Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Before the indignant outcry break from lip!

  Are these i’ the mood to murder, hardly loosed

  From healthy autumn-finish, the ploughed glebe,

  Grapes in the barrel, work at happy end,

  And winter come with rest and Christmas play?

  How greet they Guido with his final task —

  (As if he but proposed “One vineyard more

  “To dig, ere frost come, then relax indeed!”)

  “Anywhere, anyhow and anywhy,

  “Murder me some three people, old and young,

  “Ye never heard the names of, — and be paid

  “So much!” And the whole four accede at once.

  Demur? As cattle would, bid march or halt!

  Is it some lingering habit, old fond faith

  I’ the lord of the land, instructs them, — birthright-badge

  Of feudal tenure claims its slaves again?

  Not so at all, thou noble human heart!

  All is done purely for the pay, — which, earned,

  And not forthcoming at the instant, makes

  Religion heresy, and the lord o’ the land

  Fit subject for a murder in his turn.

  The patron with cut throat and rifled purse,

  Deposited i’ the roadside-ditch, his due,

  Nought hinders each good fellow trudging home,

  The heavier by a piece or two in poke,

  And so with new zest to the common life,

  Mattock and spade, plough-tail and waggon-shaft,

  Till some such other piece of luck betide,

  Who knows? Since this is a mere start in life,

  And none of them exceeds the twentieth year.

  Nay, more i’ the background, yet? Unnoticed forms

  Claim to be classed, subordinately vile?

  Complacent lookers-on that laugh, — perchance

  Shake head as their friend’s horse-play grows too rough

  With the mere child he manages amiss —

  But would not interfere and make bad worse

  For twice the fractious tears and prayers: thou know’st

  Civility better, Marzi-Medici,

  Governor for thy kinsman the Granduke!

  Fit representative of law, man’s lamp

  I’ the magistrate’s grasp full-flare, no rushlight-end

  Sputtering ‘twixt thumb and finger of the priest!

  Whose answer to these Comparini’s cry

  Is a threat, — whose remedy of Pompilia’s wrong

  A shrug o’ the shoulder, a facetious word

  Or wink, traditional with Tuscan wits,

  To Guido in the doorway. Laud to law!

  The wife is pushed back to the husband, he

  Who knows how these home-squabblings persecute

  People who have the public good to mind,

  And work best with a silence in the court!

  Ah, but I save my word at least for thee,

  Archbishop, who art under me in the Church,

  As I am under God, — thou, chosen by both

  To do the shepherd’s office, feed the sheep —

  How of this lamb that panted at thy foot

  While the wolf pressed on her within crook’s reach?

  Wast thou the hireling that did turn and flee?

  With thee at least anon the little word!

  Such denizens o’ the cave now cluster round

  And heat the furnace sevenfold: time indeed

  A bolt from heaven should cleave roof and clear place,

  Transfix and show the world, suspiring flame,

  The main offender, scar and brand the rest

  Hurrying, each miscreant to his hole: then flood

  And purify the scene with outside day —

  Which yet, in the absolutest drench of dark,

  Ne’er wants a witness, some stray beauty-beam

  To the despair of hell.

  First of the first,

  Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now

  Perfect in whiteness — stoop thou down, my child,

  Give one good moment to the poor old Pope

  Heart-sick at having all his world to blame —

  Let me look at thee in the flesh as erst,

  Let me enjoy the old clean linen garb,

  Not the new splendid vesture! Armed and crowned,

  Would Michael, yonder, be, nor crowned nor armed,

  The less pre-eminent angel? Everywhere

  I see in the world the intellect of man,

  That sword, the energy his subtle spear,

  The knowledge which defends him like a shield —

  Everywhere; but they make not up, I think,

  The marvel of a soul like thine, earth’s flower

  She holds up to the softened gaze of God!

  It was not given Pompilia to know much,

  Speak much, to write a book, to move mankind,

  Be memorised by who records my time.

  Yet if in purity and patience, if

  In faith held fast despite the plucking fiend,

  Safe like the signet-stone with the new name

  That saints are known by, — if in right returned

  For wrong, most pardon for worst injury,

  If there be any virtue, any praise, —

  Then will this woman-child have proved — who knows? —

  Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me,

  Ten years a gardener of the untoward ground,

  I till, — this earth, my sweat and blood manure

  All the long day that barrenly grows dusk:

  At least one blossom makes me proud at eve

  Born ‘mid the briers of my enclosure! Still

  (Oh, here as elsewhere, nothingness of man!)

  Those be the plants, imbedded yonder South

  To mellow in the morning, those made fat

  By the master’s eye, that yield such timid leaf,

  Uncertain bud, as product of his pains!

