Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill.

  But I love Muléykeh’s face: her forefront whitens indeed

  Like a yellowish wave’s cream-crest. Your camels — go gaze on them!

  Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still.”

  A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl.

  “You are open-hearted, ay — moist-handed, a very prince.

  Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift!

  My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts ‘Fool,

  Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since

  God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift.’ “

  Said Hóseyn, “God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives

  That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted — hold high, wave wide

  Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left?

  The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muléykeh lives.

  Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muléykeh died?

  It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?”

  Another year, and — hist! What craft is it Duhl designs?

  He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time,

  But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench

  Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines

  With the robber — and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime,

  Must wring from Hóseyn’s grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench.

  “He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store,

  And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew?

  Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one!

  He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more —

  For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two:

  I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son.

  “I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash

  Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile,

  And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die:

  Let him die, then, — let me live! Be bold — but not too rash!

  1 have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while

  I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy!

  “As he said — there lies in peace Hóseyn — how happy! Beside

  Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist:

  ‘T is therefore he sleeps so sound — the moon through the roof reveals.

  And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide,

  Buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed

  The winning tail’s fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels.

  “No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief

  Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do.

  What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape.”

  Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl, — so a serpent disturbs no leaf

  In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through,

  He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape.

  He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped

  The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before,

  He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow.

  Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped,

  Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more,

  He is out and off and away on Buhéyseh, whose worth we know!

  And Hóseyn — his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride,

  And Buhéyseh does her part, — they gain — they are gaining fast

  On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit,

  And to reach the ridge El-Sabán, — no safety till that be spied!

  And Buhuyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last,

  For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit.

  She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer:

  Buhéyseh is mad with hope — beat sister she shall and must,

  Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank.

  She is near now, nose by tail — they are neck by croup — joy! fear!

  What folly makes Hóseyn shout “Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust,

  Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl’s left flank!”

  And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceived

  Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey,

  And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore.

  And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved,

  Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may:

  Then he turned Buhéyseh’s neck slow homeward, weeping sore.

  And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the ground

  Weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-Asád

  In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief;

  And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound

  His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad!

  And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief.

  And they jeered him, one and all: “Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope!

  How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune’s spite?

  To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl,

  And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope,

  The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!” —

  “And the beaten in speed!” wept Hóseyn: “You never have loved my Pearl.”

  Pietro of Abano

  Petrus Aponensis — there was a magician!

  When that strange adventure happened, which I mean to tell my hearers,

  Nearly had he tried all trades — beside physician,

  Architect, astronomer, astrologer, — or worse:

  How else, as the old books warrant, was he able,

  All at once, through all the world, to prove the promptest of appearers

  Where was prince to cure, tower to build as high as Babel,

  Star to name or sky-sign read, — yet pouch, for pains, a curse?

  — Curse: for when a vagrant, foot-sore, travel-tattered,

  Now a young man, now an old man, Turk or Arab, Jew or Gipsy, —

  Proffered folk in passing — O for pay, what mattered? —

  “I’ll be doctor, I’ll play builder, star I’ll name — sign read!”

  Soon as prince was cured, tower built, and fate predicted,

  “Who may you be?” came the question; when he answered, “Petrus ipse,”

  “Just as we divined!” cried folk — ”A wretch convicted

  Long ago of dealing with the devil — you indeed!”

  So, they cursed him roundly, all his labour’s payment,

  Motioned him — the convalescent prince would — to vacate the presence:

  Babylonians plucked his beard and tore his raiment,

  Drove him from that tower he built: while, had he peered at stars,

  Town howled “Stone the quack who styles our Dog-star — Sirius!”

  Country yelled “Aroint the churl who prophesies we take no pleasance

  Under vine and fig-tree, since the year’s delirious,

  Bears no crop of any kind, — all through the planet Mars!”

  Straightway would the whilom youngster grow a grisard,

  Or, as case might hap, the
hoary eld drop off and show a stripling.

  Town and country groaned — indebted to a wizard!

  “Curse — nay, kick and cuff him — fit requital of his pains!

  Gratitude in word or deed were wasted truly!

  Rather make the Church amends by crying out on, cramping, crippling

  One who, on pretence of serving man, serves duly

  Man’s arch foe: not ours, be sure, but Satan’s — his the gains!”

