Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Back must I foot it, I and my compeers,

  Only to reach, across a hundred years,

  The bandsman Avison whose little book

  And large tune thus had led me the long way

  (As late a rag my blackcap) from to-day

  And to-day’s music-manufacture, — Brahms,

  Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt, — to where — trumpets, shawms,

  Show yourselves joyful! — Handel reigns — supreme?

  By no means! Buononcini’s work is theme

  For fit laudation of the impartial few:

  (We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion too

  Favours Geminiani — of those choice

  Concertos: nor there wants a certain voice

  Raised in thy favour likewise, famed Pepusch

  Dear to our great-grandfathers! In a bush

  Of Doctor’s wig, they prized thee timing beats

  While Greenway trilled “Alexis.” Such were feats

  Of music in thy day — dispute who list —

  Avison, of Newcastle organist!

  V.

  And here’s your music all alive once more —

  As once it was alive, at least: just so

  The figured worthies of a waxwork-show

  Attest — such people, years and years ago,

  Looked thus when outside death had life below,

  — Could say “We are now,” not “We were of yore,”

  — ”Feel how our pulses leap!” and not “Explore —

  Explain why quietude has settled o’er

  Surface once all-awork!” Ay, such a “Suite”

  Roused heart to rapture, such a “Fugue” would catch

  Soul heavenwards up, when time was: why attach

  Blame to exhausted faultlessness, no match

  For fresh achievement? Feat once — ever feat!

  How can completion grow still more complete?

  Hear Avison! He tenders evidence

  That music in his day as much absorbed

  Heart and soul then as Wagner’s music now.

  Perfect from centre to circumference —

  Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed:

  And yet — and yet — whence comes it that “O Thou” —

  Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus —

  Will not again take wing and fly away

  (Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us)

  In some unmodulated minor? Nay,

  Even by Handel’s help!

  VI.

  I state it thus:

  There is no truer truth obtainable

  By Man than comes of music. “Soul” — (accept

  A word which vaguely names what no adept

  In word-use fits and fixes so that still

  Thing shall not slip word’s fetter and remain

  Innominate as first, yet, free again,

  Is no less recognized the absolute

  Fact underlying that same other fact

  Concerning which no cavil can dispute

  Our nomenclature when we call it “Mind” —

  Something not Matter) — ”Soul,” who seeks shall find

  Distinct beneath that something. You exact

  An illustrative image? This may suit.

  VII.

  We see a work: the worker works behind,

  Invisible himself. Suppose his act

  Be to o’erarch a gulf: he digs, transports,

  Shapes and, through enginery — all sizes, sorts,

  Lays stone by stone until a floor compact

  Proves our bridged causeway. So works Mind — by stress

  Of faculty, with loose facts, more or less,

  Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same,

  Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame,

  An element which works beyond our guess,

  Soul, the unsounded sea — whose lift of surge,

  Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge,

  In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deeps

  Mind arrogates no mastery upon —

  Distinct indisputably. Has there gone

  To dig up, drag forth, render smooth from rough

  Mind’s flooring, — operosity enough?

  Still the successive labour of each inch,

  Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winch

  That let the polished slab-stone find its place,

  To the first prod of pick-axe at the base

  Of the unquarried mountain, — what was all

  Mind’s varied process except natural,

  Nay, easy, even, to descry, describe,

  After our fashion? “So worked Mind: its tribe

  Of senses ministrant above, below,

  Far, near, or now or haply long ago

  Brought to pass knowledge.” But Soul’s sea, — drawn whence,

  Fed how, forced whither, — by what evidence

  Of ebb and flow, that’s felt beneath the tread,

  Soul has its course ‘neath Mind’s work overhead, —

  Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul?

  Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless roll

  This side and that, except to emulate

  Stability above? To match and mate

  Feeling with knowledge, — make as manifest

  Soul’s work as Mind’s work, turbulence as rest,

  Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sink

  Ceaselessly, passion’s transient flit and wink,

  A ripple’s tinting or a spume-sheet’s spread

  Whitening the wave, — to strike all this life dead,

  Run mercury into a mould like lead,

  And henceforth have the plain result to show —

  How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know —

  This were the prize and is the puzzle! — which

  Music essays to solve: and here’s the hitch

  That baulks her of full triumph else to boast.

  VIII.

  All Arts endeavour this, and she the most

  Attains thereto, yet fails of touching: why?

  Does Mind get Knowledge from Art’s ministry?

