "she
was a divine woman." Her gentle, deeply religious nature evidently
derived its evangelical tendency from her mother, also Scotch ; while
from her father, William Wiedemann, ship-owner, a Hamburg German,
settled in Dundee, who was an accomplished draughtsman and musician,
she seems to have derived the liking and facility for music which was
one of the characteristic bents of the poet. To this Scotch-German
descent on his mother's side the metaphysical quality of his mind is
accountable, concerning which Harriet Martineau is recorded as having
said to him, " You have no need to study German thought, your mind is
German enough already." The peculiarly tender affection his mother
called out in him seems to have been at once proof and enhancement of
the mystical, emotional, and impressible side of his disposition; and
these traits were founded on an organic inheritance from her of " what
he called a nervousness of nature," which his father could not have
bequeathed to him.
Exuberant vitality, insatiable intellectual curiosity and capacity, the
characteristics of Robert Browning the- elder, were the heritage of his
son, but raised in him to a more effective power, through their transmu-
tation, perhaps, as Mrs. Orr suggests, in the more sensitive physique
and temperament inherited from his mother. Of his father, Browning
wrote that his " Powers, natural and acquired, would easily have made
him a notable man, had he known what vanity or ambition or the love
of money or social influence meant." He had refused to stay on his
mother's sugar plantation at St. Kitt's in the West Indies, losing the
fortune to be achieved there, because of his detestation of slavery, and the
office he filled in the Bank of England was never close enough to his
liking to induce him to rise in it so far as his father had risen ; but it
enabled him to indulge his tastes for many books and a few pictures
and to secure for his son, as that son said shortly before his death, " all
the ease and comfort that a literary man needs to do good work."
One of the poet's own early recollections gives a picture that epito-
mizes the joint influence of his happy parentage. It depicts the child
" sitting on his father's knees in the library, listening with enthralled
attention to the tale of Troy, with marvellous illustrations among the
glowing coals in the fireplace ; with, below all, the vaguely heard
accompaniment from the neighboring room where Mrs. Browning sat
' in her chief happiness, her hour of darkness and solitude and music '
of a wild Gaelic lament."
His father's brain was itself a library, stored with literary antiquities,
which, his son used to say, made him seem to have known Paracelsus,
Faustus, and even Talmudic personages personally, and his heart was
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xiU
so young and buoyant that his lore, instead of isolating him from his
boy and girl, made him their most entertaining companion.
It is not surprising that under such circumstances the ordinary school-
ing was too puerile for young Robert's wide-awake wits. He was so
energetic in mind and body that he was sent to a day-school near bj
for peace 1 sake at an early age, and sent back again, for peace' sake, too.
because his proficiency made the mammas complain that Mrs. was
neglecting her other pupils for the sake of bringing on Master Browning
Home teaching followed. Also home amusement, which included the
keeping of a variety of pets, owls, monkeys, magpies, hedgehogs, an
eagle, a toad, and two snakes. If any further proof is needed of the
hospitable warmth of his youthful heart, an entry in his diary at the
age of seven or eight may serve " married two wives this morning."
This referred, of course, to an imaginary appropriation of two girls he
had just seen in church.
Later he entered the school of the Misses Ready and passed thence
to their brother's school, staying there till he was fourteen, but his con-
tempt for the petty and formal learning which is the best accorded
many children, was marked, and perfectly natural to a boy who delighted
to plunge in the deeper knowledge his father's book-crammed house
opened generously to him.
In the list, given by Mrs. Orr, of books early attractive to him, were
Ba seventeenth edition of Quarles's ' Emblems ' ; first editions of ' Robinson
Crusoe,' and Milton ; the original pamphlet, ' Killing no Murder' (1559)
which Carlyle borrowed for his ' Cromwell ' ; an early edition of the
' Bees ' by the Bernard Mandeville, with whom he was destined later to
hold a ' Parleying ' of his own ; rare old Bibles ; Voltaire ; a wide range
of English poetry; the Greek and Elizabethan dramatists.
His father's profound love of poetry was essentially classic, and his
marked aptitude in rhyming followed the models of Pope, but Brown-
ing's early poet was Byron, and all his sympathies were warmly roman-
tic. His verse-making, which began before he could write, resulted at
twelve in a volume of short poems, presumably Byronic, which he
gracefully entitled ' Incondita.'
He wanted, in vain, to find a publisher for this, and soon afterwards
destroyed it, but not before his mother had shown it to Miss Flower,
and she, to her sister, Sarah Flower, and to Mr. Fox, and the budding
poet had thus gained the attention of three genuine friends.
Shortly after this, the Byronic star which had shed its somewhat
lurid influence over the first ebullitions of his genius, was forever ban-
ished by the appearance of a new star within bis field of vision. In-
credible as it may seem to the present generation, he had never heard
x iv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION.
of Shelley, and if it had not been for a happy chance, an important in-
fluence in the early shaping of his poetic faculties might have been
postponed until too late to furnish its quickening impulse.
One day in passing a book-stall, he happened to see advertised in a
box of second-hand wares a little book, 'Mr. Shelley's Atheistical
Poems:' very scarce. Though the little second-hand volume was
only a miserable pirated edition, by its means such entrancing glimpses
of an unsuspected world were revealed to the boy that he longed to
possess more of Shelley. His mother, accordingly, sallied forth in search
of Shelley's poems, which, after many tribulations, she at length found at
C. and J. Ollier's of Vere Street. She brought away not only nearly all
of Shelley in first editions (the ' Cenci ' excepted), but three volumes
of Keats, whom she was assured would interest anybody who liked
Shelley. Browning, himself, used to recall how, at the end of this
eventful day, two nightingales, one in the laburnum at the end of his
father's garden, and one in a copper beech in the next garden, sang in
emulation of the poets whose music had laid its subtile spell upon him.
While Keats was duly appreciated, it was Shelley who appealed most
to Browning, and although it was some years before any poetic mani-
festation of Shelley's influence was to work itself out, he, with youthful
ardor, at once adopted the crude attitude taken by Shelley in his
immature work l Queen Mab,' became a professing atheist, and even
went so far as to practise vegetarianism, of which, however, he was soon
cured because of its unpleasant effect on his eyesight. Of his atheism
Mrs. Orr says, " His mind was not so constituted that such doubt fast-
ened itself upon it ; nor did he ever in after life speak of this period of
negation except as an access of boyish folly, with which his mature self
could have no concern. The return to religious belief did not shake
his faith in his new prophet. It only made him willing to admit that
he had misread him. This period of Browning's life remained, never-
theless, one of rebellion and unrest, to which many circumstances may
have contributed besides the influence of one mind."
With the exception of the poetic awakening just recorded, Brown-
ing's youthful life is uneventful.
By his father's decision his education was continued at home with
instruction in dancing, riding, boxing, fencing ; in French with a tutor
for two years ; and in music with John Relfe for theory, and a Mr. Abel,
pupil of Mc'^eles, for execution, doubtless supplemented with contin-
uous browsing among the rare books in his father's library. At eighteen
he attended a Greek class at the London University for a term or two
and with this his formal education ceased. It was while at the uni-
versity that his final choice of poetry as his future profession was made.
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xv
That he had a bent in other artistic directions as well as that of poetry
is witnessed by his own confession written on the fly-leaf of a first
edition of ' Pauline ' now treasured in the South Kensington Museum.
" ' Pauline ' written in pursuance of a foolish plan I forget, or have no
wish to remember; involving the assumption of several distinct
characters : the world was never to guess that such an opera, such a
comedy, such a speech proceeded from the same notable person."
Some idea had been entertained of the possibility of Robert's quali-
fying himself for the bar, but Mr. Browning was entirely too much in
sympathy with his son's interests to put any obstacles in the way of his
choice, and did everything in his power to help him in establishing
himself in his poetical career. When the decision was made, Brown-
ig's first step was to read and digest the whole of Johnson's Dictionary.
During these years of preparation his consciousness of his own latent
powers, together with youthful immaturity, made him, from all accounts,
a somewhat obstreperous personage. Mrs. Orr says that his mother
was much distressed at his impatience and aggressiveness. " He set
the judgments of those about him at defiance, and gratuitously pro-
claimed himself everything that he was and some things that he was
not." It is probable, as his sister suggests, that the life of Camberwell,
in spite of the dear home to which he was much attached, and a small
jterie of congenial friends, including his cousins, the Silverthornes,
id Alfred Domett, did not afford sufficient scope for the expansion of
his eager intelligence.
In 1833 appeared the first flowering of his genius in ' Pauline,' for the
Eblication of which his aunt, Mrs. Silverthorne, furnished the money,
was printed with no name affixed, by Saunders and Otley.
The influence of Shelley breathes through this poem ; not only is it
manent in the music of the verse, but in its general atmosphere,
while one of its finest climaxes is the apostrophe to Shelley beginning,
" Sun-treader, life and light be thine forever ! " These influences,
however, are commingled with elements of striking originality indi-
cating, in spite of some crudities of construction, that here was a new
force in the poetic world. Not many recognized it at the time. Among
those who did was his former friend, Mr. Fox, then editor of the Monthly
Repository, who gave ' Pauline ' a sympathetic review in his magazine.
Later, another article praising it was printed in the same magazine.
This and one or two other inadequate notices ended its early literary
history, and thus was unassumingly planted the first seed of one of the
most splendid poetical growths the world has seen. How completely
' Pauline ' was forgotten is shown by the anecdote told of Rossetti's
coming across it in the British Museum twenty years later, and guess-
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION'.
ing from internal evidence that it was by the author of ' Paracelsus. 1
Delighted with it, he transcribed it. If he had not, it might have
remained buried there to this day, for Browning was very loath to
acknowledge this early child of his genius.
A journey to Russia at the invitation of the Russian consul-general,
Mr. Benckhausen, with whom he went as nominal secretary, and the
contribution to the Monthly Repository of five short poems fills up the
time until the appearance of 'Paracelsus.' Most remarkable among
these short poems were ' Porphyria's Lover ' and ' Johannes Agricola in
Meditation,' of which Mr. Gosse says, " It is a curious matter for reflec-
tion that two poems so unique in their construction and conception, so
modern, so interesting, so new could be printed without attracting atten-
tion so far as it would appear from any living creature."
Paracelsus was suggested as a subject to Browning by Count de Ripert
Monclar, a young French Royalist, who, while spending his summers in
England, formed a friendship with the poet. The absence of love in
the story seemed to him afterwards a drawback, but Browning, having
read up the literature of Paracelsus at the British Museum, decided to
follow his friend's suggestion and according to promise dedicated the
poem to Count Monclar.
In thevdays when he was writing 'Paracelsus' Browning was fond of
drawing inspiration from midnight rambles in the Dulwich woods, and
he used often to compose in the open air. Here we may perhaps find
an explanation of the fact that in these earlier poems there is a constant
interfusion of nature imagery which, later, when the poet " fared up and
down amid men," gave place to the human emotions upon which his
thoughts became concentred, or appeared only at rare intervals.
Mr. Fox, always ready to praise the young poet whom he had been
the first to recognize, was upon the publication of ' Paracelsus '
seconded by John Forster, who wrote an appreciative article about it in
the Examiner.
If ' Paracelsus ' did not win popularity, it gained the poet many
friends among the literary men of the day. From this period dates the
acquaintanceship of notabilities like Serjeant Talfourd, Home, Leigh
Hunt, Barry Cornwall, Harriet Martineau, Miss Mitford, Monckton
Milnes, Dickens, Wordsworth, Landor, and others. The most impor-
tant in its consequences of his new friendships was that begun with the
celebrated actor William Macready, to whom he was introduced by
Mr. Fox. Macready, delighted with Browning, shortly after asked him
to a New Year's party at his house at Elstree.
Every one who met the poet seemed attracted by his personality.
Macready said he looked more like a youthful poet than any man he
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION'. X vii
had ever seen. Mr. Sharpens description of him from hearsay is more
definite. As a young man he appears to have had a certain ivory deli-
cacy of coloring. He appeared taller than he was, partly because of
his rare grace of movement and partly from a characteristic high poise
of the head when listening intently to music or conversation. Even
then he had the expressive wave of the hand which in later years was
as full of various meanings as the Ecco of an Italian.
A swift alertness pervaded him noticeably as much in the rapid
change of expression, in the deepening and illuming colors of his
singularly expressive eyes, and in his sensitive mouth as in his grey-
hound-like apprehension, which so often grasped the subject in its
entirety before its propounder himself realized its significance. His
hair then of a brown so dark as to appear black was so beautiful
in its heavy, sculpturesque waves as frequently to attract attention.
His voice then had a rare flute-like tone, clear, sweet, and resonant.
The influence of Macready turned the poet's thoughts toward writing
for the stage. A drama, 'Narses,' was discussed, but for some reason
abandoned, and the subject of Strafford was decided upon in its place.
The occasion upon which the decision was made gives an attractive
glimpse of the young Browning receiving his first social honor. It was
at a dinner at Talfourd's after the performance of ' Ion,' in which Mac-
ready acted. Mr. Sharpe says :
"To his surprise and gratification, Browning found himself placed
next but one to his host and immediately opposite Macready, who sat be-
tween two gentlemen, one calm as a summer evening, the other with a
tempestuous youth dominating his sixty years, whom the young poet
at once recognized as Wordsworth and Walter Savage Landor. When
Talfourd rose to propose the toast of ' The Poets of England,' every one
probably expected that Wordsworth would be named- to respond ; but
with a kindly grace, the host, after flattering remarks upon the two
great men then honoring him by sitting at his table, coupled his toast
with the name of the youngest of the poets of England, Mr. Robert
Browning, the author of ' Paracelsus.' According to Miss Mitford, he
responded with grace and modesty, looking even younger than he was."
The conversation turning upon the drama, Macready said, " Write a
play, Browning, and keep me from going to America." The reply came,
" Shall it be historical and English ? What do you say to a drama on
Strafford?"
' Sordello ' had already been begun, but ' Strafford ' and a journey to
Italy were to intervene before it was finished. ' Strafford ' \vas per-
formed at Covent Garden, May i, 1837, with Macready as Strafford and
Helen Faucit as Lady Carlisle, was well received, and would probably
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION-.
have had a long run had it not been for difficulties which arose in the
theatre management.
If Shelley was the paramount influence of his youthful years, from
the time of his Italian journey in 1838, Italy became an influence which
was henceforth to exert its magic over his work. He liked to call Italy
his university. In l Sordello ' he had already chosen an Italian subject,
and his journey was undertaken partly with the idea of gaining personal
experience of the scenes wherein the tragedy of Bordello's soul was
enacted.
It was published in 1840, and except for a notice in the Eclectic Re-
view, and the appreciation of a few friends, was ignored. A world not
over sensitive to the beauties of his previous work, could hardly be
expected to welcome enthusiastically a poem so complex in its his-
torical setting and so full of philosophy. Even the keenest intellects
approach this poem with the feeling that they are about to attack a
problem ; for in spite of undoubted power and many beauties, it must
be confessed that the luxuriance of the poet's mental force often unduly
overbalances his sense of artistic proportion. Evidently the world was
frightened. The little breeze, with which Browning's career began,
instead of developing as it normally should into a strong wind of uni-
versal recognition, died out, and for twenty years nothing he could do
seemed to win for him his just deserts, though his very next poem,
' Pippa Passes,' showed him already a consummate master of his forces
both on the artistic side and in the special realm which he chose, the
development of the soul.
' Pippa Passes,' ' King Victor and King Charles,' and l The Return of
the Druses ' lay in his desk for some time without a publisher. He
fin-ally arranged with Edward Moxon to bring them out in pamphlet
form, using cheap type, each issue to consist of a sixteen-page form,
printed in double columns. This was the beginning of the now cele-
brated series, ' Bells and Pomegranates.' They were issued from 1841
to 1846, and included all the dramas and a number of short poems.
The only one of these poems with a story other than literary, is ' The
Blot in the 'Scutcheon,' written for Macready, and performed at Drury
Lane, on February n, 1843. A favorite weapon in the hands of the
Philistines has been the often reiterated statement that the performance
was a failure. A letter from Browning to Mr. Hill, editor of the Daily
News, at the time of the revival of ' The Blot ' by Lawrence Barrett
in 1884, drawn out by the same old falsehood, gives the truth in regard
to the matter, and should silence once for all the ubiquitous Philis-
tines.
I
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. x i x
" Macready received and accepted the play, while he was engaged at
the Haymarket, and retained it for Drury Lane, of which I was ignorant
that he was about to become the manager : he accepted it at the instiga-
tion of nobody. . . . When the Drury Lane season began, Macready
informed me that he would act the play when he had brought out two
others, 'The Patrician's Daughter' and 'Plighted Troth.' Having
done so, he wrote to me that the former had been unsuccessful in money-
drawing, and the latter had ' smashed his arrangements altogether' : but
he would still produce my play. In my ignorance of certain symptoms
better understood by Macready's professional acquaintances I had no
notion that it was a proper thing, in such a case, to release him from
his promise ; on the contrary, I should have fancied that such a pro-
posal was offensive. Soon after, Macready begged that I would call on
him : he said the play had been read to the actors the day before, 'and
laughed at from beginning to end ' ; on my speaking my mind about
this, he explained that the reading had been done by the prompter, a
grotesque person with a red nose and wooden leg, ill at ease in the love
scenes, and that he would himself make amends by reading the play
next morning, which he did, and very adequately, but apprised me
that in consequence of the state of his mind, harassed by business and
various troubles, the principal character must be taken by Mr. Phelps ;
and again I failed to understand, . . . that to allow at Macready's the-
atre any other than Macready to play the principal part in a new piece
was suicidal, and really believed I was meeting his exigencies by accept-
ing the substitute. At the rehearsal, Macready announced that Mr.
Phelps was ill, and that he himself would read the part : on the third
rehearsal, Mr. Phelps appeared for the first time . . . while Macready
more than read, rehearsed the part. The next morning Mr. Phelps
waylaid me to say . . . that Macready would play Tresham on the
ground that himself, Phelps, was unable to do so. ... He added that
he could not expect me to waive such an advantage, but that if I were
prepared to waive it, ' he would take ether, sit up all night, and have the
words in his memory by next day.' I bade him follow me to the green-
room, and hear what I decided upon which was that as Macready had
given him the part, he should keep it : this was on a Thursday ; he re-
hearsed on Friday and Saturday, the play being acted the same even-
ing, of -the fifth day after the 'reading' 1 by Macready. Macready at
once wished to reduce the importance of the play . . . tried to leave
out so much of the text, that I baffled him by getting it printed in four
and twenty hours, by Moxon's assistance. He wanted me to call it ' The
Sister!' and I have before me ... the stage-acting copy, with two
lines of his own insertion to avoid the tragical ending Tresham was
to announce his intention of going into a monastery! all this, to keep
up the belief that Macready, and Macready alone, could produce a veri-
table 'tragedy' unproduced before. Not a shilling was spent on scen-
ery or dresses. If your critic considers this treatment of the play an
instance of ' the failure of powerful and experienced actors ' to insure its
success, I can only say that my own opinion was shown by at once
xx BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION'.
breaking off a friendship . . . which had a right to be plainly and
simply told that the play I had contributed as a proof of it would, through
a change of circumstances, no longer be to my friend's advantage. . . .
Only recently, . . . when the extent of his pecuniary embarrassments
at that time was made known, could I in a measure understand his mo-
tives less than ever understand why he so strangely disguised them.
If ' applause,' means success, the play thus maimed and maltreated was
successful enough ; it ' made way ' for Macready's own Benefit and the
theatre closed a fortnight after."
Browning's second visit to Italy took place in the autumn of 1844, from
which he returned to meet with the supreme spiritual influence of his
life. ' Lady Geraldine's Courtship ' had just been published, and Brown-
ing expressing his enthusiasm for it to Mr. Kenyon, a dear friend of his
and a cousin of Miss Barrett's, the latter immediately suggested that
Browning should write and tell her of his delight in it. The corre-
spondence soon developed into a meeting which was at first refused by
Miss Barrett in a few self-depreciative words, " There is nothing to see
in me, nothing to hear in me, I am a weed fit for the ground and dark-
ness."
Mr. Browning's fate was sealed at the first meeting, we are told, but
Miss Barrett, conscious of the obstacle offered by her ill-health, was not
easily won, and only consented, at last, with the proviso that their
marriage should depend upon improvement in her health.
Though the new joy in her life seemed to give her fresh strength, her
doctor told her, in the summer of 1846, that her only hope of recovery
depended upon her spending the coming winter in Italy. Her father
having absolutely refused to hear of such a course, she was persuaded
to consent to a private marriage with Mr. Browning, which took place
on September 12, 1846, at St. Pancras Church. A week later they
started for Italy. Mrs. Orr writes :
"In the late afternoon or evening of September 19, Mrs. Browning,
attended by her maid and her dog, stole away from her father's house.
The family were at dinner, at which meal she was not in the habit of
joining them ; her sisters, Henrietta and Arabel, had been throughout
in the secret of her attachment and in full sympathy with it ; in the
case of the servants she was also sure of friendly connivance. There
was no difficulty in her escape, but that created by the dog, which might
be expected to bark its consciousness of the unusual situation. She
took him into her confidence. She said, ' O Flush, if you make a sound,
I am lost.' And Flush understood, as what good dog would not, and
crept after his mistress in silence."
Mr. Barrett never forgave her and never saw her again. The sur-
prise and consternation of Mr. Browning's family was soon transformed
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. X xi
into love for Mrs. Browning, while Mr. Kenyon, who had not been told
because, as Mrs. Browning said, she did not wish to implicate any one
in the deception she was obliged to practise against her father, was
overjoyed at the resuit of his kindly offices in bringing the two poets
together.
After a journey full of suffering for Mrs. Browning and the tenderest
devotion on the part of Mr. Browning, they halted at Pisa, memorable
as the spot where Mrs. Browning presented her husband with the
matchless ' Sonnets from the Portuguese.' Mrs. Browning's health im-
proved greatly in the genial climate. The whole of their married
life, with the exception of occasional summers in England and two
winters in Paris, was spent in Italy, and what that married life was in
its harmonious blending of two unusually congenial souls we have
abundant evidence in the glimpses obtained from Mrs. Browning's let-
ters, and the recollections of it in the minds of their many friends.
In the summer of 1847 they established themselves in Florence in
the Casa Guidi. It became practically their Italian home, varied by
sojourns in Ancona, at the baths of Lucca, Venice, and winters in
Rome in 1854 and 1859.
In Florence, March 9, 1849, their son was born, and to Mrs. Brown-
ing's life, especially, was added one more element of intense happiness.
Mrs. Orr thinks that in Pompilia in ' The Ring and the Book,' is reflected
the maternal joy as Browning saw it revealed in Mrs. Browning's rela-
tion to her son. A shadow was at the same time cast over Browning's
life by the death of his mother, who died just as the news was received
of the birth of her grandchild. Mrs. Browning, writing to a friend,
said, "My husband has been in the greatest anguish. . . . He has
loved his mother as such passionate natures only can love, and I never
saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow, never."
The first effect of Browning's marriage seems to have been to put his
muse to sleep. Up to 1850 the only events in his literary career were
the performance of * The Blot ' at Sadler's Wells in 1848, and the issue
of a collected edition of his works in 1849. In 1850, in Florence, he
wrote ' Christmas Eve ' and ' Easter Day,' and in Paris, 1857, the ' Essay
on Shelley ' to be prefixed to twenty-five letters of Shelley's, that after-
wards turned out to be spurious.
The fifty poems in l Men and Women ' complete the record of Brown-
ing's work during his wife's life. They appeared in 1855, and reflect
very directly new sources of inspiration which had come into his life
with his marriage.
Though Mr. and Mrs. Browning led a comparatively quiet life, they
gathered around them, wherever they were, a distinguished circle of
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION-.
friends. In the early days at Florence, they much enjoyed the society
of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Joseph Milsand and George Sand the
first a cherished friend, the last simply an acquaintance connect
themselves with their life in Paris, while in London and Rome all the
bright particular stars of the time circled about them, some of whom
were the Storys, the Hawthornes, the Carlyles, the Kemble sisters, Car-
dinal Manning, Sir Frederick Leighton, Rossetti, Val Princeps, and
Landor.
Mrs. Browning's death at dawn, on the 2Qth of June, 1861, cut short
the golden period of these Italian days. Even in his bereavement he
had cause to be poignantly happy. For he had watched beside his
wife on that last night, and she, weak, though suffering little and with-
out presentiment of the end which even to him seemed not so immi-
nent, had given him, as he wrote, " what my heart will keep till I see
her again and longer, the most perfect expression of her love to me
within my whole knowledge of her." He added, " I shall grow still, I
hope, but my root is taken and remains." He left Florence never to
return. His settling in London that winter was a result of his wife's
death, destined to bring him into closer touch with an English public
which was to like him yet. The change was dictated by his care for
his son's education, whose well-being he considered a trust from his wife.
In 1862, he wrote from Biarritz of ' Pen's' enjoyment of his holidays,
adding, " for me I have got on by having a great read at Euripides
besides attending to my own matters, my new poem that is about to be
and of which the whole is pretty well in my head the Roman murder
story." But the Roman murder story was long in taking shape as
' The Ring and the Book.' It had been conceived in one of his last
June evenings at Casa Guidi, but the rude break in his life made by
Mrs. Browning's death remains marked in the record of this work's
incubation. During the next years spent in London, with holidays in
Brittany, work went steadily on, first for the three-volume collected
edition of 1863 of his works, and then for 'Dramatis Personae,' pub-
lished in the year following, before ' The Ring and the Book ' came out
at last, in 1868. With the appearance of this, and the six-volume
edition of his works, the poet began to reap the abundant fruits of a
slow but solidly-founded fame.
7t was not until 1871, however, that the "great read at Euripides"
showed its significance in ' Balaustion's Adventure ' and four years
later again, in ' Aristophanes' Apology,' rounding out thus his original
criticism of Greek life and literature and especially affecting ' Euripides
the human,' whom his wife had been earliest to deliver from blunder-
ing censure.
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, X xiii
While in the midst of this prosperous scheme of work he wrote :
" I feel such comfort and delight in doing the best I can with my own
object of life, poetry, which, I think, I never could have seen the
good of before, that it shows me I have taken the root I did take
we.ll. I hope to do much more and that the flower of it will be put
into Her hand somehow."
His father had died in Paris in 1866, at the age of eighty-five.
Brother and sister, now each left alone, Uved together thenceforth a
life of tranquil uneventfulness, alternating between London and the
Continent a life rich in pleasant acquaintances and warm friendships
and increasingly full of invitations and honors of all sorts for the poet.
Supreme among the friendships was that with Miss Anne Egerton
Smith. Music was the special bond of sympathy between her and
Browning, and while they were both in London no important concert
lacked their appreciation. Miss Browning, her brother, and Miss
Smith spent also four successive summers together, the fourth at
Saleve, near Geneva, where Miss Smith's sudden death was the occasion
of Browning's poem on immortality, ' La Saisiaz.' Among the honors
the poet received were the organization of the London Browning
Society in 1881, degrees from Oxford and from Cambridge, and nomina-
tions for the Rectorship of Glasgow University and for that of St.
Andrews. The latter was a unanimous nomination from the students,
and as an evidence of the younger generation's esteem of his poetic
influence was more than commonly gratifying to Browning, although
he declined this and all other such overtures.
His activities during the remainder of his days, his social and friendly
life in London and later in Venice, were habitually cheerful and genial.
He sedulously cultivated happiness. This was indeed the consistent
result of the fact to which those who knew him best bear witness, that
he held the great lyric love of his life as sacred, and cherished it as a
religion. Those who know the whole body of his work most inti-
mately will be readiest to corroborate this on subtiler evidence ; for
only on the hypothesis of a unique revelation of the significance of
a supreme human love from whose large sureness smaller dramatic
exemplifications of love in life derive their vitality can the varied
overplay of his art and the deep sufficiency of his religious reconcilia-
tion of Power and Love be adequately understood. As he himself once
said, the romance of his life was in his own soul. To this perhaps the
bibliography of his works will ever provide the most accurate outline
map.
After the issue of his Greek pieces, the most noticeable new features
of his remaining work may be summed up as idyllic and lyric. A new
xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION.
picturesqueness interpenetrated his dramatic pieces, as if he were
dowered with a fresh pleasure in eyesight. This was shown in the
'Dramatic Idyls.' A new purity intensified his lyrical faculty. This
is shown in the lyrics in \ Ferishtah's Fancies ' and in ' Asolando. 1
To his whole achieved work add the brief final record of his content-
ment in his son's marriage in 1887, his removal to the house he bought
in De Vere Gardens, the gradual weakening of his robust health in his
last years, his painless death in Venice in his son's Palazzo Rezzonico
on the very day, December 1 2, i 889) of the issue of ' Asolando ' in
London, his burial in Westminster Abbey in Poets' Corner, December
31, and the story of Robert Browning's earthly life is told.
CHARLOTTE PORTER.
HELEN A. CLARKE.
May 20, 1896.
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
" What were life
Did soul stand still therein, forego her strife
Through the ambiguous Present to the goal
Of some all-reconciling Future?"
'PARLEYINGS: WlTH GERARD DE LAIRESSE.'
WHAT principle guided Browning in making the present Selections
from his poetry ? On this interesting question there is no other
light than the hint he gives in his preface, that he had strung together
certain pieces " on the thread of an imaginary personality," and the
internal evidence which the poems themselves offer of their suscep
tibility to an inter-relationship of this sort.
' My Star, 1 striking a preluding note of love, seems to usher in poems
broadly capable of being grouped together on the score of their express-
ing, in a fresh way, indicative of a youthful attitude toward life, various
phases of love, either as sensation or as observed or recorded experi-
ence. Poems follow of a more active sort, adventurous and partisan
in spirit, the ' Good News,' the ' Lost Leader, 1 and others, which be-
long to the outlook of manhood ; and these pass again, in subject, into
the groove of love, but from the standpoint, now, of the stress and trial
belonging to maturer life and thought. Larger themes succeed, related
to national characteristics and history, to art, to music, to religion, and,
finally, the summing up of life's meanings natural to ripe vision. The
second series of Selections, made by Browning eight years later, follows,
in general, a similar line of evolving thought and experience.
If it be granted that some such natural development of a typical
experience, not personal to Browning, underlies these Selections, the
clue it supplies for a brief critical consideration of the poet's distinctive
traits, as shown throughout his work and representatively in this vol-
ume, is peculiarly trustworthy and appropriate because it is the poet's
own clue. He disclaimed a selection based on an assumption of judg-
ment as to what was best ; he made a selection based upon motive
xxv j CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
The poetic motive informing Browning's work is, in one word,
aspiration, which moulds and develops the varied and complex per-
sonalities of the humanity he depicts, as the persistent energy of the
scientist, holding its never-wearying way, gives to the world of phe-
nomena its infinite array of shows and shapes. Aspiration a reach-
ing on and upwards is the primal energy underneath that law which
we call progress. Through aspiration, ideals social, religious, artis-
tic are formed ; and through it ideals perish, as it breaks away from
them to seek more complete realizations of truth. Aspiration, there-
fore, has its negative as well as its positive side. While it ever urges
the human soul to love and achievement, through its very persistence
the soul learns that the perfect flowering of its rare imaginings is not
possible of attainment in this life.
Assurance of the ultimate fulfilment of the ideal is one of the forms
in which Browning unfolds the workings of this life principle, well
illustrated in < Abt Vogler,' who has implicit faith in his own intuitions
of a final harmony ; or in those poems where the crowning of aspiration
in a supreme earthly love flashes upon the understanding a clear vision
of infinite love. But by far the larger number of poems discloses the
underlying force at work in ways more subtle and obscure, through the
conflict of good and evil, of lower with higher ideals, either as empha-
sized in great social movements, in the struggle between individuals,
or in struggles fought out on the battle-ground within every human soul.
With a motive so all-inclusive, the whole panorama of human life,
with its loves and hates, its strivings and failures, its half-reasonings
and beguiling sophistries, is material ready at hand for illustration.
Browning, inspired with a democratic inclusiveness, allowed his choice
in subject-matter to range through fields both new and old, unploughed
by any poet before him. Progress, to be imaged forth in its entirety,
must be interpreted, not only through the individual soul, but through
the collective soul of the human race ; wherefore many phases of civili-
zation and many attitudes of mind must be detailed for service. There
is no choosing a subject, as a Tennyson might, on the ground that it
will best point the moral of a preconceived theory of life ; on the con-
trary, every such theory is bound to be of interest as one of the phe-
nomena exhibited by the transcending principle.
From first to last Browning portrayed life either developing or at
\ some crucial moment, the outcome of past development, or the deter-
minative influence for future growth or decay.
His interest in the phenomena of life as a whole, freed him from the
f trammels of any literary cult. He steps out from under the yoke of
the classicist, where only gods and heroes have leave to breathe ; andj
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION'. xxvii
equally, from that of the romanticist, where kings and persons of
quality alone flourish. Wherever he found latent possibilities of char-
acter, which might be made to expand under the glare of his brilliant
imagination, whether in hero, king, or knave, that being he chose to set
before his readers as a living individuality to show whereof he was
made, either through his own ruminations or through the force of
circumstances.
Upon examination it will be found that the sources, many and vari-
'ous, of Browning's subject-matter are broadly divisible into subjects
derived from history, from personal experience or biography, from true in-
cidents, popular legend, the classics, and from his own fertile imagination.
Of these, history proper furnishes the smallest proportion. ) ' Strafford'
and ' King Victor and King Charles ' are his only historical dramas, and
with ' Sordello,' and a few stray short poems, based on historical inci-
dents, exhaust his drafts upon history. Several more have a historical
setting with fictitious plot and characters, such as the ' Return of the
Druses ' and ' Luria ' ; and still more have a historical atmosphere in
which think and move creatures of his own fancy, such as ' My Last
Duchess,' ' Count Gismond,' ' In A Gondola.' His most important
work, ' The Ring and the Book,' is founded on the true story of a
Roman murder case. Others of his longer poems, developed from real
occurrences, are 'The Inn Album,' 'Red Cotton Night-Cap Country,'
'Ivan Ivanovitch,' and some shorter poems. The individual living to
develop the mind stuff of the world rather than the individual playing
a part in action, attracted Browning, and we find a large percentage
of his subjects between twenty and thirty poems to be dramatic
presentations of characters not distinguished for their part in the his-
tory of action, but who have played a part more or less prominent in
the history of thought or art. Such are 'Paracelsus,' 'Saul,' 'Abt
Vogler r 'iFra Lippo Lippi.' Sometimes they appear in the disguise of a
name not their own, as in ' Bishop Blougram,' for whom Cardinal Wise-
man sat, 'Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau ' Napoleon, Mr. Sludge
Home, the ' Spiritualist.' ' The Pied Piper,' and ' The Story of Pornic,'
are familiar examples of legendary subjects. Greece is drawn upon in
the translation from the Greek of ' Agamemnon,' to which must be
added ' Balaustion's Adventure ' and ' Aristophanes' Apology,' both
of which contain transcripts from Euripides ; also ' Echetlos,' ' Pheidip-
pides,' ' Artemis Prologizes,' and ' Ixion.' There should furthermore
be mentioned a few poems which grew out of suggestions furnished by
poetry, music, and art, as ' Cenciaja, 1 ' A Toccata of Galuppi's,' ' The
<iuardian Angel.' And last, out of the pure stuff of imagination, have
been fashioned some of his most lifelike characters. Sometimes, as
xxviii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION:
already stated, they move in an actual historical environment, some-
times merely in an atmosphere of history, and sometimes, detached
from time and place, is pictured a human soul struggling with a passion
universal to mankind.
This vast range of material is not by any means chosen at random
by the poet. There are several centres of human thought, around
which the genius of Browning plays with exceptional power. Such,
for example, are the ideas symbolized in human love and service, in
art, and in the Incarnation.
