Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  ”Pure thoughts, ay, but also fine deeds:

  Play the paladin must he, to please

  My whim, and — to prove my knight’s service exceeds

  Your saint’s and your loyalist’s praying and kneeling —

  Show wounds, each wide mouth to my mercy appealing.”

  Then the Comtesse: “My choice be a wretch,

  Mere losel in body and soul,

  Thrice accurst! What care I, so he stretch

  Arms to me his sole savior, love’s ultimate goal,

  Out of earth and men’s noise — names of ‘infidel,’ ‘traitor.’

  Cast up at him? Crown me, crown’s adjudicator!”

  And the Abbé uncrossed his legs,

  Took snuff, a reflective pinch,

  Broke silence: “The question begs

  Much pondering ere I pronounce. Shall I flinch?

  The love which to one and one only has reference

  Seems terribly like what perhaps gains God’s preference.”

  The Cardinal and the Dog

  Browning wrote this poem in 1842 for Macready’s son, who was ill. He had also written the Pied Piper of Hamelin at the same time.

  CRESCENZIO, the Pope’s Legate at the High Council, Trent,

  — Year Fifteen hundred twenty-two, March Twenty-five — intent

  On writing letters to the Pope till late into the night,

  Rose, weary, to refresh himself, and saw a monstrous sight:

  (I give mine Author’s very words: he penned, I reindite.)

  A black Dog of vast bigness, eyes flaming, ears that hung

  Down to the very ground almost, into the chamber sprung

  And made directly for him, and laid himself right under

  The table where Crescenzio wrote — who called in fear and wonder

  His servants in the ante-room, commanded every one

  To look for and find out the beast: but, looking, they found none.

  The Cardinal fell melancholy, then sick, soon after died:

  And at Verona, as be lay on his death-bed, he cried

  Aloud to drive away the Dog that leapt on his bedside.

  Heaven keep us Protestants from harm: the rest . . . no ill betide!

  The Pope and the Net

  WHAT, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,

  Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:

  His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

  So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

  Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

  No less than Cardinal erelong, while no one cries “Unfit!”

  But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head:

  Each winks at each: “I’-faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead

  Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

  Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs:

  “From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince — it is indeed a rise:

  So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

  And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set

  Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met

  His mean estate’s reminder in his fisherfather’s net!

  Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:

  “The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

  He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “‘Tis my advice.”

  So, Pope he was: and when we flocked — its sacred slipper on —

  To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone —

  That guarantee of lowlihead, — eclipsed that star which shone!

  Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried, “Pish!

  I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.

  Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”

  The Bean-Feast

  HE WAS the man — Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd’s son:

  He knew the right thing, did it, and thanked God when ‘t was done:

  But of all he had to thank for, my fancy somehow leans

  To thinking, what most moved him was a certain meal on beans.

  For one day, as his wont was, in just enough disguise

  As he went exploring wickedness, — to see with his own eyes

  If law had due observance in the city’s entrail dark

  As well as where, i’ the open, crime stood an obvious mark, —

  He chanced, in a blind alley, on a tumble-down once house

  Now hovel, vilest structure in Rome the ruinous:

  And, as his tact impelled him, Sixtus adventured bold,

  To learn how lowliest subjects bore hunger, toil, and cold.

  There sat they at high-supper — man and wife, lad and lass,

  Poor as you please, but cleanly all and carefree: pain that was

  — Forgotten, pain as sure to be let bide aloof its time, —

  Mightily munched the brave ones — what mattered gloom or grime?

  Said Sixtus, “Feast, my children! who works hard needs eat well.

  I’m just a supervisor, would hear what you can tell.

  Do any wrongs want righting? The Father tries his best,

  But, since he’s only mortal, sends such as I to test

  The truth of all that’s told him — how folk like you may fare:

  Come! — only don’t stop eating — when mouth has words to spare —

  “You” — smiled he — ”play the spokesman, bell-wether of the flock!

  Are times good, masters gentle? Your grievances unlock!

  How of your work and wages? — pleasures, if such may be —

  Pains, as such are for certain.” Thus smiling questioned he.

  But somehow, spite of smiling, awe stole upon the group —

  An inexpressible surmise: why should a priest thus stoop —

  Pry into what concerned folk? Each visage fell. Aware,

  Cries Sixtus interposing: “Nay, children, have no care!

  “Fear nothing! Who employs me requires the plain truth. Pelf

  Beguiles who should inform me: so, I inform myself.

  See!” And he drew his hood back, let the close vesture ope,

  Showed face, and where on tippet the cross lay: ‘t was the Pope.

  Imagine the joyful wonder! “How shall the like of us —

  Poor souls — requite such blessing of our rude bean-feast?” “Thus —

  Thus amply!” laughed Pope Sixtus. “I early rise, sleep late:

  Who works may eat: they tempt me, your beans there: spare a plate!”