  While — see how this mere chance-sown, cleft-nursed seed,

  That sprang up by the wayside ‘neath the foot

  Of the enemy, this breaks all into blaze,

  Spreads itself, one wide glory of desire

  To incorporate the whole great sun it loves

  From the inch-height whence it looks and longs! My flower,

  My rose, I gather for the breast of God,

  This I praise most in thee, where all I praise,

  That having been obedient to the end

  According to the light allotted, law

  Prescribed thy life, still tried, still standing test, —

  Dutiful to the foolish parents first,

  Submissive next to the bad husband, — nay,

  Tolerant of those meaner miserable

  That did his hests, eked out the dole of pain, —

  Thou, patient thus, couldst rise from law to law,

  The old to the new, promoted at one cry

  O’ the trump of God to the new service, not

  To longer bear, but henceforth fight, be found

  Sublime in new impatience with the foe!

  Endure man and obey God: plant firm foot

  On neck of man, tread man into the hell

  Meet for him, and obey God all the more!

  Oh child that didst despise thy life so much

  When it seemed only thine to keep or lose,

  How the fine ear felt fall the first low word

  “Value life, and preserve life for My sake!”

  Thou didst . . . how shall I say? . . . receive so long

  The standing ordinance of God on earth,

  What wonder if the novel claim had clashed

  With old requirement, seemed to supersede

  Too much the customary law? But, brave,

  Thou at first prompting of what I call God,

  And fools call Nature, didst hear, comprehend,

  Accept the obligation laid on thee,

  Mother elect, to sav
e the unborn child,

  As brute and bird do, reptile and the fly,

  Ay and, I nothing doubt, even tree, shrub, plant

  And flower o’ the field, all in a common pact

  To worthily defend that trust of trusts,

  Life from the Ever Living: — didst resist —

  Anticipate the office that is mine —

  And with his own sword stay the upraised arm,

  The endeavour of the wicked, and defend

  Him who, — again in my default, — was there

  For visible providence: one less true than thou

  To touch, i’ the past, less practised in the right,

  Approved so far in all docility

  To all instruction, — how had such an one

  Made scruple “Is this motion a decree?”

  It was authentic to the experienced ear

  O’ the good and faithful servant. Go past me

  And get thy praise, — and be not far to seek

  Presently when I follow if I may!

  And surely not so very much apart

  Need I place thee, my warrior-priest, — in whom

  What if I gain the other rose, the gold.

  We grave to imitate God’s miracle,

  Greet monarchs with, good rose in its degree?

  Irregular noble scapegrace — son the same!

  Faulty — and peradventure ours the fault

  Who still misteach, mislead, throw hook and line

  Thinking to land leviathan forsooth,

  Tame the scaled neck, play with him as a bird,

  And bind him for our maidens! Better bear

  The King of Pride go wantoning awhile,

  Unplagued by cord in nose and thorn in jaw,

  Through deep to deep, followed by all that shine,

  Churning the blackness hoary: He who made

  The comely terror, He shall make the sword

  To match that piece of netherstone his heart,

  Ay, nor miss praise thereby; who else shut fire

  I’ the stone, to leap from mouth at sword’s first stroke,

  In lamps of love and faith, the chivalry

  That dares the right and disregards alike

  The yea and nay o’ the world? Self-sacrifice, —

  What if an idol took it? Ask the Church

  Why she was wont to turn each Venus here, —

  Poor Rome perversely lingered round, despite

  Instruction, for the sake of purblind love, —

  Into Madonna’s shape, and waste no whit

  Of aught so rare on earth as gratitude!

  All this sweet savour was not ours but thine,

  Nard of the rock, a natural wealth we name

  Incense, and treasure up as food for saints,

  When flung to us — whose function was to give

  Not find the costly perfume. Do I smile?

  Nay, Caponsacchi, much I find amiss,

  Blameworthy, punishable in this freak

  Of thine, this youth prolonged though age was ripe,

  This masquerade in sober day, with change

  Of motley too, — now hypocrite’s-disguise,

  Now fool’s-costume: which lie was least like truth,

  Which the ungainlier, more discordant garb

  With that symmetric soul inside my son,

  The churchman’s or the worldling’s, — let him judge,

  Our Adversary who enjoys the task!

  I rather chronicle the healthy rage, —

  When the first moan broke from the martyr-maid

  At that uncaging of the beasts, — made bare

  My athlete on the instant, gave such good

  Great undisguised leap over post and pale

  Right into the mid-cirque, free fighting-place.

  There may have been rash stripping — every rag

  Went to the winds, — infringement manifold

  Of laws prescribed pudicity, I fear,

  In this impulsive and prompt self-display!

  Ever such tax comes of the foolish youth;

  Men mulct the wiser manhood, and suspect

  No veritable star swims out of cloud:

  Bear thou such imputation, undergo

  The penalty I nowise dare relax, —

  Conventional chastisement and rebuke.