Clustering about the instinct of human love', gathers thickest a maze
of poems bearing witness to the force, sweetness, and versatility of
Browning's treatment of the purely personal emotions. The scope
sweeps from primitive to consummate types, as if none conceivable
were to be tabooed ; and if not all are represented, the intention
towards all is evidently hospitable. Yet the unifying current is clear
through all differentiations, because it is based on the vital fact of the
psychical origin of the emotion of love as desire, and capable, therefore,
of a never-ending tendency to impel and energize the powers and re-
veal the highest potency of each individual soul. The conditions under
which it acts may be favorable or not, the outgoing love may be satis-
fied or not, by eliciting and enjoying love in return ; in any case, the
test is equally good to make a soul declare itself " to wit, by its
fruit, the thing it does," and thus, through living out its own life, to
recruit both the general plan of the race and its own individual possi-
bilities.
This psychical value, of which the commonest instinct towards love,
in any and every human creature, is capable, relates all men to each
other, and, pointing out the implicit use of each to each, permits none
to be scorned as having no part in the scheme, nor any to be denied
the vision of some dim descried glory "ever on before." It consti-
tutes a revelation to every man of the Infinite, incarnate within his
own grasp and proof, a miracle, only to be felt, differing in this from
any attempt to achieve the Absolute through act or deed or any product
of effort outside oneself, one instant of human consciousness enabling
the laying hold on eternity.
In these Selections are poems that represent the instinct of love astir
in modes that foster the transmutation of desire into force, no matter
what obstacles beset it ; or that chill and obstruct its saving rule although
\ its way be smooth. The merely selfish expression of the common in-
; stinct is depicted in ' The Laboratory ' and ' My Last Duchess ' ; the
1 unselfish, in 'One Way of Love.' Its seeing faculty appears in 'Cris-
tina,' and ' The Last Ride Together ' ; but its eyes are sealed until too
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. xx i x
late in ' The Confessional ' and in Constance in ' In a Balcony.' It finds
itself expressed in a conventionalized way in ' Numpholeptos ' ; in a
realistic way in 'Poetics.' It is revealed in 'Count Gismond 1 as rudi-
mentary; as ripe in 'By the Fireside.' It is stifled in 'Bifurcation,'
' The Statue and the Bust,' ' Youth and Art,' < Dis Aliter Visum ' ; it is
self-baffled in ' A Forgiveness,' and ' In a Balcony ' ; but has sway de-
spite Death in ' Prospice,' and 'Never the Time and the Place.' All
these separate ways of love are glimpses at parts of human experience, ]
which, since they can be correlated, illumine the course of growth latent
for any soul in a crisis of emotion. Other poems still, exemplify this
by correlating various stages of development occurring in the experience
of one person, the original manifestation of love adding to itself a new
psychical value, as in 'James Lee's Wife.'
Taken as a whole, Browning's broad and vital representations of love \
reveal the related values of different phases of personal experience and j
of each personal experience to every other ; and, also, the bearing of 1
each and all such experiences on human progress and, on an ecstatic si
consciousness of the Infinite.
In the manifestations of human energy commonly called social, cor-
responding orbits of relative values are brought to light by Browning
through his reconstruction from life itself of numerous varying types of
work and consequent service to humanity at large. The range exempli-
fied includes the exercise of his art by a Fra Lippo Lippi, an Abt Vogler,
or a Cleon, the devotion to his study of a Grammarian or the public
achievement of a Pheidippides, a Herve' Kiel, a Pym, a Strafford, or a
Luria. Browning shows a consciousness of the special influence of V
certain historic periods of civic enthusiasm on the development of social
ideals. The grim righteousness of Pym's London, the glories of Athens
and of Florence, are fitly celebrated. And in the whole pioneer period
which sowed the seed and set the shape of much that is not yet ripe
for fulfilment in modern civilization in the period of the Italian Re- i j
naissance, Browning's imaginative conception found frame and flesh. \
In ' Sordello ' he descried the incipient democratic tendencies of that
period, anticipating the conclusions of its special historians : of Burck-
hardt, who characterized it as " the awakening of the individual in love
with his own possibilities " ; of Vernon Lee, who describes it as " the
movement for mediaeval democratic progress " ; of Symonds, who speaks
of it as " the persistent effort after liberty of the unconquerable soul of
man." Browning embodies it, in the period that prepared the way for
the Renaissance, in the consciousness of his hero, the warrior-poet
Sordello, as the dawn and struggle for supremacy of the democratic
ideal.
xxx CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
About the Renaissance crystallized an important group of Browning's
art poems, nearly all of which appear in this volume.
' Pictor Ignotus ' shows us the personality of the typical, often unknown
monastic painter of the Renaissance period, the nature of his beautiful
but cold art, and the conditions of servitude to ecclesiastical beliefs and
ideals which shaped both personality and art.^kFra Lippo exhibits the
irresistible tendency of the art impulse to expand beyond bounds either
of the church or of set laws of art and finding beauty wheresoever in
life it chooses to turn the light of its gaze. The Bishop who ordered
his tomb at St. Praxed's, stands for somewhat more than the typical
art-patronizing priest, whose connoisseurship, strong in death, serves
his vanity, worldliness, and envy. He gathers up in his person the
pagan survivals, the normal grossness, the assumption of authority,
which were the ecclesiastical and aristocratic clogs that dragged back
the forward-tending and freedom-seeking Renaissance movement.
' Old Pictures in Florence ' shows more explicitly the relation to historic
periods of various new art impulses working themselves out in schools ;
the indebtedness of each to each ; and the onflowing movement be-
longing to all collectively. At the same time is emphasized the supreme
importance to the world of assimilating the work of the pioneering
artists, from whom their successors derive vitality. There is also no
mistaking the expression in favor of free democratic conditions which
conduce to "art's best birth." So, throughout these poems, manifesting
Browning's universal enthusiasm for all varieties of art, the relativity
and unity of all art expression is shown to be perfectly reconcilable with
the independent worth of the special exponent of the art of his time ;
and the development both of art and the artist is shown to be depend-
ent on the free play and unresting aspiration of his powers.
Not less sympathetic is Browning's understanding of art as wrought
out in music, though in his musical poems the historical atmosphere
is not so prominent as it is in the art poems. They dwell upon the
different attitudes taken toward music as the result of differences in
temperament, rather than upon any distinct phases of musical growth.
His chief musicians, David, Abt Vogler, Hugues, and the organist
who performs his mountainous fugues, Galuppi and the man who plays
his toccata,lthe husband in ' Fifine at the Fair,' and the musical critic
of < Charles Avison,' all see different possibilities in music. David is
more the poet than the musician since, when he reaches his highest
point of inspiration, he throws his harp aside and depends entirely
upon language for his effect. He uses music primarily as an awakener
through the familiarity of the tunes, he sings to Saul of long-for-
gotten memories, along with which comes the renewal of early emo-
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxi
tions, an effect of music often observed and used to good purpose
in arousing soldiers to patriotism, through melodies that awaken mem-
ories of home and childhood. David, casting aside his harp, when
filled with the intense desire of adequate expression, is the exact an-
tipode of the husband in ' Fifine at the Fair, 1 who feels that the most
complete expression is only possible by means of music. This opin-
ion, however, is somewhat discounted by the character of the man,
sophistical as he often is in his arguments. When he finds himself
pushed for logical reasons for his moral conduct, he falls back upon
music, by means of which he could make all plain to his wife if she
only understood its language. His dependence upon music as a re-
vealer of the truth is based on the ground that it gives form to feeling,
and is equivalent to his founding his arguments on feeling. That to
reflect moods of feeling is among the highest offices of music is doubt-
less true, but to formulate theories of moral conduct upon this fact is
sophistical in the highest degree, for the all-sufficient reason that music
may reflect a mood the opposite of aspiring. The critic in ' Charles
Avison' recognizes to the full the limitations of music. Though it
gives form to feeling, w'th the passage of time the form becomes ob-
solete, and the feeling once expressed is no longer discernible through
it. An understanding of its mood can then be gained only by recourse
to the historical sense, reconstructing the time that gave it birth, and
by this means obtaining a glimpse of the mood that inspired it. Thus,
music furnishes to Browning another illustration of the relativity of art
form, of its failure as of every effort of man to touch perfection,
though, none the less, the record of man's effort to give adequate ex-
pression to his aspirations.
* A Toccata of Galuppi ' furnishes a fine illustration of the exercise"
of the historical sense on the part of the person who plays the toccata ;
in conjuring up a lifelike picture of the pleasure-loving Venice, whose '
heartlessness re-lives for him in the dreary harmonies of Galuppi's
music. The organist in ' Master Hugues ' is not blessed with any such
historical sense, and he is therefore incapable of penetrating within the
outer crust of the fugue. On the other hand, the fugue, as well as the
toccata, are both examples of music which is less the outcome of aspira-
tion than an intellectual playing with forms for form's sake, and as such
furnish a warrant for the delicious humor which Browning expends on
them.
In 'AtrtVogler, 1 Browning has represented music from the point of
view of the man who has, so to speak, fathomed the heart of the mys-
tery. He has none of the misgivings of the critic. Like the man in
' Fifine, 1 he, too, regards music as the most complete means of expres-
xxx ii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
sion ; but it is more to him than the mere reflection of earthly <
tions, it is the incarnation of the wish of his soul to be in touch
the Infinite. His purer spirit feels the revelation in the inspired e
to image in entirely beautiful form the strivings upward of the
and in a form, moreover, which is itself evolved out of the :.
Aspiration becomes, as it were, flesh and blood ; is not indirectly ex-
pressed by means of .symbols as in the arts of painting and poetry.
So much is the form identified with the spirit in the Abbess mind, that
he thinks of his music winging its way up to God, an eternal good, to
take its place in the completed round of everlasting beauty. He, in-
deed, is just the needed supplement to the critic, in ' Charles Avison,'
who perhaps is not sufficiently alive to the fact that a new beauty does
not necessarily exclude the old.
Though the importance of these poems is chiefly due to their bring-
ing out the various functions which music may perform for differ-
ent individuals, there is a historical element of considerable interest.
David's use of music is quite in keeping with an age that had not alto-
gether learned to regard music other than as a handmaid to poetry.
In Hugues, there is certainly pictured the revolt against the over-
learned amplifications indulged in by the old contrapuntal writers,
which was triumphantly led by Palestrina. An epoch of musical decay
breathes through the ' Toccata,' which belongs to the period of the de-
cline of the Italian influence in music, justly following upon a wornout
inspiration, to give place to the glories of the pre-eminent German
school ; while Abt Vogler is fired with the enthusiasm of a period when
music, its shackles of the past rent asunder, had in the romantic school
entered upon a long triumphant march of development.
Browning's portraits of poets and poems illustrating in diverse ways
various principles of poetic art naturally ally themselves to the groups of
poems on the fine arts just considered. His early devotion to Shelley,
expressed in ' Pauline,' was succeeded in * Paracelsus ' by an imaginary
representation of a poet, Aprile, who, like Shelley, was the impersonatior
of spiritual love and ardor. In ' Sordello ' this fervent poetic type again
appears, which yearns to bury itself in what it worships. It is now con-
trasted with a new self-centred type of poet which holds its own con-
sciousness aloof from its dreams, yet finds no dream or function of life
without as good a counterpart within itself. The distinction here made
between what is called the subjective poet, such a one as Shelley, and
the objective or dramatic poet, such a one as Shakespeare, recurs in
his prose essay on Shelley, and some variety of one or the other or hoped-
for blending of both types animates all his impersonations of poets.
Eglamor in ' Sordello 1 is a half-ripe bardling of the Shelley order. In
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxiii
'The Glove ' Ronsard and Marot are incidentally characterized and con-
trasted to the advantage of the poet more deeply versed in lore and life.
Keats appears in ' Popularity, 1 as a poet dowering the world and many
imitators with a beauty never seen before. Shelley again has a tribute
of personal love in ' Memorabilia.' Euripides and Aristophanes
owe to Browning, in ' Balaustion's Adventure ' and l Aristophanes' Apol-
ogy,' the deepest appreciation and soundest criticism they have ever re-
ceived at any one man's hands. Shakespeare is directly defended in
' At the Mermaid ' from charges of pessimism, derision of women, and
uneasy ambition to figure in court life charges more or less involved
in some modern conceptions of him based on an autobiographical read-
ing of the Sonnets and Plays. The sonnet theory is again directly com-
bated in ' House ; ' and ' Shop ' may perhaps be taken as falling in with
these two. Both 'At the Mermaid' and ' House' rest on a conception
of Shakespeare as belonging altogether to the objective type of poet. And
the Shakespeare Sonnet, 'The Names,' is in accord with a view which
accepts him as supreme dramatic creator.
In the verses beginning 'Touch him ne'er so lightly,' Browning sings
the way of pain and obstacle through which pass the master poets who
sum up great epochs of national life such a poet as Dante and who
transmute the bitterness of sorrow into the splendor of song.
In ' Transcendentalism ' and 'How it Strikes a Contemporary' are
celebrated the vitality of the poet's gift, the keenness of the poet's sight,
the warmth and humanity of his heart and office.
Expressions concerning the philosophy of the poet's art and self-
development are to be found in ' Sordello,' ' The Ring and the Book '
and other of his most profound works. The simple poems on poetic
art given in this volume, are like the whole range of his work on this
subject, in placing the poet somewhat less within the influence of the
historic times to which he is related, than the artist or even the musi-
cian. The poet's fortune is read aright in his intimate and loving kin- |
ships with humanity, his clear outsight and deep insight upon the \
springs of life and progress, in the dependency of his artistic power on
his truth to his own highest energies and aspiration.
The most exalted ideal towards which the human soul aspires is that
of divine love, and this, as symbolized in the idea of the Incarnation,
Browning has presented from every side. Even in so humble a thinker
as Caliban, the germ of religious aspiration is discernible in his concep-
tion of a God above Setebos who, if not very positive in his possession
of good qualities, is at least negative so far as bad ones are concerned.
This volume is rich in poems which revolve about this central idea.
In David, the intensity of his luir-.vm love exalts his conception of -God \
xxxiv CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
from that of power into that of love, and with prophetic vision he sees
the future attainment of a religious ideal in which love like unto human
love shall have a place. What a powerful force this longing is in the
human mind is again illustrated in Cleon, the cultured Greek who, de-
spite his broad sympathies and deep appreciation of all forms of beauty,
feels that life is not capable of affording a realization of joy such as the
soul sees. Like Saul, an immortality of deed has no attractions for him ; .
it is the assurance of a continuing personality that he wants. Karshish,
the Arab, too, is haunted by the idea of a God who is love ; but neither
in him nor in Cleon has the aspiration reached such a point that they
are enabled to conceive of the ideal as actual, though living at the time
of Christ. In 'The Death in the Desert,' is presented the portrait of
one who has seen the ideal incarnate.
Other phases of doubt and faith are pictured as affected by more
sophisticated stages of culture. While Cleon and Karshish belong to
a phase of development wherein the mind has not fully grasped the
possibilities of such a conception, a Bishop Blougram's doubts grow
out of the uncertainties of the nature of proof. Far from being sure,
like David, that the incarnation will become a veritable truth, he can
only hope that It may have been true, and resolve to act as if he be-
lieved it were. Still another phase of doubt is shown in 'Ferishtah's
Fancies, 1 where the belief in an actual incarnation is scouted by an
Oriental as preposterous.
The assurance of divine love does not come to all of Browning's
characters through a belief in external revelation. For instance, in
the Epilogue to the first series of Selections, in the present volume,
and in ' Fears and Scruples,' it is through the experiencing of human
love alone, reaching out toward God, which carries the conviction that
there must be a God of love to receive it, though he may never have
manifested himself in the flesh. In 'Ferishtah's Fancies,' again, Fer-
ishtah, who sternly reprimands the unbeliever already mentioned, seems
to regard the ideal of an actual incarnation as a human conception,
but, nevertheless, doing duty as a symbol of the Divine, and thus help-
ing men to approach the Infinite.
In giving a sketch of the general motive and content of Browning's
work, we have treated it as essentially dramatic. It is to be noted,
however, that he has carried his observations of the realities of life into
regions never approached by any other poet, that is, into the thoughts
and motives of humanity, the very sources of world movements, with
the result that we do not see his characters in action so much as in the
intellectual fermentation, which is the concomitant of action. This fact,
namely, that his imagination invests the subjective side of man's life
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. X xxv
with vitality, sets up a certain spiritual kinship between the poet and
his characters, and justifies the search for a philosophy which may be
styled Browning's own ; yet, that any such search must be conducted
with the utmost discretion is evidenced by the existence of many diver-
sities in opinion upon this subject. It is dangerous to regard each poem
as a mask from behind which Browning in his own person peeps forth ;
for the more one studies his creations, the more the peculiar individu-
alisms of their natures assert themselves, and the more the poet retires
into the background. Even admitting that there are certain religious
and philosophical ideas upon which many of his dramatis persona
dwell, each one presents them from his own point of view, and in a
form of expression suited to the particular character and circumstance.
Moreover, the ever-recurring idea in new modes of expression is abso-
lutely t ue to the life of thought in the world. It is no more surprising
that David, Rabbi Ben Ezra, the husband in ' Fifine at the Fair,' and
Paracelsus should have some points of philosophy in common, than that
the wits of Plato, Buddha, Herbert Spencer, and the North American
Indians should occasionally jump together. We have seen how he dis- ^
criminates against no form of doubt or faith by allowing every shade \
of opinion to be presented from the standpoint of one who holds it.
This is external evidence of his friendliness toward all forms of effort
that indicate a search for the truth. With which particular phase of
truth the poet, himself, is to be identified, it would be difficult to dis-
cover, but it is not so impossible to deduce general principles ; not
only from the fact that aspiration is plainly the informing spirit of his
work, but because from time to time this informing spirit forces itself
to the surface in an expression avowedly the poet's own. From such
expressions, of which the third division of the ' Epilogue ' in the pres-
ent volume, ' Reverie ' in l Asolando,' passages in ' Paracelsus,' ' Sor-
dello,' and l Ferishtah's Fancies,' are examples, together with the whole
trend of his work, his philosophy, broadly speaking, may be described
as based upon the revelation of divine love in every human being,
through experience of love reaching out toward an object which shall
completely satisfy aspiration. The partial manifestations of love include
the feeling of gratitude awakened through the enjoyment of benefits
received, like that felt by Ferishtah when he eats a cherry for break-
fast ; the creative impulse, yearning to all-express itself in art ; love seek-
ing its human complement ; and love seeking expression in service to
humanity. Moral failure, resulting in evil ; intellectual failure, resulting
in ignorance, are simply the necessary means for the further develop-
ment of the soul, and the continuance of the law of progress. While
the revelation of God is thus entirely subjective, his conception of God
xxxvi CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
is both subjective and objective. Looking forth upon the world, he sees
Power and Law exemplified ; looking within himself, he sees Power and
K Law manifested as Love. God, then, must be both Power and Love, as
' Rabbi Ben Ezra discovered, and with this dramatic expression may be
paralleled the subjective expression of the same conclusion in ' Reverie,'
the poet's last piece of profound philosophizing.
The faculty for twofold gaze within and without, on which Brown-
ing's reconciliation of Power and Love is built, has enabled him to
effect a like reconciliation between Power in Art the ability to appro-
priate and project into form large swaths of fresh and living material
and Love in Art the ardor to charge and energize the whole with
spiritual attractiveness and meaning.
The analytic tendency, for which he is often censured, does not con-
trol, it subserves a much more noticeable faculty for synthesis for
seeing and reproducing wholes.
Another unusually happy balance of capabilities distinguishes Brown-
, ing. The moral interests which weight his work with significance are
lightened with an over-play of humor a product of his double vision.
* With what genial facility he enters, for example, into Baldinucci's sim-
ple old man's nature, and lends the poet-wit to the exquisite clumsiness
of his joke against the Jews ; and then again, with what easy-going,
wide-sweeping sympathy he enters into the complex course of law and
custom which turns the laugh on Baldinucci, after all. So, in this, as
in many another such dramatic picture of poor old human nature, the
moral lesson is itself made dramatic.
Lend Browning but a little consideration, and the opulence of his
effects will convince you that these twofold counter-poised faculties
have found way in the sort of art which embodies them, because that
alone was large enough to befit them. Lyric, idyl, tale, fantasy, or philo-
sophic imagining, are enclosed in the all-embracing dramatic frame.
His artistic invention, moreover, working within the dramatic sphere,
expended itself in perfecting a poetical form peculiarly his own, the
monologue.
\ His monologues range from expressions of mood as simple as in the
song, ' Nay, but you, who do not love her,' to those in which not only the
complex feelings of the speaker are expressed, but complete pictures of
a second and sometimes a third character are given ; or even groups of
characters as in ' Fra Lippo Lippi,' where the curious, alert, Florentine
guards are not all portrayed with equal clearness, but are all made to
emerge effectively in a picturesque knot, showing here a hang-dog face,
. and there a twinkling eye, or a brawny arm elbowing a neighbor. By
''. dexterous weaving in 01 "-isions, flashes of light are turned upon events
CRITICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxvii
and feelings of the past, so adding harmonious depths to the general
effect.
His diction is noticeable in that he uses a large proportion of Saxon I >
words, and, by so doing, gives a lifelike naturalness to his speech, -f" ~
especially in his shorter poems, in which his characters do not talk as if /
they were confined within metrical limits, but seemingly as if the un- /
stilted ways of daily life were open to them. Yet in all this apparently i /
natural flow of words, there is a harmony of rhythm, a recurring stress of /
rhyme, and a condensation of thought that produces an effect of con- 1
summate art, frequently enhanced by a subtile symbolism underlying the
words. How simple in its mere external form is the little poem, ' Ap-
pearances.' Two momentary scenes, a few words to each, yet there
have been laid bare the worldly, ambitious heart of one person and the
true heart of another, disappointed by the shattering of his idol ; and
under all, symbolically, a universal truth.
The obscurity with which Browning has been taxed so often is largely!, '
due to this monologue form. It is apt to be confusing at first, mainly I
because nothing like it has been met with before. The mind must be
on the alert to catch the power of every word, to see its individual force
and its relational force. Nothing, neither a scene nor an event, is de- j
scribed outright. Only in the course of the talk, references to events '
and scenes are made a part of the very warp and woof of the poem, and J
woven in with such skilfulness by the poet that the entire scene or event '
may be reconstructed by those_wJK) have eyes to see. .,
A harmonizing of imagery and ol rhytftm and even rhyme with'theM ^
subject in hand is a marked characteristic of Browning's verse.
In the poems ' Meeting at Night ' and ' Parting at Morning, 1 the wave
motion of the sea is indicated in the form, not only by the arrangement
of the rhymes to form a climax by bringing a couplet in the middle of
the stanza like the crest of the wave, but the thought, also, gathers to a
climax midway in the stanzas, and subsides toward their close.
In 'Pheidippides' the measure is a mixture of dactyls and spondees,
original with the poet, with a pause at the end of each line, which re-
flects the firm-set eager purpose of the patriotic Greek runner and the
breath-obstructed rhythm of his bounding flight.
In 'James Lee's Wife,' the metre is changed in each lyric to chime
in with the changing mood dictating each one; and the imagery is
in general chosen to mate every aspect of the thought dominating
each mood. For example, in the second section, called * By the Fire-
side,' the fire of shipwreck wood is the metaphor made to yield the
mood of the brooding wife a mould which takes the cast of every sud-
den turn and cranny of her ill-foreboding reverie.
xxxviii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION.
In the grotesque, frequently double rhymes, and the rough rhythm ot
'The Flight of the Duchess,' the bluff, blunt manner of the huntsman
who tells the story is conveyed. The -subtle change that passes over
the spirit of the tale as the rhythm falls tranquilly, with pure rhymes,
now, into the dreamy chant of the gypsy, is the more effective for the
colloquial swing, stop, and start of the forester's gruff-voiced diction.
As in his choice of poems for this volume Browning says he had an
imaginary personality in mind to guide him, so it may be said that he
has had always in mind imaginary personalities, in various guises and
manifold circumstances, to guide him in fashioning his style. The
marked traits of his art are keyed to attune with the theme and motive
they interpret.
As an artist Browning disclaimed the nice selection and employment
of a style in itself beautiful. As an artist, none the less, he chose to
create in every given case a style fitly proportioned to the design, find-
ijng in that dramatic relating of style and motive a more vital beauty.
CHARLOTTE PORTER.
HELEN A. CLARKE.
MAY 25, 1896.
ROBERT BROWNING'S POEMS.
MY STAR.
ALL that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue ;
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, hangs furled :
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world ?
Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it.
10
A FACE.
IF one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pale gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile ; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burthen of honey-coloured buds, to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround.
How it should waver, on the pale gold ground,
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio ioves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
10
MY LAST DUCHESS.
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky,
(That 's the pale ground you 'd see this sweet face by)
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
20
MY LAST DUCHESS.
FERRARA.
r "T*HAT 'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
_L Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design : for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there ; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say " Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat : " such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart how shall I say ? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, good! but thanked
Somehow I know not how as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who 'd stoop to blame
10
20
SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES." 3
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech (which I have not) to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark " and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew ; I gave commands ;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We '11 meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we '11 go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES."
I.
GIVE her but a least excuse to love me !
When where
How can this arm establish her above me,
If fortune fixed her as my lady there,
There already, to eternally reprove me ?
(" Hist ! "- said Kate the queen ;
But " Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
" 'T is only a page that carols unseen,
Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ")
n.
Is she wronged? To the rescue of her honour, 10
My heart!
Is she poor? What costs it to be styled a donor?
Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.
But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!
(" Nay. list ! " bade Kate the queen ;
And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
" 'T is onlv a page that carols unseen,
Fitting your hawks their jesses! ")
4 CRISTINA.
CRISTINA.
i.
SHE should never have looked at me if she meant I should not love
her!
There are plenty . . . men, you call such, I suppose . . . she may discover
All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found them :
But I 'm not so, and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing round
them.
n.
What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I can't tell (there 's my
weakness)
What her look said ! no vile cant, sure, about " need to strew the
bleakness
Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels " no
" strange yearning
That such souls have, most to lavish where there 's chance of least
returning."
III.
Oh, we 're sunk enough here, God knows ! but not quite so sunk that
moments,
Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true endowments 10
Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing
Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing.
IV.
There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire-flames noondays
kindle,
Whereby piled-up honours perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle,
While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unstifled,
Seems the sole work of a life-time that away the rest have trifled.
v.
Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly,
Ages past the soul existed, here an age 't is resting merely,
And hence fleets again for ages, while the true end, sole and single,
It stops here for is, this love-way, with some other soul to mingle? 20
VI.
Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it ;
Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it),
But this life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you
whether
This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together?
COUNT GISMOND. 5
VII.
Oh, observe ! Of course, next moment, the world's honours, in derision,
Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there's provision
Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rapture !
Making those who catch God's secret, just so much more prize their
capture !
vm.
Such am I : the secret 's mine now ! She has lost n*e, I have gained
her;
Her soul 's mine : and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's re-
mainder. 30
Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended :
And then, come next life quickly ! This world's use will have been
ended.
COUNT GISMOND.
AIX IN PROVENCE.
/CHRIST God who savest man, save most
V^ Of men Count Gismond who saved me !
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
Chose time and place and company
To suit it ; when he struck at length
My honour, 't was with all his strength.
n.
And doubtlessly, ere he could draw
All points to one, he must have schemed!
That miserable morning saw
Few half so happy as I seemed, 10
While being dressed in queen's array
To give our tourney prize away.
in.
I thought they loved me, did me grace
To please themselves ; 't was all their deed ;
God makes, or fair or foul, our face ;
If showing mine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
A word, and straight the play had stopped.
COUNT GISMOND.
IV.
They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen
By virtue of her brow and breast ; 20
Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
As I do. E'en when I was dressed,
Had either of them spoke, instead
Of glancing sideways with still head!
v.
But no : they let me laugh, and sing
My birthday song quite through, adjust
The last rose in my garland, fling
A last look on the mirror, trust
My arms to each an arm of theirs,
And so descend the castle-stairs 30
VI.
And come out on the morning troop
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
And called me queen, and made me stoop
Under the canopy (a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)
vn.
And they could let me take my state
And foolish throne amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate
My queen's-day Oh I think the cause 40
Of much was, they forgot no crowd
Makes up for parents in their shroud!
VIII.
However that be, all eyes were bent
Upon me, when my cousins cast
Theirs down ; 't was time I should present
The victor's crown, but . . . there, 't will last
No long time . . . the old mist again
Blinds me as then it did. How vain!
IX.
See ! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk
With his two boys : I can proceed. 50
COUNT GISMOND. 7
Well, at that moment, who should stalk
Forth boldly to my face, indeed
But Gauthier ? and he thundered " Stay ! "
And all stayed. " Bring no crowns, I say !
x.
u Bring torches ! Wind the penance-sheet
About her ! Let her shun the chaste,
Or lay herself before their feet !
Shall she, whose body I embraced
A night long, queen it in the day ?
For honour's sake no crowns, I say ! " 60
XI.
I ? What I answered ? As I live,
I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it ? No more says the soul.
XII.
Till out strode Gismond ; then I knew
That I was saved. I never met
His face before, but, at first'view,
I felt quite sure that God had set 7
Himself to Satan : who would spend
A minute's mistrust on the end ?
XIII.
He strode to Gauthier, in his throat
Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth
With one back-handed blow that wrote
In blood men's verdict there. North, South,
East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,
And damned, and truth stood up instead.
XIV.
This glads me most, that I enjoyed
The heart of the joy, with my content 80
In watching Gismond unalloyed
By any doubt of the event :
God took that on him I was bid
Watch Gismond for my part : I did.
COUNT GISMOND.
xv.
Did I not watch him while he let
His armourer just brace his greaves,
Rivet his hauberk, on the fret
The while ! His foot . . . my memory leaves
No least stamp out, nor how anon
He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 90
XVI.
And e'en before the trumpet's sound
Was finished, prone lay the false knight, '
Prone as his lie, upon the ground :
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.
XVII.
Which done, he dragged him to my feet
And said, " Here die, but end thy breath
In full confession, lest thou fleet
From my first, to God's second death ! 100
Say, hast thou lied ? " And, " I have lied
To God and her," he said, and died.
XVIII.
Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked
What safe my heart holds, though no word
Could I repeat now, if I tasked
My powers for ever, to a third
Dear even as you are. Pass the rest
Until I sank upon his breast.
XIX.
Over my head his arm he flung
Against the world ; and scarce I felt no
His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
A little shifted in its belt :
For he began to say the while
How South our home lay many a mile.
xx.
So, 'mid the shouting multitude
We two walked forth to never more
EUR YD ICE TO ORPHEUS. g
Return. My cousins have pursued
Their life, untroubled as before
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
God lighten ! May his soul find grace ! 120
XXI.
Our elder boy has got the clear
Great brow ; tho' when his brother's black
Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here ?
And have you brought my tercel back ?
I was just telling Adela
How many birds it struck since May.
EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS.
A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A.
BUT give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow !
Let them once more absorb me ! One look now
Will lap me round for ever, not to pass
Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond :
Hold me but safe again within the bond
Of one immortal look ! All woe that was,
Forgotten, and all terror that may be,
Defied, no past is mine, no future : look at me !
THE GLOVE.
(PETER RONSARD loquitur.}
" TTEIGHO! "yawned one day King Francis,
1J. " Distance all value enhances ?_
When a man 's busy, why, leisure
Strikes him as wonderful pleasure :
'Faith, and at leisure once is he?
Straightway he wants to be busy.
Here we 've got peace ; and aghast I 'm
Caught thinking war the true pastime.
Is there a reason in metre?
Give us your speech, master Peter ! " 10
I who, if mortal dare say so,
, THE GLOVE.
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:
Men are the merest Ixions "
Here the King whistled aloud, " Let 's
. . . Heigho ... go look at our lions ! "
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.
And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading, 20
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before he arrived at the penfold ;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And SirDe Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside ;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, 30
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King hailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,*
And bade him make sport and at once stit-
Up and out of his den the old monster^
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled : one's heart's beating redoubled ;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 40
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter ;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
Ilium Juda Leonem de Tribu. 50
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead :
THE GLOVE. Ir
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, 60
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
The lion at last was delivered ?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already,
Driving the flocks up the mountain,
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain 70
To waylay the date-gathering negress :
So guarded he entrance or egress.
" How he stands ! " quoth the King : " we may well swear,
(No novice, we 've won our spurs elsewhere
And so can afford the confession,)
We exercise wholesome discretion
In keeping aloof from his threshold ;
Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
Their first would too pleasantly purloin
The visitor's brisket or sirloin : 80
But who 's he would prove so fool-hardy ?
Not the best man of Marignan, pardie ! "
The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove fluttered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested :
The dame 't was, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past ; he sat there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance. 90
Sound the trumpet, no true knight 's a tarrier !
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove, while the lion
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.
"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her ? 100
So should I ! " cried the King u 't was mere vanity,
Not love, set that task to humanity! "
I2 THE GLOVE.
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.
Not so, I ; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful, no
As if she had tried, in a crucible,
To what " speeches like gold " were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper ;
To know what she had not to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter ;
Clement Marot stayed ; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment? 120
"For I " so I spoke " am a poet :
Human nature behoves that I -know it ! "
She told me, " Too long had I heard
Of the deed proved alone by the word :
For my love what De Lorge would not dare !
With my scorn what De Lorge could compare !
And the endless descriptions of death
He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
Doubt his word and moreover, perforce, 130
For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
Must offer my love in return.
When I looked on your lion, it brought
All the dangers at once to my thought,
Encountered by all sorts of men,
Before he was lodged in his den,
From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
With no King and no Court to applaud,
By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, 140
Yet to capture the creature made shift,
That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,
To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
Of the pit, on no greater pretence
Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
So, wiser I judged it to make
One trial what ' death for my sake '
THE GLOVE.
Really meant, while the power was yet mine,
Than to wait until time should define
Such a phrase not so simply as I,
Who took it to mean just ' to die.'
The blow a glove gives is but weak :
Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
But when the heart suffers a blow,
Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"
I looked, as away she was sweeping,
And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway.
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian ;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
He 'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered, " Friend, what you 'd get, first earn ! "
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.
For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy ;
And, in short, stood so plain a head taller
That he wooed aqd won . . . how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 't was noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,
But of course this adventure came pat in.
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled " His nerves are grown firmer:
Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."
Venienti occur rite morbo I
With which moral I drop my theorbo.
13
150
160
1 80
190
, 4 SONG.
SONG.
i.
NAY but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught speak truth above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this" tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall ?
n.
Because, you spend your lives in praising ;
To praise, you search the wide world over :
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught speak truth above her? ic
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
A SERENADE AT THE VILLA,
i.
HPHAT was I, you heard last night,
A When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight
Tent of heaven, a planet small :
Life was dead, and so was light.
n.
Not a twinkle from the fly,
Not a glimmer from the worm ;
When the crickets stopped their cry,
When the owls forbore a term,
You heard music; that was I.
ill.
Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:
In at heaven and out again,
Lightning! where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.
A SERENADE AT THE VILLA.
IV.
What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best,
And when singing's best was done,
To my lute I left the rest. 20
v.
So wore night ; the East was gray,
White the broad-faced hemlock flowers :
There would be another day ;
Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.
VI.
What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you : " When lift gropes
Feebly for the path where fell
Light last on the evening slopes, 30
VII.
" One friend in that path shall be,
To secure my step from wrong ;
One to count night day for me,
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see."
VIII.
Never say as something bodes
" So, the worst has yet a worse!
When life halts 'neath double loads,
Better the task-mkster's curse
Than such music on the roads! 40
IX.
" When no moon succeeds the sun,
Nor can pierce the midnight's tent
Any star, the smallest one,
While some drops, where lightning rent,
Show the final storm begun
YOUTH AND ART.
x.
" When the fire-fly hides its spot,
When the garden-voices fail
In the darkness thick and hot,
Shall another voice avail,
That shape be where these are not? 50
XI.
" Has some plague a longer lease,
Proffering its help uncouth ?
Can't one even die in peace?
As one shuts one's eyes on youth,
Is that face the last one sees ? "
XII.
Oh how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate !
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass ! 60
YOUTH AND ART.
I.
IT once might have been, once only :
We lodged in a street together,
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
n.
Your trade was with sticks and clay,
You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,
Then laughed "They will see, some day,
Smith made, and Gibson demolished."
My business was song, song, song ;
I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, 10
" Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long,
And Grisi's existence embittered ! "
YOUTH AND ART.
17
IV.
I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster ;
You wanted a piece of marble,
I needed a music-master.
v.
