Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  To abolish the scribe’s work — blur, blunder and blot!

  [The doors open, and the Press is discovered in operation.

  Brave full-bodied birth of this brain that conceived thee

  In splendour and music, — sustained the slow drag

  Of the days stretched to years dim with doubt, — yet believed thee,

  Had faith in thy first leap of life! Pulse might flag —

  — Mine fluttered how faintly! — Arch-moment might lag

  Its longest — I bided, made light of endurance,

  Held hard by the hope of an advent which — dreamed,

  Is done now: night yields to the dawn’s reassurance:

  I have thee — I hold thee — my fancy that seemed,

  My fact that proves palpable! Ay, Sirs, I schemed

  Completion that’s fact: see this Engine — be witness

  Yourselves of its working! Nay, handle my Types!

  Each block bears a Letter: in order and fitness

  I range them. Turn, Peter, the winch! See, it gripes

  What’s under! Let loose — draw! In regular stripes

  Lies plain, at one pressure, your poem — touched, tinted,

  Turned out to perfection! The sheet, late a blank,

  Filled — ready for reading, — not written but Printed !

  Omniscient omnipotent God, Thee I thank,

  Thee ever, Thee only! — Thy creature that shrank

  From no task Thou, Creator, imposedst! Creation

  Revealed me no object, from insect to Man,

  But bore Thy hand’s impress: earth glowed with salvation:

  ”Hast sinned? Be thou saved, Fust! Continue my plan,

  Who spake and earth was: with my word things began.

  “As sound so went forth, to the sight be extended

  Word’s mission henceforward! The task I assign,

  Embrace — thy allegiance to evil is ended!

  Have cheer, soul impregnate with purpose! Combine

  Soul and body, give birth to my concept — called thine!

  “Far and wide, North and South, East and West, have dominion

  O’er thought, winged wonder, O Word! Traverse world

  In sun-flash and sphere-song! Each beat of thy pinion

  Bursts night, beckons day: once Truth’s banner unfurled,

  Where’s Falsehood? Sun-smitten, to nothingness hurled!”

  More humbly — so, friends, did my fault find redemption.

  I sinned, soul-entoiled by the tether of sense:

  My captor reigned master: I plead no exemption

  From Satan’s award to his servant: defence

  From the fiery and final assault would be — whence?

  By making — as man might — to truth restitution!

  Truth is God: trample lies and lies’ father, God’s foe!

  Fix fact fast: truths change by an hour’s revolution:

  What deed’s very doer, unaided, can show

  How ‘t was done a year — month — week — day — minute ago?

  At best, he relates it — another reports it —

  A third — nay, a thousandth records it: and still

  Narration, tradition, no step but distorts it,

  As down from truth’s height it goes sliding until

  At the low level lie-mark it stops — whence no skill

  Of the scribe, intervening too tardily, rescues

  — Once fallen — lost fact from lie’s fate there. What scribe

  — Eyes horny with poring, hands crippled with desk-use,

  Brains fretted by fancies — the volatile tribe

  That tease weary watchers — can boast that no bribe

  Shuts eye and frees hand and remits brain from toiling?

  Truth gained — can we stay, at whatever the stage,

  Truth a-slide, — save her snow from its ultimate soiling

  In mire, — by some process, stamp promptly on page

  Fact spoiled by pen’s plodding, make truth heritage

  Not merely of clerics, but poured out, full measure,

  On clowns — every mortal endowed with a mind?

  Read, gentle and simple! Let labour win leisure

  At last to bid truth do all duty assigned,

  Not pause at the noble but pass to the hind!

  How bring to effect such swift sure simultaneous

  Unlimited multiplication? How spread

  By an arm-sweep a hand-throw — no helping extraneous —

  Truth broadcast o’er Europe? “The goldsmith,” I said,

  “Graves limning on gold: why not letters on lead?”

  So, Tuscan artificer, grudge not thy pardon

  To me who played false, made a furtive descent,

  Found the sly secret workshop, — thy genius kept guard on

  Too slackly for once, — and surprised thee low-bent

  O’er thy labour — some chalice thy tool would indent

  With a certain free scroll-work framed round by a border

  Of foliage and fruitage: no scratching so fine,

  No shading so shy but, in ordered disorder,

  Each flourish came clear, — unbewildered by shine,

  On the gold, irretrievably right, lay each line.

  How judge if thy hand worked thy will? By reviewing,

  Revising again and again, piece by piece,

  Tool’s performance, — this way, as I watched. ‘T was through glueing

  A paper-like film-stuff — thin, smooth, void of crease,

  On each cut of the graver: press hard! at release,

  No mark on the plate, but the paper showed double:

  His work might proceed: as he judged — space or speck

  Up he filled, forth he flung — was relieved thus from trouble

  Lest wrong — once — were right never more: what could check

  Advancement, completion? Thus lay at my beck —

  At my call — triumph likewise! “For,” cried I, “what hinders

  That graving turns Printing? Stamp one word — not one

  But fifty such, phoenix-like, spring from death’s cinders, —

  Since death is word’s doom, clerics hide from the sun

  As some churl closets up this rare chalice.” Go, run

  Thy race now, Fust’s child! High, O Printing, and holy

  Thy mission! These types, see, I chop and I change

  Till the words, every letter, a pageful, not slowly

  Yet surely lies fixed: last of all, I arrange

  A paper beneath, stamp it, loosen it! FIRST FRIEND.