  Peter grinned and bore it, such disgraceful usage:

  Somehow, cuffs and kicks and curses seem ordained his like to suffer:

  Prophet’s pay with Christians, now as in the Jew’s age,

  Still is — stoning: so, he meekly took his wage and went,

  — Safe again was found ensconced in those old quarters,

  Padua’s blackest blindest by-street, — none the worse, nay, somewhat tougher:

  “Calculating,” quoth he, “soon I join the martyrs,

  Since, who magnify my lore on burning me are bent.”

  Therefore, on a certain evening, to his alley

  Peter slunk, all bruised and broken, sore in body, sick in spirit,

  Just escaped from Cairo where he launched a galley

  Needing neither sails nor oars nor help of wind or tide,

  — Needing but the fume of fire to set a-flying

  Wheels like mad which whirled you quick — North, South, where’er you pleased require it, —

  That is — would have done so had not priests come prying,

  Broke his engine up and bastinadoed him beside.

  As he reached his lodging, stopped there unmolested,

  (Neighbours feared him, urchins fled him, few were bold enough to follow)

  While his fumbling fingers tried the lock and tested

  Once again the queer key’s virtue, oped the sullen door, —

  Someone plucked his sleeve, cried, “Master, pray your pardon!

  Grant a word to me who patient wait you in your archway’s hollow!

  Hard on you men’s hearts are: be not your heart hard on

  Me who kiss your garment’s hem, O Lord of magic lore!

  “Mage — say I, who no less, scorning tittle-tattle,

  To the vulgar give no credence when they prate of Peter’s magic,

  Deem his art brews tempest, hurts the crops and cattle,

  Hinders fowls from laying eggs and worms from spinning silk,

  Rides upon a he-goat, mounts at need a broomstick:

  While the price he pays for this (so turns to comic what was tragic)

  Is — he may not drink — dreads like the Day of Doom’s tick —

  One poor drop of sustenance ordained mere men — that’s milk!

  “Tell such tales to Padua! Think me no such dullard!

  Not from these benighted parts did I derive my breath and being!

  I am from a land whose cloudless skies are coloured

  Livelier, suns orb largelier, airs seem incense, — while, on earth —

  What, instead of grass, our fingers and our thumbs cull,

  Proves true moly! sounds and sights there help the body’s hearing, seeing,

  Till the soul grows godlike: brief, — you front no numbscull

  Shaming by ineptitude the Greece that gave him birth!

  “Mark within my eye its iris mystic-lettered —

  That’s my name! and note my ear — its swan-shaped cavity, my emblem!

  Mine’s the swan-like nature born to fly unfettered

  Over land and sea in search of knowledge — food for song.

  Art denied the vulgar! Geese grow fat on barley,

  Swans require ethereal provend, undesirous to resemble ‘em —

  Soar to seek Apollo, — favoured with a parley

  Such as, Master, you grant me — who will not hold you long.

  “Leave to learn to sing — for that your swan petitions:

  Master, who possess the secret, say not nay to such a suitor!

  All I ask is — bless mine, purest of ambitions!

  Grant me leave to make my kind wise, free, and happy! How?

  Just by making me — as you are mine — their model!

  Geese have goose-thoughts: make a swan their teacher first, then coadjutor, —

  Let him introduce swan-notions to each noddle, —

  Geese will soon grow swans, and men become what I am now!

  “That’s the only magic — had but fools discernment,

  Could they probe and pass into the solid through the soft and seeming!

  Teach me such true magic — now, and no adjournment!

  Teach your art of making fools subserve the man of mind!

  Magic is the power we men of mind should practise,

  Draw fools to become our drudges, docile henceforth, never dreaming —

  While they do our hests for fancied gain — the fact is

  What they toil and moil to get proves falsehood: truth’s behind!

  “See now! you conceive some fabric — say, a mansion

  Meet for monarch’s pride and pleasure: this is truth — a thought has fired you,

  Made you fain to give some cramped concept expansion,

  Put your faculty to proof, fulfil your nature’s task.

  First you fascinate the monarch’s self: he fancies

  He it was devised the scheme you execute as he inspired you:

  He in turn sets slaving insignificances

  Toiling, moiling till your structure stands there — all you ask!