We studied hard in our styles,
Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,
For air, looked out on the tiles,
For fun, watched each other's windows. 20
VI.
You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse nay, a bit of beard too ;
Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.
VII.
And I soon managed to find
Weak points in the flower-fence facing,
Was forced to put up a blind
And be safe in my corset-lacing.
VIII.
No harm ! It was not my fault
If you never turned your eye's tail up 30
As I shook upon E in alt,
Or ran the chromatic scale up :
IX.
For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our street looked rare
With bulrush and watercresses.
x.
Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it?
Why did not I put a power
Of thanks in a look, or sing it? 4
c
18
YOUTH AND ART.
XI.
I did look, sharp as a lynx,
(And yet the memory rankles)
When models arrived, some minx
Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles.
XII.
But I think I gave you as good !
"That foreign fellow, who can know
How she pays, in a playful mood,
For his tuning her that piano?"
XIII.
Could you say so, and never say
"Suppose we join hands and fortunes, 5
And I fetch her from over the way,
Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"
XIV.
No, no : you would not be rash,
Nor I rasher and something over;
You Ve to settle yet Gibson's hash,
And Grisi yet lives in clover.
xv.
But you meet the Prince at the Board,
I 'm queen myself at bals-par&,
I 've married a rich old lord,
And you 're dubbed knight and an R.A. 60
XVI.
Each life unfulfilled, you see ;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy :
not sighed deep, laughed free,
, feasted, despaired, been happy.
xvn.
And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever ;
This could but have happened once,
And we missed it, lost it for ever.
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. ig
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS,
i.
YOU 'RE my friend :
I was the man the Duke spoke to ;
I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too ;
So, here 's the tale from beginning to end,
My friend !
II.
Ours is a great wild country :
If you climb to our castle's top,
I don't see where your eye can stop ;
For when you 've passed the corn-field country,
Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 10
And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,
And cattle-tract to open-chase,
And open-chase to the very base
Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace,
Round about, solemn and slow,
One by one, row after row,
Up and up the pine-trees go,
So, like black priests up, and so
Down the other side again
To another greater, wilder country, 20
That 's one vast red drear burnt-up plain,
Branched through and through with many a vein
Whence iron 's dug, and copper 's dealt ;
Look right, look left, look straight before,
Beneath they mine, above they smelt,
Copper-ore and iron-ore,
And forge and furnace mould and melt,
And so on, more and ever more,
Till at the last, for a bounding belt,
Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore, 30
And the whole is our Duke's country.
in.
I was born the day this present Duke was
(And O, says the song, ere I was old!)
In the castle where the other Duke was
(When I was happy and young, not old!)
I in the kennel, he in the bower :
We are of like age to an hour.
My father was huntsman in that day ;
20 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Who has not heard my father say
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 40
Three times, four times out of five,
With his huntspear he 'd contrive
To get the killing-place transfixed,
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt?
And that 's why the old Duke would rather
He lost a salt-pit than my father,
And loved to have him ever in call ;
That 's why my father stood in the hall
When the old Duke brought his infant out
To show the people, and while they passed 50
The wondrous bantling round about,
Was first to start at the outside blast
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn,
Just a month after the babe was born.
" And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, " since
The Duke has got an heir, our Prince
Needs the Duke's self at his side : "
The Duke looked down and seemed to wince,
But he thought of wars o'er the world wide,
Castles a-fire, men on their march, 60
The toppling tower, the crashing arch ;
And up he looked, and awhile he eyed
The row of crests and shields and banners
Of all achievements after all manners,
And "ay," said the Duke with a surly pride.
The more was his comfort when he died
At next year's end, in a velvet suit,
With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot
In a silken shoe for a leather boot,
Petticoated like a herald, 70
In a chamber next to an ante-room,
Where he breathed the breath of page and groom,
What he called stink, and they, perfume :
They should have set him on red Berold
Mad with pride, like fire to manage !
They should have got his cheek fresh tannage
Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine!
Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin!
(Hark, the wind 's on the heath at its game!
Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 80
To flap each broad wing like a banner,
And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!)
Had they broached a white-beer cask from Berlin
Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine
Put to his lips, when they saw him pine,
A cup of our own Moldavia fine,
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 2 l
Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel
And ropy with sweet, we shall not quarrel.
IV.
So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess
Was left with the infant in her clutches, go
She being the daughter of God knows who :
And now was the time to revisit her tribe.
Abroad and afar they went, the two,
And let our people rail and gibe
At the empty hall and extinguished fire,
As loud as we liked, but ever in vain,
Till after long years we had our desire,
And back came the Duke and his mother again.
v.
And he came back the pertest little ape
That ever affronted human shape ; 100
Full of his travel, struck at himself.
You 'd say, he despised our bluff old ways?
Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf
Our rough North land was the Land of Lays,
The one good thing left in evil days ;
Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time,
And only in wild nooks like ours
Could you taste of it yet as in its prime,
And see true castles with proper towers,
Young-hearted women, old-minded men, no
And manners now as manners were then.
So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it,
This Duke would fain know he was, without being it ;
'T was not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it,
Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it,
He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out,
The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out :
And chief in the chase his neck he perilled,
On a lathy horse, all legs and length,
With blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; 120
- They should have set him on red Berold
With the red eye slow consuming in fire,
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire!
VI.
Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard :
And out of a convent, at the word,
27 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Came the lady, in time of spring.
Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling!
That day, I know, with a dozen oaths
I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes
Fit for the chase of urochs or buffle 130
In winter-time when you need to muffle.
But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure,
And so we saw the lady arrive :
My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger!
She was the smallest lady alive,
Made in a piece of nature's madness,
Too small, almost, for the life and gladness
That over-filled her, as some hive
Out of the bears' reach on the high trees
Is crowded with its safe merry bees : 140
In truth, she was not hard to please!
Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead,
Straight at the castle, that 's best indeed
To look at from outside the walls :
As for us, styled the " serfs and thralls,"
She as much thanked me as if- she had said it,
(With her eyes, do you understand?)
Because I patted her horse while I led it ;
And Max, who rode on her other hand,
Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 150
What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired
If that was an eagle she saw hover, ,
And the green and gray bird on the field was the plover.
When suddenly appeared the Duke :
And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed
On to my hand, as with a rebuke,
And as if his backbone were not jointed,
The Duke stepped rather aside than forward
And welcomed her with his grandest smile ;
And, mind you, his mother all the while 160
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward ;
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis ;
And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies,
The lady's face stopped its play,
As if her first hair had grown gray ;
For such things must begin some one day.
VII.
In a day or two she was well again :
As who should say, "You labour in vain!
This is all a jest against God, who meant 170
THE FLfGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 2 \
I should ever be, as I am, content
And glad in his sight ; therefore, glad I will be."
So, smiling as at first went she.
VIII.
She was active, stirring, all fire
Could not rest, could not tire
To a stone she might have given life !
(I myself loved once, in my day)
For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife,
(I had a wife, I know what I say)
Never in all the world such an one! 180
And here was plenty to be done,
And she that could do it, great or small,
She was to do nothing at all.
There was already this man in his post,
This in his station, and that in his office,
And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most,
To meet his eye with the other trophies.
Now outside the hall, now in it,
To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen,
At the proper place in the proper minute, 190
And die away the life between.
And it was amusing enough, each infraction
Of rule ( but for after-sadness that came)
To hear the consummate self-satisfaction
With which the young Duke and the old dame
Would let her advise, and criticise,
And, being a fool, instinct the wise.
And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame.
They bore it ajl in complacent guise,
As though an artificer, after contriving 200
A wheel-work image as if it were living,
Should find with delight it could motion to strike him !
So found the Duke, and his mother like him :
The lady hardly got a rebuff
That had not been contemptuous enough,
With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause,
And kept off the old mother-cat's claws.
IX.
So, the little lady grew silent and thin,
Paling and ever paling,
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 210
And the Duke perceived that she was ailing,
And said in his heart, " 'T is done to spite me,
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
But I shall find in my power to right me ! "
Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year,
Is in hell, and the Duke's self ... you shall hear.
x.
Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning,
When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning
A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice,
That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice,
Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, 220
And another and another^ and faster and faster,
Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled,
Then it so chanced that the Duke our master
Asked himself what were the pleasures in season,
And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty,
He should do the Middle Age no treason
In resolving on a hunting-party.
Always provided, old books showed the way of it !
What meant old poets by their strictures ?
And when old poets had said their say of it, 230
How taught old painters in their pictures?
We must revert to the proper channels,
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels,
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions.
Here was food for our various ambitions,
As on each case, exactly stated
To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup,
Or best prayer to St. Hubert , n mounting your stirrup
We of the household took thought and debated.
Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 240
His sire was wont to do forest-work in ;
Blesseder he who nobly sunk " ohs "
And " ahs " while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose ;
What signified hats if they had no rims on,
Each slouching before and behind like the scallop,
And able to Serve at sea for a shallop,
Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson ?
So that the deer, now, to make a short rhyme on't,
What with our Venerers, Prickers and Verderers,
Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, 250
And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on 't !
XI.
Now you must know that when the first dizziness
Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided,
The Duke put this question, " The Duke's part provided,
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 2 $
Had not the Duchess some share in the business ?"
For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses
Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses :
And, after much laying of heads together,
Somebody's cap got a notable feather
By the announcement with proper unction 260
That he had discovered the lady's function ;
Since ancient authors gave this tenet,
"When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege,
Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet,
And with water to wash the hands of her liege
In a clean ewer with a fair toweling,
Let her preside at the disemboweling."
Now, my friend, if you had so little religion
As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner,
And thrust her broad wings like a banner 270
Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ;
And if day by day and week by week
You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes,
And clipped her wings, and tied her beak,
Would it cause you any great surprise
If, when you decided to give her an airing,
You found she needed a little preparing ?
I say, should you be such a curmudgeon,
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon?
Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, 280
Just a day before, as he judged most dignified,
In what a pleasure she was to participate,
And, instead of leaping wide in flashes,
Her eyes just lifted their long lashes,
As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate,
And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought,
But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught,
Of the weight by day and the watch by night,
And much wrong now that used to be right,
So, thanking him, declined the hunting, 290
Was conduct ever more affronting?
With all the ceremony settled
With the towel ready, and the sewer
Polishing up his oldest ewer,
And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald,
Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled,
No wonder if the Duke was nettled!
And when she persisted nevertheless,
Well, I suppose here 's the time to confess
That there ran half round our lady's chamber 300
A balcony none of the hardest to clamber ;
And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting,
2 6 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Stayed in call outside, what need of relating ?
And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent
Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant ;
And if she had the habit to peep through the casement,
How could I keep at any vast distance ?
And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence,
The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement,
Stood for a while in a sultry smother, 310
And then, with a smile that partook of the awful,
Turned her over to his yellow mother
To learn what was held decorous and lawful ;
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct,
As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince-tinct.
Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once!
What meant she? Who was she? Her duty and station,
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once,
Its decent regard and its fitting relation
In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free 320
And turn them out to carouse in a belfry
And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon,
And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on!
Well, somehow or other it ended at last,
And, licking her whiskers, 6ut she passed ;
And after her, making (he hoped) a face
Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin,
Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace
Of ancient hero or modern paladin,
From door to staircase oh such a solemn 330
Unbending of the vertebral column!
XII.
However, at sunrise our company mustered ;
And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel,
And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered,
With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel ;
For the court-yard walls were filled with fog
You might have cut as an axe chops a log
Like so much wool for colour and bulkiness ;
And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness,
Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, 340
And a sinking at the lower abdomen
Begins the day with indifferent omen.
And lo, as he looked around uneasily,
The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder,
This way and that, from the valley under ;
And, looking through the court-yard arch,
Down in the valley, what should meet him
U. JL\ 1
THE FLIGHT OF THE DV 'CHESS.
But a troop of Gipsies on their march ?
No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him.
XIII.
Now, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only 350
After reaching all lands beside ;
North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely,
And still, as they travel far and wide,
Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there,
That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there.
But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground,
And nowhere else, I take it, are found
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned ;
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on
The very fruit they are meant to feed on. 360
For the earth not a use to which they don't turn it,
The ore that grows in the mountain's womb,
Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb,
They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it
Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle
With side-bars never a brute can baffle ;
Or a lock that 's a puzzle of wards within wards ;
Or, if your colt's forefoot inclines to curve inwards,
Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 370
Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle
That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle ;
But the sand they pinch and pound it like otters ;
Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and potters !
Glasses they '11 blow you, crystal-clear,
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear,
As if in pure water you dropped and let die
A bruised black-blooded mulberry ;
And that other sort, their crowning pride.
With long white threads distinct inside, 380
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle
Loose such a length and never tangle,
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters,
And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters :
Such are the works they put their hand to,
The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to.
And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally
Toward his castle from out of the valley,
Men and women, like new-hatched spiders,
Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 390
And up they wound till they reached the ditch,
Whereat all stopped save one, a witch
28 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
That I knew, as she hobbled from the group,
By her gait directly and her stoop,
v I, whom Jacynth was used to importune
To let that same witch tell us our fortune.
The oldest Gipsy then above ground ;
And, sure as the autumn season came round,
She paid us a visit for profit or pastime,
And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 400
And presently she was seen to sidle
Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle,
So that the horse of a sudden reared up
As under its nose the old witch peered up
With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes
Of no use now but to gather brine,
And began a kind of level whine
Such as they used to sing to their viols
When their ditties they go grinding
Up and down with nobody minding. 410
And then, as of old, at the end of the humming
Her usual presents were forthcoming
A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles,
(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,
Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end,
And so she awaited her annual stipend.
But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe
A word in reply ; and in vain she felt
With twitching fingers at her belt
For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, 420
Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe,
Till, either to quicken his apprehension,
Or possibly with an after-intention,
She was come, she said, to pay her duty
To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty.
No sooner had she named his lady,
Than a shine lit up the face so shady,
And its. smirk returned with a novel meaning :
For it sifcyck him, the babe just wanted weaning ;
If one gaveker a taste of what life was and sorrow 430
She, foolish t'o-day, would be wiser to-morrow ;
And who so fit a teacher of trouble
As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double?
So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture,
(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute
That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit)
He was contrasting, 't was plain from his gesture,
The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate
With the loathsome squalor of this helical.
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
2 9
From out of the throng : and while I drew near
He told the crone as I since have reckoned
By the way he bent and spoke into her ear
With circumspection and mystery
The main of the lady's history,
Her frowardness and ingratitude ;
And for all the crone's submissive attitude
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening,
And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening,
As though she engaged with hearty goodwill 450
Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil,
And promised the lady a thorough frightening.
And so, just giving her a glimpse
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps
The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw,
He bade me take the Gipsy mother
And set her telling some story or other
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw,
To wile away a weary hour
For the lady left alone in her bower, 460
Whose mind and body craved exertion
And yet shrank from all better diversion.
xrv.
Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter,
Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo
Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor,
And back I turned and bade the crone follow.
And what makes me confident what 's to be told you
Had all along been of this crone's devising,
Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you,
There was a novelty quick as surprising : 47 C
For first, she had shot up a full head in stature,
And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered,
As if age had foregone its usurpature,
And the ignoble mien was wholly altered,
And the face looked quite of another nature.
And the change reached too, whatever the change meant,
Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement :
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges,
Gold coins were glittering on the edges,
Like the band-roll strung with tomans 48
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's :
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly
Come out as after the rain he paces,
Two unmistakable eye-points duly
Live and aware looked out of their places.
30 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry
Of the lady's chamber standing sentry.
I told the command and produced my companion,
And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one,
For since last night, by the same token, 490
Not a single word had the lady spoken.
They went in both to the presence together,
While I in the balcony watched the weather.
xv.
And now, what took place at the very first of all,
I cannot tell, as I never could learn it :
Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall
On that little head of hers and burn it
If she knew how she came to drop so soundly
Asleep of a sudden, and there continue
The whole time sleeping as profoundly 500
As one of the boars my father would pin you
'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison,
Jacynth, forgive me the comparison!
But where I begin my own narration
Is a little after I took my station
To breathe the fresh air from the balcony,
And, having in those days a falcon eye,
To follow the hunt thro' the open country,
From where the bushes thinlier crested
The hillocks, to a plain where 's not one tree. 510
When, in a moment, my ear was arrested
By was it singing, or was it saying,
Or a strange musical instrument playing
In the chamber? and to be certain
I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain,
And there lay Jacynth asleep,
Yet as if a watch she tried to keep,
In a rosy sleep along the floor
With her head against the door ;
While in the midst, on the seat of state, 520
Was a queen the Gipsy woman late,
With head and face downbent
On the lady's head and face intent :
For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease,
The lady sat between her knees,
And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met,
And on those hands her chin was set,
And her upturned face met the face of the crone
Wherein the eyes had grown and grown
As if she could double and quadruple 530
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 3I
At pleasure the play of either pupil
Very like, by her hands 1 slow fanning,
As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers
They moved to measure, or like bell-clappers.
I said, "Is it blessing, is it banning,
Do they applaud you or burlesque you
Those hands and fingers with no flesh on? "
But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue,
At once I was stopped by the lady's expression :
For it was life her eyes were drinking 540
From the crone's wide pair above unwinking,
Life's pure fire, received without shrinking,
Into the heart and breast whose heaving
Told you no single drop they were leaving,
Life, that filling her, passed redundant
Into her very hair, back swerving
Over each shoulder, Joose and abundant,
As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving ;
And the very tresses shared in the pleasure,
Moving to the mystic measure, 550
Bounding as the bosom bounded.
I stopped short, more and more confounded,
As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened,
As she listened and she listened.
When all at once a hand detained me,
The selfsame contagion gained me,
And I kept time to the wondrous chime,
Making out words and prose and rhyme,
Till it seemed that the music furled
Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 560
From under the words it first had propped,
And left them midway in the world.
Word took word as hand takes hand,
I could hear at last, and understand ;
And when I held the unbroken thread,
The Gipsy said :
" And so at last we find my tribe,
And so I set thee in the midst,
And to one and all of them describe
What thou saidst and what thou didst, J7
Our long and terrible journey through,
And all thou art ready to say and do
In the trials that remain.
I trace them the vein and the other vein
That meet on thy brow and part again
Making our rapid mystic mark ;
And I bid my people prove and probe
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Each eye's profound and glorious globe
Till they detect the kindred spark
In those depths so dear and dark, 580
Like the spots that snap and burst and flee,
Circling over the midnight sea.
And on that round young cheek of thine
I make them recognise the tinge,
As when of the costly scarlet wine
They drip so much as will impinge
And spread in a thinnest scale afloat
One thick gold drop from the olive's coat
Over a silver plate whose sheen
Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. 590
For so I prove thee, to one and all,
Fit, when my people ope their breast,
To see the sign, and hear the call,
And take the vow, and stand the test
Which adds one more child to the rest
When the breast is bare and the arms are wide,
And the world is left outside.
For there is probation to decree,
And many and long must the trials be
Thou shalt victoriously endure, 600
If that brow is true and those eyes are sure.
Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay
Of the prize he dug from its mountain-tomb,
Let once the vindicating ray
Leap out amid the anxious gloom,
And steel and fire have done their part,
And the prize falls on its finder's heart :
So, trial after trial past,
Wilt thou fall at the very last
Breathless, half in trance 610
With the thrill of the great deliverance,
Into our arms for evermore ;
And thou shalt know, those arms once curled
About thee, what we knew before,
How love is the only good in the world.
Henceforth be loved as heart can love,
Or brain devise, or hand approve !
Stand up, look below,
It is our life at thy feet we throw
To step with into light and joy ; 620
Not a power of life but we employ
To satisfy thy nature's want.
Art thou the tree that props the plant,
Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree
Canst thou help us, must we help thee?
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 33
If any two creatures grew into one,
They would do more than the world has done ;
Though each apart were never so weak,
Ye vainly through the world should seek
For the knowledge and the might 630
Which in such union grew their right :
So. to approach at least that end,
And blend, as much as may be, blend
Thee with us or us with thee,
As climbing plant or propping tree,
Shall some one deck thee over and down,
Up and about, with blossoms and leaves?
Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown,
Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves
Die on thy boughs and disappear 640
While not a leaf of thine is sere?
Or is the other fate in store,
And art thou fitted to adore,
To give thy wondrous self away,
And take a stronger nature's sway ?
I foresee and could foretell
Thy future portion, sure and well :
But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true.
Let them say what thou shalt do!
Only be sure thy daily life, 650
In its peace or in its strife,
Never shall be unobserved ;
We pursue thy whole career,
And hope for it, or doubt, or fear,
Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved,
We are beside thee in all thy ways,
With our blame, with our praise,
Our shame to feel, our pride to show,
Glad, angry but indifferent, no!
Whether it be thy lot to go, 660
For the good of us all, where the haters meet
In the crowded city's horrible street ;
Or thou step alone through the morass
Where never sound yet was
Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill,
For the air is still, and the water still,
When the blue breast of the dipping coot
Dives under, and all is mute.
So, at the last shall come old age,
Decrepit as befits that stage ; 670
How else wouldst thou retire apart
With the hoarded memories of thy heart,
And gather all to the very least
34 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Of the fragments of life's earlier feast,
Let fall through eagerness to find
The crowning dainties yet behind?
Ponder on the entire past
Laid together thus at last,
When the twilight helps to fuse
The first fresh with the faded hues, 680
And the outline of the whole,
As round eve's shades their framework roll,
Grandly fronts for once thy soul!
And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam
Of yet another morning breaks,
And like the hand which ends a dream,
Death, with the might of his sunbeam,
Touches the flesh and the soul awakes,
Then "
Ay, then indeed something would happen!
But what ? For here her voice changed like a bird's ; 690
There grew more of the music and less of the words ;
Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen
To paper and put you down every syllable
With those clever clerkly fingers,
All I 've forgotten as well as what lingers
In this old brain of mine that 's but ill able
To give you even this poor version
Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering
More fault of those who had the hammering
Of prosody into me and syntax, 700
And did it, n^t with hobnails but tintacks !
But to return from this excursion,
Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest,
The peace most deep and the charm completest,
There came, shall I say, a snap
And the charm vanished!
And my sense returned, so strangely banished,
And, starting as from a nap,
I knew the crone was bewitching my lady,
With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made I 710
Down from the casement, round to the portal,
Another minute and I had entered,
When the door opened, and more than mortal
Stood, with a face where to my mind centred
All beauties I ever saw or shall see,
The Duchess : I stopped as if struck by palsy.
She was so different, happy and beautiful,
I felt at once that all was best,
And that I had nothing to do, for the rest,
But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 720
THE FLIGHT OF THE DC/CHESS. 35
Not that, in fact, there was any commanding;
I saw the glory of her eye,
And the brow's height and the breast's expanding,
And I was hers to live or to die.
As for finding what she wanted,
You know God Almighty granted
Such little signs should serve wild creatures
To tell one another all their desires,
So that each knows what his friend requires,
And does its bidding without teachers. 730
I preceded her ; the crone
Followed silent and alone ;
I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered
In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk
Back to their pits ; her stature shrunk ;
In short, the soul in its body sunk
Like a blade sent home to its scabbard.
We descended, I preceding ;
Crossed the court with nobody heeding;
All the world was at the chase, 740
The court-yard like a desert-place,
The stable emptied of its small fry ;
I saddled myself the very palfrey
I remember patting while it carried her,
The day she arrived and the Duke married her.
And, do you know, though it 's easy deceiving
Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing
The lady had not forgotten it either,
And knew the poor devil so much beneath her
Would have been only too glad, for her service, 750
To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise,
But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it,
Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it:
For though the moment I began setting
His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting,
(Not that I meant to be obtrusive)
She stopped me, while his rug was shifting,
By a single rapid ringer's lifting,
And, with a gesture kind but conclusive,
And a little shake of the head, refused me, 760
I say, although she never used me,
Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her,
And I ventured to remind her,
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me,
Something to the effect that I was in readiness
Whenever God should please she needed me,
Then, do you know, her face looked down on me
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
With a look that placed a crown on me,
And she felt in her bosom, mark, her bosom 770
And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom,
Dropped me ... ah, had it been a purse
Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse,
Why, you see, as soon as I found myself
So understood, that a true heart so may gain
Such a reward, I should have gone home again,
Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself!
It was a little plait of hair.
Such as friends in a convent make
To wear, each for the other's sake, 780
This, see, which at my breast 1 wear,
Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment),
And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment.
And then, and then, to cut short, this is idle,
These are feelings it is not good to foster,
I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle,
And the palfrey bounded, and so we lost her.
XVI.
When the liquor's out why clink the cannikin?
I did think to describe you the panic in
The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, 790
And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness,
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib,
When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness
But it seems such child's play,
What they said and did with the lady away!
And to dance on, when we Ve lost the music,
Always made me and no doubt makes you sick.
Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern
As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, 800
She that kept it in constant good humour,
It ought to have stopped ; there seemed nothing to do more.
But the world thought otherwise and went on,
And my head's one that its spite was spent on :
Thirty years are fled since that morning,
And with them all my head's adorning.
Nor did the old Duchess die outright,
As you expect, of suppressed spite,
The natural end of every adder
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: 810
But she and her son agV^d, I take it,
That no one should toucl^bn the story to wake it,
For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery ;
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 37
So, they made no search and small inquiry: \
And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I 've
Noticed the couple were never inquisitive,
But told them they 're folks the Duke don't want here,
And bade them make haste and cross the frontier.
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it,
And the old one was in the young one's stead, 820
And took, in her place, the household's head,
And a blessed 'time the household had of it!
And were I not, as a man may say, cautious
How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,
I could favour you with sundry touches
Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness
(To get on faster) until at last her
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster
Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse : 830
In short, she grew from scalp to udder
Just the object to make you shudder.
XVII.
You 're my friend
What a thing friendship is, world without end!
How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up
As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet,
And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit,
Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup,
Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids
Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids ; 840
Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs,
Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts
Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease.
I have seen my little lady once more,
Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it,
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before ;
I always wanted to make a clean breast of it :
And now it is made why, my heart's blood, that went trickle,
Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 850
Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,
And genially floats me about the giblets.
I '11 tell you what I intend to do :
I must see this fellow his sad life through
He is our Duke, after all,
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall.
My father was born here, and I inherit
His feme, a chain he bound his son with ;
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it,
But there 1 s no mine to blow up and get done with : 860
So, I must stay till the end of the chapter.
For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter,
Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on,
Some day or other, his head in a morion
And breast in a hauberk, his heels he '11 kick up,
Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup.
And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust,
And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust,
Then I shall scrape together my earnings ;
For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 870
And our children all went the way of the roses ;
It 's a long lane that knows no turnings.
One needs but little tackle to travel in ;
So, just one stout cloak shall I indue :
And for a staff, what beats the javelin
With which his boars my father pinned you?
And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently,
Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful,
I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!
Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 880
What 's a man's age ? He must hurry more, that 's all ;
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold :
When we mind labour, then only, we 're too old
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul ?
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees,
(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil)
I hope to get safely out of the turmoil
And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies,
And find my lady, or hear the last news of her
From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 890
His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop,
Sunburned all over like an ^Ethiop.
And when my Cotnar begins to operate
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate,
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent,
I shall drop in with as if by accident
" You never knew then, how it all ended,
What fortune good or bad attended
The little lady your Queen befriended ? "
And when that 's told me, what 's remaining? 900
This world 's too hard for my explaining.
The same wise judge of matters equine
Who still preferred some slim four-year-old
To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold,
And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine,
He also must be such a lady's scorner!
SONG FROM "P/PPA PASSES." 3Q
Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau :
Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw.
So, I shall find out some snug corner
Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, 910
Turn myself round and bid the world good night ;
And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen)
To a world where will be no further throwing
Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen!
SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES."
year's at the spring,
J. And day 's at the morn ;
Morning 's at seven ;
The hill-side 's dew-pearled ;
The lark 's on the wing;
The snail 's on the thorn ;
God 's in His heaven
All 's right with the world !
"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM
GHENT TO AIX."
[16-.]
I.
I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;
"Good speed! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
" Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through ;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
ii.
Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 10
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
4 "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
in.
'T was moonset at starting ; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ;
At Duffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be ;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So, Joris- broke silence with, " Yet there is time!"
IV.
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one, ao
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray :
v.
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ;
And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 30
VI.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris " Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her,
We '11 remember at Aix " for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
VII.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; 40
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight! "
VIII.
" How they '11 greet us ! " and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ;
FROM GHENT TO AfX."
Lnd there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
)f the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets 1 rim.
IX.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
x.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
h (the burgesses voted by common consent)
fas no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
60
SONG FROM "PARACELSUS."
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair : such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island gain.
n.
And strew faint sweetness from some old
Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled ;
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud
From closet long to quiet vowed,
With mothed and dropping arras hung,
Mouldering her lute and books among,
As when a queen, long dead, was young.
10
42 THROUGH THE METWJA TO ABD-EL-KADR.
THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR.
1842.
AS I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried,
As I ride, as I ride.
n.
As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied, 10
Who dares chide my heart's pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?
in.
As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O'er each visioned homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.
IV.
As I ride, as I ride,
Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed 30
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride !
fNCfDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
v.
43
As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
(As I ride, as I ride)
All that 's meant me satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I 'd have subside
As I ride, as I ride! 40
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
I.
YOU know, we French stormed Ratisbon :
A mile or so.away
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day ;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
n.
Just as perhaps he mused " My plans
That soar, to earth may fall, 10
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall "
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
DL
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy :
You hardly could suspect 20
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
THE LOST LEADER.
IV.
Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace
We 've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal 's in the market-place,
And you '11 be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire, 30
Perched him ! " The chiefs eye flashed ; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
v.
The chiefs eye flashed ; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes.
" You 're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said :
" I 'm killed, Sire ! " And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead. 40
THE LOST LEADER.
JUST for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat
.Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others, she lets us devote ;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed :
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his m^ld and magnificent eye, 10
Learned his greatNlanguage, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
n.
We shall march prospering, not thro' his presence ;
Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre ;
IN A GONDOLA.
45
Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : 20
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins : let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again !
Best fight on well, for we taught him strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own ; 30
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
IN A GONDOLA.
He sings.
I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart
In this my singing.
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part ;
The very night is clinging
Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space
Above me, whence thy face
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.
She speaks.
Say after me, and try to say
My very words, as if each word
Came from you of your own accord, 10
In your own voice, in your own way:
" This woman's heart and soul and brain
Are mine as much as this gold chain
She bids me wear ; which " (say again)
" I choose to make by cherishing
A precious thing, or choose to fling
Over the boat-side, ring by ring."
And yet once more say ... no word more!
Since words are only words. Give o'er!
Unless you call me, all the same, ao
Familiatly by my pet name,
Which if the Three should hear you call,
And me reply to, would proclaim
IN A GONDOLA.
At once our secret to them all.
Ask of me, too, command me, blame
Do, break down the partition-wall
'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!
What 's left but all of me to take ?
I am the Three's : prevent them, slake 30
Your thirst! 'T is said, the Arab sage
In practising with gems, can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes : so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!
He sings.
I.
Past we glide, and past, and past!
What 's that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast?
Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing 40
To his couch the purchased bride :
Past we glide !
ii.
Past we glide, and past, and past!
Why 's the Pucci Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast ?
Guests by hundreds, not one caring
If the dear host's neck were wried :
Past we glide!
She sings.
i.
The moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe 50
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up ; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
n.
The bee's kiss, now !
Kiss me as if you entered gay
IN A GONDOLA.
47
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up, 60
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.
He sings.
I.
What are we two?
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,
To a feast of our tribe ;
Where they need thee to bribe
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe
Thy . . . Scatter the vision for ever ! And now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou! 70
II.
Say again, what we are?
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering away
Some . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now,
As of old, I am I, thou art thou!
He muses.
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?
The land's lap or the water's breast? 80
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shallows just
Eluding water-lily leaves,
An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must ;
Which life were best on Summer eves?
He speaks, musing.
Lie back : could thought of mine improve you?
From this shoulder let there spring
A wing ; from this, another wing ;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 90
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
4 8
IN A GONDOLA.
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world !
Rescue me thou, the only real ! loo
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart !
Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art !
Still he muses.
I.
What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader ? While there 's cast
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet through my back ; I reel ;
And ... is it thou I feel?
n.
They trail me, these three godless knaves, no
Past every church that saints and saves,
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido's wet accursed graves,
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And ... on thy breast I sink!
She replies, musing.
Dip your arm o'er the boat side, elbow-deep,
As I do : thus : were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this way ? Death 's to fear from flame or steel,
Or poison doubtless ; but from water feel!
II.
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! 120
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away : since you have praised my hair,
'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.
IN A GONDOLA. 49
He speaks.
Row home ? must we row home ? Too surely
Know I where its front 's demurely
Over the Guidecca piled ;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting,
All 's the set face of a child : 130
But behind it, where 's a trace
Of the staidness and reserve,
And formal lines without a curve,
In the samechild's playing-face?
No two windows look one way
O'er the small sea-water thread
Below them. Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead !
First, out a cloud of curtain blew,
Then a sweet cry, and last came you 14
To catch your lory that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then,
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds
And make me happiest of men.
I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o'er the balcony,
To catch him ere he climbed too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach,
That quick the round smooth cord of gold,
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 150
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old,
When Rome there was, for coolness' sake
To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.
Dear lory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain,
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had marked their thief to know again !
Stay longer yet, for others' sake
Than mine! What should your chamber do? 160
With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended just to pleasure you
Who brought against their will together
These objects, and, while day lasts, weave
Around them such a magic tether
That dumb they look : your harp, believe
With all the sensitive tight strings
IN A GONDOLA.
Which dare not speak, now to itself 170
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf
Went in and out the chords, his wings
Make murmur, wheresoe'er they graze,
As an angel may, between the maze
Of midnight palace-pillars, on
And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone
Through guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell
As the dry limpet for the lymph 180
Come with a tune he knows so wejl.
And how your statues' hearts must swell !
And how your pictures must descend
To see each other, friend with friend !
Oh, could you take them by surprise,
You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!
And, deeper into her rock den,
Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 190
You 'd find retreated from the ken
Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser
As if the Tizian thinks of her,
And is not, rather, gravely bent
On seeing for himself what toys
Are these, his progeny invent,
What litter now the board employs
Whereon he signed a document
That got him murdered ! Each enjoys
Its night so well, you cannot break 200
The sport up : so, indeed must make
More stay with me, for others' sake.
She speaks.
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,
Is used to tie the jasmine back
That overfloods my room with sweets,
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets
My Zanze! If the ribbon 's black,
The Three are watching : keep away!
n.
Your gondola let Zorzi wreathe
A mesh of water-weeds about 210
A LOVERS^ QUARREL. ^
Its prow, as if he unaware
Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!
That I may throw a paper out
As you and he go underneath.
There 's Zanze's vigilant taper ; safe are we.
Only one minute more to-night with me ?
Resume your past self of a month ago!
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be
The lady with the colder breast than snow.
Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand 220
More than I touch yours when I step to land,
And say, "All thanks, Siora!"
Heart to heart
And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere we part,
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!
He is surprised, artd stabbed.
It was ordained to be so, sweet! and best
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn
To death, because they never lived : but I 230
Have lived indeed, and so (yet one more kiss) can die!
A LOVERS 1 QUARREL.
OH, what a dawn of day!
How the March sun feels like May!
All is blue again
After last night's rain,
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
Only, my Love's away!
I 'd as lief that the blue were gray.
II.
Runnels, which rillets swell,
Must be dancing down the dell,
With a foaming head
On the beryl bed
Paven smooth as a hermit's cell :
Each with a tale to tell,
Could my Love but attend as welt
10
52 A LOVERS' QUARREL.
m.
Dearest, three months ago!
When we lived blocked-up with snow,
When the wind would edge
In and in his wedge,
In, as far as the point could go
Not to our ingle, though, 20
Where we loved each the other so!
IV.
Laughs with so little cause!
We devised games out of straws.
We would try and trace
One another's face
In the ash, as an artist draws ;
Free on each other's flaws,
How we chattered like two church daws!
What's in the " Times "? a scold
At the Emperor deep and cold ; 30
He has taken a bride
To his gruesome side,
That 's as fair as himself is bold :
There they sit ermine-stoled,
And she powders her hair with gold.
VI.
