Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Since, the end of life being manifest,

  He had burned his way through 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

  And prove its worth at a moment’s view!

  Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?

  Where a button goes, ‘twere 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,

  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,

  Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

  You of the virtue (we issue join)

  How strive you? De te, fabula.

  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 gleaned at the wave of her feather.

  II.

  Yet the day wears,

  And door succeeds door;

  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 ‘tis 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,

  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 —

  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 —

  Ever

  Removed!

  How It Strikes a Contemporary

  I 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, though none did:

  The cloak that somewhat shone and shewed the threads

  Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.

  He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane,

  Scenting the world, looking it full in face,

  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 scrutinising 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

  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 cognisance of men and things,

  If any beat a horse, you felt he saw;

  If any cursed a woman, he took note;

  Yet stared at nobody, — they stared at him,

  And found, less to their pleasure than surprise,

  He seemed to know them and expect as much.

  So, next time that a neighbour’s tongue was loose

  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!

  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

  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,

  And shifts his ministry some once a month;

  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!”

  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!

  The whole street might o’erlook him as he sat,

&
nbsp; 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!”

  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 —

  I was 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,

  And seen who lined the clean gay garret’s sides

  And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,

  With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.

  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 his 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,

  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.

  The Last Ride Together

  I.

  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.

  II.

  My mistress bent that brow of hers;

  Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs

  When pity would be softening through,

  Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,

  With life or death in the balance: right!

  The blood replenished me again;

  My last thought was at least not vain:

  I and my mistress, side by side

  Shall be together, breathe and ride,

  So, one day more am I deified.

  Who knows but the world may end tonight?

  III.

  Hush! if you saw some western cloud

  All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed

  By many benedictions — sun’s

  And moon’s and evening-star’s at once —

  And so, you, looking and loving best,

  Conscious grew, your passion drew

  Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,

  Down on you, near and yet more near,

  Till flesh must fade for heaven was here! —

  Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear!

  Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

  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.

  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

  Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

  Look at the end of work, contrast

  The petty done, the undone vast,

  This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

  I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

  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.

  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,

  And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.

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

  Have you yourself what’s best for men?

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

  Nearer one whit your own sublime

  Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

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

  VIII.

  And you, great sculptor — so, you gave

  A score of years to Art, her slave,

  And that’s your Venus, whence we turn

  To yonder girl that fords the burn!

  You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

  What, man of music, you grown grey

  With notes and nothing else to say,

  Is this your sole praise from a friend,

  “Greatly his opera’s strains intend,

  “Put 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

  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?

  The Patriot

  AN OLD STORY.

  I.

  IT WAS roses, roses, all the way,

  With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:

  The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

  The chu
rch-spires flamed, such flags they had,

  A year ago on this very day.

  II.

  The air broke into a mist with bells,

  The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

  Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels —

  But give me your sun from yonder skies!”

  They had answered, “And afterward, what else?”

  III.

  Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

  To give it my loving friends to keep.

  Nought man could do, have I left undone:

  And you see my harvest, what I reap

  This very day, now a year is run.

  IV.

  There’s nobody on the house-tops now —

  Just a palsied few at the windows set —

  For the best of the sight is, all allow,

  At the Shambles’ Gate — or, better yet,

  By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

  V.

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

  A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

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

  For they fling, whoever has a mind,

  Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

  VI.

  Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go!

  In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

  “Paid by the World, — what dost thou owe

  Me?” — God might question: but now instead,

  ‘Tis God shall requite! I am safer so.

  Master Hugues of Saxe-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, —

  I, the poor organist here,

  Hugues, the composer of note,

  Dead through, and done with, this many a year:

  Let’s have a colloquy, something to quote,

  Make the world prick up its ear!

  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,

  Baulks one of holding the base.

  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!

  (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 —

  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,