  Strange!

  SECOND FRIEND.

  How simple exceedingly! FUST.

  Bustle, my Schoeffer!

  Set type, — quick, Genesheim! Turn screw now! THIRD FRIEND

  Just that! FOURTH FRIEND.

  And no such vast miracle! FUST.

  “Plough with my heifer,

  Ye find out my riddle,” quoth Samson, and pat

  He speaks to the purpose. Grapes squeezed in the vat

  Yield to sight and to taste what is simple — a liquid

  Mere urchins may sip: but give time, let ferment —

  You’ve wine, manhood’s master! Well, “rectius si quid

  Novistis im-per-ti-te!” Wait the event,

  Then weigh the result! But whate’er Thy intent,

  O Thou, the one force in the whole variation

  Of visible nature, — at work — do I doubt? —

  From Thy first to our last, in perpetual creation —

  A film hides us from Thee — ’twixt inside and out,

  A film, on this earth where Thou bringest about

  New marvels, new forms of the glorious, the gracious,

  We bow to, we bless for: no star bursts heaven’s dome

  But Thy finger impels it, no weed peeps audacious

  Earth’s clay-floor from out, but Thy finger makes room

  For one world’s-want the more in Thy Cosmos: presume<
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  Shall Man, Microcosmos, to claim the conception

  Of grandeur, of beauty, in thought, word or deed?

  I toiled, but Thy light on my dubiousest step shone:

  If I reach the glad goal, is it I who succeed

  Who stumbled at starting tripped up by a reed,

  Or Thou? Knowledge only and absolute, glory

  As utter be Thine who concedest a spark

  Of Thy spheric perfection to earth’s transitory

  Existences! Nothing that lives, but Thy mark

  Gives law to — life’s light: what is doomed to the dark?

  Where’s ignorance? Answer, creation! What height,

  What depth has escaped Thy commandment — to Know?

  What birth in the ore-bed but answers aright

  Thy sting at its heart which impels — bids “E’en so,

  Not otherwise move or be motionless, — grow,

  “Decline, disappear!” Is the plant in default

  How to bud, when to branch forth? The bird and the beast

  — Do they doubt if their safety be found in assault

  Or escape? Worm or fly, of what atoms the least

  But follows light’s guidance, — will famish, not feast?

  In such various degree, fly and worm, ore and plant,

  All know, none is witless: around each, a wall

  Encloses the portion, or ample or scant,

  Of Knowledge: beyond which one hair’s breadth, for all

  Lies blank — not so much as a blackness — a pall

  Some sense unimagined must penetrate: plain

  Is only old licence to stand, walk or sit,

  Move so far and so wide in the narrow domain

  Allotted each nature for life’s use: past it

  How immensity spreads does he guess? Not a whit.

  Does he care? Just as little. Without? No, within

  Concerns him? he Knows. Man Ignores — thanks to Thee

  Who madest him know, but — in knowing — begin

  To know still new vastness of knowledge must be

  Outside him — to enter, to traverse, in fee

  Have and hold! “Oh, Man’s ignorance!” hear the fool whine!

  How were it, for better or worse, didst thou grunt

  Contented with sapience — the lot of the swine

  Who knows he was born for just truffles to hunt? —

  Monks’ Paradise — ”Semper sint res uti sunt!”

  No, Man’s the prerogative — knowledge once gained —

  To ignore, — find new knowledge to press for, to swerve

  In pursuit of, no, not for a moment: attained —

  Why, onward through ignorance! Dare and deserve!

  As still to its asymptote speedeth the curve,

  So approximates Man — Thee, who, reachable not,

  Hast formed him to yearningly follow Thy whole

  Sole and single omniscience!

  Such, friends, is my lot:

  I am back with the world: one more step to the goal

  Thanks for reaching I render — Fust’s help to Man’s soul!

  Mere mechanical help? So the hand gives a toss

  To the falcon, — aloft once, spread pinions and fly,

  Beat air far and wide, up and down and across!

  My Press strains a-tremble: whose masterful eye

  Will be first, in new regions, new truth to descry?

  Give chase, soul! Be sure each new capture consigned

  To my Types will go forth to the world, like God’s bread

  — Miraculous food not for body but mind,

  Truth’s manna! How say you? Put case that, instead

  Of old leasing and lies, we superiorly fed

  These Heretics, Hussites . . .

  FIRST FRIEND.

  First answer my query!

  If saved, art thou happy? FUST.

  I was and I am. FIRST FRIEND.

  Thy visage confirms it: how comes, then, that — weary

  And woe-begone late — was it show, was it sham? —

  We found thee sunk thiswise? SECOND FRIEND.

  — In need of the dram

  From the flask which a provident neighbour might carry! FUST.

  Ah, friends, the fresh triumph soon flickers, fast fades!

  I hailed Word’s dispersion: could heartleaps but tarry!