Fancy the Pampas' sheen!
Miles and miles of gold and green
Where the sunflowers blow
In a solid glow,
And to break now and then the screen 40
Black neck and eyeballs keen,
Up a wild horse leaps between!
Try, will our table turn?
Lay your hands there light, and yearn
Till the yearning slips
Thro' the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn !
A LOVERS^ QUARREL. 53
vm.
Then we would up and pace, CQ
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o'er neck :
'T is our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space I
Or, if no help, we '11 embrace.
IX.
See, how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
'T is a huge fur cloak
Like a reindeer's yoke 60
Falls the lappet along the breast :
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best.
x.
Teach me to flirt a fan
As the Spanish ladies can,
Or I tint your lip
With a burnt stick's tip
And you turn into such a man!
Just the two spots that span
Half the bill of the young male swan. 70
XI.
Dearest, three months ago,
When the mesmerizer Snow
With his hand's first sweep
Put the earth to sleep,
'T was a time when the heart could show
All how was earth to know,
Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro?
XII.
Dearest, three months ago,
When we loved each other so,
Lived and loved the same 80
Till an evening came
When a shaft from the devil's bow
Pierced to our ingle-glow,
And the friends were friend and foe!
A LOVERS^ QUARREL.
XIII.
Not from the heart beneath
'T was a bubble born of breath,
Neither sneer nor vaunt,
Nor reproach nor taunt.
See a word, how it severeth !
Oh, power of life and death 90
In the tongue, as the Preacher saith!
XIV.
Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me, your own, your You,
Since, as truth is true,
I was You all the happy past
Me do you leave aghast
With the memories We amassed?
xv.
Love, if you knew the light
That your soul casts in my sight, loo
How I look to you
For the pure and true,
And the beauteous and the right,
Bear with a moment's spite
When a mere mote threats the white!
XVI.
What of a hasty word?
Is the fleshly heart not stirred
By a worm's pin-prick
Where its roots are quick?
See the eye, by a fly's foot blurred no
Ear, when a straw is heard
Scratch the brain's coat of curd!
XVII.
Foul be the world or fair
More or less, how can I care?
'T is the world the same
For my praise or blame,
And endurance is easy there.
Wrong in the one thing rare
Oh, it is hard to bear!
A LOVERS^ QUARREL. 55
XVIII.
Here 's the spring back or close, 120
When the almond-blossom blows ;
We shall have the word
In a minor third
There is none but the cuckoo knows :
Heaps of the guelder-rose!
I must bear with it, I suppose.
XIX.
Could but November come,
Were the noisy birds struck dumb
At the warning slash
Of his driver's-lash 130
I wpuld laugh like the valiant Thumb
Facing the castle glum
And the giant's fee-faw-fum !
xx.
Then, were the world well-stripped
Of the gear wherein equipped
We can stand apart,
Heart dispense with heart
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,
Oh, the world's hangings ripped,
We were both in a bare-walled crypt! 140
XXI.
Each in the crypt would cry
" But one freezes here ! and why ?
When a heart, as chill,
At my own would thrill
Back to life, and its fires out-fly?
Heart, shall we live or die?
The rest . . . settle by-and-by! "
xxn.
So, she 'd efface the score,
And forgive me as before.
It is twelve o'clock : 150
I shall hear her knock
In the worst of a storm's uproar :
I shall pull her through the door,
I shall have her for evermore!
EARTWS IMMORTALITIES.
EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES.
FAME.
SEE, as the prettiest graves will do in time,
Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime ;
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods
Have struggled through its binding osier rods ;
Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry,
Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by ;
How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er plate,
Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date !
LOVE.
So, the year 's done with !
{Love me for ever /) 10
All March begun with,
April's endeavour ;
May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever ;
Now snows fall round me,
Quenching June's fever
(Love me for ever!}
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
I SAID Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave, I claim
Only a memory of the same,
And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.
n.
My mistress bent that brow of hers ;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 57
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance : right!
The blood replenished me again ;
My last thought was at least not vain :
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride, ao
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end to-night?
in.
Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions sun's
And moon's and evening star's at once
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near, 30
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!
Thus leant she and lingered joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
IV.
Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss. 40
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.
v.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds ?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds ?
We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought, All labour, yet no less 50
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER.
This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me ; here we ride.
VI.
What hand and brain went ever paired ?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen ?
We ride and I see her bosom heave. 60
There 's many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.
VII.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only ; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best, 70
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
'T is something, nay 't is much : but then,
Have you yourself what 's best for men ?
Are you poor, sick, old ere your time
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride.
VIII.
And you, great sculptor so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that 's your Venus, whence we turn 80
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine ?
What, man of music, you grown gray
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
" Greatly his opera's strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end!"
I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine.
IX.
Who knows what 's fit for us ? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 90
MESMERISM.
My being had I signed the bond
Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such ? Try and test !
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
x.
And yet she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life's best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life's flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide ?
What if we still ride on, we two,
With life for ever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity,
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, for ever ride ?
59
no
MESMERISM,
i.
ALL I believed is true!
I am able yet
All I want, to get
By a method as strange as new :
Dare I trust the same to you ?
II.
If at night, when doors are shut,
And the wood-worm picks,
And the death-watch ticks,
And the bar has a flag of smut,
And a cat 's in the water-butt
in.
And the socket floats and flares,
And the house-beams groan,
And a foot unknown
MESMERISM.
Is surmised on the garret-stairs,
And the locks slip unawares
IV.
And the spider, to serve his ends,
By a sudden thread,
Arms and legs outspread,
On the table's midst descends,
Comes to find, God knows what friends!
v.
If since eve drew in, I say,
I have sat and brought
(So to speak) my thought
To bear on the woman away,
Till I felt my hair turn gray
VI.
Till I seemed to have and hold,
In the vacancy
' Twixt the wall and me
From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold
To the foot in its muslin fold 3
VII.
, and hold, then and there,
Her, from head to foot,
Breathing and mute,
Passive and yet aware,
In the grasp of my steady stare -
VIII.
Hold and have, there and then,
All her body and soul
That completes my whole,
All that women add to men,
In the clutch of my steady ken 4
Having and holding, till
I imprint her fast
On the void at last
As the sun does whom he will
By the calotypist's skill
MESMERISM.
x.
Then, if my heart's strength serve,
And thro' all and each
Of the veils I reach
To her soul and never swerve,
Knitting an iron nerve
XI.
Command her soul to advance
And inform the shape
Which has made escape
And before my countenance
Answers me glance for glance
XII.
I, still with a gesture fit
Of my hands that best
Do my soul's behest,
Pointing the power from it,
While myself do steadfast sit 60
xm.
Steadfast and still the same
On my object bent,
While the hands give vent
To my ardour and my aim
And break into very flame
xrv.
Then I reach, I must believe,
Not her soul in vain,
For to me again
It reaches, and past retrieve
Is wound in the toils I weave ; ?o
xv.
And must follow as I require,
As befits a thrall,
Bringing flesh and all,
Essence and earth-attire,
To the source of the tractile fire ;
MESMERISM.
XVI.
Till the house called hers, not mine,
With a growing weight
Seems to suffocate
If she break not its leaden line
And escape from its close confine. 80
xvn.
Out of doors into the night !
On to the maze
Of the wild wood-ways,
Not turning to left nor right
From the pathway, blind with sight
XVIII.
Making thro' rain and wind
O'er the broken shrubs,
'Twixt the stems and stubs,
With a still, composed, strong mind,
Not a care for the world behind 90
XIX.
Swifter and still more swift,
As the crowding peace
Doth to joy increase
In the wide blind eyes uplift
Thro' the darkness and the drift!
xx.
While I to the shape, I too
Feel my soul dilate :
Not a whit abate,
And relax not a gesture due,
As I see my belief come true. 100
XXI.
For, there ! have I drawn or no
Life to that lip?
Do my fingers dip
In a flame which again they throw
On the cheek that breaks a-glow?
MESMERISM. 63
XXII.
Ha! was the hair so first?
What, unfilleted,
Made alive, and spread
Thro' the void with a rich outburst,
Chestnut gold-interspersed ? no
XXIII.
Like the doors of a casket-shrine,
See, on either side,
Her two arms divide
Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
Take me, for I am thine?
XXIV.
" Now now " the door is heard!
Hark, the stairs! and near
Nearer and here
" Now ! " and, at call the third,
She enters without a word. 120
XXV.
On doth she march and on
To the fancied shape ;
It is, past escape,
Herself, now : the dream is done
And the shadow and she are one.
XXVI.
First, I will pray. Do Thou
That pwnest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now ! 13
XXVII.
I admonish me while I may,
Not to squander guilt,
Since require Thou wilt
At my hand its price one day!
What the price is, who can say?
BY THE FIRESIDE.
BY THE FIRESIDE.
i.
HOW well I know what I mean to do
When the long dark autumn evenings come :
And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue ?
With the music of all thy voices, dumb
In life's November too!
II.
I shall be found by the fire, suppose,
O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age ;
While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,
And I turn the page, and I turn the page,
Not verse now, only prose ! 10
in.
Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,
" There he is at it, deep in Greek :
Now then, or never, out we slip
To cut from the hazels by the creek
A mainmast for our ship ! "
IV.
I shall be at it indeed, my friends !
Greek puts already on either side
Such a branch-work forth as soon extends
To a vista opening far and wide,
And I pass out where it ends. 20
v.
The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees
But the inside-archway widens fast,
And a rarer sort succeeds to these,
And we slope to Italy at last
And youth, by green degrees.
VI.
I follow wherever I am led,
Knowing so well the leader's hand :
Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,
Loved all the more by earth's male-lands,
Laid to their hearts instead! 3
BY THE FIRES WE. 6$
VII.
Look at the ruined chapel again
Half-way up in the Alpine gorge!
Is that a tower, I point you plain,
Or is it a mill, or an iron-forge
Breaks solitude in vain?
VIII.
A turn, and we stand in the heart of things ;
The woods are round us, heaped and dim ;
From slab to slab how it slips and springs,
The thread of water single and slim,
Thro' the ravage some torrent brings! 40
IX.
Does it feed the little lake below?
That speck of white just on its marge
Is Pella ; see, in the evening-glow,
How sharp the silver spear-heads charge
When Alp meets heaven in snow!
x.
On our other side is the straight-up rock ;
And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it
By boulder-stones where lichens mock
The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit
Their teeth to the polished block. 50
XI.
Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,
And thorny balls, each three. in one,
The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!
For the drop of the woodland fruit 's begun,
These early November hours,
XII.
That crimson the creeper's leaf across
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,
O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped
Elf-needled mat of moss, 60
66 BY THE FIRESIDE.
XIII.
By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged
Last evening nay, in to-day's first dew
Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,
Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew
Of toad-stools peep indulged.
And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge
That takes the turn to a range beyond,
Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge,
Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond
Danced over by the midge. 70
xv.
The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,
Blackish-gray and mostly wet ;
Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.
See here again, how the lichens fret
And the roots of the ivy strike !
XVI.
Poor little place, where its one priest comes
On a festa--day, if he comes at all,
To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,
Gathered within that precinct small
By the dozen ways one roams 80
XVII.
To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,
Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed,
Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,
Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread
Their gear on the rock's bare juts.
XVIII.
It has some pretension too, this front,
With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise
Set over the porch, Art's early wont :
'T is John in the Desert, I surmise,
But has borne the weather's brunt 90
BY THE FIRESIDE.
XIX.
Not from the fault of the builder, though,
For a pent-house properly projects
Where three carved beams make a certain show,
Dating good thought of our architect's
Five, six, nine, he lets you know.
6 7
xx.
And all day long a bird sings there,
And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ;
The place is silent and aware ;
It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,
But that is its own affair.
loo
XXI.
My perfect wife, my Leonor,
Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,
Whom else could I dare look backward for,
With whom besides should I dare pursue
The path gray heads abhor?
XXII.
For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them ;
Youth, flowery all the way, there stops
Not they ; 'age threatens and they contemn,
Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,
One inch from life's safe hem!
no
XXIII.
With me, youth led ... I will speak now,
No longer watch you as you sit
Reading by firelight, that great brow
And the spirit-small hand propping it,
Mutely, my heart knows how
XXIV.
When, if I think but deep enough,
You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme ;
And you, too, find without rebuff
Response your soul seeks many a time,
Piercing its fine flesh-stuff.
120
68 BY THE FIRESIDE.
XXV.
My own, confirm me ! If I tread
This path back, is it not in pride
To think how little I dreamed it led
To an age so blest that, by its side,
Youth seems the waste instead?
XXVI.
My own, see where the years conduct!
At first, 't was something our two souls
Should mix as mists do ; each is sucked
In each now : on, the new stream rolls,
Whatever rocks obstruct. 130
XXVII.
Think, when our one soul understands
The great Word which makes all things new,
When earth breaks up and heaven expands,
How will the change strike me and you
In the house not made with hands ?
xxvin.
Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,
Your heart anticipate my heart,
You must be just before, in fine,
See and make me see, for your part,
New depths of the divine ! 140
XXIX.
But who could have expected this
When we two drew together first
Just for the obvious human bliss,
To satisfy life's daily thirst
With a thing men seldom miss ?
XXX.
Come back with me to the first of all,
Let us lean and love it over again,
Let us now forget and now recall,
Break the rosary in a pearly rain,
And gather what we let fall ! 150
BY THE FIRESIDE.
69
XXXI.
What did I say ? that a small bird sings
All day long, save when a brown pair
Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings
Strained to a bell : 'gainst noon-day glare
You count the streaks and rings.
XXXII.
But at afternoon or almost eve
T is better ; then the silence grows
To that degree, you half believe
It must get rid of what it knows,
Its bosom does so heave. 160
xxxni.
Hither we walked then, side by side,
Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,
And still I questioned or replied,
While my heart, convulsed to really speak,
Lay choking in its pride.
xxxiv.
Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,
And pity and praise the chapel sweet,
And care about the fresco's loss,
And wish for our souls a like retreat,
And wonder at the moss. 170
xxxv.
Stoop and kneel on the settle under,
Look through the window's grated square :
Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder,
The cross is down and the altar bare,
As if thieves don't fear thunder.
xxxvi.
We stoop and look in through the grate,
See the little porch and rustic door,
Read duly the dead builder's date ;
Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,
Take the path again but wait ! i8r
BY THE FIRESIDE.
XXXVII.
Oh moment one and infinite !
The water slips o'er stock and stone ;
The West is tender, hardly bright :
How gray at once is the evening grown
One star, its chrysolite !
xxx vin.
We two stood there with never a third,
But each by each, as each knew well :
The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,
The lights and the shades made up a spell
Till the trouble grew and stirred. 190
XXXIX.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is !
And the little less, and what worlds away !
How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,
Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,
And life be a proof of this !
XL.
Had she willed it, still had stood the screen
So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her :
I could fix her face with a guard between,
And find her soul as when friends confer,
Friends lovers that might have been. 200
XLI.
For my heart had a touch of the woodland time,
Wanting to sleep now over its best.
Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,
But bring to the last leaf no such test !
" Hold the last fast ! " runs the rhyme.
i
XLII.
For a chance to make your little much,
To gain a lover and lose a friend,
(^Venture the tree and a myriad such,
\ r\ When nothing you mar but the year can mend :
" ! LIBRARY i put a last leaf fear to touch ! 210
BY THE FIRESIDE.
XLIII.
Yet should it unfasten itself and fall
Eddying down till it find your face
At some slight wind best chance of all !
Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place
You trembled to forestall !
XLIV.
Worth how well, those dark gray eyes,
That hair so dark and dear, how worth
That a man should strive and agonize,
And taste a veriest hell on earth
For the hope of such a prize ! 220
XLV.
You might have turned and tried a man,
Set him a space to weary and wear,
And prove which suited more your plan,
His best of hope or his worst despair,
Yet end as he began.
XLVI.
But you spared me this, like the heart you are,
And filled my empty heart at a word.
If two lives join, there is oft a scar,
They are one and one, with a shadowy third ;
One near one is too far. 230
XLVII.
A moment after, and hands unseen
Were hanging the night around us fast ;
But we knew that a bar was broken between
Life and life : we were mixed at last
In spite of the mortal screen.
XLVIII.
The forests had done it ; there they stood ;
We caught for a moment the powers at play :
They had mingled us so, for once and good,
Their work was done we might go or stay,
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 240
ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND.
XLIX.
How the world is made for each of us!
How all we perceive and know in it
Tends to some moment's product thus,
When a soul declares itself to wit,
By its fruit, the thing it does !
Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,
It forwards the general deed of man :
And each of the Many helps to recruit
The life of the race by a general plan ;
Each living his own, to boot. 250
LI.
I am named and known by that moment's feat ;
There took my station and degree ;
So grew my own small life complete,
As nature obtained her best of me
One born to love you, sweet!
LH.
And to watch you sink by the fireside now
Back again, as you mutely sit
Musing by firelight, that great brow
And the spirit-small hand propping it,
Yonder, my heart knows how ! 260
LIII.
So, earth has gained by one man the more,
And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too ;
And the whole is well worth thinking o'er
When autumn comes : which I mean to do
One day, as I said before.
ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND.
MY love, this is the bitterest, that thou
Who art all truth, and who dost love me now
As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still
ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND, 73
A whole long life through, had but love its will,
Would death that leads me from thee brook delay.
II.
I have but to be by thee, and thy hand
Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand
The beating of my heart to reach its place.
When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone? 10
When cry for the old comfort and find none?
Never, I know! Thy soul is in thy face.
HI.
Oh, I should fade 'tis willed so! Might I save,
Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave
Joy to thy sense, for that was precious too.
It is not to be granted. But the soul
Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole ;
Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes all things new.
IV.
It would not be because my eye grew dim
Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him 20
Who never is dishonoured in the spark
He gave us from his fire of fires, and bade
Remember whence it sprang, nor be afraid
While that burns on, tho' all the rest grow dark.
v.
So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean
Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne
Alike, this body given to show it by!
Oh, three-parts thro' the worst of life's abyss,
What plaudits fr^om the next world after this,
Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky! 30
VI.
And is it not the bitterer to think
That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink
Altho' thy love was love in very deed ?
I know that nature ! Pass a festive day,
Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away
Nor bid its music's loitering echo speed.
74 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND.
VII.
Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell ;
If old things remain old things all is well,
For thou art grateful as becomes man best :
And hadst thou only heard me play one tune, 40
Or viewed me from a window, not so soon
With thee would such things fade as with the rest.
VIII.
I seem to see! We meet and part ; 't is brief;
The book I opened keeps a folded leaf,
The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank ;
That is a portrait of me on the wall
Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call :
And for all this, one little hour to thank!
IX.
But now, because the hour thro' years was fixed,
Because our inmost beings met and mixed, 50
Because thou once hast loved me wilt thou dare
Say to thy soul and Who may list beside,
" Therefore she is immortally my bride ;
Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair.
x.
" So, what if in the dusk of life that 's left,
I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft,
Look from my path when, mimicking the same,
The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone ?
Where was it till the sunset ? where anon
It will be at the sunrise! What 's to blame? " 60
XI.
Is it so helpful to Jhee ? Canst thou take
The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake,
Put gently by such efforts at a beam ?
Is the remainder of the way so long,
Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong?
Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream.
XII.
Ah, but the fresher faces! " Is it true,"
Thou 'It ask, " some eyes are beautiful and new ?
Some hair, how can one choose but grasp such wealth ?
ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND.
And if a man would press his lips to lips
Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips
The dew-drop out of, must it be by stealth ?
75
70
xm.
" It cannot change the love still kept for Her,
More than if such a picture I prefer
Passing a day with, to a room's bare side :
The painted form takes nothing she possessed,
Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest,
A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?"
xrv.
So must I see, from where I sit and watch,
My own self sell myself, my hand attach
Its warrant to the very thefts from me
Thy singleness of soul that made me proud,
Thy purity of heart I loved aloud,
Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see!
80
xv.
Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canst
Away to the new faces disentranced,
(Say it and think it) obdurate no more :
Re-issue looks and words from the old mint,
Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print,
Image and superscription once they bore! 90
XVI.
Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend,
It all comes to the same thing at the end,
Since mine thou wast, mine art, and mine shalt be,
Faithful or faithless : sealing up the sum
Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come
Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee!
XVII.
Only, why should it be with stain at all ?
Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal,
Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ?
Why need the other women know so much, loo
And talk together, " Such the look and such
The smile he used to love with, then as now! "
7 6
IN A YEAR.
XVIII.
Might I die last and show thee! Should I find
Such hardship in the few years left behind,
If free to take and light my lamp, and go
Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit,
Seeing thy face on those four sides of it
The better that they are so blank, I know!
XIX.
Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er
Within my mind each look, get more and more 1 10
By heart each word, too much to learn at first ;
And join thee all the fitter for the pause
'Neath the low door-way's lintel. That were cause
For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst!
xx.
And yet thou art the nobler of us two :
What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do,
Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride?
I '11 say then, here 's a trial and a task ;
Is it to bear? if easy, I '11 not ask :
Tho' love fail, I can trust on in thy pride. 120
XXI.
Pride ? when those eyes forestall the life behind
The death I have to go through ! when I find,
Now that I want thy help most, all of thee!
What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fast
Until the little minute's sleep is past
And I wake saved And yet it will not be!
IN A YEAR,
i.
NEVER any more,
While I live,
Need I hope to see his face
As before.
Once his love grown chill,
Mine may strive :
Bitterly we re-embrace,
Single still.
IN A YEAR. 77
II.
Was it something said,
Something done, IQ
Vexed him? was it touch of hand,
Turn of head?
Strange ! that very way
Love begun :
I as little understand
Love's decay.
ill.
When I sewed or drew,
I recall
How he looked as if I sung,
Sweetly too. 20
If I spoke a word,
First of all
Up his cheek the colour sprung,
Then he heard.
rv.
Sitting by my side,
At my feet,
So he breathed but air I breathed,
Satisfied!
I, too, at love's brim
Touched the sweet : 30
I would die if death bequeathed
Sweet to him.
v.
" Speak, I love thee best! "
He exclaimed :
" Let thy love my own foretell!"
I confessed :
" Clasp my heart on thine
Now unblamed,
Since upon thy soul as well
Hangeth mine! " 40
VI.
Was it wrong to own,
Being truth ?
Why should all the giving prove
His alone ?
78 AV A YEAR.
I had wealth and ease,
Beauty, youth :
Since my lover gave me love,
I gave these.
VII.
That was all I meant,
To be just, jo
And the passion I had raised,
To content.
Since he chose to change
Gold for dust,
If I gave him what he praised
Was it strange ?
VIII.
Would he loved me yet,
On and on,
While I found some way undreamed
Paid my debt ! 60
Gave more life and more,
Till all gone,
He should smile " She never seemed
Mine before.
IX.
" What, she felt the while,
Must I think?
Love 's so different with us men!"
He should smile :
" Dying for my sake
White and pink! 70
Can't we touch these bubbles then
But they break ? "
x.
Dear, the pang is brief,
Do thy part,
Have thy pleasure! How perplexed
Grows belief!
Well, this cold clay clod
Was man's heart :
Crumble it. and what comes next?
Is it God? 80
SONG FROM "JAMES LEE'S WIFE." 79
SONG FROM "JAMES LEE'S WIFE."
I.
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.
n.
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. IO
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.
LET 'S contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep :
All be as before, Love,
Only sleep !
n.
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!
ill.
See the creature stalking
While we speak! io
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek.
3 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.
IV.
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is,
Shun the tree
v.
Where the apple reddens,
Never pry
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I. 20
VI.
Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!
VII.
Teach me, only teach, Love!
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought
VIII.
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands, 30
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.
IX.
That shall be to-morrow,
Not to-night :
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight :
x.
Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee. 40
MEETING AT NIGHT. 33
MEETING AT NIGHT.
'T'HE gray sea and the long black land ;
J. And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears ;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 10
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
PARTING AT MORNING.
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim :
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
WOMEN AND ROSES.
i.
I DREAM of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?
II.
Round and round, like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its "iiardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages.
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
82 WOMEN AND ROSES.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, 10
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached :
Bees pass it unimpeached.
rv.
Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
You, great shapes of the antique time,
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you? .
Oh, to possess and be possessed! 2O
Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die! In vain, the same fashion,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
v.
D^ai' rose, thy joy's undimmed :
Tny cup is ruby-rimmed,
Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.
VI.
Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
So will I bury me while burning, 30
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
Girdle me for once! But no the old measure,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
VII.
Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud 's the babe unborn :
First streak of a new morn.
VIII.
Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! 40
What is far conquers what is near.
MISCONCEPTION'S. 83
Roses will bloom nor waiU beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders,
What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her,
Shaped her to his mind! Alas! in like manner
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
MISCONCEPTIONS.
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
II.
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 10
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on !
A PRETTY WOMAN.
I.
THAT fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!
n.
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
A PRETTY WOMAN.
84
in.
You like us for a glance, you know
For a word's sake 10
Or a sword's sake :
All 's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
IV.
And in turn we make you ours, we say
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.
v.
All 's our own, to make the most of, Sweet
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet! 20
VI.
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Tho 1 we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar for you could not, Sweet!
VII.
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there,
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
VIII.
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder 30
That I ponder
A conclusion ? I will try it there.
IX.
As, why must one, for the love foregone
Scout mere liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth, the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
A PRETTY WOMAN.
x.
Why, with beauty, needs there money t>e,
Love with liking?
Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey-bee? 40
XI.
May not liking be so simple-sweet,
If love grew there
'T would undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
XII.
Is the creature too imperfect, say?
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!
XIII.
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection 50
Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
XIV.
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
Into tinder,
And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
xv.
Or else kiss away one's soul on her?
Your love-fancies !
A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! 60
XVI.
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose.
36 A LIGHT WOMAN:
XVII.
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Precious metals
Ape the petals,
Last, some old king locks it up, morose !
XVIII.
Then how grace a rose ? I know a way !
Leave it, rather. 70
Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it at last, throw away.
A LIGHT WOMAN.
SO far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three ?
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me ?
II.
My friend was already too good to lose.
And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose
And over him drew her net.
ill.
When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him ' o
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth for a whim!
IV.
And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle 's the game her pride prefers,
Tho' she snaps at a wren instead !
v.
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
A LIGHT WOMAN. 87
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed! 20
VI.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
You look away and your lip is curled ?
Patience, a moment's space!
vn.
For see, my friend goes shaking and white,
He eyes me as the basilisk :
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.
VIII.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:
"Tho' I love her that, he comprehends 30
One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)
And be loyal to one's friends ! "
IX.
And she, she lies in my hand as tame
As a pear late basking over a wall ;
Just a touch to try, and off it came ;
T is mine, can I let it fall ?
x.
With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst !
Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist ?
'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst
When I gave its stalk a twist.
XI.
And I, what I seem to my friend, you see ;
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me ?
No hero, I confess.
XII.
T is an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own :
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone !
88 LOVE IN A LIFE,
xm.
One likes to show the truth for the truth ;
That the woman was light is very true : 50
But suppose she says, Never mind that youth !
What wrong have I done to you?
XIV.
Well, any how, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand ;
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
Here 's a subject made to your hand !
LOVE IN A LIFE.
I.
ROOM after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her
Next time, herself ! not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume !
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew ;
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
II.
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door ; 10
I try the fresh fortune
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest, who cares ?
But 't is twilight, you see, with such suites to explore.
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
LIFE IN A LOVE.
ESCAPE me ?
Never
Beloved!
While I am I, and you are you,
THE LABORATORY.
8 9
So long as the world contains us both,
Me the loving and you the loth,
While the one eludes, must the other pursue.
My life is a fault at last, I fear :
It seems too much like a fate, indeed!
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 10
But what if I fail of my purpose here?
It is but to keep the nerves at strain,
To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,
And baffled, get up and begin again,
So the chace takes up one's life, that 's all.
While, look but once from your farthest bound
At me so deep in the dust and dark,
No sooner the old hope goes to ground
Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,
I shape me 20
Ever
Removed!
THE LABORATORY.
ANCIEN RliGIME.
I.
NOW that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
May gaze thro 1 these faint smokes curling whitely,
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee ?
n.
He is with her, and they know that I know
Where they are, what they do : they believe my tears flow
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
Empty church, to pray God in, for them! I am here.
m.
Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,
Pound at thy powder, I am not in haste ! 10
Better sit thus and observe thy strange things,
Than go where men wait me, and dance at the King's.
IV.
That in the mortar you call it a gum ?
Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!
THE LABORATORY.
And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,
Sure to taste sweetly, is that poison too?
v.
Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,
What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures !
To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,
A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! 20
VI.
Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give
And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!
But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head
And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!
VII.
Quick is it finished? The colour's too grim!
Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim ?
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,
And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!
VIII.
What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me!
That's why she ensnared him : this never will free 30
The soul from those masculine eyes, say, "No!"
To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.
IX.
For only last night, as they whispered, I brought
My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought
Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall
Shrivelled ; she fell not ; yet this does it all!
x.
Not that I bid you spare her the pain ;
Let death be felt and the proof remain :
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace
He is sure to remember her dying face!
XI.
Is it done ? Take my mask off ! Nay, be not morose ;
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close :
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee!
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me ?
GOLD HAIR.
XII.
Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings
Ere I know it next moment I dance at the King's!
GOLD HAIR:
A STORY OF PORNIC.
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.
II.
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. 1C
in.
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.
IV.
Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance floods of it, too 1
Gold, did I say ? Nay, gold's mere dross :
Here, Life smiled, ' Think what I meant to do ! "
And Love sighed, " Fancy my loss ! " 20
v.
So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
Than that, when delicate evening dies,
And you follow its spent sun's pallid range,
GOLD HAIR.
There 's a shoot of colour startles the skies
With sudden, violent change,
VI.
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 ! " 30
VII.
" 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! "
VIII.
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, 40
IX.
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.
x.
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. 5
XI.
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 late.
GOLD HAIR. g3
XH.
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. 60
XIII.
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 :
XIV.
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. 70
XV.
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.
XVI.
'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,
A benefactor, a bishop, suppose,
A baron with armour-adornments quaint,
Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
Things sanctity saves from taint ; 80
XVII.
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.
GOLD HAIR.
XVIII.
They grubbed with a will : and at length O cor
Humanum, pectora cceca, 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! 90
XIX.
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.
xx.
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! 100
XXI.
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 ?
XXII.
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 humour grew to a head and burst,
And she cried, at tke final pass, no
XXIII.
" 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 ! "
GOLD HAIR. or
XXIV.
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, 120
XXV.
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."
XXVI.
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. 130
XXVII.
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.
xxvni.
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. 14
XXIX.
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 :
THE STATUE AND THE BUST.
96
XXX.
I still, to suppose it true, for my part,
See reasons and reasons ; this, to begin :
'T is the faith that launched point-blank her dart
At the head of a lie taught Original Sin,
The Corruption of Man's Heart. 150
THE STATUE AND THE BUST.
'-pHERE 'S a palace in Florence, the world knows well, ^
_L And a statue watches it from the square,
And this story of both do our townsmen tell.
Ages ago, a lady there,
At the farthest window facing the East
Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"
The bridesmaids', prattle around her ceased ;
She leaned forth,' one on either hand ;
They saw how the blush of the bride increased
They felt by its beats her heart expand 10
As one at each ear and both in a breath
Whispered, " The Great Duke Ferdinand."
That self-same instant, underneath,
The Duke rode past in his idle way,
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.
Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,
Till he threw his head back " Who is she? "
"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."
Hair in heaps lay heavily
Over a pale brow spirit-pure 20
Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,
- Crisped like a war-steed's encolure
And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes
Of the blackest black our eyes endure.
And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.
THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 97
He looked at her, as a lover can ;
She looked at him, as one who awakes :
The Past was a sleep, and her life began. 30
Now, love so ordered for both their sakes,
A feast was held, that self-same night,
In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.
(For Via Larga is three parts light,
But the palace overshadows one,
Because of a crime which may God requite!
To Florence and God the wrong was done,
Thro' the first republic's murder there
By Cosimo and his cursed son.)
The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) 40
Turned, in the midst of his multitude,
At the bright approach of the bridal pair.
Face to face the lovers stood
A single minute and no more,
While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued
Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor
For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred,
As the courtly custom was of yore.
In a minute can lovers exchange a word ?
If a word did pass, which I do not think, 50
Only one out of the thousand heard.
That was the bridegroom. At day's brink
He and his bride were alone at last
In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink.
Calmly he said that her lot was cast,
That the door she had passed was shut on her
Till the final catafalk repassed.
The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,
Thro' a certain window facing the East,
She could watch like a convent's chronicler. 60
Since passing the door might lead to a feast,
And a feast might lead to so much beside,
He, of many evils, chose the least.
9 8
THE STATUE AND THE BUST.
" Freely I choose too," said the bride :
" Your window and its world suffice,"
Replied the tongue, while the heart replied
" If I spend the night with that devil twice,
May his window serve as my loop of hell
Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!
" I fly to the Duke who loves me well, 70
Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow
Ere I count another ave-bell.
" 'T is only the coat of a page to borrow,
And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim,
And I save my soul but not to-morrow"
(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)
" My father tarries to bless my state :
I must keep it one day more for him.
" Is one day more so long to wait ?
Moreover the Duke rides past, I know ; 80
We shall see each other, sure as fate."
She turned on her side and slept. Just so!
So we resolve on a thing, and sleep :
So did the lady, ages ago.
That night the Duke said, " Dear or cheap
As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove
To body or soul, I will drain it deep."
And on the morrow, bold with love,
He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,
As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 90
And smiled " 'T was a very funeral,
Your lady \will think, this feast of ours,
A shame tb efface, whate'er befall!
" What if we break from the Arno bowers,
And try if Petraja, cool and green,
Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers ? "
The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen
On his steady brow and quiet mouth,
Said, " Too much favour for me so mean!
THE STATUE AND THE BUST. QQ
" But, alas! my lady leaves the South ; 100
Each wind that comes from the Apennine
Is a menace to her tender youth :
" Nor a way exists, the wise opine,
If she quits her palace twice this year,
To avert the flower of life's decline."
Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kindly fear.
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring :
Be our feast to night as usual here! "
And then to himself " Which night shall bring
Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool no
Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!
" Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool
For to-night the Envoy arrives from France
Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool.
" I need thee still and might miss perchance.
To-day is not wholly lost, beside,
With its hope of my lady's countenance :
" For I ride what should I do but ride?
And, passing her palace, if I list,
May glance at its window well betide ! " 120
So said, so done : nor the lady missed
One ray that broke from the ardent brow,
Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.
Be sure that each renewed the vow,
No morrow's sun should arise and set
And leave them then as it left them now.
But next day passed, and next day yet,
With still fresh cause to wait one day more
Ere each leaped over the parapet.
And still, as love's brief morning wore, 130
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,
They found love not as it seemed before.
They thought it would work infallibly,
But not in despite of heaven and earth :
The rose would blow when the storm passed by.
100 THE STATUE AND THE BUST.
Meantime they could profit, in winter's dearth,
By store of fruits that supplant the rose :
The world and its ways have a certain worth :
And to press a point while these oppose
Were simple policy ; better wait : 140
We lose no friends and we gain no foes.
Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate,
Who daily may ride and pass and look
Where his lady watches behind the grate!
And she she watched the square like a book
Holding one picture and only one,
Which daily to find she undertook :
When the picture was reached the book was done,
And she turned from the picture at night to scheme
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 150
So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by gleam
The glory dropped from their youth and love,
And both perceived they had dreamed a dream ;
Which hovered as dreams do, still above :
But who can take a dream for a truth ?
Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove !
One day as the lady saw her youth
Depart, and the silver thread that streaked
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,
The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, 160
And wondered who the woman was,
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,
Fronting her silent in the glass
" Summon here," she suddenly said,
" Before the rest of my old self pass,
" Him, the Carver, a hand to aid,
Who fashions the clay no love will change,
And fixes a beauty never to fade.
" Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange
Arrest the remains of young and fair,
And rivet them while the seasons range.
THE STATUE AND THE BUST. i O1
"Make me a face on the window there,
Waiting as ever, mute the while,
My love to pass below in the square!
"And let me think that it may beguile
Dreary days which the dead must spend
Down in their darkness under the aisle,
"To say, 'What matters it at the end?
