Robert Browning - The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition

Peevish as ever to be suckled,

Lulled by the same old baby-prattle

With intermixture of the rattle,

When she would have them creep, stand steady

Upon their feet, or walk already,

Not to speak of trying to climb.

I will be wise another time,

And not desire a wall between us,

When next I see a church-roof cover

So many species of one genus,

All with foreheads bearing Lover

Written above the earnest eyes of them;

All with breasts that beat for beauty,

Whether sublimed, to the surprise of them,

In noble daring, steadfast duty,

The heroic in passion, or in action, —

Or, lowered for the senses’ satisfaction,

To the mere outside of human creatures,

Mere perfect form and faultless features.

What! with all Rome here, whence to levy

Such contributions to their appetite,

With women and men in a gorgeous bevy,

They take, as it were, a padlock, and clap it tight

On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding

On the glories of their ancient reading,

On the beauties of their modern singing,

On the wonders of the builder’s bringing,

On the majesties of Art around them, —

And, all these loves, late struggling incessant,

When faith has at last united and bound them,

They offer up to God for a present!

Why, I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it, —

And, only taking the act in reference

To the other recipients who might have allowed of it

I will rejoice that God had the preference!

XII.

So I summed up my new resolves:

Too much love there can never be.

And where the intellect devolves

Its function on love exclusively,

I, as one who possesses both,

Will accept the provision, nothing loth,

— Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere,

That my intellect may find its share.

And ponder, O soul, the while thou departest,

And see thou applaud the great heart of the artist,

Who, examining the capabilities

Of the block of marble he has to fashion

Into a type of thought or passion, —

Not always, using obvious facilities,

Shapes it, as any artist can,

Into a perfect symmetrical man,

Complete from head to foot of the life-size,

Such as old Adam stood in his wife’s eyes, —

But, now and then, bravely aspires to consummate

A Colossus by no means so easy to come at,

And uses the whole of his block for the bust,

Leaving the minds of the public to finish it,

Since cut it ruefully short he must:

On the face alone he expends his devotion;

He rather would mar than resolve to diminish it,

— Saying, “Applaud me for this grand notion

“Of what a face may be! As for completing it

“In breast and body and limbs, do that, you!”

All hail! I fancy how, happily meeting it,

A trunk and legs would perfect the statue,

Could man carve so as to answer volition.

And how much nobler than petty cavils,

A hope to find, in my spirit-travels,

Some artist of another ambition,

Who having a block to carve, no bigger,

Has spent his power on the opposite quest,

And believed to begin at the feet was best —

For so may I see, ere I die, the whole figure!

XIII.

No sooner said than out in the night!

And still as we swept through storm and night,

My heart beat lighter and more light:

And lo, as before, I was walking swift,

With my senses settling fast and steadying,

But my body caught up in the whirl and drift

Of the Vesture’s amplitude, still eddying

On just before me, still to be followed,

As it carried me after with its motion,

— What shall I say? — as a path were hollowed,

And a man went weltering through the ocean

Sucked along in the flying wake

Of the luminous water-snake.

XIV.

Alone! I am left alone once more —

(Save for the Garment’s extreme fold

Abandoned still to bless my hold)

Alone, beside the entrance-door

Of a sort of temple, — perhaps a college,

— Like nothing I ever saw before

At home in England, to my knowledge.

The tall, old, quaint, irregular town!

It may be . . though which, I can’t affirm . . any

Of the famous middle-age towns of Germany;

And this flight of stairs where I sit down,

Is it Halle, Weimar, Cassel, or Frankfort,

Or Göttingen, that I have to thank for’t?

It may be Göttingen, — most likely.

Through the open door I catch obliquely

Glimpses of a lecture-hall;

And not a bad assembly neither —

Ranged decent and symmetrical

On benches, waiting what’s to see there;

Which, holding still by the Vesture’s hem,

I also resolve to see with them,

Cautious this time how I suffer to slip

The chance of joining in fellowship

With any that call themselves His friends,

As these folks do, I have a notion.

But hist — a buzzing and emotion!

All settle themselves, the while ascends

By the creaking rail to the lecture-desk,

Step by step, deliberate

Because of his cranium’s over-freight,

Three parts sublime to one grotesque,

If I have proved an accurate guesser,

The hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned Professor.

I felt at once as if there ran

A shoot of love from my heart to the man —

That sallow, virgin-minded, studious

Martyr to mild enthusiasm,

As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious

That woke my sympathetic spasm,

(Beside some spitting that made me sorry)

And stood, surveying his auditory

With a wan pure look, well nigh celestial, —

— Those blue eyes had survived so much!

While, under the foot they could not smutch,

Lay all the fleshly and the bestial.

Over he bowed, and arranged his notes,

Till the auditory’s clearing of throats

Was done with, died into silence;

And, when each glance was upward sent,

Each bearded mouth composed intent,

And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence, —

He pushed back higher his spectacles,

Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells,

And giving his head of hair — a hake

Of undressed tow, for colour and quantity —

One rapid and impatient shake,

(As our own young England adjusts a jaunty tie

When about to impart, on mature digestion,

Some thrilling view of the surplice-question)

— The Professor’s grave voice, sweet though hoarse,

Broke into his Christmas-Eve’s discourse.

XV.

And he began it by observing

How reason dictated that men

Should rectify the natural swerving,

By a reversion, now and then,

To the well-heads of knowledge, few

And far away, whence rolling grew

The life-stream wide whereat we drink,

Commingled, as we needs must think,

With waters alien to the source:

To do which, aimed this Eve’s discourse.

Since, where could be a fitter time

For tracing backward to its prime,

This Christianity, this lake,

This reservoir, whereat we slake,

From one or other bank, our thirst?

So he proposed inquiring first

Into the various sources whence

This Myth of Christ is derivable;

Demanding from the evidence,

(Since plainly no such life was liveable)

How these phenomena should class?

Whether ‘twere best opine Christ was,

Or never was at all, or whether

He was and was not, both together —

It matters little for the name,

So the Idea be left the same:

Only, for practical purpose’ sake,

’Twas obviously as well to take

The popular story, — understanding