  But for the outcome, the brave starry birth

  Conciliating earth with all that cloud,

  Thank heaven as I do! Ay, such championship

  Of God at first blush, such prompt cheery thud

  Of glove on ground that answers ringingly

  The challenge of the false knight, — watch we long,

  And wait we vainly for its gallant like

  From those appointed to the service, sworn

  His body-guard with pay and privilege —

  White-cinct, because in white walks sanctity,

  Red-socked, how else proclaim fine scorn of flesh,

  Unchariness of blood when blood faith begs?

  Where are the men-at-arms with cross on coat?

  Aloof, bewraying their attire: whilst thou

  In mask and motley, pledged to dance not fight,

  Sprang’st forth the hero! In thought, word and deed,

  How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure,

  I find it easy to believe: and if

  At any fateful moment of the strange

  Adventure, the strong passion of that strait,

  Fear and surprise, may have revealed too much, —

  As when a thundrous midnight, with black air

  That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell,

  Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed

  Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides

  Immensity of sweetness, — so, perchance,

  Might the surprise and fear release too much

  The perfect beauty of the body and soul

  Thou savedst in thy passion for God’s sake,

  He who is Pity: was the trial sore?

  Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!

  Why comes temptation but for man to meet

  And master and make crouch beneath his foot,

  And so be pedestalled in triumph? Pray

  “Lead us into no such temptations, Lord!”

  Yea, but, O Thou whose servants are the bold,

  Lead such temptations by the head and hair,

  Reluctant dragons, up to who dares fight,

  That so he may do battle and have praise!

  Do I not see the praise? — that while thy mates

  Bound to deserve i’ the matter, prove at need

  Unprofitable through the very pains

  We gave to train them well and start them fair, —

  Are found too stiff, with standing ranked and ranged,

  For onset in good earnest, too obtuse

  Of ear, through iteration of command,

  For catching quick the sense of the real cry, —

  Thou, whose sword-hand was used to strike the lute,

  Whose sentry-station graced some wanton’s gate,

  Thou didst push forward and show mettle, shame

  The laggards, and retrieve the day. Well done!

  Be glad thou hast let light into the world,

  Through that irregular breach o’ the boundary, — see

  The same upon thy path and march assured,

  Learning anew the use of soldiership,

  Self-abnegation, freedom from all fear,

  Loyalty to the life’s end! Ruminate,

  Deserve the initiatory spasm, — once more

  Work, be unhappy but bear life, my son!

  And troop you, somewhere ‘twixt the best and worst,

  Where crowd the indifferent product, all too poor

  Makeshift, starved samples of humanity!

  Father and mother, huddle there and hide!

  A gracious eye may find you! Foul and fair,

  Sadly mixed natures: self-indulgent, �
�� yet

  Self-sacrificing too: how the love soars,

  How the craft, avarice, vanity and spite

  Sink again! So they keep the middle course,

  Slide into silly crime at unaware,

  Slip back upon the stupid virtue, stay

  Nowhere enough for being classed, I hope

  And fear. Accept the swift and rueful death,

  Taught, somewhat sternlier than is wont, what waits

  The ambiguous creature, — how the one black tuft

  Steadies the aim of the arrow just as well

  As the wide faultless white on the bird’s breast.

  Nay, you were punished in the very part

  That looked most pure of speck, — the honest love

  Betrayed you, — did love seem most worthy pains,

  Challenge such purging, as ordained survive

  When all the rest of you was done with? Go!

  Never again elude the choice of tints!

  White shall not neutralise the black, nor good

  Compensate bad in man, absolve him so:

  Life’s business being just the terrible choice.

  So do I see, pronounce on all and some

  Grouped for my judgment now, — profess no doubt

  While I pronounce: dark, difficult enough

  The human sphere, yet eyes grow sharp by use,

  I find the truth, dispart the shine from shade,

  As a mere man may, with no special touch

  O’ the lynx-gift in each ordinary orb:

  Nay, if the popular notion class me right,

  One of well nigh decayed intelligence, —

  What of that? Through hard labour and good will,

  And habitude that gives a blind man sight

  At the practised finger-ends of him, I do

  Discern, and dare decree in consequence,

  Whatever prove the peril of mistake.

  Whence, then, this quite new quick cold thrill, — cloud-like,

  This keen dread creeping from a quarter scarce

  Suspected in the skies I nightly scan?

  What slacks the tense nerve, saps the wound-up spring

  Of the act that should and shall be, sends the mount

  And mass o’ the whole man’s-strength, — conglobed so late —

  Shudderingly into dust, a moment’s work?

  While I stand firm, go fearless, in this world,

  For this life recognise and arbitrate,

  Touch and let stay, or else remove a thing,

  Judge “This is right, this object out of place,”

  Candle in hand that helps me and to spare, —

  What if a voice deride me, “Perk and pry!

  “Brighten each nook with thine intelligence!

  “Play the good householder, ply man and maid

  “With tasks prolonged into the midnight, test

  “Their work and nowise stint of the due wage

  “Each worthy worker: but with gyves and whip