Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  (This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears rise up

  Too hot . . A thin mist — is it blood? — enwraps

  The face I loved so!) Then, shall the meeting be!

  Then — then — then — I may kiss that hand, I know!

  STRAFFORD.

  (Walks calmly up to PYM and offers his hand.)

  I have loved England too; we’ll meet then, Pym!

  As well to die! Youth is the time — our youth,

  To think and to decide on a great course:

  Age with its action follows; but ‘tis dreary

  To have to alter one’s whole life in age —

  The time past, the strength gone! as well die now.

  When we meet, Pym, I’d be set right — not now!

  I’d die as I have lived . . too late to change!

  Best die. Then if there’s any fault, it will

  Be smothered up: much best! You’ll be too busy

  With your hereafter, you will have achieved

  Too many triumphs to be always dwelling

  Upon my downfall, Pym? Poor little Laud

  May dream his dream out of a perfect Church

  In some blind corner? And there’s no one left . . .

  (He glances on the KING.)

  I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym!

  And yet . . I know not! What if with this weakness . . .

  And I shall not be there . . . And he’ll betray

  His friends — if he has any . . . And he’s false . .

  And loves the Queen, and . .

  Oh, my fate is nothing —

  Nothing! But not that awful head . . not that!

  Pym, save the King! Pym, save him! Stay — you shall . . .

  For you love England! I, that am dying, think

  What I must see . . ‘tis here . . all here! My God!

  Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire,

  How Thou wilt plague him, satiating Hell!

  What? England that you love — our land — become

  A green and putrefying charnel, left

  Our children . . . some of us have children, Pym —

  Some who, without that, still must ever wear

  A darkened brow, an over-serious look,

  And never properly be young . . .

  No word!

  You will not say a word — to me — to Him!

  (Turning to CHARLES.)

  Speak to him . . . as you spoke to me . . . that day!

  Nay, I will let you pray to him, my King —

  Pray to him! He will kiss your feet, I know!

  What if I curse you? Send a strong Curse forth

  Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror, till

  She’s fit, with her white face, to walk the world

  Scaring kind natures from your cause and you — —

  Then to sit down with you, at the board-head,

  The gathering for prayer. . . .

  VANE.

  O speak, Pym! Speak!

  STRAFFORD.

  . . . Creep up, and quietly follow each one home —

  You — you — you — be a nestling Care for each

  To sleep with, hardly moaning in his dreams . . .

  She gnaws so quietly . . . until he starts —

  Gets off with half a heart eaten away . . .

  Oh you shall ‘scape with less, if she’s my child!

  VANE (to PYM).

  We never thought of this . . . surely not dreamed

  Of this . . it never can . . . could come to this!

  PYM (after a pause).

  If England should declare her will to me . . .

  STRAFFORD.

  No — not for England, now — not for Heaven, now . . .

  See, Pym — for me! My sake! I kneel to you!

  There . . I will thank you for the death . . . my friend,

  This is the meeting . . . you will send me proud

  To my chill grave! Dear Pym — I’ll love you well!

  Save him for me, and let me love you well!

  PYM.

  England — — I am thine own! Dost thou exact

  That service? I obey thee to the end!

  STRAFFORD (as he totters out).

  O God, I shall die first — I shall die first!

  Curtain falls.

  BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. I: PIPPA PASSES

  This dramatic piece was published in 1841 as the first volume of Browning’s Bells and Pomegranates series, in a very inexpensive two-column edition for sixpence. It was republished seven years later as Poems, when it received more critical attention. It was dedicated to Thomas Noon Talfourd, who had recently attained fame as the author of the tragedy Ion. Browning described the work as “the first of a series of dramatic pieces”.

  The narrative concerns an innocent silk-winding girl, who wanders through the environs of Asolo, in her mind attributing kindness and virtue to the people she encounters. She sings as she goes, her song influencing others to act for good and reminding them of the existence of a moral order. Interestingly, the dramatic poem contains the famous quotation: “God’s in his Heaven/All’s right with the world!”.