  Down sat he on the door-step: ‘twas they this time said grace:

  He ate up the last mouthful, wiped lips, and then, with face

  Turned, heavenward, broke forth thankful: “Not now, that earth obeys

  Thy word in mine, that through me the peoples know Thy ways —

  “But that Thy care extendeth to Nature’s homely wants,

  And, while man’s mind is strengthened, Thy goodness nowise scants

  Man’s body of its cumlort, — that I whom kings and queens

  Crouch to, pick crumbs from off my table, reiish beans!

  The thunders I but seem to launch, there plain Thy hand all see:

  That I have appetite, digest, and thrive — that boon’s for me.”

  Muckle-Mouth Meg

  FROWNED the Laird on the Lord: “So, red-handed I catch thee?

  Death-doomed by our Law of the Border!

  We’ve a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee:

  Who trespasses — hangs: all’s in order.”

  He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant:

  Then the Laird’s dame: “Nay, Husband, I beg!

  He’s comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant

 
— If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!

  “No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry:

  Grant rather the gallows!” laughed he.

  “Foul fare kith and kin of you — why do you tarry?”

  ”To tame your fierce temper!” quoth she.

  “Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week:

  Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders:

  Who lion-like roars now, mouse-fashion will squeak,

  And ‘it rains’ soon succeed to ‘it thunders.”‘

  A week did he bide in the cold and the dark

  — Not hunger: for duly at morning

  In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lark

  Chirped, “Muckle-mouth Meg still ye’re scorning?

  “Go hang, but here’s parritch to hearten ye first!”

  ”Did Meg’s muckle-mouth boast within some

  Such music as yours, mine should match it or burst:

  No frog-jaws! So tell folk, my Winsome!”

  Soon week came to end, and, from Hole’s door set wide,

  Out he marched, and there waited the lassie:

  “Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for bride!

  Consider! Sky’s blue and turf’s grassy:

  “Life’s sweet: shall I say ye wed Muckle-mouth Meg?”

  ”Not I,” quoth the stout heart: “too eerie

  The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock’s egg;

  Shall I let it munch mine? Never, Dearie!

  “Not Muckle-mouth Meg? Wow, the obstinate man!

  Perhaps he would rather wed me!”

  “Ay, would he — with just for a dowry your can!”

  ”I’m Muckle-mouth Meg,” chirruped she.

  “Then so — so — so — so — ” as he kissed her apace —

  ”Will I widen thee out till thou turnest

  From Margaret Minnikin-mou’, by God’s grace,

  To Muckle-mouth Meg in good earnest!”

  Arcades Ambo

  A. YOU blame me that I ran away?

  Why, Sir, the enemy advanced:

  Balls flew about, and — who can say

  But one, if I stood firm, had glanced

  In my direction? Cowardice?

  I only know we don’t live twice,

  Therefore — shun death, is my advice.

  B. Shun death at all risks? Well, at some

  True, I myself, Sir, though I scold

  The cowardly, by no means come

  Under reproof as overbold

  — I, who would have no end of brutes

  Cut up alive to guess what suits

  My case and saves my toe from shoots.

  The Lady and the Painter

  She. YET womanhood you reverence,

  So you profess!

  He. With heart and soul.

  She. Of which fact this is evidence!

  To help Art-study, — for some dole

  Of certain wretched shillings, you

  Induce a woman — virgin too —

  To strip and stand stark-naked?

  He. True.

  She. Nor feel you so degrade her?

  He. What

  — (Excuse the interruption) — clings

  Half-savage-like around your hat?

  She. Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wings!

  Next season, — Paris-prints assert, —

  We must go feathered to the skirt:

  My modiste keeps on the alert.

  Owls, hawks, jays — swallows most approve.

  He. Dare I speak plainly?

  She. Oh, I trust!

  He. Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move

  In heart and soul of me disgust

  Did you strip off those spoils you wear,

  And stand — for thanks, not shillings — bare

  To help Art like my Model there.

  She well knew what absolved her — praise

  In me for God’s surpassing good,

  Who granted to my reverent gaze

  A type of purest womanhood.

  You — clothed with murder of his best

  Of harmless beings — stand the test!

  What is it you know?

  She. That you jest!

  Ponte Dell’ Angelo, Venice

  STOP rowing! This one of our bye-canals

  O’er a certain bridge you have to cross

  That’s named, “Of the Angel:” listen why!

  The name “Of the Devil” too much appalls

  Venetian acquaintance, so — his the loss,

  While the gain goes . . . look on high!

  An angel visibly guards yon house:

  Above each scutcheon — a pair — stands he,

  Enfolds them with droop of either wing:

  The family’s fortune were perilous

  Did he thence depart — you will soon agree,

  If I hitch into verse the thing.