I did no more while my heart was warm
Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' 180
" Where is the use of the lip's red charm,
The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,
And the blood that blues the inside arm
"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,
The earthly gift to an end divine ?
A lady of clay is as good, I trow."
But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,
With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,
Was set where now is the empty shrine
(And, leaning out of a bright blue space, 190
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,
The passionate pale lady's face
Eyeing ever, with earnest eye
And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,
Some one who ever is passing by )
The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch
In Florence, " Youth my dream escapes !
Will its record stay ? " and he bade them fetch
Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes
"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 200
Ere his body find the grave that gapes?
"John of Douay shall effect my plan,
Set me on horseback here aloft,
Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,
"In the very square I have crossed so oft :
That men may admire, when future suns
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,
102 THE STATUE AND THE BUST.
"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze
Admire and say, ' When he was alive
How he would take his pleasure once ! ' 2jo
" And it shall go hard but I contrive
To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb
At idleness which aspires to strive."
So ! While these wait the trump of doom,
How do their spirits pass, I wonder,
Nights and days in the narrow room ?
Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder
What a gift life was, ages ago,
Six steps out of the chapel yonder.
Only they see not God, I know, 220
Nor all that chivalry of his,
The soldier-saints who, row on row,
Burn upward each to his point of bliss
Since, the end of life being manifest,
He had burned hig way thro' the world to this.
I hear you reproach, " But delay was best,
For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do
As well, I reply, to serve for a test,
As a virtue golden through and through,
Sufficient to vindicate itself 230
And prove its worth at a moment's view !
Must a game be played for the sake of pelf ?
Where a button goes, 't were an epigram
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.
The true has no value beyond the sham :
As well the counter as coin, I submit,
When your table 's a hat, and your prize, a dram.
Stake your counter as boldly every whit,
Venture as warily, use the same skill,
Do your best, whether winning or losing it,
LOVE AMONG THE RUIN'S. IO3
If you choose to play! is my principle.
Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will.
The counter our lovers staked was lost
As surely as if it were lawful coin :
And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost
Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,
Tho' the end in sight was a vice, I say.
You of the virtue (we issue join)
How strive you ? De te,fabula! 250
LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.
WHERE the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since 10
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
II.
Now, the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires' 2
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed.
Twelve abreast.
104
LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.
m.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was !
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, overspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone 30
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago ;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame ;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.
IV.
Now, the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored, 40
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Thro' the chinks
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.
v.
And I know while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave 5
To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray
Melt away
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.
VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
TIME'S REVENGES. IO5
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face, 70
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.
VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force
Gold, of course.
Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns !
Earth's returns 80
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.
I
TIME'S REVENGES.
I'VE a Friend, over the sea ;
I like him, but he loves me.
It all grew out of the books I write ;
They find such favour in his sight
That he slaughters you with savage looks
Because you don't admire my books.
He does himself though, and if some vein
Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,
To-morrow month, if I lived to try,
Round should I just turn quietly,
Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand
Till I found him, come from his foreign land
To be my nurse in this poor place,
And make my broth and wash my face
And light my fire and, all the while,
Bear with his old good-humoured smile
That I told him " Better have kept away
Than come and kill me, night and day,
With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,
I0 6 TIME'S REVENGES.
The creaking of his clumsy boots." 20
I am as sure that this he would do,
As that Saint Paul's is striking two.
And I think I rather . . . woe is me !
Yes, rather would see him than not see
If lifting a hand could seat him there
Before me in the empty chair
To-night, when my head aches indeed,
And I can neither think nor read
Nor make these purple fingers hold
The pen ; this garret 's freezing cold! 30
And I 've a Lady there he wakes,
The laughing fiend and prince of snakes
Within m - , at her name, to pray
Fate send some creature in the way
Of my love for her, to be down-torn,
Upthrust and outward-borne,
So I might prove myself that sea
Of passion whi'h I needs must be!
Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint
And my style infirm and its figures faint, 4
All the critics say, and more blame yet,
And not ^ne angry word you get.
But, please you, wonder I would put
My cheek beneath that lady's foot
Rather than trample under mine
The laurels of the Florentine,
And you shall see how the devil spends
A fire God gave for other ends!
I tell you, I stride up and down
This garret, crowned with love's best crown, 50
And feasted with love's perfect feast,
To think I kill for her, at least,
Body and soul and peace and fame,
Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,
So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
Filled full, eaten out and in
With the face of her, the eyes of her,
The lips, the little chin, the stir
Of shadow round her mouth ; and she
I '11 tell you, calmly would decree 60
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.
There may be heaven ; there must be hell ;
Meantime, there is our earth here well!
WARING. lQ y
WARING.
I.
I.
WHAT 'S become of Waring
Since he gave us all the slip,
Chose land-travel or seafaring,
Boots and chest or staff and scrip,
Rather than pace up and down
Any longer London town?
n.
Who 'd have guessed it from his lip
Or his brow's accustomed bearing,
On the night he thus took ship
Or started landward ? little caring 10
For us, it seems, who supped together
(Friends of his too, I remember)
And walked home thro' the merry weather,
The snowiest in all December.
I left his arm that night myself
For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet
Who wrote the book there on the shelf
How, forsooth, was I to know it
If Waring meant to glide away
Like a ghost at break of day? 20
Never looked he half so gay!
m.
He was prouder than the devil :
How he must have cursed our revel!
Ay and many other meetings,
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,
As up and down he paced this London,
With no work done, but great works undone,
Where scarce twenty knew his name.
Why not, then, have earlier spoken,
Written, bustled ? Who 's to blame jo
If your silence kept unbroken?
<l True, but there were sundry jottings,
Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings,
Certain first steps were achieved
Already which" (is that your meaning?)
" Had well borne out whoe'er believed
I0 8 WARING.
In more to come! " But who goes gleaning
Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved
Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening
Pride alone, puts forth such claims 40
O'er the day's distinguished names.
IV.
Meantime, how much I loved him,
I find out now I 've lost him.
I who cared not if I moved him,
Who could so carelessly accost him,
Henceforth never shall get free
Of his ghostly company,
His eyes that just a little wink
As deep I go into the merit
Of this and that distinguished spirit 50
His cheeks' raided colour, soon to sink,
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman's latest piece of graphic.
Nay, my very wrist grows warm
With his dragging weight .of arm.
E'en so, swimmingly appears,
Thro' one's after-supper musings, 60
Some lost lady of old years
With her beauteous vain endeavour
And goodness unrepaid as ever ;
The face, accustomed to refusings,
We, puppies that we were . . . Oh never
Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled
Being aught like false, forsooth, to ?
Telling aught but honest truth to?
What a sin, had we centupled
Its possessor's grace and sweetness! 70
No! she heard in its completeness
Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter
And truth, at issue, we can't flatter !
Well, 't is done with ; she 's exempt
From damning us thro' such a sally ;
And so she glides, as down a valley,
Taking up with her contempt,
Past our reach ; and in, the flowers
Shut her unregarded hours.
Oh, could I have him back once more, 80
This Waring, but one half-day more!
WARING. I0 n
Back, with the quiet face of yore,
So hungry for acknowledgment
Like mine! I 'd fool him to his bent.
Feed, should not he, to heart's content?
I 'd say, " To only have conceived,
Planned your great works, apart from progress,
Surpasses little works achieved!"
I 'd lie so, I should be believed.
I 'd make such havoc of the claims 90
Of the day's distinguished names
To feast him with, as feasts an ogress
Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child !
Or as one feasts a creature rarely
Captured here, unreconciled
To capture ; and completely gives
Its pettish humours license, barely
Requiring that it lives.
VI.
Ichabod, Ichabod,
The glory is departed! ion
Travels Waring East away?
Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,
Reports a man upstarted
Somewhere as a god,
Hordes grown European-hearted,
Millions of the wild made tame
On a sudden at his fame ?
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
Or who in Moscow, toward the Tsar,
With the demurest of footfalls no
Over the Kremlin's pavement bright
With serpentine and syenite,
Steps, with five other Generals
That simultaneously take snuff,
For each to have pretext enough
And kerchiefwise unfold his sash
Which, softness 1 self, is yet the stuff
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,
And leave the grand white neck no gash ?
Waring in Moscow, to those rough 120
Cold northern natures borne perhaps,
Like the lambwhite maiden dear
From the circle of mute kings
Unable to repress the tear,
Each as his sceptre down he flings,
To Dian's fane at Taurica,
Where now a captive priestess, she alway
! I0 WARING.
Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech
With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach
As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands 130
Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands
Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry
Amid their barbarous twitter!
In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!
Ay, most likely 't is in Spain
- That we and Waring meet again
Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane
Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid
All fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slid
Its stiff gold blazing pall 140
From some black coffin-lid.
Or, best of all,
I love to think
The leaving us was just a feint ;
Back here to London did he slink,
And now works on without a wink
Of sleep, and we are on the brink
Of something great in fresco-paint :
Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,
Up and down and o'er and o'er 150
He splashes, as none splashed before
Since great Caldara Polidore.
Or Music means this land of ours
Some favour yet, to pity won
By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,
" Give me my so-long promised son,
Let Waring end what I begun ! "
Then down he creeps and out he steals,
Only when the night conceals
His face ; in Kent 't is cherry-time, 160
Or hops are picking : or at prime
Of March he wanders as, too happy,
Years ago when he was young,
Some mild eve when woods grew sappy
And the early moths had sprung
To life from many a trembling sheath
Woven the warm boughs beneath ;
While small birds said to themselves
What should soon be actual song,
And young gnats, by tens and twelves 170
Made as if they were the throng
That crowd around and carry aloft
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure
Out of a myriad noises soft,
Into a tone that can endure
WARING. i ! ,
Amid the noise of a July noon
When all God's creatures crave their boon,
All at once, and all in tune,
And get it, happy as Waring then,
Having first within his ken 1 80
What a man might do with men :
And far too glad, in the even-glow,
To mix with the world he meant to take
Into his hand, he told you, so
And out of it his world to make,
To contract and to expand
As he shut or oped his hand.
Oh Waring, what 's to really be?
A clear stage and a crowd to see !
Some Garrick, say, out shall not he 190
The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck ?
Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,
Some Junius am I right ? shall tuck
His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!
Some Chatterton shall have the luck
Of calling Rowley into life !
Someone shall somehow run a muck
With this old world, for want of strife
Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive
To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive? 200
Our men scarce seem in earnest now.
Distinguished names ! but 't is, somehow,
As if they played at being names
Still more distinguished, like the games
Of children. Turn our sport to earnest
With a visage of the sternest !
Bring the real times back, confessed
Still better than our very best !
II.
I.
" WHEN I last saw Waring . . ."
(How all turned to him who spoke! 210
You saw Waring ? Truth or joke ?
In land-travel or seafaring ?)
n.
" We were sailing by Triest
Where a day or two we harboured :
A sunset was in the West,
When, looking over the vessel's side,
H2 WARING.
One of our company espied
A sudden speck to larboard.
And as a sea-duck flies and swims
At once, so came the light craft up, 220
With its sole lateen sail that trims
And turns (the water round its rims
Dancing, as round a sinking cup)
And by us like a fish it curled,
And drew itself up close beside,
Its great sail on the instant furled,
And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)
' Buy wine of us, you English Brig?
Or fruit, tobacco and cigars ? 230
A pilot for you to Triest ?
Without one, look you ne'er so big,
They '11 never let you up the bay !
We natives should know best.'
I turned, and ' Just those fellows' way,'
Our captain said, ' the 'long-shore thieves
Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'
in.
" In truth, the boy leaned laughing back ;
And one, half-hidden by his side
Under the furled sail, soon I spied, 240
With great grass hat and kerchief black,
Who looked up with his kingly throat,
Said somewhat, while the other shook
His hair back from his eyes to look
Their longest at us ; then the boat,
I know not how, turned sharply round,
Laying her whole side on the sea
As a leaping fish does ; from the lee
Into the weather, cut somehow
Her sparkling path beneath our bow, 250
And so went off, as with a bound,
Into the rosy and golden half
O' the sky, to overtake the sun
And reach the shore, like the sea-calf
Its singing cave ; yet I caught one
Glance ere away the boat quite passed,
And neither time nor toil could mar
Those features : so I saw the last
Of Waring! " You? Oh, never star
Was lost here but it rose afar! 260
Look East where whole new thousands are !
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD. II3
HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.
OH, to be in England now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
I n England now !
And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover IO
Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge
That 's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And, tho' the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.
second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
Breathed hot an instant on my trace,
I made, six days, a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping thro' the moss they love : IO
How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight ;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires. Well, there I lay
Close covered o'er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles's miserable end, 20
1 14 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.
And much beside, two days ; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize : you know,
With us in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string,
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine ;
These I let pass in jingling line ; 30
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too ;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew. When these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance : she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
One instant rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground. 40
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt ;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that ; my glove lay in her breast :
Then I drew breath ; they disappeared :
It was for Italy I feared.
An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile came many thoughts : on me
Rested the hopes of Italy. 50
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when 't was told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth ;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy's own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood, 60
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
" I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us ; the State
Will give you gold oh, gold so much!
THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. , , 5
If you betray me to their clutch,
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe. 70
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you '11 reach at night
Before the duomo shuts ; go in,
And wait till Tenebras begin ;
Walk to the third confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace ?
Say it a second time, then cease ; 80
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom; what concerns
The cause of Peace ? for 'answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip ;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service I, the son,
As you the daughter of our land! "
Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes :
I was no surer of sun-rise 90
Than of her coming. We conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover stout and tall,
She said then let her eyelids fall,
" He could do much " as if some doubt
Entered her heart, then, passing out,
" She could not speak for others, who
Had other thoughts ; herself she knew : "
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued 100
Another path ; at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me : she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head "This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother ; she
Uses my hand and blesses thee."
She followed down to the sea-shore ;
I left and never saw her more. no
How very long since I have thought
Concerning much less wished for aught
Beside the good of Italy.
1 1 6 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love ; and since
Charles proved false, what shall now convince
My inmost heart I have a friend ?
However, if I pleased to spend
Re'al wishes on myself say, three
I know at least what one should be. 120
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood thro 1 these two hands. And next,
Nor much for that am I perplexed
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers. Last
Ah, there, what should I wish ? For fast
Do I grow old arid out of strength.
If I resolved to seek at length 130
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay
Disowned me long ago, men say ;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine
Are turning wise : while some opine
" Freedom grows license," some suspect
" Haste breeds delay," and recollect 140
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen " All 's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile ; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt : what harm 150
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I 'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way. ;6o
So much for idle wishing how
it steals the time! To business now.
THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. uj
THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.
PIANO DI SORRENTO.
FORTU, Fortu, my beloved one, sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet ! I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes,
Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies,
With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads ;
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland the flowers or the weeds.
Time for rain ! for your long hot dry Autumn had networked with
brown
The white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked like a quail's
crown,
Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads, speckled
white
Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told you last night, 10
Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be,
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the tree.
And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the thick dust
On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could thrust
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up,
For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one cup.
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was in store,
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me before
I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone,
And look thro 1 the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that 's
known. 20
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while, busy
beneath,
Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their teeth.
And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split figs lay drying,
The girls took the frails under cover : nor use seemed in trying
To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff.
Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff
Arrive about noon from Amalfi! our fisher arrive,
And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive
With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit ; you touch the strange
lumps,
And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of humps, 30
Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like imps
Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his shrimps ;
Himself too as bare to the middle you see round his neck
The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from wreck.
But to-day not a boat reached Salerno : so back, to a man,
Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-harvest
began.
n8 THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.
In fhe vat, halfway up in our house-side, like blood the juice spins,
While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breathless he grins
Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under,
Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh plunder 40^
From girls who keep coming and going with basket on shoulder,
And eyes shut against the rain's driving ; your girls that are older,
For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed
Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple lies pulpy and red,
All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the snails
Tempted out by this first rainy weather, your best of regales,
As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, supping in state,
We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate)
With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slippery ropes,
And gourds fried in great purple slices, that colour of popes. 50
Meantime, see the grape bunch they 've brought you : the rain-water
slips
O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips
Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, while awake,
This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake by flake,
Like an onion, each smoother and whiter : next, sip this weak wine
From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the vine ;
And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh that leaves thro' its juice
The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.
Scirocco is loose!
Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in one's track,
Tempt the stranger to pick up arid bite them, tho' not yet half black! 60
How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, the medlars let fall
Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, figs and all,
For here comes the whole of the tempest! no refuge, but creep
Back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep.
O how will your country show next week, when all the vine-boughs
Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and the cows ?
Last eve, I rode over the mountains ; your brother, my guide,
Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side,
Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious, or strip from the sorbs
A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy gold orbs ! 70
But my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stopping to neigh
When he recognized down in the valley his mates on their way
With the faggots and barrels of water. And soon we emerged
From the plain where the woods could scarce follow ; and still, as we
urged
Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, as up still we trudged,
Tho' the wild path grew wilder each instant, and place was e'en
grudged
'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones like the loose broken
teeth
THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. \ 19
Of some monster which climbed there to .die, from the ocean beneath
Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed that clung to the path,
And dark rosemary ever a-dying, that, 'spite the wind's wrath, 80
So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, and lentisks as stanch
To the stone where they root and bear berries : and . . . what shows
a branch
Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets of pale seagreen leaves ;
Over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o'er sheaves.
Still, foot after foot like a lady, till, round after round,
He climbed to the top of Calvano : and God's own profound
Was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea,
And within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be.
Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! no rampart excludes
Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. 90
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! still moving with you;
For, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view
To observe the intruder ; you see it if quickly you turn
And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should
learn
How the soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they pretend)
Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, the wild fruit-trees
bend,
E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut : all is silent and grave :
'T is a sensual and timorous beauty, how fair! but a slave.
So, I turned to the sea ; and there slumbered, as greenly as ever,
Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages can sever 100
The Three, nor enable their sister to join them, halfway
On the voyage, she looked at .Ulysses no farther to-day!
Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, watches breast-high and
steady
From Under the rock her bold sister, swum halfway already.
Fortu. shall we sail there together, and see, from the sides,
Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts where the siren abides?
Shall we sail round and round them, close over the rocks, tho' unseen,
That ruffle the gray glassy water to glorious green?
Then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach land, and explore,
On the largest, the strange square black turret with never a door, 1 10
Just a loop to admit the quick lizards ; then, stand there and hear
The birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear?
The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages ago,
He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know.
Ah, see ! The sun breaks o'er Calvano ; he strikes the great gloom
And flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy gold fume.
All is over. Look out, see the gipsy, our tinker and smith.
Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and down-squatted forthwith
To his hammering under the wall there ; one eye keeps aloof
The urchins that itch to be putting his jews'-harps to proof, 120
120 UP AT A VILLA DOWN IN THE CITY.
While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, is watching how sleek
Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall. Chew, abbot's own
cheek !
All is over. Wake up and come out now, and down let us go,
And see the fine things got in order at church for the show
Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow 's the Feast
Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means of Virgins the least,
As you '11 hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art)
The Dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart.
Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers ;
All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar a-blaze with long tapers. 130
But the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold
All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and trumpeters bold
Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, who, when the priest 's hoarse,
Will strike us up something that 's brisk for the feast's second course.
And then will the flaxen-wigged Image be carried in pomp
Thro' the plain, while, in gallant procession, the priests mean to stomp.
All round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder stopped,
Which will be, when the Image re-enters, religiously popped.
And at night from the crest of Calvano great bonfires will hang:
On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers bang. 140
At all events, come to the garden as far as the wall ;
See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out there shall fall
A scorpion with wide angry nippers!
" Such trifles ! " you say ?
Fortu, in my England at home, men meet gravely to-day
And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws be righteous and wise !
If 't were proper, Scirocco should vanish in black from the skies!
UP AT A VILLA DOWN IN THE CITY.
(AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY.)
HAD I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square ;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!
II.
Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least !
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast ;
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.
UP AT A VILLA DOWN IN THE CITY !2 i
ill.
Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull
Just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature's skull,
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!
I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair 's turned wool. 10
rv.
But the city, oh the city the square with the houses ! Why ?
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to take the eye!
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry ;
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by ;
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high ;
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.
v.
What of a villa? Tho' winter be over in March by rights,
'T is May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights :
You Ve the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and
wheeze,
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 20
VI.
Is it better in May, I ask you ? You Ve summer all at once ;
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.
VII.
Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a fountain to spout and splash !
In the shade it sings and springs ; in the shine such foam-bows flash
~ n the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash
ound the lady atop in her conch fifty gazers do not abash,
ho' all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 30
vin.
All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,
Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle,
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,
122 UP AT A VILLA DOWN IN THE CITY.
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the
hill.
Enough of the seasons, I spare you the months of the fever and
chill.
IX.
Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin :
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in :
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 40
By and by there 's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws
teeth ;
Ov the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture the new play, piping hot !
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.
Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the
Duke's!
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome and Cicero,
" And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) " the skirts of St. Paul
has reached,
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever
he preached." 50
Noon strikes, here sweeps the procession ! our Lady borne smiling
and smart,
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her
heart !
Bang-ivhang-ivhang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife ;
No keeping one's haunches still : it 's the greatest pleasure in life.
x.
But bless you, it's dear it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the
gate
It 's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!
Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but still ah, the pity, the pity!
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and
sandals,
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow
candles ; 60
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of
scandals :
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life !
PICTOR IGNOTUS. 123
P1CTOR IGNOTUS.
FLORENCE, 15 .
I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's
Ye praise so. How my soul springs up ! No bar
Stayed me ah, thought which saddens while it soothes!
Never did fate forbid me, star by star,
To outburst on your night, with all my gift
Of fires from God : nor would my flesh have shrunk^
From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift
And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk
To the centre, of an instant ; or around
Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan ic
The license and the limit, space and bound,
Allowed to truth made visible in man.
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
Each face obedient to its passion's law,
Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue ;
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place ; 20
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,
And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,
O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?
What did ye give me that I have not saved ?
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)
Of going I, in each new picture, forth,
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North,
Bound for the calmly satisfied great State,
Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, 30
Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,
Thro' old streets named afresh from the event,
Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!
Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked
With love about, and praise, till life should end,
And then not go to heaven, but linger here,
ftere on my earth, earth's every man my friend,
The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly, dear ! 40
t a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
Have scared me, like the revels thro' a door
Of some strange house of idols at its rites!
124
FRA LIPPO LIPPT.
This world seemed not the world it was before.
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped
. . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun
To press on me and judge me? Tho' I stooped
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . enough !
These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, 50
Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
And where they live needs must our pictures live
And see their faces, listen to their prate,
Partakers of their daily pettiness,
Discussed of, " This I love, or this I hate
This likes me more, and this affects me less!"
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles
My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
These endless cloisters and eternal aisles "^
With the same series. Virgin, Babe, and Saint, 60
With the same cold calm beautiful regard, *-%
At least no merchant traffics in my heart ;-J
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart :
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
They moulder on the damp wall s travertines
'Mid echoes the light footstep never wokeX*
So, die my pictures! surely, gently die!
O youth, men praise so, holds their praise its worth ? 70
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry ?
Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth ?
FRA LIPPO LIPPI.
I AM poor brother Lippo, by your leave !
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what 's to blame ? you think you see a monk !
What, 't is past midnight, and you go the rounds,
And here you catch me at an alley's end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?
The Carmine 's my cloister : hunt it up,
Do, harry out, if you must show your zeal,
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 10
Weke, >weke, that 1 s crept to keep him company!
Aha. you know your betters ? Then, you 'II take
Your hand away that 's fiddling on my throat,
FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 12 $
And please to know me likewise. Who am I ?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets off he 's a certain . . . how d' ye call ?
Master a . . . Cosimo of the Medici,
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!
I Remember and tell me, the day you 're hanged,
I. How you affected such a gullet's-gripe ! 20
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves
Pick up a manner nor discredit you :
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets
And count fair prize what comes into their net?
He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is!
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I 'm not angry ! Bid your hangdogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbours me
(And many more beside, lads ! more beside ! ) 30
And all 's come square again. I 'd like his face
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern, for the slave that holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand (" Look you, now," as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!
It 's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!
Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 40
You know them, and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let 's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.
Here 's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I Ve been three weeks shut within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. I could not paint all night
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 50
There came a hurry of feet and little feet,
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song,
Flower o 1 the broom,
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb I
Flower o" 1 the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since ?
Flower 0' the thyme and so on. Round they went.
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, three slim shapes,
And a face that looked up . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, 60
That 's all I 'm made of ! Into shreds it went,
I2 6 FRA LIPPO LIPPL
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,
All the bed-furniture a dozen knots,
There was a ladder! Down I let myself,
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,
And after them. I came up with the fun
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,
Flower o" the rose,
If I ''ve been merry, what matter who knows ?
And so, as I was stealing back again, 70
/To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!
Tho 1 your eye twinkles still, you shake your head
Mine 's shaved a monk, you say the sting 's in that!
If Master Cosimo announced himself,
Mum 's the word naturally ; but a monk!
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 80
I was a baby when my mother died
And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,
My stomach being empty as your hat,
The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)
And so along the wall, over the bridge, 90
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,
While I stood munching my first bread that month :
" So, boy, you 're minded," quoth the good fat father
Wiping his own mouth, 't was refection-time,
" To quit this very miserable world ?
Will you renounce " . . . " the mouthful of bread ? "
thought I ;
By no means ! Brief, they made a monk of me ;
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,
Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house,
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 100
Have given their hearts to all at eight years old.
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,
'T was not for nothing the good bellyful,
The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,
And day-long blessed idleness beside!
" Let 's see what the urchin 's fit for " that came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books :
J--R.I Lirro urn.
127
Lord, they 'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!
Flower <? the clove, no
All the Latin /construe is, " anw" I love I
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets
Eight years together, as my fortune was,
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,
And who will curse or kick him for his pains,
Which gentleman processional and fine,
Holding a candle to the Sacrament,
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch
The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120
Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,
How say I? nay, which dog bites, which lets drop
His bone from the heap of offal in the street,
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,
He learns the look of things, and none the less
For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
I had a store of such remarks, be sure,
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use :
I drew men's faces on my copy-books,
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 130
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B 1 s
And made a string of pictures of the world
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked
black.
"Nay," quoth the Prior, " turn him out, d' ye say?
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.
What if at last we get our man of parts,
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese
And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 140
And put the front on it that ought to be!"
And hereupon he bade me daub away.
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,
Never was such prompt disemburdening.
First every sort of monk, the black and white.
I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at church,
From good old gossips waiting to confess
Their cribs of barrel -droppings, candle-ends,
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 150
With the little children round him in a row
Of admiration, half for his beard, and half
For that white anger of his victim's son
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Signing himself with the other because of Christ
I2 g FRA LIPPO LIPPl.
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years)
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160
Her pair of ear-rings and a bunch of flowers
(The brute took growling) prayed, and so was gone.
I painted all, then cried, " 'T is ask and ha ve ;
Choose, for more 's ready! " laid the ladder flat,
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Being simple bodies, "That's the very man!
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!
That woman 's like the Prior's niece who comes 170
To care about his asthma : it 's the life ! "
""But there my triumph 's straw-fire flared and funked ;
Their betters took their turn to see and say :
The Prior and the learned pulled a face
And stopped all that in no time. " How! what 's here?
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!
Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true
As much as pea and pea ! it's devil's game!
Your business is not to catch men with show,
With homage to the perishable clay, 180
But lift them over it, ignore it all,
Make them forget there 's such a thing as flesh.
Your business is to paint the souls of men
Man's soul, and it 's a fire, smoke . . no, it 's not . .
It 's vapour done up like a new-born babe
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)
It's . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul!
Give us no more of body than shows soul!
Here 's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,
That sets us praising, why not stop with him? 190
Why put all 'thoughts of praise out of our head
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
Rub all out, try at it a second time !
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,
She 's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,
Who went and danced, and got men's heads cut off!
Have it all out! " Now, is this sense, I ask?
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 200
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white
When what you put for yellow 's simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
FRA LIPPO LlPPf.
129
When all beside itself means and looks naught.
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn,
Left foot and right foot, go a double step,
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint is it so pretty
You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 210
Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with these ?
Suppose I 've made her eyes all right and blue,
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,
And then add soul and heighten them threefold?
Or say there 's beauty with no soul at all
(I never saw it put the case the same )
flf you get simple beauty and naught else,
VYou get about the best thing God invents :
/That 's somewhat : and you '11 find the soul you have missed,
\Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 220
" Rub all out ! " Well, well, thero 's my life, in short,
And so the thing has gone on ever since.
I 'm grown a man no doubt, I 've broken bounds :
You should not take a fellow eight yc irs old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls.
I 'm my own master, paint now as I please
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!
Lord, it 's fast holding by the rings in front
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 230
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,
The heads shake still " It 's art's decline, my son!
You 're not of the true painters, great and old ;
Brother Angelico 's the man, you '11 find ;
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer :
Fag on at flesh, you '11 never make the third! "
Flower o 1 the pine,
You keep your mistr . . . Manners, and r II stick to mine I
I 'm not the third, then : bless us, they must know! 240
Don't you think they 're the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please them sometimes do, and sometimes don't ;
For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world
(Flower o" 1 the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each ! )
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 250
The world and life 's too big to pass for a dream,
130
FRA LIPPO LIPPL
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,
Altho' the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff.
What would men have ? Do they like grass or no
May they or may n't they? all I want's the thing
Settled for ever one way. As it is, 260
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:
You don't like what you only like too much,
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught :
I always see the garden, and God there
A-making man's wife : and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
You understand me : I 'in a beast, I know. 270
But see, now why, I see as certainly
As that the morning-star 's about to shine,
What will hap some day. We 've a youngster here
Comes to our convent, studies what I do,
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop :
His name is Guidi he'll not mind the monks
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk
He picks my practice up he '11 paint apace,
I hope so tho' I never live so long,
I know what 's sure to follow. You be judge ! 280
You speak no Latin more than I, belike ;
However, you 're my man, you 've seen the world
The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises, and God made it all!
For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What 's it all about? 290
To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course! you say.
But why not do as well as say, paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God's works paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, " His works
Are here already ; nature is complete :
Suppose you reproduce her (which you can't)
FRA LIPPO LIPPI. I 3I
There 's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
,For, don't you mark ? we 're made so that we love 300
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ;
And so they are better, painted better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that ;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though! How much more
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 310
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world 's no blot for us
Nor blank ; it means intensely, and means good :
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"
Strikes in the Prior : " when your meaning 's plain
It does not say to folk remember matins,
Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 320
Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what 's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style :
"How looks my painting, now the scaffold 's down?"
I ask a brother: " Hugely," he returns
" Already not one phiz of your three slaves
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,
But 's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,
The pious people have so eased their own 330
With coming to say prayers there in a rage :
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year,
For pity and religion grow i' the crowd
Your painting serves its purpose! " Hang the fools!
That is you '11 not mistake an idle word
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Got wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! 340
It 's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:
And hearken how I plot to make amends.
I have bethought me : I shall paint a piece
. . . There 's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
132 FRA LIPPO LIPPI.
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! Bless the nuns \
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 350
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.
And then i' the front, of course a saint or two
Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz (and Us without the z,
Painters who need his patience). Well, all these
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 360
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo ! I !
Mazed, motionless and moon-struck I 'm the man!
Back I shrink what is this I see and hear?
I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake,
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,
I, in this presence, this pure company!
Where 's a hole, where 's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 370
Forward, puts out a soft palm " Not so fast! "
Addresses the celestial presence, " nay
He made you and devised you, after all,
Tho' he 's none of you ! Could Saint John there, draw
His camel-hair make up a painting-brush ?
We come to brother Lippo for all that,
Iste perfecit opus ! " So, all smile
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face
Under the cover of a hundred wings
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you 're gay 380
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops
The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off
To some safe bench behind, not letting go
The palm of her, the little lily thing
That spoke the good word for me in the nick,
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say.
And so all 's saved for me, and for the church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good bye : no lights, no lights! 390
The street 's hushed, and I know my own way back,
Don't fear me! There 's the gray beginning. Zooks!
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER.")
BUT do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once :
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ?
I '11 work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?
Oh, I '11 content him, but to-morrow, Love !
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual : and it seems
As if forgive now should you let me sit
Here by the window, with your hand in mine,
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither ; you must serve
For each of the five pictures we require :
It saves a model. So! keep looking so
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!
How could you ever prick those perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks no one's : very dear, no less.
You smile ? why, there 's my picture ready made,
There 's what we painters call our harmony!
ttlin
10
20
30
All in a twflight,~you and I alike
You, at the point of your first pride in me
(That's gone, you know) but I, at every point ;
My >outh, my hope, my art, being all toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There 's the bell clinking from The chapel-top ;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ;
4
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape,
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead ; 50
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are !
I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie !
This chamber for example turn your head -
All that 's behind us! You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak :
And that cartoon, the second from the door
It is the thing, Love! so such things should be
Behold Madonna! I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know, 60
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep
Do easily, too when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last week ;
And just as much they used to say in France.
At any rate 't is easy, all of it !
No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past :
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
Dream? strive to dp, and agonize to do. 70
i\nd foil imdoing. 1 could collnt twentysuch
On twice your ringers, and not leave this town,
Who strive you don't know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter) so much less !
Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. \
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up braij
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand
Their'worKs drop gYoundwafd, Fut tn
Reach many a time a heaven that 's shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Tho' they come back and cannot tell the world.
My works are nearer heaven,, but I sit here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a word
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame
ANDREA DEL SARTO. 135
(Or their praise either. Somebody remarks \
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken ; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
Speak as they please, what does the mountain : care?
AJiJ>ut a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what *s a heaven for? All is silver^gray,
Plarifj qrui pprfprt with my art : thp wnrsp!
I Tfnow both what I want and what might gain, 100
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
" Had I been two, another and myself,
Our head would have overlooked the world!" No do'ibt.
Yonder 's a work now, of that famous youth t t
The Urbinate who died five years ago. <? *Q **-*- 1
('T is copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and thro 1 his art for it gives way ; no
That arm is wrongly put and there again
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to sp&k : Us soul is right,
He means right that, a cnilcl may understand.
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it :
But all the play, the insight and the stretch
f Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?
\ Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
I We might have risen to Rafael, 1 and you!
^ Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think ^ 120
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
But had you oh, with the same perfect brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Some wcmen do so. Had the mouth there urged
.,_ "God and the glory! never care for gain.
* The present by the future, what is that ?
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 13
Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three! "
I might have done it for you. So it seems :
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.
Beside, incentives come Irom the soul's self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, of has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
And who would do it, can not. I perceive:
Yet the will 's somewhat somewhat, too, the power
136 ANDREA DEL SARTO.
And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.
'T is safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.
The best is when they pass and look aside ;
But they speak sometimes ; I must bear it all.
Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 150
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden look,
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my work,
To crown the issue with a last reward ! -
A .good time, was it not, my kingly days ?
And"fTad you'nbT gYbwn restless . .' . but I know
'T is done and past ; 't was right, my instinct said ;
Too live the life grew, golden and not gray :
And I 'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 170
How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your heart.
ar^ ntny thrrr ; since
_
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! --,,..
" Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ;
The Roman's is the better when you pray,
But still the other's Virgin was his wife "
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 180
Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . .
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts^
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
137
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
" Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub
Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190
Who, were he set to plan and execute
As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!"
To Rafael's! And indeed the arm is wrong.
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see,
Give the chalk here quick, thus the line should go!
Ay, but the soul! he 's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those ?) 200
If really there was such a chance so lost,
Is, whether you 're not grateful but more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?
If you would sit thus by me every night
CI should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now ; there 's a star ;
Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210
Come from the window, love, come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.
King Francis may forgive me : oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go ?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 220
Must see you you, and not with me? Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay ? you smiled for that ?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work 's my ware, and what 's it worth ?
I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more the Virgin's face, 230
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them that is, Michel Agnolo
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
1 38 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT
Finish the portrait out of hand there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs ; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What 's better and what 's all I care about, 240
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff !
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis ! it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.
My father and my mother died of want. 250
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot.
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died :
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures let him try!
No doubt, there 's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.
This must suffice me here. What would one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance 260
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover the three first without a wife,
While I have mine ! So still they overcome
Because there 's still Lucrezia, as I choose.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S
CHURCH.
ROME, 15 .
VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed : is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was !