  An 1854 illustration of the dramatic poem

  CONTENTS

  Day

  I — MORNING.

  II — NOON.

  III. — EVENING.

  IV. — NIGHT.

  I DEDICATE MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM,

  ADMIRINGLY TO THE AUTHOR OF ‘ION,’ —

  AFFECTIONATELY TO MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.

  London, 1841.

  R.B.

  Day

  NEW YEAR’S DAY AT ASOLO IN THE TREVISAN.

  A large, mean, airy chamber. A girl, PIPPA, from the silk-mills, springing out of bed.

  DAY!

  Faster and more fast,

  O’er night’s brim, day boils at last;

  Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim

  Where spurting and supprest it lay —

  For not a froth-flake touched the rim

  Of yonder gap in the solid gray

  Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;

  But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,

  Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,

  Rose, reddened, and its seething breast

  Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

  Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,

  A mite of my twelve-hours’ treasure,

  The least of thy gazes or glances,

  (Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure)

  One of thy choices, or one of thy chances,

  (Be they tasks God imposed thee, or freaks at thy pleasure)

  — My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure,

  Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!

  Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,

  Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good —

  Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,

  As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood —

  All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not

  As the prosperous are treated, these who live

  At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,

  In readiness to take what thou wilt give,

  And free to let alone what thou refusest;

  For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest

  Me, who am only Pippa, — old-year’s sorrow,

  Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow —

  Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow

  Sufficient strength of thee for new-year’s sorrow.

  All other men and women that this earth

  Belongs to, who all days alike possess,

  Make general plenty cure particular dearth,

  Get more joy, one way, if another, less:

  Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven

  What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven, —

  Sole light that h
elps me through the year thy sun’s!

  Try, now! Take Asolo’s Four Happiest Ones —

  And let thy morning rain on that superb

  Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb

  Her Sebald’s homage? All the while thy rain

  Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane,

  He will but press the closer, breathe more warm

  Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?

  And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom

  O’er Jules and Phene, — what care bride and groom

  Save for their dear selves? ‘Tis their marriage-day;

  And while they leave church, and go home their way,

  Hand clasping hand, — within each breast would be

  Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee!

  Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve

  With mist, — will Luigi and his mother grieve —

  The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,

  She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,

  For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close,

  And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,

  Receives them! And yet once again, out-break

  In storm at night on Monsignor, they make

  Such stir about, — whom they expect from Rome

  To visit Asolo, his brother’s home,

  And say here masses proper to release

  A soul from pain, — what storm dares hurt his peace?

  Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward

  Thy thunder off, nor want the angels’ guard!

  But Pippa — just one such mischance would spoil

  Her day that lightens the next twelve-month’s toil

  At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!

  And here I let time slip for nought!

  Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam — caught

  With a single splash from my ewer!

  You that would mock the best pursuer,

  Was my basin over-deep?

  One splash of water ruins you asleep,

  And up, up fleet your brilliant bits

  Wheeling and counterwheeling,

  Reeling, broken beyond healing —

  Now grow together on the ceiling!

  That will task your wits!

  Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see

  Morsel after morsel flee

  As merrily, as giddily . . .

  Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,

  Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?

  Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?

  New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes’ nipple,

  Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird’s poll!

  Be sure if corals, branching ‘neath the ripple

  Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll

  Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse

  Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!

  I am queen of thee, floweret;

  And each fleshy blossom

  Preserve I not — (safer

  Than leaves that enbower it,

  Or shells that embosom)

  — From weevil and chafer?

  Laugh through my pane, then; solicit the bee;

  Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,

  Love thy queen, worship me!

  — Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,

  Whate’er I please? What shall I please to-day?

  My morning, noon, eve, night — how spend my day?

  To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,

  The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:

  But, this one day, I have leave to go,

  And play out my fancy’s fullest games;

  I may fancy all day — and it shall be so —

  That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names

  Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!

  See! Up the Hill-side yonder, through the morning,

  Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:

  I am no less than Ottima, take warning!

  The gardens, and the great stone house above,

  And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,

  Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,

  To court me, while old Luca yet reposes;

  And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,

  I . . . what, now? — give abundant cause for prate

  About me — Ottima, I mean — of late,

  Too bold, too confident she’ll still face down

  The spitefullest of talkers in our town —

  How we talk in the little town below!

  But love, love love — there’s better love, I know!

  This foolish love was only day’s first offer;

  I choose my nest love to defy the scoffer:

  For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally

  Out of Possagno church at noon?

  Their house looks over Orcana valley —

  Why should not I be the bride as soon

  As Ottima? For I saw, beside,

  Arrive last night that little bride —

  Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash

  Of the pale, snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,

  Blacker than all except the black eyelash;

  I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!

  — So strict was she, the veil

  Should cover close her pale

  Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch,

  Scarce touch, remember, Jules! — for are not such

  Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,

  As if one’s breath would fray the lily of a creature?

  A soft and easy life these ladies lead!

  Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed —

  Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,

  Keep that toot its lady primness,

  Let those ankles never swerve

  From their exquisite reserve,

  Yet have to trip along the streets like me,

  All but naked to the knee!

  How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss

  So startling as her real first infant kiss?

  Oh, no — not envy, this!

  — Not envy, sure! — for if you gave me

  Leave to take or to refuse,

  In earnest, do you think I’d choose

  That sort of new love to enslave me?

  Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;

  As little fear of losing it as winning!

  Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,

  And only parents’ love can last our lives.

  At eve the son and mother, gentle pair,

  Commune inside our Turret; what prevents

  My being Luigi? while that mossy lair

  Of lizards through the winter-time, is stirred

  With each to each imparting sweet intents

  For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird —

  (For I observe of late, the evening walk

  Of Luigi and his mother, always ends

  Inside our ruined turret, where they talk,

  Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)

  — Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,

  And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;

  Let me be Luigi! If I only knew

  What was my mother’s face — my father, too!

  Nay, if you come to that, best love of all

  Is God’s; then why not have God’s love befall

  Myself as, in the Palace by the Dome,

  Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the home

  Of his dead brother; and God will bless in turn

  That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn

  With love for all men: I, to-night at least,

  Would be that holy and beloved priest!

  Now Wait! — even I already seem to share

  In
God’s love: what does New-year’s hymn declare?

  What other meaning do these verses bear?

  All service ranks the same with God:

  If now, as formerly He trod

  Paradise, His presence fills

  Our earth, each only as God wills

  Can work — God’s puppets, best and worst,

  Are we; there is no last nor first.

  Say not ‘a small event!’ Why ‘small?’

  Costs it more pain than this, ye call

  A ‘great event,’ should come to pass,

  Than that? Untwine me from the mass

  Of deeds which make up life, one deed

  Power shall fall short in, or exceed!

  And more of it, and more of it! — oh, yes —

  I will pass by, and see their happiness,

  And envy none — being just as great, no doubt,

  Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!

  A pretty thing to care about

  So mightily, this single holiday!

  But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?

  — With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,

  Down the grass-path grey with dew,

  Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,

  Where the swallow never flew

  As yet, nor cicala dared carouse —

  Dared carouse!

  I — MORNING.

  Up the Hill-side, inside the Shrub-house. LUCA’S Wife, OTTIMA, and her Paramour the German SEBALD.

  Seb. [sings.]

  Let the watching lids wink!

  Day’s a-blaze with eyes, think —

  Deep into the night, drink!

  Otti. Night? Such may be your Rhineland nights, perhaps;

  But this blood-red beam through the shutter’s chink,

  — We call such light, the morning’s: let us see!

  Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall

  Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice

  Behind that frame! — Nay, do I bid you? — Sebald,

  It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course

  The slide-bolt catches. — Well, are you content,

  Or must I find you something else to spoil?

  Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is it full morning?

  Oh, don’t speak then!

  Seb. Ay, thus it used to be!

  Ever your house was, I remember, shut

  Till mid-day — I observed that, as I strolled

  On mornings through the vale here: country girls

  Were noisy, washing garments in the brook

  Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills,

  But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!

  And wisely — you were plotting one thing there,

  Nature, another outside: I looked up —

  Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,