  “Soon the monarch’s known for what he was — a ninny:

  Soon the rabble-rout leave labour, take their work-day wage and vanish:

  Soon the late puffed bladder, pricked, shows lank and skinny —

  ‘Who was its inflator?’ ask we, ‘whose the giant lungs?’

  Petri en pulmones! What though men prove ingrates?

  Let them so they stop at crucifixion — buffet, ban and banish!

  Peter’s power’s apparent: human praise — its din grates

  Harsh as blame on ear unused to aught save angels’ tongues.

  “Ay, there have been always, since our world existed,

  Mages who possessed the secret — needed but to stand still, fix eye

  On the foolish mortal: straight was he enlisted

  Soldier, scholar, servant, slave — no matter for the style!

  Only through illusion; ever what seemed profit —

  Love or lucre — justified obedience to the Ipse dixi:

  Work done — palace reared from pavement up to soffit —

  Was it strange if builders smelt out cheating all the while?

  “Let them pelt and pound, bruise, bray you in a mortar!

  What’s the odds to you who seek reward of quite another nature?

  You’ve enrolled your name where sages of your sort are,

  — Michael of Constantinople, Hans of Halberstadt!

  Nay and were you nameless, still you’ve your conviction

  You it was and only you — what signifies the nomenclature? —

  Ruled the world in fact, though how you ruled be fiction

  Fit for fools: true wisdom’s magic you — if e’er man — had ‘t!

  “But perhaps you ask me, ‘Since each ignoramus

  While he profits by such magic persecutes the benefactor,

  What should I expect but — once I render famous

  You as Michael, Hans, and Peter — just one ingrate more?

  If the vulgar prove thus, whatsoe’er the pelf be,

  Pouched through my beneficence — and doom me dungeoned, chained, or racked, or

  Fairly burned outright — how grateful will yourself be

  When, his secret gained, you match your — master just before?’

  “That’s where I await you! Please, revert a little!

  What do folks report about you if not this — which, though chimeric,

  Still, as figurative, suits you to a tittle —

 
; That, — although the elements obey your nod and wink,

  Fades or flowers the herb you chance to smile or sigh at,

  While your frown bids earth quake palled by obscuration atmospheric, —

  Brief, although through nature naught resists your fiat,

  There’s yet one poor substance mocks you — milk you may not drink!

  “Figurative language! Take my explanation!

  Fame with fear, and hate with homage, these your art procures in plenty.

  All’s but daily dry bread: what makes moist the ration?

  Love, the milk that sweetens man his meal — alas, you lack:

  I am he who, since he fears you not, can love you.

  Love is born of heart not mind, de corde natus haud de mente;

  Touch my heart and love’s yours, sure as shines above you

  Sun by day and star by night though earth should go to wrack!

  “Stage by stage you lift me — kiss by kiss I hallow

  Whose but your dear hand my helper, punctual as at each new impulse

  I approach my aim? Shell chipped, the eaglet callow

  Needs a parent’s pinion-push to quit the eyrie’s edge:

  But once fairly launched forth, denizen of aether,

  While each effort sunward bids the blood more freely through each limb pulse,

  Sure the parent feels, as gay they soar together,

  Fully are all pains repaid when love redeems its pledge!”

  Then did Peter’s tristful visage lighten somewhat,

  Vent a watery smile as though inveterate mistrust were thawing.

  “Well, who knows?” he slow broke silence. “Mortals — come what

  Come there may — are still the dupes of hope there’s luck in store.

  Many scholars seek me, promise mounts and marvels:

  Here stand I to witness how they step ‘twixt me and clapperclawing!

  Dry bread, — that I’ve gained me: truly I should starve else:

  But of milk, no drop was mine! Well, shuffle cards once more!”

  At the word of promise thus implied, our stranger —

  What can he but cast his arms, in rapture of embrace, round Peter?

  “Hold! I choke!” the mage grunts. “Shall I in the manger

  Any longer play the dog? Approach, my calf, and feed!

  Bene . . . won’t you wait for grace?” But sudden incense

  Wool-white, serpent-solid, curled up — perfume growing sweet and sweeter

  Till it reached the young man’s nose and seemed to win sense

  Soul and all from out his brain through nostril: yes, indeed!

  Presently the young man rubbed his eyes. “Where am I?