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

PAULINE.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Sordello Book the First

Sordello Book the Second

Sordello Book the Third

Sordello Book the Fourth

Sordello Book the Fifth

Sordello Book the Sixth

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TO J. MILSAND, OF DIJON.

Dear Friend, — Let the next poem be introduced by your name, therefore remembered along with one of the deepest of my affections, and so repay all trouble it ever cost me. I wrote it twenty-five years ago for only a few, counting even in these on somewhat more care about its subject than they really had. My own faults of expression were many; but with care for a man or book such would be surmounted, and without it what avails the faultlessness of either? I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since; for I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many might — instead of what the few must, — like: but after all, I imagined another thing at first, and therefore leave as I find it. The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so — you, with many known and unknown to me, think so — others may one day think so; and whether my attempt remain for them or not, I trust, though away and past it, to continue ever yours, R. B.

London, June 9, 1863.

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Who will, may hear Sordello’s story told:

His story? Who believes me shall behold

The man, pursue his fortunes to the end,

Like me: for as the friendless-people’s friend

Spied from his hill-top once, despite the din

And dust of multitudes, Pentapolin

Named o’ the Naked Arm, I single out

Sordello, compassed murkily about

With ravage of six long sad hundred years.

Only believe me. Ye believe?

Appears

Verona… Never, — I should warn you first, —

Of my own choice had this, if not the worst

Yet not the best expedient, served to tell

A story I could body forth so well

By making speak, myself kept out of view,

The very man as he was wont to do,

And leaving you to say the rest for him.

Since, though I might be proud to see the dim

Abysmal past divide its hateful surge,

Letting of all men this one man emerge

Because it pleased me, yet, that moment past,

I should delight in watching first to last

His progress as you watch it, not a whit

More in the secret than yourselves who sit

Fresh-chapleted to listen. But it seems

Your setters-forth of unexampled themes,

Makers of quite new men, producing them,

Would best chalk broadly on each vesture’s hem

The wearer’s quality; or take their stand,

Motley on back and pointing-pole in hand,

Beside him. So, for once I face ye, friends,

Summoned together from the world’s four ends,

Dropped down from heaven or cast up from hell,

To hear the story I propose to tell.

Confess now, poets know the dragnet’s trick,

Catching the dead, if fate denies the quick,

And shaming her; ‘t is not for fate to choose

Silence or song because she can refuse

Real eyes to glisten more, real hearts to ache

Less oft, real brows turn smoother for our sake:

I have experienced something of her spite;

But there ‘s a realm wherein she has no right

And I have many lovers. Say; but few

Friends fate accords me? Here they are: now view

The host I muster! Many a lighted face

Foul with no vestige of the grave’s disgrace;

What else should tempt them back to taste our air

Except to see how their successors fare?

My audience! and they sit, each ghostly man

Striving to look as living as he can,

Brother by breathing brother; thou art set,

Clear-witted critic, by… but I ‘ll not fret

A wondrous soul of them, nor move death’s spleen

Who loves not to unlock them. Friends! I mean

The living in good earnest — ye elect

Chiefly for love — suppose not I reject

Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep,

Some fit occasion, forth, for fear ye sleep,

To glean your bland approvals. Then, appear,

Verona! stay — thou, spirit, come not near

Now — not this time desert thy cloudy place

To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face!

I need not fear this audience, I make free

With them, but then this is no place for thee!

The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown

Up out of memories of Marathon,

Would echo like his own sword’s griding screech

Braying a Persian shield, — the silver speech

Of Sidney’s self, the starry paladin,

Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in

The knights to tilt, — wert thou to hear! What heart

Have I to play my puppets, bear my part

Before these worthies?

Lo, the past is hurled

In twain: upthrust, out-staggering on the world,

Subsiding into shape, a darkness rears

Its outline, kindles at the core, appears

Verona. ‘T is six hundred years and more

Since an event. The Second Friedrich wore

The purple, and the Third Honorius filled

The holy chair. That autumn eve was stilled:

A last remains of sunset dimly burned

O’er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned

By the wind back upon its bearer’s hand

In one long flare of crimson; as a brand,

The woods beneath lay black. A single eye

From all Verona cared for the soft sky.

But, gathering in its ancient market-place,

Talked group with restless group; and not a face

But wrath made livid, for among them were

Death’s staunch purveyors, such as have in care

To feast him. Fear had long since taken root

In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit,

The ripe hate, like a wine: to note the way

It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey

Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro,

Letting the silent luxury trickle slow

About the hollows where a heart should be;

But the young gulped with a delirious glee

Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood

At the fierce news: for, be it understood,

Envoys apprised Verona that her prince

Count Richard of Saint Boniface, joined since

A year with Azzo, Este’s Lord, to thrust

Taurello Salinguerra, prime in trust

With Ecelin Romano, from his seat

Ferrara, — over zealous in the feat

And stumbling on a peril unaware,

Was captive, trammelled in his proper snare,

They phrase it, taken by his own intrigue.

Immediate succour from the Lombard League

Of fifteen cities that affect the Pope,

For Azzo, therefore, and his fellow-hope

Of the Guelf cause, a glory overcast!

Men’s faces, late agape, are now aghast.

“Prone is the purple pavis; Este makes

“Mirth for the devil when he undertakes

“To play the Ecelin; as if it cost

“Merely your pushing-by to gain a post

“Like his! The patron tells ye, once for all,

“There be sound reasons that preferment fall

“On our beloved”…

”Duke o’ the Rood, why not?”

Shouted an Estian, “grudge ye such a lot?

“The hill-cat boasts some cunning of her own,

“Some stealthy trick to better beasts unknown,

“That quick with prey enough her hunger blunts,

“And feeds her fat while gaunt the lion hunts.”

“Taurello,” quoth an envoy, “as in wane

“Dwelt at Ferrara. Like an osprey fain

“To fly but forced the earth his couch to make