ST. PRAXED'S CHURCH. i$g
What 's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world 's a dream.
Life, how and what is it ? As here I lie 10
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
" Do I live, am I dead? " Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace ;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know :
Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care ;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 20
One sees the pulpit o 1 the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to lurk :
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands :
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 30
Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
t me where I may look at him ! True peach,
sy and flawless : how I earned the prize !
raw close : that conflagration of my church
What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
sons, ye would not be my death ? Go dig
e white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
op water gently till the surface sink,
d if ye find ... Ah God, I know not, I! ...
dded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40
d corded up in a tight olive-frail,
me lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
g as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
ue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . .
ns, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
at brave Frascati villa with its bath,
let the blue lump poise between my knees,
e God the Father's globe on both his hands
worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
r Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 50
fikift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years :
in goeth to the grave, and where is he ?
d 1 say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black
140
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB.
'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath ?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o n er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me all of jasper, then!
'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve
My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the world
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
. That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf s second line
Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his need !
And then how I shall lie thro' centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass.
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight a* stone can point
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work :
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
A TOCCATA OF GALUPPfS.
141
All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope
My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze.
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, no
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!
P'or ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death ye wish it God, ye wish it! Stone
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well, go ! 1 bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row : and, going, turn your backs 120
Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace
That I may watch at leisure if he leers
Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!
,,
A TOCCATA OF GALUPPPS. '
i.
I
OH Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I c<^ hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me d^af and blind ;
But altholl take your meaning, 't is with such a heavy mind!
II.
Here youf:ome with your old music, and here 's all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the
kinfrs,
Where StCMark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
in.
Ay, becaule the sea 's the street there ; and 't is arched by ...
whsfc you call
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the
carnival :
I was never out of England it 's as if 1 saw it all.
, *
142 A TOCCATA OF GALLTPPrS.
IV.
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in
May? 10
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
v.
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?
VI.
Well, and it was graceful of them : they 'd break talk off and afford
She, to bite her mask's black velvet he, to finger on his sword,
"^ ^ While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ?
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths jliminished, sigh on
sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions "Must
we die?" 20
Those commiserating sevenths " Life might last ! we can but try ! "
f
vm.
"Were you happy?" "Yes." "And are you still as happy?"
"Yes. And you?"
"Then, more kisses!" "Did /stop them, when a miHiA seemed
so few?"
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!
ix. >
So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dire say!
" Brave
I can
e Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and g|y!
always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"
x.
Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one By one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the
sun. 3
HO IV IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY.
XI.
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro 1 every nerve.
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned :
"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice
earned.
The soul, doubtless, is immortal where a soul can be discerned.
xm.
" Yours for instance : you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in their degree ;
Butterflies may dread extinction, you'll not die, it can not be !
" As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 40
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop :
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
XV.
" Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too what 's become of all the
gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
I
HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY
ONLY knew one poet in my life :
And this, or something like it, was his way.
You saw go up and down Valladolid,
A man of mark, to know next time you saw.
His very serviceable suit of black
Was courtly once and conscientious still.
And many might have worn it, tho' none did :
The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads,
Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.
He walked, and tapped the pavement with his cane, 10
Scenting the world, looking it full in face,
144 HOW 1T s T Rf KES A CONTEMPORARY.
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.
They turned up, now, the alley by the church,
That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves
On the main promenade just at the wrong time :
You 'd come upon his scrutinizing hat,
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself
Against the single window spared some house
Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick 20
Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognizance of men and things, 30
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw ;
If any cursed a woman, he took note ;
Yet stared at nobody, you stared at him,
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know you and expect as much.
So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loosed,
It marked the shameful and notorious fact
We had among us, not so much a spy
As a recording chief-inquisitor,
The town's true master if the town but knew ! 40
We merely kept a governor for form,
While this man walked about and took account
Of all thought, said and acted, then went home,
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King
Who has an itch to know things, he knows why,
And reads them in his bed-room of a night.
Oh, you might smile ! there wanted not a touch,
A tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease
As back into your mind the man's look came.
Stricken in years a little such a brow 50
His eyes had to live under! clear as flint
On either side the formidable nose
Curved, cut and coloured like an eagle's claw.
Had he to do with A's surprising fate ?
When altogether old B disappeared
And young C got his mistress, was't our friend,
His letter to the King, that did it all?
What paid the bloodless man for so much pains ?
Our Lord the King has favourites manifold,
HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. 14 j
And shifts his ministry some once a month ; 60
Our city gets new governors at whiles,
But never word or sign, that I could hear,
Notified to this man about the streets,
The King's approval of those letters conned
The last thing duly at the dead of night.
Did the man love his office ? Frowned our Lord,
Exhorting when none heard " Beseech me not!
Too far above my people, beneath me!
I set the watch, how should the people know?
Forget them, keep me all the more in mind! " 70
Was some such understanding 'twixt the two?
I found no truth in one report at least
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace,
You found he ate his supper in a room
Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall,
And twenty naked girls to change his plate!
Poor man, he lived another kind of life
In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge,
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! 80
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat,
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back,
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid
(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears,
Or treat of radishes in April. Nine,
Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.
My father, like the man of sense he was,
Would point him out to me a dozen times ;
" St St," he 'd whisper, " the Corregidor! " 90
I had been used to think that personage
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt,
And feathers like a forest in his hat,
Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news,
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn,
And memorized the miracle in vogue!
He had a great observance from us boys ;
We were in error ; that was not the man.
I 'd like now, yet had haply been afraid,
To have just looked, when this man came to die, 100
And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides,
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,
With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.
146 PROTUS.
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief,
Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death,
Doing the King's work all the dim day long,
In his old coat and up to knees in mud,
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,
And, now the day was won, relieved at once!
No further show or need for that old coat, no
You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I !
A second, and the angels alter that.
Well, I could never write a verse, could you?
Let 's to the Prado and make the most of time.
PROTUS.
AMONG these latter busts we count by scores,
Half-emperors and quarter-emperors,
Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,
Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast,
One loves a baby face, with violets there,
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
As those were all the little locks could bear.
Now read here, " Protus ends a period
Of empery beginning with a god ;
Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, 10
Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant :
And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire
Pantingly thro' the dim vast realm transpire.
A fame that he was missing, spread afar :
The world from its four corners rose in war,
Till he was borne out on a balcony
To pacify the world when it should see.
The captains ranged before him, one, his hand
Made baby points at, gained the chief command.
And day by day more beautiful he grew 20
In shape, all said, in feature and in hue,
While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child
Became with old Greek sculpture reconciled.
Already sages laboured to condense
In easy tomes a life's experience :
And artists took grave' counsel to impart
In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art,
To make his graces prompt as blossoming
Of plentifully-watered palms in spring :
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOT1I. /.
147
Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, 30
For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone,
And mortals love the letters of his name."
Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same.
New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to s.u
How that same year, on such a month and day,
"John the Pannonian, groundedly believed
A blacksmith's bastard, \vh:se hard hand reprieved
The Empire from its fate the year before,
Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore
The same for six years (during which the Huns 40
Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons
Put something in his liquor" and so forth.
Then a new reign. Stay " Take at its just worth "
(Subjoins an annotator) " what I give
As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live
And slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's age
At some blind northern court ; made, first a page,
Then tutor to the children ; last, of use
About the hunting stables. I deduce
He wrote the little tract ' On worming dogs,' 50
Whereof the name in sundry catalogues
Is extant yet. A Protus of the race
Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace,
And, if the same, he reached senility."
Here 's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,
Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man !
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXF.-GOTHA.
HIST, but a word, fair and soft!
Forth and be judged, Master Hugues!
Answer the question I 've put you so oft :
What do you mean by your mountainous fugues?
See, we 're alone in the loft,
II.
I, the poor organist here,
Hugues, the composer of note,
I4 8 MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA.
Dead though, and done with, this many a year :
Let 's have a colloquy, something to quote,
Make the world prick up its ear! 10
in.
See, the church empties apace :
Fast they extinguish the lights.
Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes' grace!
Here 's a crank pedal wants setting to rights,
Balks one of holding the base.
IV.
See, our huge house of the sounds,
Hushing its hundreds at once,
Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds!
O you may challenge them, not a response
Get the church-saints on their rounds! 20
v.
(Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt?
March, with the moon to admire,
Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about,
Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire,
Put rats and mice to the rout
VI.
Aloys and Jurien and Just
Order things back to their place,
Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust,
Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace,
Clear the desk-velvet of dust.) 30
VII.
Here 's your book, younger folks shelve!
Played I not off-hand and runningly,
Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve ?
Here 's what should strike, could one handle it cunningly :
Help *iie axe, give it a helve!
Page after page as I played,
Every bar's rest, where one wipes
Sweat from rone's brow, I looked up and surveyed,
O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes
Whence you still peeped in the shade. 40
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. 149
IX.
Sure you were wishful to speak ?
You, with brow ruled like a score,
Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek,
Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore,
Each side that bar, your straight beak!
x.
Sure you said " Good, the mere notes!
Still, couldst thou take my intent,
Know what procured me our Company's votes
A master were lauded and sciolists shent,
Parted the sheep from the goats! " 50
XI.
Well then, speak up, never flinch!
Quick, ere my candle 's a snuff
Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch
/ believe in you, but that 's not enough :
Give my conviction a clinch !
xn.
first you deliver your phrase
Nothing propound, that I see,
Fit in itself for much blame or much praise
Answered no less, where no answer needs be :
Off start the Two on their ways. 60
XIII.
Straight must a Third interpose,
Volunteer needlessly help ;
In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose,
So the cry 's open, the kennel 's a-yelp,
Argument 's hot to the close.
XIV.
One dissertates, he is candid ;
Two must discept, has distinguished
Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did ;
Four protests ; Five makes a dart at the thing wished :
Back to One, goes the case bandied. 7
xv.
One says his say with a difference ;
More of expounding, explaining!
150
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA.
All now is wrangle, abuse and vociferance ;
Now there 's a truce, all 's subdued, self-restraining:
Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence.
XVI.
One is incisive, corrosive ;
Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant ;
Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive ;
Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant :
Five . . O Danaides, O Sieve! 80
XVII.
Now, they ply axes and crowbars ;
Now, they prick pins at a tissue
Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's
Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue?
Where is our gain at the Two-bars ?
XVIII.
Est fuga, volvitur rota.
On we drift : where looms the dim port?
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota ;
Something is gained, if one caught but the import
Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha! 90
XIX.
What with affirming, denying,
Holding, risposting, subjoining,
All 's like .... it 's like .... for an instance I 'm
trying . . .
There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining
Under those spider-webs lying!
xx.
So your fugue broadens and thickens,
Greatens and deepens and lengthens,
Till we exclaim " But where 's music, the dickens ?
Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens
Blacked to the stoutest of tickens ? " 100
XXI.
I for man's effort am zealous :
Prove me such censure unfounded !
MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTJ/.l. l $ l
Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous
Hopes 't was for something, his organ pipes sounded
Tiring three boys at the bellows ?
XXII.
Is it your moral of Life?
Such a web, simple and subtle,
Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,
Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
Death ending all with a knife? 1 10
XXIII.
Over our heads truth and nature
Still our life's zigzags and dodges,
Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature
God's gold just shining its last where that lodges,
Palled beneath man's usurpature.
XXIV.
So we o'ershroud stars and' roses,
Cherub and trophy and garland ;
Nothings grow something which quietly closes
Heaven's earnest eye : not a glimpse of the far land
Gets thro' our comments and glozes. 120
XXV.
Ah but traditions, inventions,
(Say we and make up a visage)
So many men with such various intentions,
Down the past ages, must know more than this age!
Leave we the web its dimensions!
XXVI.
Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf,
Proved a mere mountain in labour?
Better submit ; try again ; what 's the clef?
'Faith, 't is no trifle for pipe and for tabor
Four flats, the minor in F. 13
XXVII.
Friend, your fugue taxes the finger :
Learning it once, who would lose it ?
Yet all the while a misgiving will linger.
Truth 's golden o'er us altho' we refuse it
Nature, thro' cobwebs we string her.
r e 2 VOGLER.
XXVIII.
Hugues ! I advise me
(Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon)
Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena!
Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ,
Blare out the mode Palestrina. 140
XXIX.
While in the roof, if I 'm right there,
. . . Lo you, the wick in the socket!
Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there!
Down it dips, gone like a rocket.
What, you want, do you, to come unawares,
Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers,
And find a poor devil has ended his cares
At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs?
Do I carry the moon in my pocket ?
ABT VOGLER.
(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRU-
MENT 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, . / 1 '
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!
II.
Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! 10
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now com-
bine,
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.
AST VOGLER.
153
m.
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 : 20
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,
When a great illumination surprises a festal night
Outlining round and round Rome's^dome from space to spire)
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in
sight.
IV.
In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man'&
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 splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star ; 30
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale nor pine,
For earth Jiad attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.
v.
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 shoula blow.
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last :
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed thro 1 the body ana
gone,
But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their
new:
WhaLnevet hatl been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon ;
And what is, shall I say, matched both ? for I was made per-
fect too. % A***^ 4
VI.
All thro' my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,
All thro' my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,
All thro' 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 ir ;--. 'i^rice to laws.
Painter and poet are proud, in ; ' inc * aL list enrolled :
154 ABT VOGLER.
VII.
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! 50
And I kiioW ilOl if, 1 savtflri this, such gilt T5e 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 :
jive 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!
VIII.
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. 60
Jever 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
ToJhe same T same self, same love, same God : ay ? what was, shall be.
IX.
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 -tver the same?
Doubt that thy power can f.". 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; 70
was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more ;
e earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect round.
x.
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. 80
XI.
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 lug that singing might issue thence?
Why rushed the discords juj flat on 't harmony should be prized ?
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. ^5
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 ; 1 t is we musicians know.
XII.
Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign :
I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 90
Give me the keys. I feel for the common_hord 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~Tleights 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.
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA.
I WONDER do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better thro 1 the land,
This morn of Rome and May ?
ii.
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go. 10
in.
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,
IV.
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles, blind and green they grope
156 TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA.
Among the honey-meal : and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope,
I traced it. Hold it fast! ' 20
v.
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air
Rome's ghost since her decease.
VI.
Such life here, thro' such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers! 30
VII.
How say you ? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How^s it under our control
Tolove^or not to love?
VIII.
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be ? 40
IX.
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul's springs, your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
x.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak
Then the good minute goes.
GUST/BUS" 157
XI.
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
XII.
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now ? Off again.
The old trick! Only I discern
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn. 60
DE GUSTIBUS "
YOUR ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,
The happier they!
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,
And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10
With the beanflower's boon,
And the blackbird's tune,
And May, and June! .
n.
What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.
Or look for me, old fellow of mine,
(If I get my head from out the mouth
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,
And come again to the land of lands) 20
In a sea-side house to the farther South,
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,
And one sharp tree 'tis a cypress stands,
By the many hundred years red-rusted,
158
THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL.
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted
My sentinel to guard the sands
To the water's edge. For, what expands
Before the house, but the great opaque
Blue breadth of sea without a break ?
While, in the house, for ever crumbles 30
Some fragment of the frescoed walls,
From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.
A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles
Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,
And says there 's news to-day the king
Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling :
She hopes they have not caught the felons.
Italy, my Italy!
Queen Mary's saying serves for me 40
(When fortune's malice
Lost her, Calais)
Open my heart and you will see.
Graved inside of it, " Italy."
Such lovers old are I and she :
So it always was, so shall ever be !
THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL.
A PICTURE AT FANO.
I.
DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
And time come for departure, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still to quiet and retrieve.
n.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze.
And suddenly my head is covered o'er 10
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Now on that tomb and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL.
in.
159
I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For 1 should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 20
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
rv.
If this was ever granted, I would rest
My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
v.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies 30
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty :
And knowing this is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared ?
VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend!) that little child to pray,
Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently, with his own head turned away
Over the earth where so much lay before him 40
Of work to do, tho' heaven was opening o'er him,
And he was left at Fano by the beach.
VII.
We were at Fano, and three times we went
To sit and see him in his chapel there,
And drink his beauty to our soul's content
My angel with me too : and since I care
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power
And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)
K5o EVELYN HOPE.
And since he did not work thus earnestly 50
At all times, and has else endured some wrong
I took one thought his picture struck from me,
And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
EVELYN HOPE.
I.
r>EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
fj Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass ;
Little has yet been changed, I think :
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
n.
Sixteen years old when she died !
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 10
It was not her time to love ; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
in.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew 20
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told ?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside ?
rv.
No, indeed ! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
EVELYN HOPE. i6l
And creates the love to reward the love :
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 30
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
v.
But the time will come, at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead. 40
VI.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me :
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue ? let us see !
VII.
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!
My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 50
There was place and to spare for the frank young
smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young
gold.
So hush, I will give you this leaf to keep :
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret : go to sleep !
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
MEMORABILIA.
MEMORABILIA.
AH, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you
And did you speak to him again ?
How strange it seems and new!
n.
But you were living before that,
And also you are living after ;
And the memory I started at
My starting moves your laughter!
in.
I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 10
Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
'Mid the blank miles round about =
IV.
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
Well, I forget the rest.
APPARENT FAILURE.
"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."
Paris Newspaper.
I.
NO, for I '11 save it! Seven years since,
I passed thro' Paris, stopped a day
To see the baptism of your Prince ;
Saw, made my bow, and went my way :
Walking the heat and headache off,
I took the Seine-side, you surmise,
Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,
Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,
So sauntered till what met my eyes ?
APPARENT FAILURE. ^3
n.
Only the Doric little Morgue ! 10
The dead-house where you show your drowned :
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,
Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt in such a case ;
I plucked up heart and entered, stalked,
Keeping a tolerable face
Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked :
Let them! No Briton 's to be balked!
in.
First came the silent gazers ; next,
A screen of glass, we 're thankful for ; 20
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
The three men who did most abhor
Their life in Paris yesterday,
So killed themselves : and now, enthroned
Each on his copper couch, they lay
Fronting me, waiting to be owned.
I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned.
rv.
Poor men, God made, and all for that !
The reverence struck me ; o'er each head
Religiously was hung its hat, 30
Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,
Sacred from touch : each had his berth,
His bounds, his proper place of rest,
Who last night tenanted on earth
Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,
Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.
v.
How did it happen, my poor boy?
You wanted to be Buonaparte
And have the Tuileries for toy,
And could not, so it broke your heart? 4
You, old one by his side, I judge,
Were, red as blood, a socialist,
A leveller! Does the Empire grudge
You 've gained what no Republic missed?
Be quiet, and unclench your fist!
VI.
And this why, he was red in vain,
Or Wack, poor fellow that is blue!
1 64 PROSPICE.
What fancy was it, turned your brain?
Oh, women were the prize for you!
Money gets women, cards and dice 50
Get money, and ill-luck gets just
The copper couch and one clear nice
Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,
The right thing to extinguish lust!
VII.
It 's wiser being good than bad ;
It 's safer being meek than fierce :
It's fitter being sane than mad.
My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched ;
That, after Last, returns the First,
Tho' a wide compass round be fetched ;
That what began best, can't end worst,
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.
PROSPICE.
FEAR death ? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe ;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go :
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall, 10
Tho' a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
T was ever a fighter, so one fight more.
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold. 20
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute 's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
'
"CHfLDE ROLAND." 165
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! 1 shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME."
(See Edgar's song in " LEAR.")
MY first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
II.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travelers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road ? I guessed what skull-like laugh 10
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
ill.
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed : neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
IV.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope 20
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE
v.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, (" since all is o'er," he saith,
" And the blow fallen no grieving can amend ; ") 30
VI.
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves :
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
VII.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among " The Band " to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 40
Their steps that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now should I be fit ?
VIII
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
IX.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 50
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 't was gone ; gray plain all round :
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on ; naught else remained to do.
x.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing throve :
DARK TOWER CAME?
For flowers as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You 'd think ; a burr had been a treasure trove. 60
XI.
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
" It nothing skills : I can not help my case :
'T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."
XII.
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped ; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk 70
All hope of greenness ? 't is a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
XIII.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy ; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there :
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
xrv.
Alive ? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, 80
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ;
Seldom went such grotesque ness with such woe ;
I never saw a brute I hated so ;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
xv.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 90
1 68 " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE
XVI.
Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
XVII.
Giles then, the soul of honour there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good but the scene shifts faugh ! what hangman
hands 100
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
XVIII.
*
Better this present than a past like that ;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked : when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
XIX.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes. no
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms ;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
xx.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it ;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng :
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. 120
Which, while I forded, good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
DARK TOWER CAME." jfo
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh ! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
XXII.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank 130
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage
XXIII.
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
XXIV.
And more than that a furlong on why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, 140
Or brake, not wheel that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
XXV.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with ; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood
Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. 150
XXVI.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil 's
Broke into moss or substances like boils ;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
"CHILDE ROLAND:'
XXVII.
And just as far as ever from the end,
Naught in the distance but the evening, naught
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, 160
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap perchance the guide I sought.
XXVIII.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
XXIX.
Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when 170
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, .then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts you 're inside the den.
XXX.
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place ! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight,
While, to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight! 180
XXXI.
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself ?
The round scjuat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
XXXII.
Not see ? because of night perhaps ? why, day
Came back again for that ! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled thro' a cleft :
A GRAMMARIANS FUNERAL. 171
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 190
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,
"Now stab and end the creature to the heft!"
XXXIII.
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
XXXIV.
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame 200
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and 1 knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew " Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL.
SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE.
LET us begin and carry up this corpse,
Singing together. ^
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes,
Each in its tether
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,
Cared-for till cock-crow :
Look out if yonder be not day again
Rimming the rock-row!
That 's the~appropriate country ; there, man's thought,
Rarer, intenser, 10
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
Chafes in the censer.
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop ;
Seek we sepulture
On a tall mountain, citied to the top,
Crowded with culture!
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels ;
Clouds overcome it ;
No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL.
Circling its summit. 2O
Thither our path lies ; wind we up the heights :
Wait ye the warning?
Our low life was the level's and the night's :
He 's for the morning.
Step to a tune, square chests, erect. each head,
'Ware the beholders !
This is our master, famous calm and dead,
Borne on our shoulders.
Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft
Safe from the weather! 30
He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,
Singing together,
He was a man born with thy face and throat,
Lyric Apollo !
Long he lived nameless : how should spring take note
Winter would follow ?
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!
Cramped and diminished,
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!
My daiicejsjinished ? " 40
No, that 's the world's way ; (keep the mountain-side,
Make for the city!)
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride
Over men's pity ;
Left play for work, and grappled with the world
Bent on escaping :
" What_'s_in the scroll," quoth he, " thou keepest furled ?
Show me their shaping,
Theirs who most studied man, the bard_and._sage,
Give!" So, he gowned him, ~~ 50
Straight got by heart that book to its last page :
Learned, we found him.
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,
Accents uncertain :
" Time to taste life," another would have said,
" Up with the curtain! "
This man said rather, " Actual life comes next?
Patience a moment!
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,
Still there 's the comment. 60
Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least,
Painful or easy!
Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast,
Ay, nor feel queasy."
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, .
When he had learned it,
A GRAMMARIANS FUNERAL.
173
When he had gathered all books had to give!
Sooner, he spurned it.
Image the whole, then execute the parts
Fancy the fabric 70
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,
Ere mortar dab brick!
(Here 's the town-gate reached ; there 's the market-place
Gaping before us.)
Yea, this in_him was the peculiar grace
' ^Hearten our chorus !)
That before living he 'd learn how to live
No erra to learning :
Earn the means first God surely will contrive
Use for our earning. 80
Others mistrust and say, " But time escapes !
Live now or never!"
He said, " What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!
Man has Forever."
Back to his booic then : deeper drooped his head :
Calculus racked him :
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead :
Tussis attacked him.
" Now, master, take a little rest ! " not he !
(Caution redoubled! 90
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)
Not a whit troubled,
Back to his studies, fresher than at first,
Fierce as a dragon
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)
Sucked at the flagon.
Oh, if we draw a circle premature,
Heedless of far gain,
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure
Bad is our bargain! 100
Was it not great? did not he throw on God
(He loves the burthen)
God's task to make the heavenly period
Perfect the earthen ?
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear
Just what it all meant?
He would not discount life, as fools do here,
Paid by instalment.
He ventured neck or nothing heaven's success
Found, or earth's failure: . no
" Wilt thou trust death or not? " He answered " Yes!
Hence with life's pale lure! "
That low man seeks a little thing to do,
^4 CLEON.
Sees it and does it :
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
j. That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred 's soon_hit :
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit. 120
That, has the world here should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking shall find him.
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar ;
Still, thro 1 the rattle, parts of speech were rife :
While he could stammer
He settled Hotfs business let it be !
Properly based Oun 130
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
Dead from the waist down.
Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place :
Hail to your purlieus, o u 1 r * *" ^
All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews!
Here 's the top-peak ; the multitude below
Live, for they can, there :
This man decided not to Live but Know
Bury this man there ? 140
Here here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!
Lofty designs must close in like effects :
Loftily lying,
Leave him still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying.
CLEON.
As certain also of your own poets have said"
the poet, (from the sprinkled isles,
V __ Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,
And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps " Greece ")
To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!
ftflVO*/ ti PU ^o.*ti^<, hV.
^coov- >t?^a-c
CLEON.
'75
They give thy letter to me, even now :
I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.
The master of thy galley still unlades
Gift after gift ; they block my court at last
And pile themselves along its portico
Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee ; 10
And one white she-slave, from the group dispersed
Of black and white slaves, (like the chequer-work
Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift,
Now covered with this settle-down of doves)
One lyric woman, in her crocus vest
Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands
Commends to me. the strainer and the cup
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.
Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence!
For so shall men remark, in such an act 2O
Of love for him whose song gives life its joy,
Thy recognition of the use of life :
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate
To help on life in straight ways, broad enough
For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest.
Thou, in the daily building of thy tower,
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil,
Or thro 1 dim lulls of unapparent growth,
Or when the general work, 'mid good acclaim, (
Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect, 30
Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake :
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope
Of some eventual rest a-top of it,
Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed,
Thou first of men mightst look out to the East :
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun.
For this, I promise on thy festival
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea,
Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak
Thy great words and describe thy royal face 40
Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most,
Within the eventual element of calm.
Thy letter's first requirement meets me here.
It is as thou hast heard : in one short life
I, Cleon, have effected all those things
Thou wonderingly dost enumerate.
That epos on thy hundred plates of gold
Is mine, and also mine the little chant
So sure to rise from every fishing bark
When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. 50
r/6 CLEON:
The image of the sun-god on the phare,
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine ;
The Pcecile, o'er-storied its whole length,
As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too.
I know the true proportions of a man
And woman also, not observed before ;
And I have wjjtten three books on the soul,
Proving absurd all written hitherto,
And putting us to ignorance again.
For music, why, I have combined the moods, 60
Inventing one. In brief^all arjsjirejnine ;
Thus much the people know and recognize,
Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not!
We of these latter days, with greater mind
Than our forerunners, since more composite,
Look not so great, beside their simple way,
To a judge who only sees one way at once,
One mind-point and no other at a time,
Compares the small part of a man of us
With some whole man of the heroic age, 70
Great in his way not ours, nor meant for ours ;
And ours is greater, had we skill to know :
For, what we call this life of men on earth,
This sequence of the souPs achievements here,
Being, as I find much reason to conceive,
Intended to be viewed eventually
As a great whole, not analyzed to parts,
But each part having reference to all,
How shall a certain part, pronounced complete,
Endure effacement by another part? 80
Was the thing done ? then, what 's to do again ?
See, in the chequered pavement opposite,
Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb,
And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid
He did not overlay them, superimpose
The new upon the old and blot it out,
But laid them on a level in his work,
Making at last a picture ; there it lies.
So first the perfect separate forms were made,
The portions of mankind ; and after, so, 90
Occurred the combination of the same.
For where had been a progress, otherwise ?
Mankind, made up of all the single men,
In such a synthesis the labour ends.
Now mark me ! those divine men of old time
Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point
The outside verge that rounds our faculty ;
And where they reached, who can do more than reach ?
CLEON. 177
It takes but little water just to touch
At some one point the inside of a sphere. 100
And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest
In due succession : but the finer air
Which not so palpably nor obviously,
Though no less universally, can touch
The whole circumference of that emptied sphere,
Fills it more fully than the water did ;
Holds thrice the weight of water in itself
Resolved into a subtler element.
And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full
Up to the visible height and after, void; no
Not knowing air's more hidden properties.
And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus
To vindicate his purpose in ourTHe":
Why stay we on the earth unless to grow ?
Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out,
That he or other god descended here
And, once for all, showed simultaneously
What, in its nature, never can be shown
Piecemeal or in succession : showed, I say,
The worth both absolute and relative 120
Qf all his children from the birth of time,
His instruments for all appointed work.
I now go on to image, might we hear
The judgment which should give the due to each,
Show where the labour lay and where the ease,
And prove Zeus' self, t"he latent everywhere !
This is a dream : but no dream, let us hope,
That years and days, the summers and the springs,
Follow each other with unwaning powers.
The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far 130
Thro' culture, than the wild wealth of the rock ;
The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe ;
The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet ;
The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers ;
That young and tender crescent moon, thy slave,
Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds,
Refines upon the women of my youth.
What, and the soul alone deteriorates?
I have not chanted verse like Homer, no
Nor swept string like Terpancler, no nor carved 140
And painted men like Phidias and his friend :
I am not great as they are, point by point.
But I have entered into sympathy
With these four, running these into one soul,
Who, separate, ignored each other's art.
Say, is it nothing that I know them all?
178
CLEON.
The wild flower was the larger ; I have dashed
Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's
Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit,
And show a better flower if not so large : 150
I stand myself. Refer this to the gods
Whose gift alone it is ! which, shall I dare
(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext
That such a gift by chance lay in my hand,
Discourse of lightly or depreciate?
It might have fallen to another's hand : what then ?
I pass too surely : let at least truth stay!
And next, of what thou followest on to ask.
This being with me as I declare, O king.
My works in all these varicoloured kinds, 160
So done by me> accepted so by men
Thou askest, if (my souL thus in men's hearts)
I must not be accounted to attain
The very crown and proper end of life ?
Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up,
I face death with success in my right hand :
Whether I fear death less than dost thyself . .
The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou)
" Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught.
Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, 170
The pictures men shall study ; while my life, i i '
Complete and whole now in its power and joy,
Dies altogether with my brain and arm,
Is lost indeed ; since, what survives myself?
The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave,
Set on the promontory which I named.
And that some supple courtier of my heir
Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps
To fix the rope to, which best drags it down.
I go then : triumph thou, who dost not go ! " 180
Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind.
Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse
Upo.n the scheme of earth and man in chief,
That admiration grows as knowledge grows?
That imperfection means perfection hid..
RpspTTTprMn part f t'n grace t hejafteF-time ?
If, in the morning of philosophy,
Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived,
Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked
On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, 190
Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage
Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced
CLEOM
179
The perfectness of others yet unseen.
Conceding which, had Zeus then questioned thee
" Shall I go on a step, improve on this,
Do more for visible creatures than is done ? "
Thou wouldst have answered, " Ay, by making each
Grow conscious in himself by that alone.
All 's perfect else : the shell sucks fast the rock,
The fish strikes thro' the sea, the snake both swims 200
And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight,
Till life's mechanics can no further go
And all this joy in natural life is put
Like fire from off thy finger into each,
So exquisitely perfect is the same.
But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are :
It has them, not they it ; and so I choose
For man, thy last premeditated work
(If I might add a glory to the scheme)
That a third thing should stand apart from both, 210
A quality arise within his soul,
Which, intro-active, made to supervise
And feel the force it has, may view itself,
And so be happy." Man might live at first
The animal life : but is there nothing more?
In due time, let him critically learn
How he lives ; and, the more he gets to know
Of his own life's adaptabilities.
The more joy-giving will his life become.
Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.
But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said :
" Let progress end at once, man make no step
Beyond the natural man, the better beast,
Using his senses, not the sense of sense!"
In man there 's failure, only since he left
The lower and inconscious forms of life.
We called it an advance, the rendering plain
Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life,
And, by new lore so added to the old,
Take each step higher over the brute's head. 230
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul,
Which whole surrounding flats of natural life
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to ;
A tower that crowns a country. But alas,
The soul now climbs it just to perish there!
For thence we have discovered ('t is no dream
We know this, which we had not else perceived)
That there 's a world of capability
l8o CLEON.
For joy spread round about us, meant for us, 240
Inviting us ; and still the soul craves all,
And still the flesh replies, " Take no jot more
Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!
Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought
Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge
Our bounded physical recipiency,
Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,
Repair the waste of age and sickness : no,
It skills not! life 's inadequate to joy,
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. 250
They praise a fountain in my garden here
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow
Thin from her tube ; she smiles to see it rise.
What if I told her, it is just a thread
From that great river which the hills shut up,
And mock her with my leave to take the same?
The artificer has given her one small tube
Past power to widen or exchange what boots
To know she might spout oceans if she could?
She can not lift beyond her first thin thread : 260
, t And so a man can use but a man's joy
While he sees God's. Is it, for Zeus to boast
" See, man, ]-""" hflBPV I live, and despair
That, I may be stillhappier tor thy use ! "
If this were so, wr could not thank our lord,
As hearts beat on to doing: 't is not so
Malice it is not. J&..JL carelessness ?
Still, no. If care where Is the sign ? I ask,
And get no answer, and agree in sum,
O king, with thy profound discouragement, 270
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.
Most progress is most failure : thou sayest well.
The last point now : thou dost except a case
Holding joy not impossible to one
With artist-gifts to such a man as I
Who leave behind me living works indeed ;
For, such a poem, such a painting lives.
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,
Confound the accurate view of what joy is
(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 280
With feeling joy? confound the knowing how
And showing how to live (my faculty)
With actually living? Otherwise
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king?
Because in my great epos I display
How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act
CLEON. !8i
Is this as tho' I acted ? if I paint,
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young?
Methinks I 'm older that I bowed myself
The many years of pain that taught me art! 290
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more :
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too.
Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there,
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.
I can write love-odes : thy fair slave 's an ode.
I get to sing of love, when grown too gray
For being beloved : she turns to that young man,
The muscles all a-ripple on his back.
I know the joy of kingship : well, thou art king! 300
" But," sayest thou (and I marvel, I repeat,
To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what
Thou writest. paintest, stays ; that does not die :
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,
And yEschylus, because we read his plays!"
Why, if they live still, let them come and take
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,
In this, that every day my sense of joy 310
Grows more acute, my soul (intensified
By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen ;
While every day my hairs fall more and more,
My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase
The horror quickening still from year to year,
The consummation coming past escape,
When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy
When all my works wherein I prove my worth,
Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,
Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, 320
I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,
The man who loved his life so over-much,
Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible,
I dare at times imagine to my need
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,
Unlimited in capability
For joy, as this is in desire for joy,
To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us :
That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait
On purpose to make prized the life at large 330
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death,
We burst there as the worm into the fly,
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!
Zeus has not yet revealed it ; and alas.
He must have done so, were it possible!
INSTANS TYRANNUS.
Live long and happy, and in that thought die,
Glad for what was ! Farewell. And for the rest,
I cannot tell thy messenger aright
Where to deliver what he bears of thine
To one called Paulus ; we have heard his fame 340
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him
I know not, nor am troubled much to know.
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,
Hath access to a secret shut from us?
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,
In stooping to inquire of such an one,
As if his answer could impose at all !
He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars ! certain slaves 350
Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ ;
And (as I gathered from a bystander)
Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.
INSTANS TYRANNUS.
OF the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,
One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.
II.
I struck him, he grovelled of course
For, what was his force?
I pinned him to earth with my weight
And persistence of hate ;
And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,
As his lot might be worse. 10
m.
"Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand!
For obscurity helps him, and blots
The hole where he squats."
So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,
INSTANS TYRANNUS. jSj
Still he couched there perdue ;
I tempted his blood and his flesh.
Hid in roses my mesh, 20
Choicest cates and the flagon 's best spilth :
Still he kept to his filth.
Had he kith now or kin, were access
To his heart, did I press :
Just a son or a mother to seize!
No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue
'Mid my million or two,
Who could pay me, in person or pelf,
What he owes me himself ! 30
No : I could not but smile thro 1 my chafe :
For the fellow lay safe
As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
Thro' minuteness, to wit.
v.
