Роберт Браунинг - Dramatic Romances

NOTES:

"Count Gismond: Aix in Provence" illustrates, in the person of the woman who relates to a friend an episode of her own life, the power of innate purity to raise up for her a defender when caught in the toils woven by the unsuspected envy and hypocrisy of her cousins and Count Gauthier, who attempt to bring dishonor upon her, on her birthday, with the seeming intention of honoring her. Her faith that the trial by combat between Gauthier and Gismond must end in Gismond's victory and her vindication reflects most truly, as Arthur Symons has pointed out, the medieval atmosphere of chivalrous France.

124. Tercel: a male falcon.

The Boy and the Angel

Morning, evening, noon and night,

"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,

Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;

O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,

And cheerful turned to work anew. 10

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;

I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

As well as if thy voice to–day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome

Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I

Might praise him, that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone. 20

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night

Now brings the voice of my delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth

Spread his wings and sank to earth;

.

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,

Praised God in place of Theocrite. 30

And from a boy, to youth he grew:

The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away

Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,

And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one

If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;

There is no doubt in it, no fear: 40

So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

Clearer loves sound other ways:

I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell

The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,

And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring–room close by

The great outer gallery, 50

With his holy vestments dight,

Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,

Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,

An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear

He grew a priest, and now stood here. 60

To the East with praise he turned,

And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell

And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel–sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—

Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain. 70

"With that weak voice of our disdain,

Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ:

Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:

They sought God side by side.

NOTES:

"The Boy and the Angel." An imaginary legend illustrating the worth of humble, human love to God, who missed in the praise of the Pope, Theocrite, and of the Angel Gabriel, the precious human quality in the song of the poor boy, Theocrite.

Instans Tyrannus

I

Of the million or two, more or less

I rule and possess,

One man, for some cause undefined,

Was least to my mind.

II

I struck him, he grovelled of course—

For, what was his force?

I pinned him to earth with my weight

And persistence of hate:

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,

As his lot might be worse. 10

III

"Were the object less mean, would he stand

At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him and blots

The hole where he squats."

So, I set my five wits on the stretch

To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,

Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh, 20

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:

Still he kept to his filth.

IV

Had he kith now or kin, were access

To his heart, did I press:

Just a son or a mother to seize!

No such booty as these.

Were it simply a friend to pursue

'Mid my million or two,