  What’s known once is known ever: Arts arrange,

  Dissociate, re-distribute, interchange

  Part with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deep

  Construct their bravest, — still such pains produce

  Change, not creation: simply what lay loose

  At first lies firmly after, what design

  Was faintly traced in hesitating line

  Once on a time, grows firmly resolute

  Henceforth and evermore. Now, could we shoot

  Liquidity into a mould, — some way

  Arrest Soul’s evanescent moods, and keep

  Unalterably still the forms that leap

  To life for once by help of Art! — which yearns

  To save its capture: Poetry discerns,

  Painting is ‘ware of passion’s rise and fall,

  Bursting, subsidence, intermixture — all

  A-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strain

  Would stay the apparition, — nor in vain:

  The Poet’s word-mesh, Painter’s sure and swift

  Colour-and-line-throw — proud the prize they lift!

  Thus felt Man and thus looked Man, — passions caught

  I’ the midway swim of sea, — not much, if aught,

  Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears,

  Enwombed past Art’s disclosure. Fleet the years,

  And still the Poet’s page holds Helena

  At gaze from topmost Troy — ”But where are they,

  My brothers, in the armament I name

  Hero by hero? Can it be that shame

  For their lost sister holds them from the war?”

  — Knowing not they already slept afar

  Each of them in his own dear native land.

  Still on the Painter’s fresco, from the hand

  Of
God takes Eve the life-spark whereunto

  She trembles up from nothingness. Outdo

  Both of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet,

  Drag into day, — by sound, thy master-net, —

  The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thing

  Unbroken of a branch, palpitating

  With limbs’ play and life’s semblance! There it lies,

  Marvel and mystery, of mysteries

  And marvels, most to love and laud thee for!

  Save it from chance and change we most abhor!

  Give momentary feeling permanence,

  So that thy capture hold, a century hence,

  Truth’s very heart of truth as, safe to-day,

  The Painter’s Eve, the Poet’s Helena,

  Still rapturously bend, afar still throw

  The wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo!

  Could Music rescue thus from Soul’s profound,

  Give feeling immortality by sound,

  Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas —

  As well expect the rainbow not to pass!

  “Praise ‘Radaminta’ — love attains therein

  To perfect utterance! Pity — what shall win

  Thy secret like ‘Rinaldo’?” — so men said:

  Once all was perfume — now, the flower is dead —

  They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate,

  Joy, fear, survive, — alike importunate

  As ever to go walk the world again,

  Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vain

  Till Music loose them, fit each filmily

  With form enough to know and name it by

  For any recognizer sure of ken

  And sharp of ear, no grosser denizen

  Of earth than needs be. Nor to such appeal

  Is Music long obdurate: off they steal —

  How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come they

  Full-blooded with new crimson of broad day —

  Passion made palpable once more. Ye look

  Your last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck!

  Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chart

  Of stars for you while Haydn, while Mozart

  Occupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire,

  Flamboyant wholly, — so perfections tire, —

  Whiten to wanness, till . . . let others note

  The ever-new invasion!

  IX.

  I devote

  Rather my modicum of parts to use

  What power may yet avail to re-infuse

  (In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like death

  With momentary liveliness, lend breath

  To make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe,

  An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelf

  Of thy laboratory, dares unstop

  Bottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and drop

  Of dusts and dews a many thou didst shrine

  Each in its right receptacle, assign

  To each its proper office, letter large

  Label and label, then with solemn charge,

  Reviewing learnedly the list complete

  Of chemical reactives, from thy feet

  Push down the same to me, attent below,

  Power in abundance: armed wherewith I go

  To play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff!

  Was it alight once? Still lives spark enough

  For breath to quicken, run the smouldering ash

  Red right-through. What, “stone-dead” were fools so rash

  As style my Avison, because he lacked

  Modern appliance, spread out phrase unracked

  By modulations fit to make each hair

  Stiffen upon his wig? See there — and there!

  I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcast

  Discords and resolutions, turn aghast

  Melody’s easy-going, jostle law

  With licence, modulate (no Bach in awe),

  Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank),

  And lo, upstart the flamelets, — what was blank

  Turns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scanned

  By eyes that like new lustre — Love once more

  Yearns through the Largo, Hatred as before

  Rages in the Rubato: e’en thy March

  My Avison, which, sooth to say — (ne’er arch

  Eyebrows in anger!) — timed, in Georgian years

  The step precise of British Grenadiers

  To such a nicety, — if score I crowd,

  If rhythm I break, if beats I vary, — tap

  At bar’s off-starting turns true thunder-clap,

  Ever the pace augmented till — what’s here?