  For, once on a time, this house belonged

  To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare,

  But also with overmuch lust of gain:

  In the matter of law you were nowise wronged,

  But alas for the lucre! He picked you bare

  To the bone. Did folk complain?

  “I exact,” growled he, “work’s rightful due:

  ‘Tis folk seek me, not I seek them.

  Advice at its price! They succeed or fail,

  Get law in each case — and a lesson too:

  Keep clear of the Courts — is advice ad rem:

  They’ll remember, I’ll be bail!”

  So, he pocketed fee without a qualm.

  What reason for squeamishness? Labor done,

  To play he betook him with lightened heart,

  Ate, drank, and made merry with song or Psalm,

  Since the yoke of the Church is an easy one —

  Fits neck nor causes smart.

  Brief: never was such an extortionate

  Rascal — the word has escaped my teeth!

  And yet — (all’s down in a book no ass

  Indited, believe me!) — this reprobate

  Was punctual at prayer-time: gold lurked beneath

  Alloy of the rankest brass.

  For, play the extortioner as he might,

  Fleece folk each day and all day long,

  There was this redeeming circumstance:

  He never lay down to sleep at night

  But he put up a prayer first, brief yet strong,

  “Our Lady avert mischance!”

  Now it happened at close of a fructuous week

  “I must ask,” quoth he, “some Saint to dine:

  I want that widow well out of my ears

  With her ailing and wailing. Who bade her seek

  Redress at my hands? ‘She was wronged!’ Folk whine

  If to Law wrong right appears.

  “Matteo da Bascio — he’s my man!

  No less than Chief of the Capucins:

  His presence will surely suffumigate

  My house — fools think lies under a ban

  If somebody loses what somebody wins.

  Hark, there he knocks at the grate!

  “Come in, thou blessed of Mother Church!

  I go and prepare — to bid, that is,

  My trusty and diligent servitor

  Get all things in readiness. Vain the search

  Through Venice for one to compare with this.

  My model of ministrants: for —

  “For — once again, nay, three times over.

  My helpmate’s an ape! so intelligent,

  I train him to drudge at household work:

  He toils and he moils, I live in clover:

  Oh, you shall see! There’s a goodly scent —

  From his cooking, or I’m a Turk!

  “Scarce need to descend and supervise:

  I’ll do it, however: wait here awhile!”

  So, down to the kitchen gayly scuttles

  Our host, nor notes the alarmed surmise

&nb
sp; Of the holy man. “O depth of guile!

  He blindly guzzles and guttles,

  “While — who is it dresses the food and pour,

  The liquor? Some fiend — I make no doubt —

  In likeness of — which of the loathly brutes

  An ape! Where hides he? No bull that gores

  No bear that hugs — ’t is the mock and flow

  Of an ape, fiend’s face that suits.

  “So — out with thee, creature, wherever thou hidest!

  I charge thee, by virtue of . . . right do I judge!

  There skulks he perdue, crouching under the bed.

  Well done! What, forsooth, in beast’s shape thou confidest?

  I know and would name thee but that I begrudge

  Breath spent on such carrion. Instead —

  “I adjure thee by — — ” “Stay!” laughed the portent that rose

  From floor up to ceiling: “No need to adjure!

  See Satan in person, late ape by command

  Of Him thou adjurest in vain. A saint’s nose

  Scents brimstone though incense be burned for a lure.

  Yet, hence! for I’m safe, understand!

  “‘Tis my charge to convey to fit punishment’s place

  This lawyer, my liegeman, for cruelty wrought

  On his clients, the widow and orphan, poor souls

  He has plagued by exactions which proved law’s disgrace,

  Made equity void and to nothingness brought

  God’s pity. Fiends, on with fresh coals!”

  “Stay!” nowise confounded, withstands Hell its match:

  “How comes it, were truth in this story of thine,

  God’s punishment suffered a minute’s delay?

  Weeks, months have elapsed since thou squattedst at watch

  For a spring on thy victim: what caused thee decline

  Advantage till challenged to-day?”

  “That challenge I meet with contempt,” quoth the fiend.

  “Thus much I acknowledge: the man’s armed in mail:

  I wait till a joint’s loose, then quick ply my claws.

  Thy friend’s one good custom — he knows not — has screened

  His flesh hitherto from what else would assail:

  At ‘Save me, Madonna!’ I pause.

  “That prayer did the losel but once pretermit,

  My pounce were upon him. I keep me attent:

  He’s in safety but till he’s caught napping. Enough!”

  “Ay, enough!” smiles the Saint — ”for the biter is bit,

  The spy caught in somnolence. Vanish! I’m sent

  To smooth up what fiends do in rough.”

  “I Vanish? Through wall or through roof?” the ripost

  Grinned gayly. “My orders were — ’Leave not unharmed