  Through me does Print furnish Truth wings? The same aids

  Cause Falsehood to range just as widely. What raids

  On a region undreamed of does Printing enable

  Truth’s foe to effect! Printed leasing and lies

  May speed to the world’s farthest corner — gross fable

  No less than pure fact — to impede, neutralize,

  Abolish God’s gift and Man’s gain! FIRST FRIEND.

  Dost surmise

  What struck me at first blush? Our Beghards, Waldenses,

  Jeronimites, Hussites — does one show his head,

  Spout heresy now? Not a priest in his senses

  Deigns answer mere speech, but piles faggots instead,

  Refines as by fire, and, him silenced, all’s said.

  Whereas if in future I pen an opuscule

  Defying retort, as of old when rash tongues

  Were easy to tame, — straight some knave of the Huss-School

  Prints answer forsooth! Stop invisible lungs?

  The barrel of blasphemy broached once, who bungs?

  SECOND FRIEND.

  Does my sermon, next Easter, meet fitting acceptance?

  Each captious disputative boy has his quirk

  “An cuique credendum sit?” Well the Church kept “ ans “

  In order till Fust set his engine at work!

  What trash will come flying from Jew, Moor and Turk

  When, goosequill, thy reign o’er the world is abolished!

  Goose — ominous name! With a goose woe began:

  Quoth Huss — which means “goose” in his idiom unpolished —

  ”Ye burn now a Goose: there succeeds me a Swan

  Ye shall find quench your fire!” FUST.

  I foresee such a man.

  ASOLANDO

  CONTENTS

  Asolando. Prologue

  Rosny

  Dubiety

  Now

  Humility

  Poetics

  Summum Bonum

  A Pearl, a Girl

  Speculative

  White Witchcraft

  Bad Dreams I

  Bad Dreams II

  Bad Dreams III

  Bad Dreams IV

  Inapprehensiveness

  Which?

  The Cardinal and the Dog

  The Pope and the Net

  The Bean-Feast

  Muckle-Mouth Meg

  Arcades Ambo

  The Lady and the Painter

  Ponte Dell’ Angelo, Venice

  Beatrice Signorini

  Flute-Music, with an Accompaniment

  Imperante Augusto Natus Est —

  Development

  Rephan

  Reverie

  Asolando. Epilogue

  DEDICATION

  TO MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON

  To whom but you, dear Friend, should I dedicate verses — some few written, all of them supervised, in the comfort of your presence, and with yet another experience of the gracious hospitality now bestowed on me since so many a year, — adding a charm even to my residences at Venice, and leaving me little regret for the surprise and delight at my visits to Asolo in bygone days?

  I unite, you will see, the disconnected poems by a title-name popularly ascribed to the inventiveness of the ancient secretary of Queen Cornaro whose palace-tower still over-looks us: Asolare — ”to disport in the open air, amuse one’s self at random.” The objection that such a word nowhere occurs in the works of the Cardinal is hardly important — Bembo was too thorough a purist to conserve in print a term which in talk he might possibly toy with: but the word is more likely deri
ved from a Spanish source. I use it for love of the place, and in reqital of your pleasant assurance that an early poem of mine first attracted you thither — where and elsewhere, at Mura as Cà Alvisi, may all happiness attend you!

  Gratefully and affectionately yours,

  R. B.

  Asolo: October 15,1889

  Asolando. Prologue

  “THE Poet’s age is sad: for why?

  In youth, the natural world could show

  No common object but his eye

  At once involved with alien glow —

  His own soul’s iris-bow.

  “And now a flower is just a flower:

  Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man —

  Simply themselves, uncinct by dower

  Of dyes which, when life’s day began,

  Round each in glory ran.”

  Friend, did you need an optic glass,

  Which were your choice? A lens to drape

  In ruby, emerald, chrysopras,

  Each object — or reveal its shape

  Clear outlined, past escape,

  The naked very thing? — so clear

  That, when you had the chance to gaze,

  You found its inmost self appear

  Through outer seeming — truth ablaze,

  Not falsehood’s fancy-haze?

  How many a year, my Asolo,

  Since — one step just from sea to land —

  I found you, loved yet feared you so —

  For natural objects seemed to stand

  Palpably fire-clothed! No —

  No mastery of mine o’er these!

  Terror with beauty, like the Bush

  Burning but unconsumed. Bend knees,

  Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush!

  Silence ‘tis awe decrees.

  And now? The lambent flame is — where?

  Lost from the naked world: earth, sky,

  Hill, vale, tree, flower, — Italia’s rare

  O’er-running beauty crowds the eye —

  But flame? The Bush is bare.

  Hill, vale, tree, flower — they stand distinct

  Nature to know and name. What then?

  A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinked

  Fancy from fact: see, all’s in ken:

  Has once my eyelid winked?

  No, for the purged ear apprehends

  Earth’s import, not the eye late dazed.

  The Voice said, “Call my works thy friends!

  At Nature dost thou shrink amazed?

  God is it who transcends.”

  Asolo: September 6, 1889.

  Rosny

  WOE, he went galloping into the war,

  Clara, Clara!

  Let us two dream: shall he ‘scape with a scar?

  Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace