new.schoolnotes.comnew.schoolnotes.com/files/mwolf/RobertBrowningPoet… · Web viewAnd, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, ... Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,

A Collection of Poems by Robert Browning

“A Light Woman” I.So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?---My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me?

II.My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet,When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.

III.When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just himTo her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim!

IV.And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said,An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead!

V.So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need,And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.

VI.The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face.---You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

VII.For see, my friend goes shaling and white; He eyes me as the basilisk:I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

VIII.And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: ``Though I love her---that, he comprehends---`Òne should master one's passions, (love, in chief) `Ànd be loyal to one's friends!''

1


IX.And she,---she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall;Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine,---can I let it fall?

X.With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.

XI.And I,---what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess.

XII.'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own:Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone!

XIII.One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true:But suppose she says,---Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you?

XIV.Well, any how, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand;And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand!

2


“My Last Duchess”

FERRARA.That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 1Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 5``Fr Pandolf'' by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts byThe curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so, not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 15Fr Pandolf chanced to say ``Her mantle laps`Òver my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint``Must never hope to reproduce the faint``Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20For calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate'erShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, 25The dropping of the daylight in the West,The bough of cherries some officious foolBroke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace---all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech, 30Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thankedSomehow---I know not how---as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skill 35In speech---(which I have not)---to make your willQuite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this`Òr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,`Òr there exceed the mark''---and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,---E'en then would be some stooping; and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 45

3


Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetThe company below, then. I repeat,The Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretence 50Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 55Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

4


“Porphyria's Lover”

The rain set early in to-night, 1 The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. 5When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form 10Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, 15She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 20Murmuring how she loved me---she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. 25But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. 30Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. 35That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, 40And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 45And I untightened next the tress

5


About her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore 50Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! 55Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word! 60

6


“The Laboratory”

ANCIEN RGIME.

I.Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely,As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy---Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II.He is with her, and they know that I knowWhere they are, what they do: they believe my tears flowWhile they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drearEmpty church, to pray God in, for them!---I am here.

III.Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,Pound at thy powder,---I am not in haste!Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

IV.That in the mortar---you call it a gum?Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,Sure to taste sweetly,---is that poison too?

V.Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

VI.Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give,And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her headAnd her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

VII.Quick---is it finished? The colour's too grim!Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

7


VIII.What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me!That's why she ensnared him: this never will freeThe soul from those masculine eyes,---Say, ``no!''To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

IX.For only last night, as they whispered, I broughtMy own eyes to bear on her so, that I thoughtCould I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fallShrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

X.Not that I bid you spare her the pain;Let death be felt and the proof remain:Brand, burn up, bite into its grace---He is sure to remember her dying face!

XI.Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose;It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close;The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee!If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

XII.Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!But brush this dust off me, lest horror it bringsEre I know it---next moment I dance at the King's!

8


“A Woman's Last Word”

I.Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep:All be as before, Love, ---Only sleep!

II.What so wild as words are? I and thouIn debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!

III.See the creature stalking While we speak!Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek!

IV.What so false as truth is, False to thee?Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree---

V.Where the apple reddens Never pry---Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.

VI.Be a god and hold me With a charm!Be a man and fold me With thine arm!

VII.Teach me, only teach, Love As I oughtI will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought---

VIII.Meet, if thou require it, Both demands,Laying flesh and spirit

9


In thy hands.

IX.That shall be to-morrow Not to-night:I must bury sorrow Out of sight:

X---Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me!)And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee.

10


“Soliloquy Of The Spanish Cloister”

I.Gr-r-r---there go, my heart's abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do!If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God's blood, would not mine kill you!What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims---Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames!

II.At the meal we sit together: _Salve tibi!_ I must hearWise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year:_Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:What's the Latin name for ``parsley''?_ What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?

III.Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf!With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, And a goblet for ourself,Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps---Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!)

IV._Saint_, forsooth! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bankWith Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank,Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, ---Can't I see his dead eye glow,Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? (That is, if he'd let it show!)

V.When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never laysCross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu's praise.I the Trinity illustrate,

11


Drinking watered orange-pulp---In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp.

VI.Oh, those melons? If he's able We're to have a feast! so nice!One goes to the Abbot's table, All of us get each a slice.How go on your flowers? None double Not one fruit-sort can you spy?Strange!---And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

VII.There's a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entailsTwenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails:If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be,Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee?

VIII.Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type!Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:If I double down its pages At the woeful sixteenth print,When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

IX.Or, there's Satan!---one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leaveSuch a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve,Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're so proud of! _Hy, Zy, Hine ..._'St, there's Vespers! _Plena grati Ave, Virgo!_ Gr-r-r---you swine!

12


“A Pretty Woman”

I.That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!

II.To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you, Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

IIIYou like us for a glance, you know--- For a word's sake Or a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

IV.And in turn we make you ours, we say--- You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too,All the face composed of flowers, we say.

V.All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet--- Sing and say for, Watch and pray for,Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

VI.But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed youin a mortar---for you could not, Sweet!

VII.So, we leave the sweet face fondly there: Be its beauty Its sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

VIII.And while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder

13


A conclusion? I will try it there.

IX.As,---why must one, for the love foregone, Scout mere liking? Thunder-strikingEarth,---the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

X.Why, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking? Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?

XI.May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'Twould undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

XII.Is the creature too imperfect, Would you mend it And so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!

XIII.Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection--- Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

XIV.Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder, And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?

XV.Or else kiss away one's soul on her? Your love-fancies! ---A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

XVI.Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,--- Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower,

14


Uses fine things that efface the rose:

XVII.Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals,---Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

XVIII.Then how grace a rose? I know a way! Leave it, rather. Must you gather?Smell, kiss, wear it---at last, throw away!

15


“Evelyn Hope”

I.Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass; Little has yet been changed, I think:The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

II.Sixteen years old, when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares,--- And the sweet white brow is all of her.

III.Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew---And, just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, nought beside?

IV.No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

V.But the time will come,---at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

16


And your mouth of your own geranium's red---And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

VI.I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me:And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

VII.I loved you, Evelyn, all the while. My heart seemed full as it could hold?There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

17


“Women And Roses”

I.I dream of a red-rose tree.And which of its roses threeIs the dearest rose to me?

II.Round and round, like a dance of snowIn a dazzling drift, as its guardians, goFloating the women faded for ages,Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.Then follow women fresh and gay,Living and loving and loved to-day.Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,They circle their rose on my rose tree.

III.Dear rose, thy term is reached,Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:Bees pass it unimpeached.

IV.Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,You, great shapes of the antique time!How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,Break my heart at your feet to please you?Oh, to possess and be possessed!Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,Drink but once and die!---In vain, the same fashion,They circle their rose on my rose tree.

V.Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.

VI.Deep, as drops from a statue's plinthThe bee sucked in by the hyacinth,So will I bury me while burning,Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!Fold me fast where the cincture slips,Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,Girdle me for once! But no---the old measure,

18


They circle their rose on my rose tree.

VII.Dear rose without a thorn,Thy bud's the babe unborn:First streak of a new morn.

VIII.Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!What is far conquers what is near.Roses will bloom nor want beholders,Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.What shall arrive with the cycle's change?A novel grace and a beauty strange.I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,Shaped her to his mind!---Alas! in like mannerThey circle their rose on my rose tree.

19


“Fears And Scruples”

Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.This same unseen friend, before I knew:Dream there was none like him, none above him,--Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.

Loved I not his letters full of beauty? 5Not his actions famous far and wide?Absent, he would know I vowed him duty,Present, he would find me at his side.

Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters,Only knew of actions by hearsay: 10He himself was busied with my betters;What of that? My turn must come some day.

'Some day' proving--no day! Here's the puzzle.Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain?He's so busied! If I could but muzzle 15People's foolish mouths that give me pain!

'Letters?' (hear them!) 'You a judge of writing?Ask the experts!--How they shake the headO'er these characters, your friend's inditing--Call them forgery from A to Z ! 20

'Actions? Where's your certain proof' (they bother)'He, of all you find so great and good,He, he only, claims this, that, the otherAction--claimed by men, a multitude?'

I can simply wish I might refute you, 25Wish my friend would,--by a word, a wink,--Bid me stop that foolish mouth,--you brute you!He keeps absent,--why, I cannot think.

Never mind! Tho' foolishness may flout me.One thing's sure enough; 'tis neither frost, 30No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out meThanks for truth--tho' falsehood, gained--tho' lost.

All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier,For that dream's sake! How forget the thrillThro' and thro' me as I thought, 'The gladlier 35Lives my friend because I love him still!'

Ah, but there's a menace some one utters!

20


'What and if your friend at home play tricks?Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters?Mean your eyes should pierce thro' solid bricks? 40

'What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy?Lay on you the blame that bricks--conceal?Say '_At least I saw who did not see me,Does see now, and presently shall feel_'?'

'Why, that makes your friend a monster!' say you; 45'Had his house no window? At first nod,Would you not have hailed him?' Hush, I pray you!What if this friend happen to be--God?

21


“Two In The Campagna”

I.I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand,We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land,This morn of Rome and May?

II.For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times,(Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymesTo catch at and let go.

III.Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel,<*1> run to seedThere, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weedTook up the floating wet,

IV.Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,---blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!

V.The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere!Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air---Rome's ghost since her decease.

VI.Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play,Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her wayWhile heaven looks from its towers!

VII.How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul,As earth lies bare to heaven above!

22


How is it under our controlTo love or not to love?

VIII.I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be?

IX.I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs,---your part my partIn life, for good and ill.

X.No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,Catch your soul's warmth,---I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak---Then the good minute goes.

XI.Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I goStill like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow,Fixed by no friendly star?

XII.Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again!The old trick! Only I discern--- Infinite passion, and the painOf finite hearts that yearn.

* 1 Herb with yellow flowers and seeds supposed* to be medicinal.

23


Before I.Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.God must judge the couple: leave them as they are---Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story!

II.Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?

III.Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceiveGod---the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,`` 'Tis but decent to profess oneself beneath her:``Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!''

IV.Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.

V.Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes!For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.

VI.What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?When will come an end to all the mock obeisance,And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?

VII.So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can!He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!

VIII.All or nothing, stake it! Trust she God or no?Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so!Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!

24


IX.Ah, ``forgive'' you bid him? While God's champion lives,Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.

X.Once more---Will the wronger, at this last of all,Dare to say, `Ì did wrong,'' rising in his fall?No?---Let go then! Both the fighters to their places!While I count three, step you back as many paces!

“After”

Take the cloak from his face, and at first Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can.And, absorbed in the new life he leads, 5 He recks not, he heedsNor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike,And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. 10Ha, what avails death to erase His offence, my disgrace?I would we were boys as of old In the field, by the fold:His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn 15 Were so easily borne!

I stand here now, he lies in his place: Cover the face!

25


“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 doleOf certain wretched shillings,--youInduce a woman--virgin too--To strip and stand stark naked? HE: True. SHE: Nor feel you so degrade her? HE: What--(Excuse the interruption)--clingsHalf-savage-like around your hat? SHE: Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wingsNext 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 moveIn heart and soul of me disgustDid 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--praiseIn me for God's surpassing good,Who granted to my reverent gazeA type of purest womanhood.You clothed with murder of His bestOf harmless beings--stand the test!What is it you know? SHE: That you jest!

26


“The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church, Rome”

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews--sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well-- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! ... Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ... Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath,

27


So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both His hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables . . . but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,

28


Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no more lapis to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers-- Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

29


“Andrea del Sarto: The Faultless Painter”

BUT do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I’ll work then for your friend’s friend, never fear, 5 Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I’ll content him,—but to-morrow, Love! 10

And had you not grown restless… but I know— ’Tis done and past; ’twas right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 15 How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was—to reach and stay there; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold, 20

Come from the window, love,—come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 25The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 30Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work’s my ware, and what’s it worth? 35 I’ll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more—the Virgin’s face. 40 Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo— Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.

30


I take the subjects for his corridor, 45Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin’s freak. Beside, What’s better and what’s all I care about, 50

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel’s reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover—the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So—still they overcome 55 Because there’s still Lucrezia,—as I choose. Again the Cousin’s whistle! Go, my Love.

31

Documents

new.schoolnotes.comnew.schoolnotes.com/files/mwolf/RobertBrowningPoet… · Web viewAnd, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, ... Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,