Then a humour more great took its place
At the thought of his face :
The droop, the low cares of the mouth,
The trouble uncouth
Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain
To put out of its pain. 40
And, " no! " I admonished myself,
" Is one mocked by an elf,
Is one baffled by toad or by rat?
The gravamen 's in that !
How the lion, who crouches to suit
His back to my foot,
Would admire that I stand in debate!
But the small turns the great
If it vexes you, that is the thing!
Toad or rat vex the king? 5
Tho' I waste half my realm to unearth
Toad or rat, 't is well worth! "
VI.
So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break
Ran my fires for his sake ;
Overhead, did my thunder combine "
EPISTLE.
With my under-ground mine :
Till I looked from my labour content
To enjoy the event. 60
VII.
When sudden . . . how think ye, the end?
Did I say " without friend?"
Say rather, from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the sun's self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see! Just my vengeance complete,
The man sprang to his feet, 70
Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!
So, / was afraid !
AN EPISTLE.
CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE
ARAB PHYSICIAN.
"IV'ARSHISH, the picker-up of learning's crumbs,
JX. The not-incurious in God's handiwork
(This man's-flesh he hath admirably made,
Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste,
To coop up and keep down on earth a space
That puff of vapour from his mouth, man's soul)
To Abib, all-sagacious in our art,
Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast,
Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks
Befall the flesh thro' too much stress and strain, 10
Whereby the wily vapour fain would slip
Back and rejoin its source before the term,
And aptest in contrivance (under God)
To baffle it by deftly stopping such :
The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home
Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace)
Three samples of true snake-stone rarer still,
One of the other sort, the melon-shaped,
(But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs)
And writeth now the twenty-second time. 20
AN EPISTLE. 185
My journeyings were brought to Jericho :
Thus I resume. Who studious in our art
Shall count a little labour unrepaid?
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone
On many a flinty furlong of this land.
Also, the country-side is all on fire
With rumours of a marching hitherward :
Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son.
A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear :
Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls : 30
I cried and threw my staff and he was gone.
Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me,
And once a town declared me for a spy ;
But at the end, I reach Jerusalem,
Since this poor covert where I pass the night,
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence
A man with plague-sores at the third degree
Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here!
'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe,
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 40
And share with thee whatever Jewry yields.
A viscid choler is observable
In tertians, I was nearly bold to say ;
And falling-sickness hath a happier cure
Than our school wots of: there 's a spider here
Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs,
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back ;
Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind,
The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to?
His service payeth me a sublimate 50
Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye.
Best wait : I reach Jerusalem at morn,
There set in order my experiences,
Gather what most deserves, and give thee all
Or I might add, Judaea's gum-tragacanth
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained,
Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry,
In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy :
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar 60
But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end.
Yet stay ! my Syrian blinketh gratefully,
Protesteth his devotion is my price
Suppose I write what harms not, tho' he steal?
I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush,
What set me off a-writing first of all.
An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang !
EPISTLE.
For, be it this town's barrenness or else
The Man had something in the look of him
His case has struck me far more than 't is worth. 70
So, pardon if (lest presently I lose,
In the great press of novelty at hand,
The care and pains this somehow stole from me)
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind,
Almost in sight for, wilt thou have the truth?
The very man is gone from me but now,
Whose ailment is the subject of discourse.
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all!
'T is but a case of mania : subinduced
By epilepsy, at the turning-point 80
Of trance prolonged unduly some three days
When, by the exhibition of some drug
Or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art
Unknown to me and which 't were well to know,
The evil thing, out-breaking all at once,
Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide,
Making a clear house of it too suddenly,
The first conceit that entered might inscribe
Whatever it was minded on the wall 90
So plainly at that vantage, as it were,
(First come, first served) that nothing subsequent
Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls
The just-returned and new-established soul
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart
That henceforth she will read or these or none.
And first the man's own firm conviction rests
That he was dead (in fact they buried him)
That he was dead and then restored to life
By a Nazarene physician of his tribe : I CO
'Sayeth, the -same bade "Rise," and he did rise.
" Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry.
Not so this figment ! not, that such a fume,
Instead of giving way to time and health,
Should eat itself into the life of life,
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all!
For see, how he takes up the after-life.
The man it is oie Lazarus a Jew,
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age,
The body's habit wholly laudable, IIO
As much, indeed, beyond the common health
As he were made and put aside to show.
Think, could we penetrate by any drug
And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh,
AN EPISTLE.
I8 7
And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep!
Whence has the man the balm that brightens all ?
This grown man eyes the world now like a rhilH.
Soilie eldyis U/ 1 Illy lube, 1 should premise,
Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep.
To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, 120
Now sharply, now with sorrow, told the case,
He listened not except I spoke to him,
But folded his two hands and let them talk,
Watching the flies that buzzed : and yet no fool.
And that 's a sample how his years must go.
Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life,
Should find a treasure, can he use the same
With straitened habits and with tastes starved small,
And take at once to his impoverished brain
The sudden element that changes things, 130
That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand,
And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust?
Is he not such an one as moves to mirth
Warily parsimonious, when no need,
Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times ?
All prudent counsel as to what befits
The golden mean, is lost on such ar ~ne :
The man's fantnstir will U th f roan's taw.
bo nere we call the treasure knowledge, say,
Increased beyond the fleshly faculty 140
Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth,
Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven :
The man is witless of the size, the sum,
The value in proportion of all things,
Or whether it be little or be much.
Discourse to him of prodigious armaments
Assembled to besiege his city now,
And of the passing of a mule with gourds
'T is one! Then take it on the other side,
Speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt 150
With stupor at its very littleness,
(Far as I see) as if in that indeed
He caught prodigious import, whole results ;
And so will turn to us the bystanders
In ever the same stupor (note this point)
That we too see not with his opened eyes.
Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play,
Preposterously, at cross purposes.
Should his child sicken unto death, why, look
For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, 160
Or pretermission of the daily craft!
While a word, gesture, glance from that same child
\
EPISTLE.
At play or in the school or laid asleep,
Will startle him to an agony of fear.
Exasperation, just as like. Demand
The reason why " 't is but a word," object
" A gesture " he regards thee as our lord
Who lived there in the pyramid alone,
Looked at us (dost thou mind ?) when, being young,
We both would unadvisedly recite 170
Some charm's beginning, from that book of his,
Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst
All into stars, as suns grown old are wont.
Thou and the child have each a veil alike
Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both
Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match
Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know!
He holds on firmly to some thread of life
(It is the life to lead perforcedly)
Which runs across some vast distracting orb 180
Of glory on either side that meagre thread,
Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet
The spiritual life around the earthly life :
The law of that is known to him as this,
His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here.
So is the man perplext with impulses
Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on,
Proclaiming what is right and wrong across,
And not along, this black thread thro' the blaze
" It should be " balked by "here it can not be." 190
And oft the man's soul springs into his face
As if he saw again and heard again
His sage that bade him " Rise " and he did rise.
Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within
Admonishes : then back he sinks at once
To ashes, who was very fire before,
In sedulous recurrence to his trade
Whereby he earneth him the daily bread ;
And studiously the humbler for that pride,
Professedly the faultier that he knows 200
God's secret, while he holds the thread of life.
Indeed the especial marking of the man
Is prone submission to the heavenly will
Seeing it, what it is, and why it is.
'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last
For that same death which must restore his being
To equilibrium, body loosening soul
Divorced even now by premature full growth :
He will live, nay. it pleaseth him to live
So long as God please, and just how God please. 210
AN EPISTLE.
189
He even seeketh not to please God more
(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please.
Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach
The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be,
Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do :
How can he give his neighbour the real ground,
His own conviction? Ardent as he is
Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old
" Be it as God please " reassureth him.
I probed the sore as thy disciple should : 220
" How, beast," said I, ' this stolid carelessness
Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march
To stamp out like a little spark thy town,
Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once ? "
He merely looked with his large eyes on me.
The man is apathetic, you deduce ?
Contrariwise, he loves both old and young,
Able and weak, affects the very brutes
And birds how say I ? flowers of the field
As a wise workman recognizes tools 230
In a master's workshop, loving what they make.
Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb :
Only impatient, let him do his best,
At ignorance and carelessness and sin
An indignation which is promptly curbed :
As when in certain travel I have feigned
To be an ignoramus in our art
According to some preconceived design,
And happed to hear the land's practitioners
Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 240
Prattle fantastically on disease,
Its cause and cure and I must hold my peace!
Thou wilt object Why have I not ere this
Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene
Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source,
Conferring with the frankness that befits ?
Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech
Perished in a tumult many years ago,
Accused, our learning's fate, of wizardry,
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 250
And creed prodigious as described to me.
His death, which happened when the earthquake fell
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss
To occult learning in our lord the sage
Who lived there in the pyramid alone)
Was wrought by the mad' people that 's their wont!
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it.
AN EPISTLE.
To his tried virtue, for miraculous help
How could he stop the earthquake? That 's their way!
The other imputations must be lies : 260
But take one, tho' I loathe to give it thee,
In mere respect for any good man's fame.
(And after all, our patient Lazarus
Is stark mad ; should we count on what he says?
Perhaps not : tho' in writing to a leech
'T is well to keep back nothing of a case.)
This man so cured regards the curer, then,
As God forgive me ! who but God himself,
Creator and sustainer of the world,
That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile. 270
'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived,
Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house,
Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know,
And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat,
And must have so avouched himself, in fact,
In hearing of this very Lazarus
Who saith but why all this of what he saith?
Why write of trivial matters, things of price
Calling at every moment for remark ?
I noticed on the margin of a pool 280
Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,
Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!
Thy pardon for this long and tedious case,
Which, now that I review it, needs must seem
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth !
Nor I myself discern in what is writ
Good cause for the peculiar interest
And awe indeed this man has touched me with.
Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness
Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus : 290
I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills
Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came
A moon made like a face with certain spots
Multiform, manifold and menacing :
Then a wind rose behind me. So we met
In this old sleepy town at unaware,
The man and I. I send thee what is writ.
Regard it as a chance, a matter risked
To this ambiguous Syrian : he may lose,
Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 300
Jerusalem's repose shall make amends
For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine ;
Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!
SETEBOS. 9
very
The
thou mus ^ ; ^
madman s,
CAUBAN UPON SETEBOS,
OK,
THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND.
TH1
T
NATURAL
10
20
,
^Thinketh He made U *Kh
But not the st
192
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that : 260
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon,
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.
'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease :
He hated that He can not change His cold,
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish
That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived,
And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine
O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave ; 270
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse
At the other kind of water, not her life,
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun)
Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,
And in her old bounds buried her despair,
Hating and loving warmth alike : so He.
'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,
Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech ;
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,
That floats and feeds ; a certain badger brown,
He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye
By moonlight ; and the pie with the long tongue 50
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm,
And says a plain word when she finds her prize,
But will not eat the ants ; the ants themselves
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks
About their hole He made all these and more,
Made all we see, and us, in spite : how else ?
He could not, Himself, make a second self .
To be His mate : as well have made Himself:
He would not make what He mislikes or slights,
An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains ; 60
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport,
Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few,
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,
Things He admires and mocks too, that is it!
Because, so brave, so better tho' they be,
It nothing skills if He begin to plague.
Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash,
Add honeycomb and pods, 1 have perceived,
Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, 70
Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper thro' my brain ;
Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme,
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
193
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird.
Put case, unable to be what I wish,
I yet could make a live bird out of clay :
Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban
Able to fly? for, there, see, he hath wings,
And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire,
And there, a sting to do his foes offence, 80
There, and I will that he begin to live,
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns
Of grigs high up that make the merry din,
Saucy thro 1 their veined wings, and mind me not.
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,
And he lay stupid-like, why, I should laugh ;
And if he, spying me, should fall to weep,
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,
Well, as the chance were, this mi<*ht take or else 90
Not take my fancy : I might hear his cry,
And give the mankin three sound legs for one,
Or pluck the other oft", leave him like an egg,
And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.
Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,
Making and marring clay at will ? So He.
'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him
Nor kind, nor cruel : He is strong and Lord.
'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 100
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.
'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;
'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,
And two worms he whose nippers end in red :
As it likes me each time, I do : so He.
Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main,
Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, no
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,
And envieth that, so helped, such things do more
Than He who made them! What consoles but this?
That they, unless thro' Him, do naught at all,
And must submit: what other use in things?
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint
That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay
When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue :
194
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay I2O
Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt :
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth
" I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,
I make the cry my maker can not make
With his great round mouth ; he must blow thro 1 mine!"
Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.
But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?
Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for that, '*
What knows, the something over Setebos
That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, 130
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.
There may be something quiet o'er His head,
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,
Since both derive from weakness in some way.
I joy because the quails come ; would not joy
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind :
*This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,
But never spends much thought nor care that way.
It may look up, work up, the worse for those 140
It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish,
Who, making Himself feared thro' what He does,
Looks up, first, and perceives he can not soar
To what is quiet and hath happy life ;
Next looks down here, and out of very spite
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,
These good things to match those as hips do grapes.
'T is solace making baubles, ay, and sport.
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 150
Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle :
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped,
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words ;
Has peeled a wand and called it by a name ;
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe
The eyed skin of a supple oncelot ;
And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,
A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,
Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,
And saith she is Miranda and my wife : 1 60
'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane
He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge ;
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,
Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame,
And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge
In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban ;
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.
Tlays thus at being Prosper in a way,
Taketh his mirth with make-believes : so He.
195
His dam held that the Quiet made all things 170
Which Setebos vexed only : ' holds not so.
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.
Had He meant other, while His hand was in,
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,
Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint,
Like an ore's armour? Ay, so spoil His sport!
He is the One now : only He doth all.
'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.
Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 180
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,
But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate
Or love, just as it liked him : He hath eyes.
Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,
Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,
By no means for the love of what is worked.
'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world
When all goes right, in this safe summer-time,
And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, 190
Than trying what to do with wit and strength.
'Falls to make something : 'piled yon pile of turfs,
And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each,
And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,
And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-tpp,
Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake ;
'Shall some day knock it down again : so He.
'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! 200
One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.
He hath a spite against me, that -I know.
Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?
So it is, all the same, as well I find.
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm
With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises
Crawling to lay their eggs here : well, one wave,
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,
And licked the whole labour flat : so much for spite! 210
'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
Where, half an hour before, I slept i 1 the shade :
Often they scatter sparkles : there is force !
. 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once
And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone.
Please Him and hinder this? What Prosper does?
Aha, if he would tell me how. Not He!
There is the sport : discover how or die!
All need not die, for of the things o' the isle
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees ; 220
Those at His mercy, why, they please Him most
When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!
Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.
You must not know His ways, and play Him off,
Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears
But steals the nut from underneath my thumb,
And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,
Curls up into a ball, pretending death 230
For fright at my approach : the two ways please.
But what would move my choler more than this,
That either creature counted on its life
To-morrow, next day and all days to come,
Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart,
" Because he did so yesterday with me,
And otherwise with such another brute,
So must he do henceforth and always." Ay?
'Would teach the reasoning couple what " must " means!
'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 240
'Conceiveth all things will continue thus,
And we shall have to live in fear of Him
So long as He lives, keeps His strength : no change,
If He have done His best, make no new world
To please Him more, so leave off watching this,
If He surprise not even the Quiet's self
Some strange day, or, suppose, grow into it
As grubs grow butterflies : else, here are we,
And there is He, and nowhere help at all.
'Believeth with the life the pain shall stop. 250
His dam held different, that after death
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends :
Idly! He doth His worst in this our life,
Giving just respite lest we die thro' pain,
Saving last pain for worst, with which, an end.
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself,
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS.
197
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,
Bask on the pompion-bell above : kills both.
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 260
On head and tail as if to save their lives :
'Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.
Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,
And always, above all else, envies Him ;
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,
And never speaks his mind save housed as now :
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here,
O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 270
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off,
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,
Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste :
While myself lit a fire, and made a song
And sung it, " What I hate, be consecrate
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate
For Thee ; what see for envy in poor me f "
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,
Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, 280
That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.
[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!
Crickets stop hissing ; not a bird or, yes,
There scuds His raven that hath told Him all!
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move,
And fast invading fires begin ! White blaze
A tree's head snaps and there, there, there, there, there, 290
His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!
'Maketh his teeth meet thro' his upper lip,
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month
One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]
198 SAUL.
SAUL.
SAID Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak,
Kiss my cheek, wish ms well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss
his cheek.
And he, " Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent,
Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; nor until from his tent
Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet,
Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet.
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days,
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise,
To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife,
And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. 10
II.
" Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat
Were now raging to torture the desert! "
m.
Then I, as was meet,
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet,
And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped ;
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ;
Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone,
That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on
Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, 20
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid
But spoke, " Here is David, thy servant ! " And no voice replied.
At the first I saw naught but the blackness ; but soon I descried
A something more black than the blackness the vast, the upright
Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all.
Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent roof, showed Saul.
He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide
On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side ;
He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs 30
And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs,
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come
With the spring-time, so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and
dumb.
SAUL.
v.
199
Then I tuned my harp, took off the lilies we twine round its chords
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide those sunbeams like
swords !
And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one,
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.
They are white and untorn by the bushes, for fo, they have fed
Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ;
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 40
Into eve and the blue far above us, so blue and so far !
VI.
Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his
mate
To fly after the player ; then, what makes the crickets elate
Till for boldness they fight one another : and then, what has weight
To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house
There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse !
God made all the creatures and gave them our love and oar fear,
To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.
VII.
Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand
Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts
expand 5
And grow one in the sense of this world's life. And then, the last
song
When the dead man is praised on his journey "Bear, bear him along
With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not
here
To console us ? The land has none left such as he on the bier.
"Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! "And then, the glad
chaunt
Of the marriage, first go the young maidens, next, she whom we
vaunt
As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. And then, the great march
Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch
Naught can break ; who shall harm them, our friends ? Then, the
chorus intoned
As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. 60
But I stopped here : for here in the darkness Saul groaned.
VIII.
And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart ;
And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan
dart
200 SAUL.
From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start
All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart.
So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect.
And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked,
As I sang,
IX.
"Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste,
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, 70
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,
And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.
\How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy!
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst
guard 80
When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward ?
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung
The low song of the nearly departed, and hear her faint tongue
Joining in while it could to the witness, ' Let one more attest,
I have lived, seen God's hand thro' a lifetime, and all was for best! '
Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the
rest.
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew
Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true :
And the friends of thy boyhood that boyhood of wonder and hope,
Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, 90
Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine :
And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine!
On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe
That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go)
High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, all
Brought to blaze on the head of one creature King Saul! "
"* x.
And lo, with that leap of my spirit, heart, hand, harp and voice,
Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice
Saul's fame in the light it was made for as when, dare I say,
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains thro' its array, 100
And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot " Saul!" cried I, and stopped,
And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung
propped
SAUL. 201
By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name.
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim,
And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone,
While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of
stone
A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, leaves grasp of the
sheet ?
Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet,
And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old,
With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold: no
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar
Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest all hail, there they
are!
Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest
Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest
For their food in the ardours of summer. One long shudder thrilled
All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled
At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware.
What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and
despair.
Death was past, life not come : so he waited. Awhile his right hand
Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant, forthwith to remand 1 20
To their place what new objects should enter : 't was Saul as before.
I looked up, and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more
Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore,
At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean a sun's slow decline
Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine
Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so, arm folded arm
O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided.
XI.
What spell or what charm,
(For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge
To sustain him where song had restored him? Song filled to the
verge
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : beyond, on what fields,
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye,
And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by?
He saith, " It is good ;" still he drinks not : he lets me praise life,
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.
XII.
Then fancies grew rife
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep
Fed in silence above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep;
202 SAUL.
And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie
'Neath his ken, tho' I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky :
And I laughed " Since my days are ordained to be passed with my
flocks, 140
Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks,
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know!
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains,
And the prudence that keeps what men strive for ! " And now these
old trains
Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so, once more the string
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus
XIII.
Yea, my King,"
I began "thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring
From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute :
In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. 150
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, how its stem trembled
first
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler ; then safely outburst
The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindest when these too, in
turn
Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to
learn,
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we
slight,
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight
Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them ? Not so ! stem
and branch
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall
staunch
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine.
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! 160
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy
More indeed, than at first when, inconscious, the life of a boy.
Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast
done
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world ; until e'en as the sun
Looking down on the earth, tho' clouds spoil him, tho' tempests efface,
Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace
The results of his past summer-prime, so, each ray of thy will,
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill
Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth
A like cheer to their sons : who in turn, fill the South and the
North 17
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past !
SAUL. 203
Hut the license of age has its limit ; thou diest at last.
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height,
So with man so his power and his beauty for ever take flight.
No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the
years !
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the seer's!
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb bid arise
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies,
Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose fame would
ye know?
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go 180
In great characters cut by the scribe, Such was Saul, so he did;
With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,
For not half, they '11 affirm, is comprised there! \Vhich fault to amend,
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend
(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and record
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, the statesman's great
word
Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-wave
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds
rave :
So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou
art!" 190
XIV.
And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who didst grant me that
day,
And before it not seldom has granted thy help to essay,
Carry on and complete an adventure, my shield and my sword
In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,
Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour
And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever
On the new stretch of heaven above me till, mighty to save,
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance God's throne from
man's grave!
Let me tell out my tale to its ending my voice to my heart
Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, 200
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep,
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep !
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves
The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.
xv.
I say then, my song
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong,
204
SAUL.
Made a proffer of good to console him he slowly resumed
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed
His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes
Of his turban, and see the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, 210
He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of yore,
And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before.
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, ere error had bent
The broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, tho' much
spent
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose,
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose.
So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed by the pile
Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile,
And sat out my singing. one arm round the tent-prop, to raise
His bent head, and the other hung slack till I touched on the
praise 220
I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there ;
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees
Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which
please
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know
If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but slow
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : thro' my hair
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind
power
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. 230
Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine
And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?
I yearned " Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss,
I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this ;
I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence,
As this moment, had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense ! "
XVI.
Then the truth came upon me. No harp more no song more! out-
broke
XVII.
" I have gone the whole round of creation : I saw and I spoke ;
I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain
And pronounced on the rest of his handwork returned him again 240
His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw,
Reported, as man may of God's work all 's love, yet all 's law.
Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked
SAUL.
2O5
To perceive him has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked.
Have 1 knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare.
Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care!
Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ?
I but open my eyes, and perfection, no more and no less,
In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. 250
And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew
( With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too)
The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete,"^
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet.
Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known,
1 shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my o
There 's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink,
1 am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think)
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst
E'en the Giver in one gift. Behold, I could love if I durst! 260
"Jut I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake
zod's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake.
-What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great
and small,
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal?
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all?
Do 1 find love so full in my nature, God's ult'mate gift,
That i doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts
shift? t
Here, the creature surpass the creator, the end, what began? Jb
Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, s
And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? 270
Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power,
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower
Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul,
Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole?
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest),
These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the
best?
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height
This perfection, succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of
night?
Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake,
Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, and bid him awake 280
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set
Clear and safe in new light and new life, a new harmony yet
To be run and continued, and ended who knows? or endure!
The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure ;
By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss,
And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this.
206 SAUL.
XVIII.
" I believe it! 'T is thou, God, that givest, 't is I who receive :
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.
All 's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer,
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. 290
From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth :
/will? the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth
To look that, even that in the face too ? Why is it I dare
Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair?
This ; \ is not what man Does which exalts him, but what man
WouTcplo! ~
See the King- I s - would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through.
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich,
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would knowing which,
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak thro' me now! -fe'
Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou so wilt ^h,ou! 300
So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down
One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath,
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death!
As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved!
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand the most
weak.
'T is the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek
In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be
A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 310
Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever : a Hand like this hand
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the Christ stand! "
xix. V
I know not too well how I found my way home in the night.
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right,
Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware :
I repressed, I got thro 1 them as hardly, as strugglingly there,
As a runner beset by the populace famished for news
Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her
t crews ;
And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot
Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge : but I fainted not. 320
For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed
All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest,
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest.
Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth
Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth ;
In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills ;
In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the sudden wind-thrills ;
A'. IBBl BEN EZRA. :
In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still,
Tho' averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill
That rose heavily as I approached them, made stupid with awe : 330
E'en the serpent that slid away silent he felt the new law.
The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers ;
The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-
bowers :
And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low,
With their obstinate, all but hushed voices " E'en so, it is so!"
RABBI BEN EZRA.
i.
GROW old along with me! J
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was madej
Our times are in His hand
Who saith " A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God : see all, nor be afraid!"
n.
Not that, amassing flowers.
Youth sighed " Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall!"
Not that, admiring stars, 10
It yearned " Nor Jove, nor Mars ;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all! 1 '
HI.
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.
rv.
Poor vaunt of life ind;ed,
Were man but formed to feed 2O
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast :
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men ;
Irks care the crop-full i>ird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?
20 3 RABBI BEN EZRA.
v.
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. 30
VI.
Then, welcome eachjebufF
That tuTnTeaHH^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!
VII.
For thence, a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail :
j What I aspired to be, 4
'-And was not, comforts me :
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.
VIII.
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?
IX.
Yet gifts should prove their use :
I own the Past profuse 5
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 ? "
x.
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 :
RABBI BEN EZRA.
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Thou shall do ! "
209
60
XI.
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!
XII.
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, 70
Let us cry " All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"
XIII.
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 tho' in the germ.
XIV.
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 armour to indue.
XV.
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.
80
90
XVI.
For, note when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
2io RABBI BEN EZRA.
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."
XVII.
So, still within this life,
Tho' lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
" This rage was right i' the main, 100
That acquiescence vain :
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."
XVIII.
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.
XIX.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, thro' acts uncouth, no
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!
xx.
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. 120
XXI.
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!
RABBI BEN EZRA.
211
XXII.
Now, who shall arbitrate ?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive ;
Ten, who in ears and eyes 130
Match me : we all surmise,
They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall my soul believe?
XXIII.
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 :
XXIV.
But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb, 140
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 :
XXV.
Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke thro' language and escaped :
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 150
XXVI.
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 tOidaj !
W
. XXVII.
Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts eve*, past recall ;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What entered into thee,
160
212 RABBI BEN EZRA.
That was, is, and shall be :
Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure.
XXVIII.
He fixed thee mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest :
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
XXIX.
What tho' the earlier grooves
Which ran the laughing loves 170
Around thy base, no longer pause and press ?
What tho' about thy rim,
Scull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ?
XXX.
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 a-glow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with
earth's wheel? 180
XXXI.
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 colours rife,
Bound dizzily, mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst :
XXXII.
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! 190
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
EPILOGUE.
213
EPILOGUE.
FIRST SPEAKER, as David.
ON the first of the Feast of Feasts,
The Dedication Day,
When the Levites joined the Priests
At the Altar in robed array,
Gave signal to sound and say,
II.
When the thousands, rear and van,
Swarming with one accord,
Became as a single man
(Look, gesture, thought and word)
In praising and thanking the Lord,
10
in.
When the singers lift up their voice,
And the trumpets made endeavour,
Sounding, " In God rejoice! "
Saying, " In Him rejoice
Whose mercy endureth for ever!"
IV.
Then the Temple filled with a cloud,
Even the House of the Lord :
Porch bent and pillar bowed :
For the presence of the Lord,
In the glory of His cloud,
Had filled the House of the Lord.
SECOND SPEAKER, as Renan.
Gone now ! All gone across the dark so far,
Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still,
Dwindling into the distance, dies that star
Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill
.With upturned faces on as real a Face
That, stooping from grave music and mild fire,
Took in our homage, made a visible place
Thro' many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre.
For the dim human tribute. Was this true?
Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his,
20
3
2i 4 EPILOGUE.
To help by rapture God's own rapture too,
Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss?
Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast,
And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide,
When a first shadow showed the star addressed
Itself to motion, and on either side
The rims contracted as the rays retired ;
The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse,
Subsided on itself; awhile transpired
Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, 40
No prayers retard ; then even this was gone,
Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left
Silent thro' centuries, ever and anon
Venture to probe again the vault bereft
Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist
Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say
And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst,
But where may hide what came and loved our clay?
How shall the sage detect in yon expanse
The star which chose to stoop and stay for us ? 50
Unroll the records ! Hailed ye such advance
Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus ?
Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred ?
We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen,
Speak, and be sure that we again are heard,
Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene
Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame,
Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb,
Its core had never crimsoned all the same,
Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb? 60
Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post,
Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appals,
Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most
On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls !
THIRD SPEAKER.
i.
Witless alike of will and way divine,
How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine!
Friends, I have seen thro' your eyes : now use mine!
n.
Take the least man of all mankind, as I ;
Look at his head and heart, find how and why
He differs from his fellows utterly :
EPILOGUE.
in.
Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees
Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas
(They said of old) the instinctive water flees
IV.
Toward some elected point of central rock,
As tho 1 , for its sake only, roamed the flock
Of waves about the waste : awhile they mock
v.
With radiance caught for the occasion, hues
Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues
As only heaven could fitly interfuse,
215
VI.
The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king
O' the current for a minute : then they wring
Up by the roots and oversweep the thing,
80
VII.
And hasten off, to play again elsewhere
The same part, choose another peak as bare,
They find and flatter, feast and finish there.
VIII.
When you see what I tell you, nature dance
About each man of us, retire, advance,
As tho 1 the pageant's end were to enhance
IX.
His worth, and once the life, his product, gained-
Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained,
And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned, -
90
x.
When you acknowledge that one world could do
All the diverse work, old yet ever new,
Divide us, each from other, me from you,
2 i6 EPILOGUE.
XI.
Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the walls
O' the world are that? What use of swells and falls
From Levites 1 choir, Priests 1 cries, and trumpet-calls?
XII.
That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,
Or decomposes but to recompose,
Become my universe that feels and knows!
A WALL.
OTHE old wall here! How I could pass
Life in a long midsummer day,
My feet confined to a plot of grass,
My eyes from a wall not once away!
n.
And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe
Yon wall I watch', with a wealth of green :
Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth,
In lappets of tangle they laugh between.
in.
Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe ?
Why tremble the sprays ? What life o'erbrims
The body, the house, no eye can probe,
Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs ?
10
IV.
And there again ! But my heart may guess
Who tripped behind ; and she sang perhaps :
So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess
Died out and away in the leafy wraps.
v.
Wall upon wall are between us : life
And song should away from heart to heart !
I prison-bird^ with a ruddy strife
At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start
20
VI.
Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing
That 's spirit : tho' cloistered fast, soar free ;
Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring
Of the rueful neighbours, and forth to thee!
217
2 i8 APPARITIONS.
APPARITIONS.
I.
SUCH a starved bank of moss
Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across :
Violets were born !
n.
Sky what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud :
Splendid, a star!
ill.
World how it walled about
Life with disgrace 10
Till God's own smile came out :
That was thy face!
NATURAL MAGIC.
ALL I can say is I saw it!
The room was as bare as your hand.
I locked in the swarth little lady, I swear,
From the head to the foot of her well, quite as bare!
" No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, " taking my stand
At this bolt which I draw ! " And this bolt I withdraw it,
And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered
With who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered?
Impossible ! Only I saw it !
n.
All I can sing is I feel it! 10
This life was as blank as that room ;
I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed ?
Walls, ceiling and floor, not a chance for a weed!
Wide opens the entrance : where \s cold now, where 1 s gloom ?
No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it,
MAGICAL NATURE.
Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing,
These fruits of your bearing nay, birds of your winging!
A fairy-tale ! Only I feel it !
219
MAGICAL NATURE.
T.
FLOWER I never fancied, jewel I profess you!
Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower.
Save but glow inside and jewel, I should guess you,
Dim to sight and rough to touch : the glory is the dower.
n.
You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime!
Time may fray the flower-face : kind be time or cruel,
Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time!
GARDEN FANCIES.
i. THE FLOWER'S NAME.
i.
HERE 'S the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since :
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung ;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.
ii.
Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box :
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you noble roses, I know ;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!
10
220 GARDEN FANCIES.
in.
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name. 20
What a name! Was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
IV.
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her, one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase.
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground, 30
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
v.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you 't is that you blow not :
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle ;
Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? ^40
VI.
Where I find her not, beauties vanish ;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee ;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June^s twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall !
Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces
Roses, you are not so fair after all!
GARDEN FANCIES.
221
II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS.
I.
Plague take all your pedants, say I!
He who wrote what I hold in my hand,
Centuries back was so good as to die,
Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land ;
This, that was a book in its time,
Printed on paper and bound in leather,
Last month in the white of a matin-prime
Just when the birds sang all together.
n.
Into the garden I broughl it to read,
And under the arbute and laurustine IO
Read it, so help me grace in my need,
From title-page to closing line.
Chapter on chapter did I count,
As a curious traveler counts Stonehenge ;
Added up the mortal amount,
And then proceeded to my revenge.
in.
Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice
An owl would build in, were he but sage ;
For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis
In a castle of the Middle Age, 20
Joins to a lip of gum, pure ameer;
When he 'd be private, there might he spend
Hours alone in his lady's chamber :
Into this crevice I dropped our friend.
rv.
Splash, went he, as under he ducked,
At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate;
Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked
To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate ;
Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,
Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis ; 30
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.
v.
Now, this morning, betwixt the moss
And gum that locked our friend in limbo,
222 GARDEN FANCIES.
A spider had spun his web across,
And sat in the midst with arms akimbo :
So, I took pity, for learning's sake,
And, de profundis, accentibus Icetis,
Cantatel quoth I, as I got a rake ;
And up I fished his delectable treatise. 40
VI.
Here you have it, dry in the sun,
With all the binding all of a blister,
And great blue spots where the ink has run,
And reddish streaks that wink and glister
O'er the page so beautifully yellow :
Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks!
Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ?
Here 's one stuck in his chapter six !
VII.
How did he like it when the live creatures
Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, 50
And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,
Came in, each one, for his right of trover?
When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face
Made of her eggs the stately deposit,
And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface
As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet ?
VIII.
All that life and fun and romping,
All that frisking and twisting and coupling.
While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping
And clasps were cracking and covers suppling! 60
As if you had carried sour John Knox
To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,
Fastened him into a front-row box,
And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.
IX.
Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it?
Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.
Good-bye, mother-beetle ; husband-eft, sufficit !
See the snug niche I have made on my shelf !
A's book shall prop you up, B's shall cover you,
Here 's C to be grave with, or D to be gay, 70
And with E on each side, and F right over you,
Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!
IN THREE DAYS.
223
IN THREE DAYS.
I.
SO, I shall see her in three days
And just one night, but nights are short,
Then two long hours, and that is morn.
See how I come, unchanged, unworn!
Feel, where my life broke off from thine
How fresh the splinters keep and fine,
Only a touch and we combine!
n.
Too long, this time of year, the days!
But nights, at least the nights are short.
As night shows where her one moon is,
A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,
So life's night gives my lady birth
And my eyes hold her! What is worth
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ?
10
in.
O loaded curls, release your store
Of warmth and scent, as once before
The tingling hair did, lights and darks
Outbreaking into fairy sparks,
When under curl and curl I pried
After the warmth and scent inside,
Thro 1 lights and darks how manifold
The dark inspired, the light controlled,
As early Art embrowns the gold!
20
IV.
What great fear, should one say, " Three days,
That change the world might change as well
Your fortune ; and if joy delays,
Be happy that no worse befell ! "
What small fear, if another says,
" Three days and one short night beside
May throw no shadow on your ways ;
But years must teem with change untried,
With chance not easily defied,
With an end somewhere undescried."
No fear! or, if a fear be born
224 THE LOST MISTRESS,
This minute, it dies out in scorn.
Fear? I shall see her in three days
And one night, now the nights are short,
Then just two hours, and that is morn!
THE LOST MISTRESS.
ALL 'S over, then : does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes ?
Hark, 't is the sparrows' good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves !
n.
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day ;
One day more bursts them open fully :
You know the red turns gray.
in.
-To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine ? . 10
Mere friends are we, well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign :
rv.
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Tho' I keep with heart's endeavour,
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Tho' it stay in my soul for ever!
v.
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger ;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer !
ONE W 'AY OF LOVE.
22$
ONE WAY OF LOVE.
ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strew them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.
n.
How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string ; fold music's wing :
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing !
10
in.