  Titanic striding toward Olympus!

  X.

  Fear

  No such irreverent innovation! Still

  Glide on, go rolling, water-like, at will —

  Nay, were thy melody in monotone,

  The due three-parts dispensed with!

  XI.

  This alone

  Comes of my tiresome talking: Music’s throne

  Seats somebody whom somebody unseats,

  And whom in turn — by who knows what new feats

  Of strength, — shall somebody as sure push down,

  Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown,

  And orb imperial — whereto? — Never dream

  That what once lived shall ever die! They seem

  Dead — do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? Bring

  Our life to kindle theirs, and straight each king

  Starts, you shall see, stands up, from head to foot

  No inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (Suit

  Measure to subject, first — no marching on

  Yet in thy bold C major, Avison,

  As suited step a minute since: no: wait —

  Into the minor key first modulate —

  Gently with A, now — in the Lesser Third!)

  XII.

  Of all the lamentable debts incurred

  By Man through buying knowledge, this were worst:

  That he should find his last gain prove his first

  Was futile — merely nescience absolute,

  Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruit

  Haply undreamed of in the soul’s Spring-tide,

  Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide,

  And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe, —

  Not this, — but ignorance, a blur to wipe

  From human records, late it graced so much.

  “Truth — this attainment? Ah, but such and such

  Beliefs of yore seemed inexpugnable

  When we attained them! E’en as they, so will

  This their successor have the due morn, noon,

  Evening and night — just as an old-world tune

  Wears out and drops away, until who hears

  Smilingly questions — ’This it was brought tears

  Once to all eyes, — this roused heart’s rapture once?’

  So will it be with truth that, for the nonce,

  Styles itself truth perennial: ‘ware its wile!

  Knowledge turns nescience, — foremost on the file,

  Simply proves first of our delusions.”

  XIII.

  Now —

  Blare it forth, bold C Major! Lift thy brow,

  Man, the immortal, that wast never fooled

  With gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed —

  Man knowing — he who nothing knew! As Hope,

  Fear, Joy, and Grief, — though ampler stretch and scope

  They seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase, —

  Were equally existent in far days

  Of Music’s dim beginning — even so,

  Truth was at full within thee long ago,

  Alive as now it takes what latest shape

  May startle thee by strangeness. Truths escape

  Time’s insufficient garniture: they fade,

&nbs
p; They fall — those sheathings now grown sere, whose aid

  Was infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fine

  And free through March frost: May dews crystalline

  Nourish truth merely, — does June boast the fruit

  As — not new vesture merely but, to boot,

  Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fall

  Myth after myth — the husk-like lies I call

  New truth’s corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes,

  So much the better!

  XIV.

  Therefore — bang the drums,

  Blows the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that’s

  Truth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats,

  Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy score

  When ophicleide and bombardon’s uproar

  Mate the approaching trample, even now

  Big in the distance — or my ears deceive —

  Of federated England, fitly weave

  March-music for the Future!

  XV.

  Or suppose

  Back, and not forward, transformation goes?

  Once more some sable-stoled procession — say,

  From Little-ease to Tyburn — wends its way,

  Out of the dungeon to the gallows-tree

  Where heading, hacking, hanging is to be

  Of half-a-dozen recusants — this day

  Three hundred years ago! How duly drones

  Elizabethan plain-song — dim antique

  Grown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreak

  A classic vengeance on thy March! It moans —

  Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quite

  Crotchet-and-quaver pertness — brushing bars

  Aside and filling vacant sky with stars

  Hidden till now that day returns to night.

  XVI.

  Nor night nor day: one purpose move us both,

  Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man’s

  The cause our music champions: I were loth

  To think we cheered our troop to Preston Pans

  Ignobly: back to times of England’s best!

  Parliament stands for privilege — life and limb

  Guards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, Hampden, Pym,

  The famous Five. There’s rumour of arrest.

  Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest:

  Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn,

  — Rough, rude, robustious — homely heart a-throb,

  Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob!

  How good is noise! what’s silence but despair

  Of making sound match gladness never there?

  Give me some great glad “subject,” glorious Bach,

  Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack!

  Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough, —

  Avison helps — so heart lend noise enough!

  Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers then,

  Marching, say “Pym, the man of men!”