My whole life long I learned to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'T is well!
Lose who may I still can say,
Those who win heaven, blest are they !
RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI.
I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives
First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves
The world ; and, vainly favoured, it repays
The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze
By no change of its large calm front of snow.
And, underneath the Mount, a Flower I know,
He can not have perceived, that changes ever
At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavour
To live his life, has parted, one by one,
With all a flower's true graces, for the grace
Of being but a foolish mimic sun, .,
With ray-like florets round a disk-like face.
10
22 6 NUMPHOLEPTOS.
Men nobly call by many a name the Mount
As over many a land of theirs its large
Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe
Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie,
Each to its proper praise and own account :
Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively.
n.
Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look
Across the waters to this twilight nook, 20
The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook!
HI.
Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed?
Go ! saying ever as thou dost proceed,
That I, French Rudel, choose for my device
A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice
Before its idol. See! These inexpert
And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt
The woven picture ; 't is a woman's skill
Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, ill
Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed 30
On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees
On my flower's breast as on a platform broad :
But. as the flower's concern is not for these
But solely for the sun, so men applaud
In vain this Rudel, he not looking here
But to the East th". East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear!
NUMPHOLEPTOS.
STILL you stand, still you listen, still you smile! _
Still melts your moonbeam thro' me, white awhile,
Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft
Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft
I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past
The pallid limit lies, transformed at last
To sunlight and salvation warms the soul
It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal,
Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge,
And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge 10
The hesitating pallor on to prime
Of dawn! true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action-time,
NUMPHOLEPTOS.
227
By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow
Of gold above my clay I scarce should know
From gold's self, thus suffused! For gold means love.
What means the sad slow silver smile above
My clay but pity, pardon ? at the best,
But acquiescence that I take my rest,
Contented to be clay, while in your heaven
The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven 20
Companioning God's throne they lamp before,
Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er
By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon
Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such the boon
I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this just this
Supreme endeavour! As my lips now kiss
Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe,
My eyes acquainted with the dust, dare probe
Your eyes above for what, if born, would blind
Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find 30
The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb,
Bid with life's ecstacy sense overbrim
And suck back death in the resurging joy
Love, the love whole and sole without alloy!
Vainly! The promise withers ! I employ
Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word,
Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard,
And none the more is changed your calm regard :
Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh and hard
Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. 40
Avert the rest! I rise, see! make, again
Once more, the old departure for some track
Untried yet thro' a world which brings me back
Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet,
To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet
Which smile there take from his new pilgrimage
Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage
With love not placid pardon now his thirst
For a mere drop from out the ocean erst
He drank at! Well, the quest shall be renewed. 50
Fear nothing! Tho' I linger, unembued
With any drop, my lips thus close. I go!
So did I leave you', I have found you so,
And doubtlessly, if fated to return,
So shall my pleading persevere and earn
Pardon not love in that same smile, I learn,
And lose the meaning of, to learn once more,
Vainly!
228 NUMPHOLEPTOS.
What fairy track do I explore?
What magic hall return to, like the gem
Centuply-angled o'er a diadem ? 60
You dwell there, hearted ; from your midmost home
Rays forth thro' that fantastic world I roam
Ever from centre to circumference,
Shaft upon coloured shaft : this crimsons thence,
That purples out its precinct thro' the waste.
Surely I had your sanction when I faced,
Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray
Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day
Where they began, before your feet, beneath
Your eyes, your smile : the blade is shut in sheath, 70
Fire quenched in flint ; irradiation, late
Triumphant thro' the distance, finds its fate,
Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source
And tomb of that prismatic glow : divorce
Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared.
Treading the lambent flamelet : little cared
If now its flickering took the topaz tint,
If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint
Of subterranean rage no stay nor stint
To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, 80
Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe
In yellow license. Here I reek suffused
With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used
With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow
Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you shclr
Scarce recognition, no approval, some
Mistrust, more wonder at a man become
Monstrous in garb, nay flesh disguised as well,
Thro' his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell,
I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein- 90
You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain
Earth's sombre stretch beyond your midmost place
Of vantage, trode that tinct whereof the trace
On garb and flesh repel you! Yes, I plead
Your own permission your command, indeed,
That who would worthily retain the love
Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above,
Go boldly on Adventure, break thro 1 bounds
O' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds
Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge 100
That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge
Plainer his foot its pathway all distinct
From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked
With fear, as exploration manifests
What agency it was first tipped the crests
NUMPHOLEPTOS.
229
Of unnamed wildflower, soon protruding grew
Portentous 'mid the sands, as when his hue
Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through ;
Till, last . . but why parade more shame and pain?
Are not the proofs upon me? Here again no
I pass into your presence, I receive
Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave . . .
No, not this last of times I leave you, mute,
Submitted to my penance, so my foot
May yet again adventure, tread, from source
To issue, one more ray of rays which course
Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere
Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear
Dark of the world, you promise shall return
Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops o' the urn 120
The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all
Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud-pall
Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall
O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word
Tries the adventure : and returns absurd
As frightful in that sulphur-steeped disguise
Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize
The arch-heretic was wont to bear away
Until he reached the burning. No, I say :
No fresh adventure! No more seeking love 130
At end of toil, and finding, calm above
My passion, the old statuesque regard,
The sad petrific smile !
O you less hard
And hateful than mistaken and obtuse
Unreason of a she-intelligence!
You very woman with the pert pretence
To match the male achievement! Like enough!
Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough
Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff
Grind down and grow a whisper, did man's truth
Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth,
Its rapier-edge to suit the bulrush-spear
Womanly falsehood fights with! O that ear
All fact pricks rudely, that thrice-superfine
Feminity of sense, with right divine
To waive all process, take result stain-free
From out the very muck wherein . . .
Ah me!
The true slave's querulous outbreak! All the rest
Be resignation ! Forth at your behest
140
230
APPEARANCES.
I fare. Who knows but this the crimson-quest
May deepen to a sunrise, not decay
To that cold sad sweet smile ? which I obey.
APPEARANCES.
AND so you found that poor room dull,
Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear?
Its features seemed unbeautiful :
But this I know 't was there, not here,
You plighted troth to me, the word
Which ask that poor room how it heard!
ii.
And this rich room obtains your praise
Unqualified, so bright, so fair,
So all whereat perfection stays ?
Ay, but remember here, not there, 10
The other word was spoken! Ask
This rich room how you dropped the mask!
THE WORST OF IT.
I.
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!
n.
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 thro' me !
THE ll'ORST OF IT,
231
in.
Yes, all thro' 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 !
IV.
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?
v.
But what will God say? Oh, my Sweet,
Think, and be sorry you did this thing!
Tho 1 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 ?
VI.
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!
20
VII.
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?
40
VIII.
Hardly! That must be understood!
The earth is your place of penance, then ;
232
THE WORST OF IT.
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.
IX.
It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,
When you walk alone, and review the past ; 50
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.
x.
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. 60
XI.
Witness beforehand ! Off I trip
On a safe path gay thro 1 the flowers you flung :
My very name made great by your lip,
And my heart a-glow 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 : 70
"Tho' falsehood escape in the end, what boots?
How truth would have triumphed!" you sigh too late.
XIII.
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 : : t is a secret : hope and pray!
THE WORST OF IT. 233
XIV.
For I was true at least oh, true enough!
And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems! 80
Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff!
Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine,
And skulk thro' day, and scowl in my dreams
At my swan's obtaining the crow's rebuff.
xv.
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! 90
xvr.
Far better commit a fault and have done
As you, Dear! for ever; 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.
XVII.
Misery ! What shall I say or do ?
I can not advise, or, at least, persuade.
Most like, you are glad you deceived me rue
No whit of the wrong : you endured too long, 100
Have done no evil and want no aid,
Will live the old life out and chance the new.
XVIII.
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.
XIX.
Dear, I look from my hiding-place.
Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? no
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.
TOO LATE.
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 can not show it ; you can not speak
From the churchyard neither, miles removed,
Tho' I feel by a pulse within my cheek,
Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved
Needs help in her grave and iinds none near,
Wants warmth from the heart which sends it so!
n.
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 20
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!
in.
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
Thro' the evening-country, silent and safe,
And it suffers no more till it finds the sea." 30
Or else I would think, " Perhaps some night
When new things happen, a meteor-ball
May slip thro' 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 ! "
TOO LATE.
rv.
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!"
235
40
v.
I ought to have done more : once my speech,
And once your answer, and there, the end, 50
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! " 60
VI.
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 anyone else in the world, 't is plain :
Who ever heard that another, free
As I, young, prosperous, sound and sane, 70
Poured life out, proffered it " Half a glance
Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass!"
VII.
Handsome, were you? 'T is more than they held,
More than they said ; I was 'ware and watched :
236 . TOO LATE.
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 80
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,
VIII.
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! 90
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.
IX.
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 100
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.
x.
w
And alive I shall keep and long, you will see!
I knew a man, was kicked like a dog no
From gutter to cesspool ; what cared he
So long as he picked from the filth his prog?
He saw youth, beauty and genius die,
BIFURCATION.
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.
237
120
XI.
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 130
Of a scaly-footed hawk all but!
The world was right when it called you thin.
XII.
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 !
'T is your slave shall pay, while his soul endures,
Full due, love's whole debt, summumjus.
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!
140
BIFURCATION.
WE were two lovers ; let me lie by her,
My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe
" I loved him ; but my reason bade prefer
Duty to love, reject the tempters bribe
Of rose and lily when each path diverged,
238 A LIKENESS.
And either I must pace to life's far end
As love should lead me, or, as duty urged,
Plod the worn causeway arm in arm with friend.
So, truth turned falsehood : ' How I loathe a flower,
How prize the pavement ! ' still caressed his ear 10
The deafish friend's thro' life's day, hour by hour,
As he laughed (coughing) ' Ay, it would appear! '
But deep within my heart of hearts there hid
Ever the confidence, amends for all,
That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did,
When love from life-long exile comes at call.
Duty and love, one broad way, were the best
Who doubts ? But one or other was to choose.
I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest
In that new world where light and darkness fuse." 20
Inscribe on mine "I loved her : love's track lay
O'er sand and pebble, as all travelers know.
Duty led thro' a smiling country, gay
With greensward where the rose and lily blow.
'Our roads are diverse : farewell, love! ' said she :
' 'T is duty I abide by : homely sward
And not the rock-rough picturesque for. me!
Above, where both roads join, I wait reward.
Be you as constant to the path whereon
I leave you planted! ' But man needs must move, 30
Keep moving whither, when the star is gone
Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love ?
No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block
But brought me to confusion. Where I fell,
There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock :
Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried 'All 's well!
Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere
Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust,
And two halves make that whole, whereof since here
One must suffice a man why, this one must ! ' ' 40
Inscribe each tomb thus : then, some sage acquaint
The simple which holds sinner, which holds saint!
A LIKENESS.
SOME people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup :
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
A LIKENESS.
239
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
Asks, "Who was the lady, I wonder? "
" 'T is a daub John bought at a sale,"
Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder :
" What a shade beneath her nose !
Snuff-taking, I suppose, "
Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail. 10
Or else, there 's no wife in the case,
But the portrait 's queen of the place,
Alone mid the other spoils
Of youth, masks, gloves and foils,
And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,
And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
And the cast from a fist, (" not, alas ! mine,
But my master's, the Tipton Slasher ")
And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,
And a satin shoe used for cigar-case, 20
And the chamois-horns ("shot in the Chablais")
And prints Rarey drumming on Cruiser,
And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser,
And the little edition of Rabelais :
Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets
May saunter up close to examine it,
And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it,
" But the eyes are half out of their sockets ;
That hair 's not so bad, where the gloss is,
But they 've made the girl's nose a proboscis : 30
Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy !
What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she? "
All that I own is a print,
An etching, a mezzotint ;
'T is a study, a fancy, a fiction,
Yet a fact (take my conviction)
Because it has more than a hint
Of a certain face, I never
Saw elsewhere touch or trace of
In women I 've seen the face of: 4
Just an etching, and, so far, clever.
I keep my prints, an imbroglio,
Fifty in one portfolio.
When somebody tries my claret,
We turn round chairs to the fire,
Chirp over days in a garret,
Chuckle o'er increase of salary.
Taste the good fruits of our leisure,
240
MAY AND DEATH.
Talk about pencil and lyre,
And the National Portrait Gallery : 50
Then I exhibit my treasure.
After we 've turned over twenty,
And the debt of wonder my crony owes
Is paid to my Marc Antonios,
He stops me " Festina lentb !
What's that sweet thing there, the etching?"
How my waistcoat-strings want stretching,
How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes,
How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache.
" By the by, you must take, for a keepsake, 60
That other, you praised, of Volpato's."
The fool! would he try a flight further and say
He never saw, never before to-day,
What was able to take his breath away,
A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
With the dream of, meet death with, why, I '11 not engage
But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage,
I should toss him the thing's self " 'T is only a duplicate,
A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate! "
MAY AND DEATH.
I.
I WISH that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things ;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.
n.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps I
There must be many a pair of friends
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon-births and the long evening-ends.
in.
So, for their sake, be May still May!
Let their new time, as mine of old, IO
Do all it did for me : I bid
Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
A FORGIVENESS.
IV.
241
Only, one little sight, one plant,
Woods have in May, that starts up green
Save a sole streak which, so to speak,
Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,
v.
That, they might spare ; a certain wood
Might miss the plant ; their loss were small
But I, whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that 's all.
20
A FORGIVENESS.
I AM indeed the personage you know.
As for my wife, what happened long ago
You have a right to question me, as I
Am bound to answer.
("Son, a fit reply!"
The monk half spoke, half ground thro' his clenched teeth,
At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)
Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place
I had as still I have. I ran life's race,
With the whole world to see, as only strains
His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains
Of good appal him : happy to excess,
Work freely done should balance happiness
Fully enjoyed ; and, since beneath my roof
Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof
I went forth every day, and all day long
Worked for the world. Look, how the labourer's song
Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe
Of labouring flesh and blood " She loves me so!"
10
One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve
That work grew play and vanished. " I deserve
Haply my heaven an hour before the time! "
I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime
Surprised me passing thro' the postern-gate
Not the main entry where the menials wait
And wonder why the world's affairs allow
20
242
A FORGIVENESS.
The master sudden leisure. That was how
I took the private garden-way for once.
Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce
Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.
My fancies in the natural order ran : 30
" A spy, perhaps a foe in ambuscade,
A thief, more like, a sweetheart of some maid
Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."
"Stand there!" Ibid.
Whereat my man but wraps
His face the closelier with uplifted arm
Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm
This and that pedestal as, stretch and stoop,
Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group
Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged
Each side the pathway, till the gate 's exchanged 40
For safety : one step thence, the street, you know !
Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,
Near on admiringly, I breathed again,
And back to that last fancy of the train
" A danger risked for hope of just a word
With which of all my nest may be the bird
This poacher covets for her plumage, pray ?
Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay
For such adventure, while Juana 's grave
Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave ! 50
He had the eye, could single from my brood
His proper fledgeling ! " . .
As I turned, there stood
In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.
Whether one bound had brought her, at first sight
Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be
Next moment, of the venturous man and me,
Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey :
Whether impelled because her death no day
Could come so absolutely opportune
As now at joy's height, like a year in June 60
Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose ;
Or whether hungry for my hate who knows?
Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste
Our tingling true relation, hate embraced
By hate one naked moment : anyhow
A FORGIVENESS.
243
There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now
The woman who made heaven within my house.
Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse
As well as love you are to recollect !
" Stay ! " she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked 70
With crime, that 's spotless hitherto your own !
Kill me who court the blessing, who alone
Was, am and shall be guilty, first to last !
The man lay helpless in the toils I cast
About him, helpless as the statue there
Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage : tear
Away and tread to dust the parasite,
But do the passive marble no despite !
I love him as I hate you. Kill me ! Strike
At one blow both infinitudes alike 80
Out of existence hate and love ! Whence love ?
That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove
For any searching of your steel, I think.
Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink
Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,
At every form wherein your love took shape,
At each new provocation of your kiss,
Kill me ! "
We went in.
Next day after this,
I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke
Easily, after all.
" The lifted cloak 90
Was screen sufficient : I concern myself
Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf
Whate'er the ignoble kind may prowl and brave
Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave
Detected by my household's vigilance.
Enough of such ! As for my love-romance
I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes
And wake and wonder how the film could rise
Which changed for me a barber's basin straight
Into Mambrino\s helm? I hesitate 100
Nowise to say God's sacramental cup !
Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,
Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?
To me a warning I was overbold
In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked
Only to die, if I remember, staked
244
A FORGIVENESS.
His life upon the basin's worth, and lost :
While I confess torpidity at most
In here and there a limb ; but, larne and halt,
Still should I work on, still repair my fault 1 10
Ere I took rest in death, no fear at all !
Now, work no word before the curtain fall ! "
The " curtain " ? That of death on life, I meant :
My " word " permissible in death's event,
Would be truth, soul to soul ; for, otherwise,
Day by day, three years long, there had to rise
And, night by night, to fall upon our stage
Ours, doomed to public play by heritage
Another curtain, when the world, perforce
Our critical assembly, in due course 120
Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame
To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game
If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,
The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,
Gallant and lady, but a minute since
Enarming each the other, would evince
No sign of recognition as they took
His way and her way to whatever nook
Waited them in the darkness either side
Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride 130
Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit
Of sympathetic rapture every whit
Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,
-- Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see
But calm and concord : where a speech was due
There came the speech ; when smiles were wanted too
Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,
Where foreign and domestic cares combine,
There 's audience every day and all day long ;
But finally the last of the whole throng 140
Who linger lets one see his back. For her
Why, liberty and liking : I aver,
Liking and liberty ! For me I breathed,
Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed
Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task
Of personation till next day bade mask,
And quietly betook me from that world
To the real world, not pageant : there unfurled
In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.
Three years I worked, each minute of each hour 150
Not claimed by acting : work I may dispense
With talk about, since work in evidence,
Perhaps in history ; who knows or cares ?
A FORGIVENESS.
245
After three years, this way, all unawares,
Our acting ended. She and I, at close
Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows
Of bending male and female loyalty,
Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high
At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare
Herald his passage from our palace where 160
Such visiting left glory evermore.
Again the ascent in public, till at door
As we two stood by the saloon now blank
And disencumbered of its guests there sank
A whisper in my ear, so low and yet
So unmistakable !
I half forget
The chamber you repair to, and I want
Occasion for one short word if you grant
That grace within a certain room you called
Our ' 'Study ',' for you wrote there while I scrawled 170
Some paper full of faces for my sport.
That room I can remember.. Just one short
Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake ! "
Follow me thither ! " I replied.
We break
The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp
I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp
Blind disused serpentining ways afar
From where the habitable chambers are,
Ascend, descend stairs tunneled thro 1 the stone,
Always in silence, till I reach the lone 180
Chamber sepulchred for my very own
Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,
Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,
Proof-positive of ownership ; in youth
I garnered up my gleanings here uncouth
But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears ;
Finally, this became in after years
My closet of entrenchment to withstand
Invasion of the foe on every hand
The multifarious herd in bower and hall, 190
State-room, rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call
On masters to be mindful that, before
Men, they must look like men and something more.
Here, when our lord the king's bestowment ceased
To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,
I touched ambition's height, 't was here, released
246 A FORGIVENESS.
From glory (always symboled by a chain !)
No sooner was I privileged to gain
My secret domicile than glad I flung
That last toy on the table gazed where hung 200
On hook my father's gift, the arquebus
And asked myself " Shall I envisage thus
The new prize and the old prize, when I reach
Another year's experience? own that each
Equaled advantage sportsman's statesman's tool ?
That brought me down an eagle, this a fool !"
*
Into which room on entry, I set down
The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown
Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.
Each of us looked the other in the face. 210
She spoke. " Since I could die now ..."
(To explain
Why that first struck me, know not once again
Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge
Three years before, which sundered like a wedge
Her soul from mine, tho' daily, smile to smile,
We stood before the public, all the while
Not once had I distinguished, in that face
I paid observance to, the faintest trace
Of feature more than requisite for eyes
To do their duty by and recognize : 220
So did I force mine to obey my will
And pry no further. There exists such skill,
Those know who need it. What physician shrinks
From needful contact with a corpse ? He drinks
No plague so long as thirst for knowledge, not
An idler impulse, prompts inquiry. What,
And will you disbelieve in power to bid
Our spirit back to bounds, as tho' we chid
A child from scrutiny that 's just and right
In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight, 230
Reported daily she it was not how
Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)
" Since I could die now of the truth concealed,
Yet dare not, must not die, so seems revealed
The Virgin's mind to me, for death means peace,
Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease
Of life and punishment the truth avowed
May haply lengthen, let me push the shroud
Away, that steals to muffle ere is just
My penance-fire in snow ! I dare I must 240
A FORGIVENESS.
247
Live, by avowal of the truth this truth
I loved you ! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth
That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite
Than all preceding torture, proves me right !
I loved you yet I lost you ! May I go
Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know ? "
I think there never was such how express?
Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,
As in those arms of Eastern workmanship
Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip, 250
Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,
Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays
Love still at work with the artificer
Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,
Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe
And bicker like a flame? now play the scythe
As if some broad neck tempted, now contract
And needle off into a fineness lacked
For just that puncture which the heart demands?
Then, such adornment ! Wherefore need our hands 260
Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold
Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold !
Fancy my favourite which I seem to grasp
While I describe the luxury. No asp
Is diapered more delicate round throat
Than this below the handle ! These denote
These mazy lines meandering, to end
Only in flesh they open what intend
They else but water-purlings pale contrast
With the life-crimson where they blend at last? 270
And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,
Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,
Into a sort of parrot-bird ! He pecks
A grape-bunch ; his two eyes are ruby-specks
Pure from the mine : seen this way, glassy blank.
But turn them, lo the inmost fire, that shrank
From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim !
Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game
Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men
War-wearied get amusement from that pen 280
And paper we grow sick of statesfolk tired
Of merely (when such measures are required)
Dealing out doom to people by three words,
A signature and seal : we play with swords
Suggestive of quick process. That is how
I came to like the toys described you now,
Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed
248 A FORGIVENESS.
The table, even, while my wife pursued
Her purpose to its ending. " Now you know
This shame, my three years 1 torture, let me go, 290
Burn to the very ashes ! You I lost,
Yet you I loved!"
The thing I pity most
In men is action prompted by surprise
Of anger: men? nay, bulls whose onset lies
At instance of the firework and the goad !
Once the foe prostrate, trampling once bestowed,
Prompt follows placability, regret,
Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet
Betokened strong will ! As no leap of pulse
Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse 300
My veins at this occasion for resolve.
Had that devolved which did not then devolve
Upon me, I had done what now to do
Was quietly apparent.
"Tell me who
The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase !"
" No, never ! All was folly in his case,
All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."
" And yet you loved me ? "
" Loved you. Double-dyed
In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave
Your heart and soul away from me to slave 310
At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,
I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,
What you rejected could be prized beyond
Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond
Look on, a fatal word to."
" And you still
Love me ? Do I conjecture well or ill ? "
"Conjecture well or ill ! I had three years
To spend in learning you."
"We both are peers
In knowledge, therefore : since three years are spent
Ere thus much of yourself / learn who went 320
Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind
To bear upon your action : uncombined
A FORGIVENESS. 249
Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived
Of every purer particle, survived
At last in native simple hideousness,
Utter contemptibility, nor less
Nor more. Contemptibility exempt
How could I, from its proper due contempt?
I have too much despised you to divert
My life from its set course by help or hurt 330
Of your all-despicable life perturb
The calm I work in, by men's mouths to curb,
Which at such news were clamorous enough
Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff
With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall
Blank where a scutcheon hung, by, worse than all,
Each day's procession, my paraded life
Robbed and impoverished thro' the wanting wife
Now that my life (which means my work) was grown
Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone 340
Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby
Of good and praise would how rewardingly!
Fall at your feet, a crown I hoped to cast
Before your love, my love should crown at last.
No love remaining to cast crown before,
My love stopped work now : but contempt the more
Impelled me task as ever head and hand,
Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand
Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.
Therefore I kept my memory down by stress 350
Of daily work I had no mind to stay
For the world's wonder at the wife away.
Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,
For I despised you ! But your words retrieve
Importantly the past. No hate assumed
The mask of love at any time ! There gloomed
A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged
By causes you declare ; but love's self purged
Away a fancied wrong I did both loves
Yours and my own ; by no hate's help, it proves 360
Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise
High by how many a grade ! I did despise
I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment
Replace contempt's ! First step to which ascent
Write down your own words I re-utter you !
' / loved my husband and I hated who
He was, I took up as my first chance, mere
Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with ! ' Here
Lies paper ! "
250 A FORGIVENESS.
" Would my blood for ink suffice! "
" It may : this minion from a land of spice, 370
Silk, feather every bird of jeweled breast
This poignard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest
Above your heart there.". . .
"Thus?"
" It flows, I see.
Dip there the point and write ! "
" Dictate to me !
Nay, I remember."
And she wrote the words.
I read them. Then " Since love, in you, affords
License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)
Contempt why, hate itself has passed away
In vengeance foreign to contempt. Depart
Peacefully to that death which Eastern art 380
Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true !
Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you
Dead in our chamber ! "
True as truth the tale.
She died ere morning ; then, I saw how pale
Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,
And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,
Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst
Beloved, in this your church : ay, yours !
Immersed
In thought so deeply, Father ? Sad, perhaps?
For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps 390
Still plain I seem to see ! about his head
The idle cloak, about his heart (instead
Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude
My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?
Hardly, I think ! As little helped his brow
The cloak then, Father as your grate helps now !
CENCIAJA.
251
CENCIAJA.
Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato. Italian Proverb.
MAY I print, Shelley, how it came to pass
That when your Beatrice seemed by lapse
Of many a long month since her sentence fell
Assured of pardon for the parricide,
By intercession of staunch friends, or say,
By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope,
Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,
Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew
" Stern," as you state, " nor to be moved nor bent,
But said these three words coldly ' She must die;"* 10
Subjoining ' Pardon ~? Paolo Santa Croce
Murdered his mother also y ester eve,
And he is fled: she shall not flee, at least /' "
So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled ?
Shelley, may I condense verbosity
That lies before me, into some few words
Of English, and illustrate your superb
Achievement by a rescued anecdote,
No great things, only new and true beside?
As if some mere familiar of a house 20
Should venture to accost the group at gaze
Before its Titian, famed the wide world through,
And supplement such pictured masterpiece
By whisper " Searching in the archives here,
I found the reason of the Lady's fate,
And how by accident it came to pass
She wears the halo and displays the palm :
Who, haply, else had never suffered no,
Nor graced our gallery, by consequence."
Who loved the work would like the little news : 30
Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me
Relating how the penalty was paid
By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called
Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise,
For his complicity in matricide
With Paolo his own brother, he whose crime
And flight induced " those three words She must die."
Thus I unroll you then the manuscript.
" God's justice " (of the multiplicity
Of such communications extant still, 40
Recording, each, injustice done by God
In person of his Vicar-upon-earth,
CENCfAJA.
Scarce one but leads off to the self-same tune)
" God's justice, tardy tho' it prove perchance,
Rests never on the track until it reach
Delinquency. In proof I cite the case
Of Paolo Santa Croce."
Many times
The youngster, having been importunate
That Marchesine Costanza, who remained
His widowed mother, should supplant the heir 50
Her elder son, and substitute himself
In sole possession of her faculty,
And meeting just as often with rebuff,
Blinded by so exorbitant a lust
Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,
Casting about to kill the lady thus.
He first, to cover his iniquity,
Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then
Authoritative lord, acquainting him
Their mother was contamination wrought 60
Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House
By dissoluteness and abandonment
Of soul and body to impure delight.
Moreover, since she suffered from disease,
Those symptoms which her death made manifest
Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin
About to bring confusion and disgrace
Upon the ancient lineage and high fame
O' the family, when published. Duty-bound,
He asked his brother what a son should do? 70
Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard
By letter, being absent at his land
Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more :
" It must behove a son, things haply so,
To act as honour prompts a cavalier
And son, perform his duty to all three,
Mother and brothers " here advice broke off.
By which advice informed and fortified
As he professed himself as bound by birth
To hear God's voice in primogeniture
Paolo, who kept his mother company
In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared
His whole enormity of enterprise
And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead ;
Whose death demonstrated her innocence,
CENCfAJA.
253
And happened, by the way, since Jesus Christ
Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years.
Costanza was of aspect beautiful
Exceedingly, and seemed, altho' in age
Sixty about, to far surpass her peers 90
The coetaneous dames, in youth and grace.
Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,
Foiling thereby the justice of the world :
Not God's however, God, be sure, knows well
The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here I
The present sinner, when he leasts expects,
Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,
Stumbles upon his death by violence.
A man of blood assaults a man ot blood
And slays him somehow. This was afterward : loo
Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,
And, ending thus, permits we end with him,
And push forthwith to this important point
His matricide fell out, of all the days,
Precisely when the law-procedure closed
Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death
Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife.
" Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"
A poet not inelegantly rhymed :
Nay, fratricide those Princes Massimi ! no
Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope
That all the likelihood Rome entertained
Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,
And she endured the piteous death.
Now see
The sequel what effect commandment had
For strict inquiry into this last case,
When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great
His efficacy nephew to the Pope)
Was bidden crush ay, tho' his very hand
Got soil i 1 the act crime spawning everywhere! 120
Because, when all endeavour had been used
To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain
"Make perquisition" quoth our Eminence,
"Throughout his now deserted domicile !
Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find
If haply any scrap of writing, hid
In nook or corner, may convict who knows?
Brother Onofrio of intelligence
With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood
Is but too likely : crime spawns everywhere ! " 130
254 CENCIAJA.
And, every cranny searched accordingly,
There comes to light O lynx-eyed Cardinal!
Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,
The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,
The word of counsel that things proving so,
Paolo should act the proper knightly part,
And do as was incumbent on a son,
A brother and a man of birth, be sure!
Whereat immediately the officers
Proceeded to arrest Onofrio found 140
At football, child's play, unaware of harm,
Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat
Monte Giordano ; as he left the house
He came upon the watch in wait for him
Set by the Barigel, was caught and caged.
News of which capture being, that same hour,
Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence
Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge,
To have the process in especial care,
Be, first to last, not only president 150
In person, but inquisitor as well,
Nor trust the by-work to a substitute :
Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub
The floor of Justice, so to speak, go try
His best in prison with the criminal ;
Promising, as reward for by-work done
Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained
And crime avowed, or such connivency
With crime as should procure a decent death
Himself will humbly beg which means, procure 1 60
The Hat and Purple from his relative
The Pope, and so repay a diligence
Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case,
Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat !
Whereupon did my lord the Governor
So masterfully exercise the task
Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week
By week, and month by month, from first to last
Toiled for the prize : now, punctual at his place,
Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, 170
Inquisitor pressed cushion and scoured plank,
Early and late. Noon's fervour and night's chill,
Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!
So that observers laughed as, many a day,
He left home, in July when day is flame,
CENCIAJA.
255
Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged
Into a vault where daylong night is ice,
There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,
Examining Onofrio : all the stress
Of all examination steadily 180
Converging into one pin-point, he pushed
Tentative now of head and now of heart.
As when the nuthatch taps and tries the nut
This side and that side till the kernel sound,
So did he press the sole and single point
What was the very meaning of the phrase
" Do as beseems an honoured cavalier ? "
Which one persistent question-torture, plied
Day by day, week by week, and month by month,
Morn, noon and night, fatigued away a mind 190
Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude,
And one vivacious memory gnawing there
As when a corpse is coffined with a snake :
Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem
Admission that perchance his judgment groped
So blindly, feeling for an issue aught
With semblance of an issue from the toils
Cast of a sudden round feet late so free,
He possibly might have envisaged, scarce
Recoiled from even were the issue death 200
Even her death whose life was death and worse!
Always provided that the charge of crime,
Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.
In such a sense, belike, he might advise
His brother to expurgate crime with . . . well,
With blood, if blood must follow on " the course
Taken as might beseem a cavalier.' 1 ''
Whereupon process ended, and report
Was made without a minute of delay
To Clement, who, because of those two crimes 210
O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,
Must needs impatiently desire result.
Result obtained, he bade the Governor
Summon the Congregation and despatch.
Summons made, sentence passed accordingly
Death by beheading. When his death-decree
Was intimated to Onofrio, all
Man could do that did he to save himself.
'T was much, the having gained for his defence
The Advocate o 1 the Poor, with natural help 220
CENCfAJA.
Of many noble friendly persons fain
To disengage a man of family,
So young too, from his grim entanglement :
But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled
There must be no diversion of the law.
Justice is justice, and the magistrate
Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.
So, the Marchese had his head cut off
With Rome to see, a concourse infinite ;
In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge : 230
Where, demonstrating magnanimity
Adequate to his birth and breed, poor boy !
He made the people the accustomed speech,
Exhorted them to true faith, honest works,
And special good behaviour as regards
A parent of no matter what the sex,
Bidding each son take warning from himself.
Truly, it was considered in the boy
Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap
So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled a-shore 240
By such an angler as the Cardinal !
Why make confession of his privity
To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips
Or, better, saying " When I counselled him
' To do as might beseem a cavalier?
What could I mean but ' Hide our parent 's shame
As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church !
Bury it in a convent ay, beneath
Enough dotation to prevent its ghost
From troubling earth ! ' " Mere saying thus, 't is plain, 250
Not only were his life the recompense,
But he had manifestly proved himself
True Christian, and in lieu of punishment
Got praise of all men. So the populace.
Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good
(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)
And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,
A Cardinal's equipment, some such word
As this from mouth to ear went saucily :
" Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew 260
From Santa Croce's veins ! " So joked the world.
I add : Onofrio left one child behind,
A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace
Abundantly of soul and body, doomed
To life the shorter for her father's fate.
257
270
PORPHYRIES LOVER.
By death of her, the Marquisate returned
To that Orsini House from whence it came:
Oriolo having passed as donative
To Santa Croce from their ancestors.
And no word more? By all means! Would you know
The authoritative answer, when folk urged
"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like staunch,
Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"
The answer was " Hatred implacable,
By reason they were rivals in their love."
The Cardinal's desire was to a dame
Whose favour was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,
The simpleton must ostentatiously
Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,
Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage ; 280
Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand
To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal
Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young ;
Whereon a fury entered him the fire
He quenched with what coul quench fire only blood.
Nay^ more : " there want not who affirm to boot,
The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,
Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be
That pressed too closely on him with a crowd.
He struck the Cardinal a blow : and then, 290
To put a face upon the incident,
Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court
I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,
Ye youth, by this example how may greed
Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!"
So ends the chronicler, beginning with
" God's justice, tardy tho' it prove perchance,
Rests never till it reach delinquency."
Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass
That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome ? 300
PORPHYRIA'S LOVER.
I.
r "T'HE rain set early in to-night,
_L The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
258 PORPHYRIES LOVER.
n.
When glided in Porphyria ; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ;
Which done, she rose, and from her form 10
in.
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
IV.
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 20
v.
Murmuring how she loved me she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
VI.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain :
So, she was come thro' wind and rain. 30
VII.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud ; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me ; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
VIII.
That moment she was mine, .n'n-e, fair,
Perfectly pure and good : I found
FILIPPO BALDINUCCL
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
259
40
IX.
And strangled her. No pain felt she ;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids : again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
x.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck ; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss :
I propped her head up as before.
Only, this time my shoulder bore
XI.
Her head, which droops upon it still :
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead !
XII .
Porphyria's love : she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now.
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word !
60
ILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL
A Reminiscence of A.D. 1676.
NO, boy, we must not (so began
My Uncle he 's with God long since
A-petting me, the good old man!)
We must not (and he seemed to wince,
2 6o FILIPPO BALDINUCC1
And lost that laugh whereto had grown
His chuckle at my piece of news,
How cleverly I aimed my stone)
I fear we must not pelt the Jews!
n.
When I was young, indeed, ah, faith
Was young and strong in Florence too! IO
We Christians never dreamed of scathe
Because we cursed or kicked the crew.
But now well, well! The olive-crops
Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks
Would always spare religious shops
Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!
ill.
I '11 tell you (and his eye regained
Its twinkle) tell you something choice !
Something may help you keep unstained
Your honest zeal to stop the voice 20
Of unbelief with stone-throw spite
Of laws, which modern fools enact,
That we must suffer Jews in sight
Go wholly unmolested! F 
